I continued pacing the floor, fumbling in agitation with the little rubber ball I kept in my pocket. Time was running out and Claudine still hadn’t appeared. I couldn’t believe she had changed her mind. She had been so certain the day before and, besides, she had defied everyone in Maurilliac, even Père Abel-Louis, and become my friend. I knew she was strong enough to walk out of her marriage. I couldn’t imagine what was holding her up.
To my dismay Jean-Luc appeared, his hair shining from the wax he put on it to keep it in place. “So, you leave us today, Monsieur,” he said, approaching me. He gave a small bow. “It has been a great pleasure to have you in the hotel. You will come back, I trust?”
“I’m sure I will,” I replied tightly, knowing that I never would. In order to move on I had to bury the past, as Jacques had so wisely said.
“Are you waiting for a taxi?” he asked, frowning.
“I have a car.”
“Are they bringing it around for you?”
“It’s ready.”
“Then I will shake your hand and say farewell.” I took his hand. It was warm and soft, the hand of a man who has barely lived. “I wish you a safe flight back to America.” I watched him hover a few moments, expecting me to leave. When I remained standing, he bowed again and walked away.
I kept my eyes on the clock. I noticed every small movement. Every tick. I began to panic. Perhaps she had got cold feet? Perhaps she had decided to remain in Maurilliac, after all? One thing was for certain, I wasn’t going to leave without her. I had promised her that and I had vowed it to myself. I hurried outside and climbed into the car. If she wasn’t going to come to me, I’d go to her. I stepped on the accelerator and headed down the road into Maurilliac.
It was cold in the car, but my forehead glistened with sweat. Nothing else mattered for me but Claudine. Now that I had found her I was desperate to keep her. Laurent rose in my mind. I should have known that he would pose the biggest obstacle to my future happiness. Laurent, my enemy from long ago. I would never forget his words in the classroom: “Your father’s still a Nazi pig!” And I would never forgive him. Not ever. As I raced into town, I prepared myself for the final battle. I expected to fight Laurent; I didn’t expect to have to fight God as well.
I parked the car outside Claudine’s house and remained there a moment, straining my eyes to see through her living room window. I only had to wait a moment before she appeared. She stood facing out, biting her thumbnail anxiously. She looked as if she had been crying. A second later Laurent loomed over her, placing his hand on her shoulder. This time she didn’t shrug it off. I gripped the steering wheel and felt my anger mount. It was too much for me to bear. I climbed out of the car and banged on their door with all the force I could muster. When no one answered I banged again and shouted. “Claudine! I know you’re in there!” Finally the door opened. There, standing before me, was the priest, Père Robert.
“You had better come in,” he said calmly, stepping aside. I towered over them all, like a giant in a playhouse. The room seemed to shrink with me in it. I felt physically powerful but almost crippled with fear. I couldn’t tolerate life without her.
I walked past her suitcase to find Claudine and Laurent still standing by the window. Laurent had his arm around her, his fingers gripping her shoulder tightly. He looked at me with that arrogant smirk, as if he had already won. I was filled with such loathing it was all I could do not to lash out at him and floor him with a single blow. I settled my eyes on Claudine. She gazed at me tearfully. I knew what had happened. I could read it on her face. The priest had taken it upon himself to mend the shreds of their marriage. Didn’t he know that it was irreparable, like cloth that has frayed too far?
“What are you doing here?” Laurent sneered. I ignored him and spoke to Claudine.
“I’m not leaving without you,” I said bravely.
“You don’t even know her,” Laurent interrupted. “You were six years old!”
“Claudine is staying,” said the priest. “She has made her decision.”
I turned on him coldly. “I’m not talking to you,” I said. “And I’m not talking to you either, Laurent.” I looked directly at Claudine and hoped with all my heart that she would have the strength to walk away. “I’m not going to beg. You know I love you and that I’ll look after you. We’ve waited a lifetime for each other. Don’t make us wait any longer.”
