The Travels of Daniel Ascher

by Déborah Lévy-Bertherat

  Daniel was opening his mouth to reply when Thierry suddenly stepped toward the table, Alain stood up to stop him but the younger man was taller and stronger than his older brother, he shoved him aside and, drunk though he was, he aimed well. Daniel just had time to duck to one side so the stone didn’t hit him full in the face, it only grazed him. Everyone screamed, Suzanne more loudly than anyone else, Daniel brought his hand up to his temple and swayed in his chair but didn’t fall, didn’t cry out, it’ll be fine, he kept saying, it’ll be fine, he was ashen.

  Two cousins had got to their feet to restrain Thierry, thinking he might throw himself at Daniel, but, as if horrified by what he’d done, he abruptly calmed down and stood there in the middle of the room with his arms hanging limply at his sides. One on either side of him, the cousins led him out into the courtyard, he went with them meekly. Daniel had quite a sizable wound, it was only skin-deep but it was bleeding a lot, and beneath it a large bruise was starting to appear. Suzanne was crying, Paule was talking about going to the emergency department, but Daniel refused, it wasn’t worth it. Paule went to get the first aid kit, as a midwife, she was always the one who disinfected wounds and, to keep her sister busy, she asked her to help by handing her the compresses, even though her hands were shaking, you can manage. Suzanne apologized, I’m so sorry, she kept saying, as if it were her fault. Daniel patted her arm, don’t you worry, Suzette, it’ll be fine, he was smiling, very pale faced, dark rings around his eyes, do you remember, he said, I was sitting here, on this chair, the first time I met you, yes, I remember, the red pullover, he smiled, you see, I had a hard head then and I still have now.

  The incident was over. It was incredible how highly strung Thierry was under his veneer of false calm, particularly since his divorce, and he couldn’t hold his liquor, everyone knew that, but you couldn’t watch over him like a child, he was nearly fifty. Luckily Daniel had good reflexes, he could have been badly injured, or worse, but thank the Lord it was nothing serious.

  Hélène was still standing on the doorstep, and she could see Thierry sitting at the table outside, between the two cousins, his head in his hands, he looked as if he was crying, he’d go to sleep afterward, he always ended up falling asleep when he’d had too much to drink. Inside, Paule and Suzanne stood on either side of Daniel, still busy tending to him, Paule was winding a bandage around his head. Alain watched, sitting motionless, as pale as Daniel himself, then, pulling himself together, he tried to make a joke to ease the tension, that turban really suits you, yes, you’re right, I’m going to let my beard grow, I’ll look even more biblical. And it was true, the bandage gave him a dignified, venerable quality, somehow patriarchal. There in the half-light of that old house, the brother and his two sisters formed one of those scenes of sacred intimacy that you see in old paintings.

  22

  Marabout Sadi Alfa Maneh

  IN HER HEART OF HEARTS, Hélène couldn’t forgive Guillaume for noticing the faked postmarks and for admiring the hoax. She’d now read all twenty-three Black Insignia novels, she could have stuck a pin in a map of the world for each one of them, Senegal, Japan, Colombia, Polynesia, like planting a flag in a conquered country. She could no longer bear Guillaume’s puerile enthusiasm, the way he talked about these adventures as if they belonged to him. The Black Insignia had brought them together, now it was coming between them. Of course he still knew the series better than Hélène, but there was one thing she knew that he didn’t, why the cacique Umoro and the Carinaua were so angry with Peter, and she made a point of not telling him. She hadn’t told him about the scene in Saint-Ferréol either, so as not to tarnish the Roche family image, but more particularly to avoid Guillaume feeling obligated to go and comfort Daniel.

  They were slowly drifting apart. For several weeks they pretended not to notice, they carried on eating out at the Jade Lotus, then going back to her room together, sailing the China seas in their junk, but they didn’t really believe it anymore. They still fell asleep huddled against each other like two spoons, but as the night wore on they moved apart without even realizing it, their elbows and knees knocking together as if the bed had suddenly become too small for two people, and they woke in the morning more like two knives.

  HÉLÈNE HADN’T SEEN DANIEL IN PARIS since Suzanne’s birthday. His shutters were permanently closed and, from the light that they allowed to filter out late into the night, she knew he was finishing his book. She was rather worried to see him cloistering himself in his apartment, his wound was only superficial but he should have gone to the doctor, or at least to the pharmacy, to have a new dressing. Perhaps he was avoiding going out so that he didn’t have to answer any questions from neighbors and shopkeepers.

  Hélène had handed in her dissertation on Germigny-des-Prés, but it was now time for her end-of-year exams, she worked at the institute all day and revised in her attic bedroom all evening. Still, she had called Daniel once to see how he was, he was absolutely fine, he wasn’t in any pain, he was correcting his manuscript, I’m behind schedule, my editor’s breathing down my neck, it’s only a few hours’ worth of work. She didn’t pester him about dropping by to see him, he mustn’t be disturbed at any cost.

