Love From Paris

by Alexandra Potter

  Yet, now I am here and you are not. On my return to this city I discovered a letter from you. The postmark is smudged so I cannot tell how long it has been waiting for me, all I know is I opened it with such joy and excitement. With such hope. If only I had known the devastation of its contents.

  It was sent by your fellow soldier in the event of your death. All this time I have wondered where you are, and if you were safe, all this time not knowing if you had joined the other brave men to fight the enemy. Darling Henry, can this be true? Were you killed fighting for our freedom? Can such a force of life, a dazzling smile and heart filled with love cease to exist? Can it be snuffed out, just like that?

  I must return now, I must leave Paris and go back to my life in the south. With your letter has come resolution. Now you are gone I know I can no longer delay my marriage to Monsieur Dumont. Despite the rumours I have heard of his character, I must do my father’s bidding. My family has lost everything in the war and he is a wealthy man, our union will ensure my family is looked after. I will try to console myself that I may not be marrying for love, but for the love of my family, so I must do what is best and try and be a good wife.

  Yet, I cannot leave without writing you one last letter in case by some miracle, there has been a mistake and you are alive. I have no way of contacting you, no forwarding address, no family that I know of. Yet what I do have is this apartment. I have secretly kept up the rent with the small inheritance left to me by my grandfather, and now I am resolved to do so for the rest of my life. Not as a shrine to our love, but because I cannot give up hope.

  For if you are alive, Henry, I know you will come and find me. You will return to Paris, and to this apartment, and with your key you will open the door, just like you used to, and everything will be as it was. The gramophone still in the corner, your record on the turntable, our energy and laughter still hanging in the air. There will be our wine glasses on the table, the armchair where you drank your nightcaps, the bed where we made love.

  And Franklin. Our confidant. The keeper of our secrets. He will stay here and wait for your return. Who knows for how long. Weeks, months, years, a lifetime . . . It matters not. Love cannot be measured by time, nor can it be withered.

  I have hidden this letter with him for safekeeping, along with our daughter’s birth record, to ensure it will never fall into the wrong hands. Only you will ever think to look there. Though I refuse to feel shame for our love and the creation of our daughter, society takes a different view, and I cannot risk the shame that this would bring upon my family should our secret be discovered.

  It is our secret Henry, and ours alone.

  So now it is time to say adieu, but never goodbye. I too hope that we meet again, if not in this lifetime, then in another. Yet, if by some miracle you are reading this letter, know that however much time has passed since I wrote these words, and whatever has happened, I have never stopped loving you and I never will.

  I look for you around every corner.

  Emmanuelle

  My eyes are so filled with tears I can barely see to finish her letter. They stream silently down my cheeks as I unfold the last page – to find enclosed another envelope. Written in Henry’s familiar handwriting, it’s addressed to Emmanuelle. Inside is a scrap of folded paper that appears to have been torn from a journal. His final letter to her. I can hardly bring myself to read it.

  For a moment I just stare at it. The room is silent. The story is yet unfinished. And in that moment of not knowing lies the hair’s breadth of a chance that it doesn’t end how I know it ends. That by willing it, and hoping, and wanting it so badly, I can somehow magically change the course of past events.

  Except, it doesn’t work like that, does it?

  I open it.

  Darling Manu,

  I don’t know if you will ever receive this letter. Time has passed and I no longer know where you are in this world, so I addressed this to your apartment in Paris where we spent so many wonderful times in our secret world.

  I don’t know how to say this, so I will just come out with it. If you are reading this then I am no more. Tomorrow at first light we are to take on the German stronghold. I cannot say where or how, but it is a dangerous maneuver. I am a lucky fellow, but I fear my luck may not last this time so I am writing this to give to a fellow soldier, to send it to you if I don’t make it back.

  What final parting can I leave? There is so much to say, it seems an impossible task. How does one fit a love this big into just a few lines? You are everything to me, Manu. I think often of those evenings we would dance together, my hand around your waist, your head upon my shoulder and I want you to know that in those moments, everything I wanted in the whole world, was right there in that room. If I have only one regret, it’s that I had not been a richer man, so I could have danced with you forever.