Laurent chuckled cynically. “You think you can walk into my marriage and suck the life out of it in only a few days. You must be deluded, my friend. Claudine is my wife, or didn’t she tell you?” I was determined not to dignify his comments with a reply. I spoke once again to Claudine.
“Life is short, Claudine. Don’t waste it.”
I put my hand in my pocket and pulled out the little rubber ball. I threw it into the air and caught it. Her cheeks flushed at the sight of my father’s ball and the light of courage returned to her eyes. I caught a glimpse of the toothy little girl who relished breaking the rules and defying her mother. Of the only child who had dared befriend me. She shrugged off Laurent’s arm. She turned to him and planted a kiss on his cheek. He froze and his face drained to gray like the color of the pigs that hung from the hooks in the boucherie.
“I’m sorry, Laurent, but we have nothing left with which to repair our marriage.” She said nothing to the priest; she just looked at him sadly and shook her head. He watched in horror as she took my hand, his mouth agape at her audacity, a silent protest on his tongue. I picked up her suitcase and we left the house and Maurilliac forever.
36
New York shimmered beneath the winter sun. The sidewalks were no longer carpeted with snow, the air was no longer frozen to ice. There was a mildness that hadn’t been there when I left. I could smell spring and almost feel the waking earth in Central Park. I was happier than I had ever been. Claudine and I had decided to buy a house together in New Jersey. I’d move my business there and we’d run it together. We didn’t talk about Laurent and we didn’t talk about Maurilliac. We built our future on today, where the foundations were unsullied.
When we arrived in America, Claudine telephoned her children and told them that she had left their father for me. Joël was surprised but understood that his father was not an easy man. He said he only wanted her happiness and that, in spite of loving him, his father only had himself to blame. Delphine was more difficult. Like most daughters, she adored her father. She worried about who was going to look after him. She blamed Claudine for ruining his life. “You’re both so old,” she said. “What’s the point of running off with someone now?” She raced down to Maurilliac to comfort Laurent and spent a fortnight doing his cooking and washing. She returned to Paris exhausted, her eyes opened to the realities of her parents’ marriage. “When I marry we’ll employ a cook and a maid,” she declared to her mother. “When can I come out and meet this mystery man who’s swept you off to the other end of the world?”
After putting it right with her children, Claudine had to reconcile with God. Catholicism was in her blood; it would have been unfair of me to encourage her to turn her back on it. She had broken her marriage vows for me; I couldn’t expect her to do more. To her delight, she found a local Catholic church with a wise old Italian priest called Father Gaddo. She went to Mass, took communion, and spent so long in the confessional that the priest had to ask her to leave in order to give his other congregants a chance to unburden their sins. She returned to me light of step, her toothy grin restored to its full glory.
“I start today with a clean slate,” she said happily. “My sins are all in the past.”
“What did he say?” I asked in bewilderment. How could a mere mortal wash away the stain of adultery with such ease?
“He said that life is a big training ground and it would be unreasonable if God didn’t forgive those who made mistakes.”
“Quite so,” I said, taking her in my arms. “I like the sound of Father Gaddo. Do you think he’ll marry us?” Her eyes filled
with tears and she kissed me ardently.
“Yes, Mischa Fontaine, I think he will!”
I finally got around to reading the two letters my mother had kept in her box, and to opening her mail. The last remaining pieces of the puzzle began to fit into place.
I sat alone in my apartment. The traffic was a low buzz, like the distant hum of bees in summer. The light was bright as the sun tumbled in with the enthusiasm that belongs only to the morning. I sat on the sofa, a cup of coffee on the table, Leonard Cohen resounding through the rooms. With Claudine I felt complete. I had left New York with nothing and returned with more than I would ever have dared dream. I had wandered back down the years, unraveling them as I went, like a ball of string, discovering along the way the truth about my mother, Jacques Reynard, the priest, and the painting. But I had never expected to find myself at the very center of that ball. All my life I had searched for love. I had found it in Jacques, Daphne, Joy, and Coyote, people who had floated in and out of my life like clouds across a sky, and I had found it in my mother, whose love had been as constant as the sun. But finally, at the end of my search, I had found it in me.