  AFTER THE EXAMS, Guillaume left for Central Asia where he was to spend the summer on a dig. As Hélène accompanied him to Roissy airport, she knew, as Guillaume did, that this departure would have no return for them, but they kissed as if they’d be seeing each other again soon. She watched his plane take off and waited until it disappeared into the sky. She hoped that the distance would make the breakup easier, but she was wrong. Years later she would still think of him, remembering his childishness that she found endearing and exasperating in equal measure. When she tipped over into adulthood, she would finally learn to recognize the child that lives on in each of us, like the heart of a tree beneath the bark. She would think that their relationship could have gone on longer, and without actually feeling regret, she would view it with a degree of nostalgia.

  The evening Guillaume left, Mrs. Almeida could be heard talking noisily with a neighbor in the courtyard. She was no longer insisting on silence, so Daniel must have finished his twenty-fourth book. Hélène would have really liked him to lend her the manuscript, she was impatient to read Peter’s latest adventures. She climbed up to her room with a sense of loss, almost pointlessness.

  LATE IN THE EVENING she was leaning on the windowsill with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth, watching the last rays of sunlight over the rooftops, when she heard Daniel closing his window. She thought she could see a different light coming from behind the shutters, it was blinking like a bulb about to blow, or a dying flame, just for a few seconds, then everything went dark. She felt that after so many sleepless nights spent on his manuscript, Daniel must have gone to bed early, and she thought no more of it.

  That night she dreamed she knocked at his door and the door swung open, she went in and found him asleep in his armchair, his beard had grown and he was wearing Grandpa Maurice’s gray cap, she shook him and slapped him to wake him up, he waggled his head against the backrest as if saying no and didn’t open his eyes, she lifted the cap and his temple started to bleed again. She woke up in the middle of the dream, and imagined all sorts of disasters, an infection in his wound, a blood clot, a brain injury. She thought back to what Thierry had done and wondered whether, hurt more by the insult than the blow itself, Daniel had committed suicide once he’d finished his book. The light she’d seen might have been a last sign before the darkness closed in. She felt guilty, she should have gone down to see him.

  Usually, when a new day dawns, the previous night’s anxieties look laughable, but it worked the other way that morning. Hélène could picture Daniel hanging in the corridor of his apartment, slumped on his desk covered in blood, drowned at the bottom of his bathtub, she knew it was her imagination but she couldn’t help believing it. She rapped the lion’s head knocker on his door for a long time, banged on the shutters in the courtyard, where she’d
seen the flickering light, no one answered. She called him on her cell phone, and through the door she could hear the telephone ringing and the answering machine clicking on. This time she didn’t ask the caretaker for help. She felt that if something had happened to Daniel, she was the only person who could help him, she had to find a way to get into his apartment but didn’t yet want to call the emergency services to break down the door. Someone must have a spare key to his door, or even know where he was, one of his friends, the woman who sold candy, the man at the hardware store, Elie Frailich, Prosper perhaps. She remembered that when the marabout had given her his card, Daniel had told her not to forget his address, which might come in useful. She’d lost the card but, because there was so much promise in the name, she’d remembered 36 rue de la Goutte d’Or.

  LA GOUTTE D’OR, THE DROP OF GOLD, it was a name to fuel dreams but a dreary street, even more disappointing than rue d’Odessa. At number 36, a handsome but dilapidated old building, there was an abandoned-looking travel goods store. At the far end of the inner courtyard was a door with flaking paintwork and a white plaque: PROFESSOR MANEH, CONSULTATIONS, BY APPOINTMENT. Prosper opened the door before she’d even knocked, he was wearing a light blue bubu, which made him look taller than ever, come in, Hélène, I was expecting you. She was about to tell him Daniel had disappeared but Prosper raised his hands and said I know. He led her into a small square room with one whole side screened off by a curtain, and gestured for her to sit on a divan. He himself sat in a wickerwork armchair opposite her and stayed there in silence for several minutes, with his eyes closed. Hélène found the whole slow process unbearable, she felt he was going a bit too far with his inspired marabout act, or was keeping her waiting on purpose because he could see she was anxious. He opened his eyes, she shouldn’t worry, nothing had happened to Daniel, he just needed to recharge his batteries. She was convinced Prosper knew exactly where Daniel was, and she felt like calling him a charlatan. Recharge his batteries, what did that mean, and what if her great-uncle had come and hidden here with Prosper, maybe he was actually at the far end of the room, she could hear someone breathing. She was staring pointedly at the curtain, so Prosper went over and drew it back, there were three beds in there, and a young man was asleep on one of them, he’s my youngest son, he works nights.

  Prosper sat back down in his wicker armchair and talked quietly, his long hands resting on his knees, I’m going to tell you an old story about my country, Casamance. Hélène shrugged, and he smiled, ah, the young, always impatient, it won’t take long, and it might help you find your great-uncle. In the very last years of the slave trade, a young Diola woman is captured with the baby she’s carrying on her back. The slave catchers stop for the night with their captives on the outskirts of a village, locals bring them flatbread to eat and earthenware jars full of water. When the slaves set off again, the young woman is carrying a jar where her baby had been. The overseers were put under a spell and didn’t notice anything. One of the women from the village takes the baby home with her. She and her husband raise him as their own son. The boy grows up, has children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren, and sometimes he tells them the story of his two mothers, the one who abandoned him to save him, and the one who took him in. I’m one of those great-grandchildren. I sometimes think of my cousins in America, people I’ll probably never meet.

