Where My Heart Used to Beat

by Sebastian Faulks

  Paulette took a key from a saucer and opened the bottom drawer of the chest, from which she lifted out a cardboard box.

  “Here.” She handed me a monochrome photograph that showed a handsome man with a large moustache, presumably the father; next to him was a woman in her thirties whom I took to be Françoise. I could see why Pereira would have fallen in love with her when she was younger: her eyes had a glorious radiance, and her posture was that of a dancer. In front of them was a girl of about seven with thick dark hair, her head held to one side.

  “That’s Agnès.” Paulette’s finger jabbed the print.

  “And that’s Françoise?”

  “Yes.”

  “She’s beautiful.”

  “I know. Dr. Pereira cured her. And that’s her husband, Jacques. He died at sea.”

  I looked at the group of them. I did some calculations. From these and from the look of their clothes, I guessed the photograph must have been taken in the midthirties. The fisherman, Jacques, looked robust and humorous—insofar as you can tell such things from a snapshot. Françoise, taller than her husband, looked nothing less than angelic, touched by grace.

  The little girl, however—Agnès, the mother of Céline … Her dark eyes were troubled, inward looking. They held the camera but repelled it. I felt my throat thicken as I looked at these three humans: the proud father, the woman rescued from the fire, the blighted child. How meek they looked in front of what life held in store … I was reminded of the words spoken by the Virgin Mary when she had been visited by the angel Gabriel, telling her that she was to become miraculously pregnant with the son of God. After one bewildered question, she remonstrated no further. She knelt and said, “Behold the handmaid of the Lord. Be it unto me according to thy word.”

  Embarrassed by my emotion, I turned and smiled, searching for something jocular to say. On a table I saw a photograph of a young man, a moon-faced lad with a shy smile and too many teeth.

  “And who’s that fine fellow?” I said.

  “That was Gérard. My brother.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “He died at Verdun. He was nineteen.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  The old woman smiled. “It’s all right. It was a long time ago now. Half of France died there.”

  I breathed in deeply. “Thank you for showing me the pictures.”

  “It was kind of you to take an interest. Do you still want to see Céline today?”

  I thought about it. “Yes. I think so.”

  “She too…”

  “I know.”

  “Like her mother.”

  “I know.”

  We went back down the corridor to the hall.

  * * *

  IT TURNED OUT to be easy enough to locate Céline. With Paulette’s permission, I took the car and drove over to the port, where I found her sweeping the floor in the café, her hair tied back with a scarf. She put down her broom and kissed me on both cheeks.

  “Would you like some coffee?”

  “Thank you.”

  After some banging and hissing at the machine, she brought two cups over and sat down with me at a table.

  “I won’t be coming back to the island again,” I said. “I’ve come to say goodbye.”

  “Your work is finished?”

  “Yes.”

  I remembered my first meeting with Céline, when she had gone diving for sea urchins. The thought made me smile. “You’ve been a lovely … companion,” I said.

  “I like meeting new people.”

  I put my hand on hers. “You funny girl.”

  “They always say that.”

  “Céline, did you ever know your father?”

  “No. He came from far away. He didn’t stay here long.”

  “And your mother?”

  “My mother lives in America.”

  “Of course. And you?”

  “I live here. With the seagulls.”

  “And your grandmother, Françoise.”

  “Of course. Until she dies.”

  “I’ve brought you a present, Céline.” I put my hand in my jacket pocket. “They belonged to my mother. She died about ten years ago, and I’ve always wanted someone to give them to.”

  She held out her hand, and I put into it a pair of earrings, pearls in a gold hoop, rather fast for my mother, though perhaps too “old lady” for Céline.

  “Thank you, Robert.”

  “Are your ears pierced?”

  “Of course. I pierced them myself when I was a girl.”

  “They’re not too old-fashioned?”

  “No. I’m putting them on now. How do they look?”

  “Beautiful. I don’t think my mother ever wore them.”

  “Do I look like an aristocrat?”

  “You do, Céline, you do. Like Madame de Pompadour.”

  “Is she a friend of yours?”

  “Not a close friend.”

  As I looked at this young woman’s face, her unfocused eyes, and the light of chestnut in her hair, I no longer felt the anger of desire; I felt instead an uprising of tenderness towards her. Perhaps if I had ever had a daughter, a child at all, this is what I would have felt. And this, surely, was how it was meant to be, with lust subsumed in kindness, not a self-stoking fire that laid waste the years. To think that I was capable of such a healthy transition made me feel that I was not so alone, perhaps, after all. I was able to take part in normal human exchanges, and so, for all her singularity, for all that she inhabited no reality that I could understand, was Céline.

  We walked along the road by the sea, and she took my hand. When we got back to the café, I hugged her, held her close. She kissed me, then murmured in my ear, words I didn’t catch. I went quickly back to the car and drove off without turning round.

  * * *

  THERE WAS NO longer any excuse for Pereira not to show me whatever it was he had. In the library there was an air of tension. Sadness too, because in our different ways we had both enjoyed the visits.

  I went to the French windows and looked out into the darkness. To lighten the moment, I said, “Spring’s on the way. There was a bright sun this morning.”

