Yves does not answer.
There is no answer, just the darkness of the night and the eerie song of the carousel.
CHAPTER FIVE
PRESENT DAY
OAKLAND
Cady
Cady was two drinks in when she bashed her toe, hard, on a leg of the couch. Whirling around in a fit of anger and frustration, she kicked Gus.
Harder than she’d intended.
The carved rabbit fell over onto its side, slamming against the granite edge of an end table. Several already loosened joints gave up, and chunks of carved wood scattered on the floor like so many Tinker Toys: the ears, two slats from one side, the front legs.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. . . .”
Shame engulfed her. This was the sort of thing she would have done as a child. Cady had pursued counseling, attended mindfulness classes, and read dozens of self-help books to learn to stifle her violent impulses. She took a moment to close her eyes, take a breath for the count of four, hold it for seven, and release it for eight, as Maxine had taught her to do.
And then she grabbed her camera. She perceived more clearly when she peered through the lens. It allowed her to concentrate, to sink into herself and tune out the external world.
Like peering through a pair of corrective glasses, looking through the camera lens allowed her to see in a way she couldn’t with the bare eye.
Now Cady realized: There was something hidden in the cavity of the rabbit’s belly.
A bundle wrapped in pink fabric.
Crouching down, she tried to pull it out, but it was stuck tight. She would have to dislodge another of the laminated wood slats to get it out. After a moment’s hesitation, Cady decided that poor, broken Gus was in for some heavy repair work in any case, so she carefully pried the torso apart.
The rosy silk material was incredibly soft to the touch and reflected the overhead lights with a slight sheen. Her heart hammering in anticipation, Cady pushed aside the fabric.
Inside was a carved wooden box.
A breathtaking box. A work of art. Made of pale ash wood, it had been carved with acanthus leaves, flowers, and swirls; it was lacquered, polished, and sealed with a brass lock.
Who would hide a box within a carousel rabbit? And why? If she broke the lock, would she be destroying a piece of history? Or . . . could there be something inside that was worth real money? Something that might finance a trip to Paris, or even allow her to move and reestablish herself, as she’d hoped selling Gus would do?
Could this be the little piece of magic Olivia insisted Cady would find someday?
No, she reminded herself. Things like that don’t happen to me.
To hell with history. Cady grabbed a spackling knife, shoved it into the seam of the lock, and tapped the end of it with a hammer. She had to pry the box in several locations before the lock finally snapped.
She opened the lid.
A childish part of her hoped for a cache of jewels or gold, as though a pirate might have concealed his booty within this children’s amusement. Instead, she found an ancient, sepia-toned photograph of a woman; a tightly braided plait of dark brown hair; an intricately carved wooden rose; and a note written in slanted letters. The ink had faded to a light brown and the script was hard to read, but she made out: Je t’aime toujours, et encore. Souviens-toi de moi.
“I love you forever, and still,” Cady translated aloud. “Remember me.”
She checked the box for a false bottom, just in case, but there was nothing else. Certainly no treasure. Disappointment washed over her.
“That was it? That’s your big secret?” Cady glared at the rabbit. “I gotta tell you, Gus, after all these years you’re really letting me down.”
Still, she snapped several more photos of the hidden cache.
Unless . . . the man at the antiques fair had told her establishing a provenance might increase Gus’s value. Were there clues that could reveal where the rabbit figure had come from?
Stroking the silky plait of hair, Cady inspected the intricately carved wooden rose, complete with tiny thorns. It reminded her of the flower on Gus’s side that had so offended Scott Ripley. There was no signature or marking of any kind, certainly no brass plaque indicating provenance.
She picked up the photograph. The woman stood stiffly in front of a carousel, unsmiling, looking directly into the camera. She appeared to be young, probably in her early twenties. Her hair was piled on her head, with several strands escaping to frame a heart-shaped face. She wore a dark, high-necked dress that fell to her ankles, topped by a work apron. No visible lace or other embellishment. Cady was hardly a fashion expert, but she guessed it was from around the turn of the twentieth century, certainly before World War I.
The photograph was slightly fuzzy and crooked, as though taken by an amateur. But a professional-looking photographic stamp on the right lower corner read: Château Clement.
Cady opened her computer and searched, but she found no results for that name. She read that only a few dozen historic châteaux still existed in good repair; most had been too expensive to renovate after being abandoned during the French Revolution and then further damaged over the course of the two World Wars. The great majority had fallen into ruin.
The woman didn’t appear to be the lady of the manor—surely she would have donned her finest gown for a photo session? In fact, with the apron and the messy hair, she looked like a servant. Which led to the next obvious question: Who would have taken a servant’s photograph and then tucked it away in a box along with a love note? And why?
Cady brought out her photographer’s loupe to study the fuzzy details of the carousel in the background. She made out two carved horses, a carriage, and a rabbit that looked a little like Gus.
Gus. She gazed at her poor gutted rabbit.
“I’m sorry, little guy. Let’s see what we can do about fixing you up.”
She lifted him onto the big project table and turned on some Edith Piaf to get in the mood.