  Forgive me if I have said too much. You must be married by now so perhaps you do not think of me anymore. I hope you are happy, my darling. Just know, that I never stopped loving you. You are the love of my life and I would have done anything for you. I hope we can meet again in another life.

  J’attendrai.

  H

  38

  A few minutes later, I slip quietly out of the building.

  My job is done. Xavier and Harriet will take over now. There will need to be some kind of legal procedure to certify that Gigi’s mother Grace is in fact Emmanuelle’s daughter. No doubt the convent will finally be forced to hand over their records and reveal the secrets they’ve kept for over seventy years. I gave them Gigi’s phone number, so she will be getting a call shortly. I can picture her now, busy in her tiny flagstoned kitchen, the shutters thrown open and the sunlight streaming in, completely unaware that her life has just completely changed for ever.

  Soon she’ll hear the burbling of her phone and answer it with a distracted ‘’Allo?’ setting off a chain of events, like a line of dominoes. I try to imagine what her reaction will be to the news of their inheritance, imagine her telling her maman about the identity of her real parents, her son Jean-Paul that he can to go college . . .

  I smile to myself. It’s as if a weight has lifted from my shoulders. I feel a huge sense of relief, of things being how they should be, of finally putting right the wrongs that have lasted all these years. Yet it’s bitter-sweet. My happiness or satisfaction for Gigi and her family is tinged with a profound sadness when I think of Emmanuelle and Henry. Their final letters to each other were filled with dreams dashed, love lost and a life together as a family that was never lived. The sense of heartbreak is overwhelming.

  I walk aimlessly. After the events of the morning, the adrenalin that flooded my body has begun slowly ebbing away, and I feel almost dazed. It seems like for ever since I woke up in Xavier’s apartment and had my last phone call with Jack, and it hasn’t all sunk in yet. So much has happened since then, I need time to process it all.

  There’s something meditative about walking and, feeling the sun on my face and the ground beneath my feet, I let my mind drift. I pass cafés filled with tourists, a busy Sunday market, a long line for a crêpe stall. It’s strange to see all these people going about their lives, unaware of what’s just taken place; to think that they don’t know anything about Henry and Emmanuelle, or even that their love story existed. But I guess that’s the way it is with so many great love stories. Right now, there are millions of them taking place all over the world – they’re all around us, in restaurants, departure lounges, nursing homes and on park benches. An invisible network of love.

  Lost in my thoughts, I lose all track of time and direction until I turn down a street and come upon a glass-fronted building with turnstiles. Looking up I realise I’m standing outside the Rodin museum. It was on my tourist to-do list when I first arrived, but now the moment seems to have passed. My enthusiasm has waned. I’m not in the mood, not after the events of today.

  Yet, a sign that says ‘Free admission today’ catches my eyes. Well, I’m here now. A
nd it is supposed to be one of the most beautiful museums in Paris, if not the world. Plus I’ve hardly done any sightseeing at all. It’s actually quite criminal.

  Put like that, I can hardly not go in, now can I?

  Pushing open the glass door, I walk through the turnstiles, through the bookshop and out into the gravelled courtyard. From the street there had been no hint of what was waiting for me inside, and for a moment I have to catch my breath. Ahead of me is a pillared mansion, set in the most stunning walled gardens and hidden away from the hubbub of the city. To say it’s impressive is an understatement. If ever there was a beautiful place to see art, this is it.

  I stand for a few moments, taking it all in, then turn and follow a gravelled path that leads me through a rose garden. The air is heavily scented with the perfume of the flowers, and I’ve only gone a short distance when I come across a large marble statue of a man deep in thought. Le Penseur. The Thinker.

  I gaze up at him. Set high on a pedestal against a spotless backdrop of blue sky, he’s overlooking the garden. What are you thinking? What thoughts are in your mind? I ask him silently, reminded of my own that are weighing heavy. I haven’t yet begun to try and make sense of what happened between me and Jack, it’s still all too raw, but I know somehow I have to.