  “Yes. It’s a hopeful time of year. And you … Do you feel helped by the process of coming here? Has going through your life with me helped in any way to feel less anguish about Luisa? Or about your book?”

  “I feel a little differently but not worse. Therefore, logically…”

  Pereira smiled. “I’m glad, Robert. I have no children of my own, as you know.”

  I nodded. I had come to accept that there was benevolence in the old man’s scheming, but that didn’t mean I was ready to accept him in the place of my father.

  “And your book, The Chosen Few. It is fine, you know. It’s very fine.”

  “No. I lied about the extent to which madness is biological. I couldn’t face it.”

  “And now?”

  “I see that until some remote time when scientists far cleverer than you or I have picked apart the genetic factors, isolated them, and found a response … Until that far-off day, to listen with respect to your patients, to hear what they say, is … Well, at least it’s civilized.”

  “Before I show you the pages of my diary that concern your father, will you promise me one thing?”

  “What?”

  “Promise me you will no longer renounce your book. Whatever its shortcomings, it was a fine achievement, so full of hope.”

  I felt the pressure behind my eyes again. I said quietly, “I promise.”

  “Then come with me.”

  I followed Pereira into the hall and up the stairs to the long corridor. He unlocked a bedroom and turned on the light. The place was full of lamps missing bulbs, crockery, and old furniture. From a shelf in the corner he took out a blue folder, which he then handed to me.

  “This covers the second part of 1918,” he said. “I was a company commander by then. The bit that relates to your father begins where I’ve left this pap
er marker. But you’re free to read it all if you like.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I suggest you take it up to your room. We can talk about it in the morning. Sleep well.”

  He held out his hand as though to lay a reassuring pat on my arm, but I had moved ahead through the door and took the file up the half flight to my lair, where I opened the shutters on the night and listened for a moment to the distant sound of sea in the calanque.

  I put on my reading glasses, switched on the lamp, and opened the file. I started from the beginning, thinking it would help my perspective to know where the men were in their passage through the war, but soon, like a schoolboy greedy for the iced bun, I skipped to the marker. This is what I read.

  September 18, 1918. We are near P—, almost where we began in 1915. A week in reserve, then back up the line. I miss the staff billet in A— and I’m not familiar with these men. The good news is that the war can’t last much longer, so if we can survive a few more weeks we’ll go home.

  The men in this company are not the best: a lot of conscripts, boys with rickets and bad chests who should be in England. I have to act as censor of their letters. It’s surprising how even the survivors of Kitchener’s army, the optimists of the early days, still haven’t learned the rules. Their letters home are full of towns and villages we’ve passed through and the names of other units. I try to just cross things out with a wax crayon, but I already have an ammunition pouch full of letters so bad that they can never be sent. Some of the old lags are also tired and say things they shouldn’t.

  News comes of progress made by tanks, but we still seem stuck in the old trenches. My dugout has not been well maintained by the previous occupant. The roof leaks. Rats everywhere.

  Stand-to at dawn, and I told the men we expect to attack within the next few days. Little enthusiasm.

  September 19. Heavy shelling from the Hun. We had to abandon wiring. I saw a fox making his earth under a splintered tree.

  September 20. Shelling and wiring. Wagstaff got hold of some eggs. Reading Henri Bergson, Matter and Memory. Quite interesting.

  I wrote a letter to Françoise. I think of her a good deal, even though she is only eighteen. Something lovely in her. I want an innocent girl after the brothel types.

  September 21. Shelling and wiring. The men are anxious because they know we’ll attack soon. Decided to take out a patrol in no-man’s-land to keep them busy. Hughes, Bowker, Roe, and Hendricks looked the best bets. All old lags. Hendricks, a tailor at home, has been here since 1915. Reluctant corporal, could be more if he wanted, but war weary.

  September 22. The patrol went well. We got close enough to hear the Hun talking. They’re not so careful as they once were. Roe wanted to grab one, but Hendricks swore at him. Covered in slime from shell holes when we got back. It smelt terrible. I hate to think what we crawled through.

  September 23. Wiring and shelling.

  September 24. Woken in the night by Wagstaff. Hendricks shot through the head. Self-inflicted wound. He is some way down the line, and somehow the military police were already on to it. (Their proximity means big attack imminent.) But there’s no regimental aid post here. Casualty clearing station a mile back. No medical orderlies nearby. Chaos.

  Went to speak to the MPs. Hendricks must be treated, they say, and not allowed to die—so he can be court-martialed. Told them that that was crazy, let him die, but they say divisional command has been very clear. Also CO has been on them about the morale of fighting men: to be “bloodthirsty” in final pursuit and advance into Germany. Dear God.

  Went along the line. I found Hendricks on a stretcher with half his face missing. He was also shot up in chest. He’d got a Lewis gun jammed open. He is in pain. I did a lot of shouting at the MPs in course of which by mistake I let slip that I’m a doctor in civilian life. A telephone message came from Bn HQ ordering me as nearest thing to MO to accompany “prisoner,”—as he is now known—to CCS and thence to hospital. I put Waites in charge of the company. He can take the men over the top if attack comes before I’m back.