  He’d once confided this story to Daniel, who’d actually taken inspiration from it in one of his novels. Daniel also had two mothers, and, like Moses, had been abandoned by his parents in order to be saved, which was why, from time to time, he needed to stop being Daniel Roche and go back to being Daniel Ascher. That was most likely what he was doing now.

  Prosper went behind the curtain and came back out holding a key. Hélène stood up, she didn’t want to wait any longer, she asked whether Daniel had gone home or whether he was at rue d’Odessa. He’s probably at home, said Prosper, not on rue d’Odessa anyway, he’s never been back. When they’d first become friends, in the late ’60s, the neighborhood had been handed over to bulldozers. The workshops that were left in Odessa Passage had been converted into makeshift theaters, but Daniel refused to go there, he wanted his memories to be left intact. When number 16 was about to be demolished, he’d asked Prosper to go and see whether he could salvage any possessions, some negatives from the Ascher studios perhaps, they could still be in a drawer. They’d already found photos on the sidewalk, among the debris, you wouldn’t believe it, people sometimes throw out whole albums. At the time Daniel lived in the little room on the fifth floor of the building on rue Vavin, but not long after that he’d managed to buy the ground-floor apartment on credit. In those days you could still find accommodation in that neighborhood without being as rich as Croesus. So I went to rue d’Odessa, I watched a digger ripping off the last strip of wall, everything was crushed under the tracked wheels, there was nothing left but rubble. When I told my friend all this, I saw how devastated he was, and I realized I was bringing an end to a long-held dream he’d never put into words, to go back and live on rue d’Odessa one day.

  Prosper handed the key to Hélène, after dark, but not before, go to Daniel’s apartment, go alone, close the door behind you, and look patiently, dig deep, like an archaeologist. Daniel hasn’t disappeared, he hasn’t crossed the Red Sea, you’re not risking anything by opening his door, because he asked me to give you the key.

  23

  Return to Rue d’Odessa

  HÉLÈNE WAITED TILL AFTER DARK to go down to Daniel’s apartment. The door wasn’t locked, and when she switched on the light in the hall she immediately spotted his parka hanging on a hook. There was a slight smell of burned wood, or rather of smoke gone cold. She closed the door behind her but stayed in the hallway, not daring to step farther into the apartment, fearing what she might find. Gradually, cautiously, she moved from room to room, switching on the lights as she went, in the living room, in the kitchen, where the dishes had been washed and that empty sink worried her, though she couldn’t have said why. She gave a start as she walked into the bedroom, it looked as if a man was lying inert on the bed, but it was only the crumpled sheets that had assumed the shape of a body. She went back through every room, looking everywhere, in closets, behind curtains. Daniel was nowhere to be seen.

  He must have a hiding place, though, a secret compartment, a cellar perhaps. She looked at the floor in the junk room, then the bathroom, she lifted carpets, the tiger skin, but found nothing. There were two identical brown suitcases in the bedroom, one standing by the door, the other lying on its side on the wooden floor, ready to be filled or emptied. She tried to pick it up, but it was impossible, it must be attached to the floor. When she opened it, it was empty, with a folded lap robe covering the bottom, this was hiding a trapdoor that she pulled up, and all at once light streamed out from down below. A voice drifted slowly up to her, intoning a song with no words.

  Before slipping through the opening, she called a few more times, Daniel, Daniel Ascher, her voice louder and louder, no one replied. She climbed down the wooden staircase, stopping halfway down. She’d been expecting to find a cellar, but this was something else altogether, it was a second apartment, smaller and with lower ceilings than the one on the first floor, but more fully furnished, more inhabited, more alive. The walls were decorated in flesh-pink wallpaper and the floor completely covered with carpets in warm colors. The room in which she now stood was quite long, at one end was a dining area, furnished entirely in 1930s style, a square table with cut-off corners, four chairs, a sideboard, and at the other end was a living room with a divan, armchairs, a low bookcase, and an open phonograph with a record turning on it. She could hear it more clearly now despite the crackle of the stylus, what she’d thought was a voice was in fact a cello playing a slow old tune, sad as a kaddish. A display case hung on the wall, housing a collection of stones, exactly the same as hers, as if Daniel had bought them all in pairs, to give one to her and keep the other here. On top of the display c
ase stood an old bronze menorah. The strangest thing was how many table lamps, floor lamps, and wall lights there were, they were all over the place, small golden lightbulbs lit up the room as if for a party. She didn’t feel like an intruder, in fact she felt she was being greeted, welcomed, perhaps because of all these lights, which made you forget there were no windows, and the slightly heady amber smell that probably came from a lighted candle on the table.