  I walk around the gardens for a while, until finally making my way inside the mansion where, according to my guidebook, nearly three hundred of Rodin’s works are on view. However, like most people, what I’m really interested in seeing is his most famous sculpture, The Kiss. Not because I’m a romance novelist and it’s the most romantic sculpture I know of; not because my very first teenage boyfriend sent me a postcard of it for Valentine’s Day; not even because it’s so extremely famous, its image can be seen on a million cards and posters the world over.

  But because these two lovers, entwined in a kiss, are the true embodiment of love.

  I climb up the marble staircase and wander through the majestic rooms. Flooded with light from the huge arched windows, they’re filled with paintings and drawings and sculptures. There’s no doubt Rodin was a genius – the work is incredible – but I’m too impatient to linger and I move quickly past the displays, weaving through the crowds, until finally I reach a large, circular room.

  It’s crowded and I pause at the entrance. I note the beautiful chandelier hanging from the ceiling. The large arched windows and patina-speckled mirrors lining the walls. And as the swathe of tourists parts, I see them: two naked lovers, bathed in light so they almost seem to be illuminated from inside; their white marble bodies entwined with one another, caught for ever in an embrace.

  The Kiss. It has to be one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.

  For a few moments I simply stand there, transfixed, then move to one of the window seats to sit and stare at them. They’re mesmerising. Their bodies appear to fold into each other, his hand on her thigh, her arm round his neck, and the passion and love between them is almost palpable.

  It’s a powerful image and it’s almost hard to tear my eyes away, but after a while I turn to the description in my guidebook. As with so many things that are so famous, I know very little about the statue’s history or inspiration. I don’t even know who the lovers are supposed to be.

  The couple turns out to be the adulterous lovers Paolo and Francesca, two characters from Dante’s Inferno. They fell in love while reading the story of Lancelot and Guinevere together and were slain by Francesca’s husband who surprised them during their first kiss, thus condemning the two lovers to wander eternally through hell.

  Wow. I had no idea of the tragic story behind this statue. I stare at the words, taken aback. And there was me thinking it was this great embodiment of love. I feel a kick of disappointment, followed by something else – a sudden realisation that it still is the embodiment of love; it’s just not how I imagined it.

  Because looking at this statue makes me understand that love really isn’t that simple after all. It’s complicated and messy and filled with contradictions. It can fill you with joy yet it can also be the cause of so much pain. It can hurt you and cause you to hurt those around you. It can make you do things you shouldn’t and say things you regret. But it’s still love.

  Love is a mystery, impossible to define and powerful beyond our imagination, but it’s not always the answer. It can’t guarantee a happy ending. I wish it could, because then Emmanuelle and Henry would have lived the rest of their lives together. And yet, if it did, we wouldn’t have the tragic beauty of this last kiss.

  The version of love we see on Valentine’s cards and wedding days is the love that makes it into our photo albums. It’s the love that makes us smile and warms our hearts and makes people all over the world sign up to online dating. It’s the simplified version, sugar-coated and wrapped up in a red ribbon.

  But it’s not the real thing.

  This statue is the real thing. Emmanuelle and Henry were the real thing. Jack and I are the real thing. Joy and tears and pain and confusion, that’s the real thing. Loss and hope and heartbreak and feeling like your heart will burst open with both happiness and sadness, that’s the real thing. Being in a room with one person and knowing you have everything you want in the whole world, right there. That’s the real thing.

  And slowly, gradually, sitting here in this beautiful room, in this city of love, I feel my eyes opening. Love doesn’t always look like you want it to. It doesn’t always work out how you want it to. The nuances of love are endless and ever-changing and all you can do is take a deep breath and go with it.

  Because it’s still love.

  Eventually I get up from the window seat and walk outside. It’s a beautiful day, the sun is shining and the sky is still a spotless stretch of lavender blue, and I feel different. Lighter somehow. Clearer.