With a suspended heart, I opened the earlier letter my mother had kept in her box. The paper was neatly folded in the envelope, the words written with great care.
Dear Mrs. Fontaine,
You may not remember me. My name is Léon Egberg. It is to you and Dieter Schulz that I owe my life and those of my family, Marthe, Félix, Benjamin, and Oriane. You gave us refuge in the cellars of the château and organized our safe passage out of France. We settled in Switzerland and later immigrated to Canada where we have been living since the end of the war. My children have grown up and married and with each grandchild who is born I say a prayer for your good health. My wife, Marthe, and I will be in New York in May and would very much like to meet you and shake your hand. Forgive me for having tracked you down and for intruding once more in your life.
My warmest regards,
Léon Egberg
I was surprised that my mother had never mentioned them, or the letter. She had reassured me, when I was a child, that my father had been a good man, but otherwise she had never mentioned him at all. I recognized the names from the château cellar. I had added mine, which I now realized had been highly inappropriate. The letter was dated September 1983. With growing excitement, I opened the other letter. It was also from Léon Egberg, dated May 1984.
Dear Anouk,
It was an enormous pleasure to see you again and to be able to thank you in person. We were delighted to hear that you married Dieter Schulz and will be true to our word and do the very best we can to discover what happened to him after Liberation. What a consolation to have borne his son. From his photographs he resembles his father very much. It is of vital importance that people do not forget the horrors of war, at least so that such atrocities are not repeated by younger generations. I do hope we will meet again one day. Please give your son our best wishes; I hope he knows how brave his mother was in the war and how many lives she saved. God bless you, Anouk.
My warmest regards,
Léon
With a racing heart I flicked through the letters that had gathered since my mother’s death. I was sure I had seen the same spidery handwriting in the pile. I discarded the bills and catalogues until I held in my trembling hand another letter from Léon Egberg. He must have discovered something about my father. I could barely contain my excitement. I sat back on the sofa, took a swig of coffee, and tore open the envelope.
My dear Anouk,
I hope this finds you well. We have finally discovered what happened to your husband at the end of the war. It will probably come as no surprise to you that Dieter hated the Nazis. He had already proved himself by saving the lives of Jews like us. I’m proud to inform you that he was involved in the plot to kill Hitler in the summer of 1944, but saddened that due to its failure he was sentenced to death by hanging. Life throws up few heroes, Anouk, but your Dieter was one of them. Had the plot succeeded so many thousands of people would have been saved. He was a very brave man to put the lives of others above his own. I hope that by knowing his fate, you are now able to share it with your son. I know you were reluctant to drag him back into the past, considering the terrible effect it had on him, until you discovered what had become of his father. Now you know the truth, Mischa deserves to know that his father was a good and noble man, and a hero of the greatest courage. We honor him in death and wish you good health. L’chaim — to life!
My warmest regards to you and your son,
Léon
I sat there, stunned by what I had read. I knew about the plot to kill Hitler. There were books and television documentaries on the subject. The conspirators were hanged with piano wire and filmed while they died. I was devastated to learn that my father had died this way and saddened that my mother had never learned the truth, because Léon’s letter had arrived too late. I wondered whether she would have shared it with me, whether she was waiting for Léon’s letter before she told me. It certainly made sense.
So, my father was a hero after all. I had always suspected as much. My mother would never have loved a man who sympathized with Nazi ideals. She had respected people too much, whatever their race or class. She had never been a warm woman on the outside; I had been one of the few who had sought refuge in her embrace. But she had believed everyone had the right to a place on earth and that there was room enough for all of us. I decided to write to Léon Egberg and tell him of my mother’s passing. I wanted to thank him for going to the trouble of finding out about my father, and I also wanted to see him. You see, as much as I was able to walk away from Maurilliac, I could never really sever the ties to my past.