  So we went back down the communication trench, Hendricks moaning. Despite losing half his tongue and teeth he can still make himself understood. Enough is enough. Aubers Ridge, Somme, Ypres, he’s been through the grinder for sure.

  In the support line we got him onto a GS wagon. We began to move faster, but the solid wheels going over potholes jolted him. Cried out pitifully. Eventually we got to clearing station with Hendricks yelling his head off. I had to explain to the surgeon that it was vital to treat him. The usual reply: too many wounded already. MPs arrived and said that in that case must get him to hospital, five miles back. Why not put him out of his misery, I said. That’s murder, they replied; we have to set an example.

  We commandeered a lorry, and Hendricks was shoved in the back. I could see too much of his large organs through the hole in his ribs, like an anatomy lesson. I used my bandages and morphine to do what I could. He spat out the morphine tablets in a rage. He was determined to die. I thought he had lost too much blood and would get his wish before long, but the screaming was hard to bear.

  After nightmarish ride we got to the hospital. Wagstaff and I got him off the lorry onto a stretcher. He made a grab for my pistol, maybe to end it—or kill me, who knows. I twisted his arm back and told him to behave. He spat at me.

  We ran down stone corridor, bumping the poor man up and down, till we got to the theater, lit by hurricane lamps, where there were well-bred English nurses, some French orderlies. The operating table was like a butcher’s block. The MPs had got there ahead of us and were shouting at the medical staff. We held him down while the surgeon tried to clean and stitch. There was a bullet lodged under the eye socket. He had lost sight of that eye and as good as lobotomized himself, I think. The surgeon, a young man, did a good job with the abdominal wounds. It took four of us to hold him down while he stitched. Finally we got some morphine into him and tried to set up a blood transfusion. The surgeon agreed with me he couldn’t last long, but who knows. Blood was vital.

  We got him to a bed in the ward, but he was violent and strong. He ripped out the blood transfusion tube. He was swearing and shouting. The nurses were very upset. MPs fetched leather straps, and eventually we were able to restrain him by tying him to the bed. The blood transfusion started. He thrashed his head from side to side, but there was nothing he could do.

  We then retreated to find some tea and rations. This struggle lasted two more days. On the second day I received orders that I was not to rejoin my men until “the prisoner” was well enough to be handed over. It seemed he had been tried and found guilty in his absence.

  September 26. To our amazement, Hendricks has survived. Like many machine-gun casualties, he has been pieced together again. It has taken half the hospital staff to keep him alive, and I don’t like to think that others may have died because of it.

  September 28. In my absence, my company went over the top yesterday, led by Waites, who was killed. Casualties about 20 percent, but we took our objectives for the first time since 1915.

  I receive a message of congratulation from Bn HQ for having kept Hendricks alive. He will face the firing squad tomorrow morning, though he is too weak to stand and will have to be tied to the tree.

  September 29. Eleven p.m. Message to say firing squad successful. We are to take up new positions tomorrow. I had dinner this evening at Bn HQ: beef stew and red wine. I stayed in a village billet and read more Bergson.

  I put down the file beside me on the bed, then took off my glasses, stood up, and went out.

  There was a bar of light showing under the door of Pereira’s bedroom, but I walked past it, downstairs, and out into the garden. I went to the end of the lawn and into the umbrella pines, where I sat down to listen to the sea.

  It was not possible to take in what I had read. It was in any case another war that I was thinking of. It was the expressionless face of Sergeant Warren that I could see as he stood outside the Dor
mitory at Anzio. I could hear my voice upbraiding him, cursing him for having deserted his post; then Richard Varian saying, “I dare do all that may become a man; who dares do more is none.”

  The wind was low in the leaves above my head.

  I knew now. And it was something to know. Everything was lost, as I had always thought it was, but I had touched my father’s hand at last.

  SIXTEEN

  The next day, for the first time, Pereira was down to breakfast before me. It must have been almost ten before I threw back the covers, washed, shaved, and pulled on some clothes.

  I drank some coffee and then went to find him. He was sitting in the library, smoking a small cigar.

  “Are you all right?” he said.

  I nodded.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “It was hard for me to know whether to tell you or to let you read it.”

  “Better to read it, I think. It made me feel I was there. It made me believe in it.”

  “Are you surprised?”

  “When I look back at it, there may have been suggestions that I missed. My mother wouldn’t talk about it, ever. But when she said it was just too painful, of course I accepted that.”

  “I intended to show you straightaway, but there was something about your manner that made me diffident.”

  “You were testing me.”

  “I thought it would be easy. I thought that it would be pleasant for you to have a bit of family history and that I could be the bearer of the gift. But then when I met you … you weren’t the hypothetical son of someone I only half remembered. You were a real man, full of sadness—and perhaps unstable. I was worried of the effect it might have on you.”

  “But you convinced yourself.”

  “Yes. The way you spoke about your life … Eventually, I was reassured.”

  “And what did you want from me?”

  “Access to the mind that had written that book. It was a selfish urge. I felt you could help me understand the century we’ve endured and bring my life to an end in some pleasing way.”