  I don’t have all the answers; I haven’t begun to think about what happened between me and Jack, and I have no idea what happens next, but it doesn’t matter. I’ll figure it out somehow.

  Leaving the museum, I head back into the street. It’s time to go home. Not just back to the apartment, but back to London. Paris has proved to be more than anything I could have imagined, and I’m a different person to when I arrived. Who could have ever envisaged the way events would unfold when I caught that Eurostar a few days ago?

  But now Emmanuelle’s apartment lies empty, the ghosts of the past buried, and there are no more secrets. I’m ready to say goodbye to the city, but I’ll be taking it with me. I have a new book to write and Paris has proved more inspiring than I could have ever imagined. It’s given me the most wonderful love story, only this time I’m going to tell it the way I wanted it to be, the way it should have been. Because that’s the beauty of being a writer – in real life Emmanuelle and Henry may have been torn apart, but within the pages of a book I can bring them back together.

  Turning the corner, I see the Métro up ahead, but it’ll be hot on the subway and I’m thirsty. First I need to get some water. Spotting a shop, I cross the street. It’s one of those with newspapers in racks by the doorway that appears to sell everything, and it’s tiny inside, barely big enough to fit two people.

  An elderly lady with a shopping trolley is blocking the doorway, chatting to the shopkeeper, and I pause on the pavement for her to pass. But she’s in no hurry to leave. I wait, my eyes passing absently over the racks of newspaper headlines, which are all about the celebrations for the D-Day landings that have been taking place over the last few days.

  I’m so thirsty, I wish she’d hurry up. I glance at the photos of the Champs Élysées, packed with people and a large procession of war veterans. Oh look, there’s the Queen and Obama and is that the French president? Gosh, I feel terrible, I didn’t actually know what he looked like. I peer closer. Actually, maybe I should just forget it and brave the Métro. Evian would be nice, but I’ll be here all day—

  And then I see something that makes the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. A close-up of a couple of Second Worl
d War veterans shaking hands with the president. One is in a wheelchair, a row of medals pinned proudly on his chest. I look at his face. Into his eyes. He might be an old man, but I recognise him. I’d recognise him anywhere.

  My eyes dart to the caption underneath. It’s in French, but the name jumps out at me. Lieutenant Henry Baldwin.

  It’s Henry. He’s alive. And he’s in Paris.

  39

  Café de Vanguard, rue de la Merchant, 7 p.m.

  Tables spill out onto the pavement, filled with patrons drinking carafes of wine and smoking cigarettes. My eyes flick over them. He must be inside.

  I try to see through the windows, but my view is blocked, so I walk up to the door and press my hand against the etched glass. My heart is racing. I never thought this moment would happen. I still can’t quite believe it.

  I pause, trying to steady myself, and stare at my fingers. For a brief moment it strikes me that this man I believed existed only in another lifetime is on the other side of this pane of glass.

  Then, taking a deep breath, I push open the door.

  There’s the muffled sound of a bell as I step inside. It’s much quieter in here; most people have chosen to sit outside to enjoy the warmth of the evening. But in the corner sits an old man in a wheelchair. Slightly hunched over, his legs covered with a blanket, he’s accompanied by a plump, middle-aged woman who’s fanning herself with a menu.

  As I approach him he looks up. The robustness of youth is no more. The smooth caramel skin and thick wavy dark hair of the photograph has been replaced by a face etched with the passing of many years. But as his eyes meet mine there is no mistaking him.

  Henry.

  My heart leaps. Henry, the author of the letters, Emmanuelle’s true love and the reason she kept an apartment hidden for nearly three-quarters of a century, is sitting here in the corner of a small, unremarkable cafe in Paris. The moment is so huge and arching, spanning the decades like a giant rainbow, yet to the rest of the world it goes unnoticed. Customers at nearby tables are paying no attention to the elderly man in a wheelchair; they see only old age and their own mortality. They don’t see what I see: a young writer from Brooklyn who fell madly in love with a beautiful redhead in Paris before the war, a love so great it triggered a course of events that lasted a lifetime.