I returned to my mother’s apartment with Claudine. I wanted her to help me sort out her things. I no longer wanted to do it on my own. Claudine began in the kitchen, packing into boxes all the pots and pans we had decided to give to charity, while I went straight to her bedroom to do the same with her clothes. We worked all week in the pale wintry light that tumbled in through the open windows. I wasn’t sorry to see my mother’s things put into garbage bags and taken off in vans. That is what she would have wanted. They were possessions, after all, and she no longer needed them.
I kept various things: her jewelry, diaries, letters, photo albums, the piano, books, and other items that had sentimental value. Back at home I sat down with Claudine to read Coyote’s postcards. After hearing from Joy about the murder of Richard Quigley, I decided to do a bit of research for myself. I discovered that my suspicions had been correct: Coyote, known to some as Jack Magellan, was Lynton Shaw. He was married to Kelly and they had three children, Lauren, Ben, and Warwick, and lived in Richmond, Virginia. He had, indeed, murdered Richard Quigley and had been sentenced to life, languishing in Keen Mountain Correctional Center for thirty years. I presumed he had killed Joy’s fiancé, Billy, too, in order to keep the painting for himself. And what of my mother? Had she known the truth and simply chosen to bury it? If not, why hadn’t Coyote told us? How could he have let us believe he had deserted us? I hoped the postcards would answer those questions for me.
We lay together on the bed. The room smelled of Claudine’s perfume, her bath oils, and the vanilla cream she put on her body. I liked the feminine smell of her and the sight of her nightdress that hung on the back of the door. She wasn’t tidy like Linda had been. Her clothes were strewn all over the place. I liked it that way. She was earthy and sensual, like the summer in France.
“This one’s very touching,” said Claudine, holding it up. “Tell Mischa I’m in Chicago, the city of gangsters. It’s dark and dangerous with men in hats, guns in their belts, skulking around street corners. I know he’ll be impressed!”
“Is that all it says?” I asked. “Considering how long he was away for, it doesn’t reveal much, does it.”
“What about this one: Tell Mischa I’m in Mexico. I’ve ridden a white horse across the desert, slept beneath the st
ars and am sporting a giant hat to keep off the sun and the mosquitoes. The fajitas are delicious, the mojitos make my head spin. I play my guitar in the squares and women come and dance for me. They’re the most beautiful women in the world, but not as beautiful as you, my lovely Anouk. My heart aches for you. Don’t forget that I love you and that I always will. I love Mischa too, don’t forget to tell him at least once a day. I don’t want you to ever forget me.” She looked across at me and frowned. “Don’t you think that’s a bit odd? I mean, it’s as if he knew he wasn’t coming back.” I pondered on it for a while, reading them over again.
“Have you noticed, Claudine, that he describes the places in clichés? Listen to this, dated July: Tell Mischa I’m in Chile. It’s midsummer. Boiling hot. The sea is freezing cold, too cold for me. I play my guitar at night, the beach is deserted and the stars are much larger here. I miss you both. I’ll come home soon. Tell Mischa to look after his mother while I’m away and to practice his guitar. I expect him to play the whole of “Laredo” when I get home. Lay a place for me at the table, my love, I don’t wish to miss dinner.”
“What’s so odd about that?” she asked. I handed her the postcard.
“July is winter in Chile. It’s freezing.”
She sat up. “Are you saying that you don’t believe he’s been to any of these places?”
“Oh, I’m not saying he never went there. He just didn’t go there then. Look at the postmarks.”
“They’re all from the same place.”
“They’re all marked Virginia. Do you know what’s in Virginia? Keen Mountain Correctional Center.”
The Gypsy Madonna Page 32