When Cady first started working for Maxine to repay her for items she had pilfered from the shop, she had simply cleaned and straightened and organized. But over time Maxine taught Cady how to do some basic repairs on antiques and how to make new things look old with crackle paint and sandpaper, using the contents of the vacuum bag to rub into crevices and voids. She learned how to apply gold and silver gilt, how to execute a proper French polish, and how to use glazes to suggest antiquity and increase value. At the flea market on weekends, Maxine pointed out what was valuable, what was a cheap imitation, and how to tell the difference.
Still, Cady wasn’t a trained conservator, so she had always hesitated to work on the rabbit, afraid her efforts at repairing him would decrease, rather than add to, his value. But now, since Gus wasn’t who she’d thought he was anyway, she figured she could at least piece him back together. Cady enjoyed using her hands and getting back to basics: sanding and scraping and laminating. The process was calming, healing.
As Piaf crooned her love for Paris, Cady’s mind cast about, pondering the woman in the photograph. Was the note written for her, or by her? And how could Cady track down Château Clement? Might it be the name of an old photography studio, rather than a true “château” per se?
The phone rang. Lately Cady had been ignoring phone calls, but this was from Olivia. If she ignored her calls, Olivia would show up in person.
“Hey,” Cady answered. “What’s up?”
“Remember a couple of days ago, how I was saying you should hold out for a little magic in your life?”
“Yeah . . . why?” Had Olivia somehow intuited what Cady had found in Gus’s belly?
“Addison Avenue Books wants to offer you a contract for a photo book of Parisian carousels.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Which part didn’t you understand?”
>
“They’re offering me a book contract? Who are these people?”
“They’re a small press based in San Francisco, but they’ve been around for a long time. They publish big, glossy coffee-table books. It’s a niche market, but a profitable one. One of the senior editors plays golf with Sebastian, and he pitched her the idea. I sent her a link to your website, and she checked out your online portfolio. I told her the magazine loves working with you, you’re so professional and exclusive and very much in demand, blah blah blah.”
“Basically, you lied.”
“I did not lie. I enhanced. Anyway, since you don’t have an agent, I told her to send me the contract so I could look it over for you. Legalese and all that.”
“I don’t . . . I mean . . . I really don’t know . . .”
“Cady, the universe is handing you a huge gift. Accept your landlord’s offer to take over the lease, sell off Maxine’s inventory, store your stuff in my garage, and go to Paris.”
“Speaking of gifts from the universe, listen to this: Gus fell over—to be honest, I kicked him—and broke open, and—”
“You kicked him? Poor Gus.”
“Yes, but listen: There was a box hidden inside.”
“What was in it? Gold coins? Diamonds? Scads of old-fashioned currency?”
“No, unfortunately. Just a photograph and a lock of hair. And a love note, and a wooden rose.”
“How cool! Are there any clues about where Gus came from?”
“Not right off the bat, but I did find the name of a château. I have no idea where it is, though. It doesn’t come up on the Internet.”
“Well, the book offer specifies photos of Parisian carousels, but there’s no reason you can’t wander a little farther afield once you’re in the country,” said Olivia. “You could track down that château. You and I both know you’re going to become obsessed with your mystery box, anyway. It’s what you do.”
It was true: Cady was already reading and rereading the note, gazing at the photo, stroking the plait of hair, wondering about the significance of the rose. Maxine used to say that once something had caught Cady’s interest, she was like a dog with a bone. On the one hand, her single-mindedness had helped her in her photography; on the other, her obsessions sometimes drove a further wedge between her and others.
“Seriously, Cady,” Olivia continued. “Take the leap. You know what they say: The world’s your oyster.”
“I don’t like oysters.”
“Have you ever tried oysters?”
“No.” Cady liked things to be predictable. Running off to Paris for a photography assignment felt . . . reckless. Just the prospect gave her a dizzying sensation, like the first time she had seen the ocean, standing on the edge of a very steep cliff.
“The pay’s not great, but you’re not a big spender, so it’ll be enough. Honestly, Cady, what do you have to lose?”
Cady gripped the telephone so tightly that her knuckles hurt. Even she had to admit: It felt like the universe was giving her a big old shove in the direction of La Belle France.
“You don’t have any room in your garage,” Cady said. “Everyone else’s stuff is jammed in there already.”
“I’ll make room,” Olivia answered, a triumphant tone to her voice. “So, is that a yes?”
“Mais oui,” Cady said, surprising them both.
CHAPTER SIX
1900
ANGERS, FRANCE
THE CAROUSEL FACTORY OF GUSTAVE BAYOL
Maëlle Tanguy
A scrap of paper, crumpled and damp from being clutched in her hand for hours, holds the precious address of the factory: 215 bis, rue de Paris, in Angers. Maëlle Tanguy is weary from the train ride, and her muscles ache from carrying her bag all the way from the station . . . but still, the moment she walks in she knows the master’s atelier is where she belongs.
She knows from the scents of the freshly sawn wood, the sharp tang of turpentine, and the mellow aroma of linseed oil. Orange afternoon light streams in through huge windows, hazy with caked-on sawdust. Half-built animals pepper the work platforms like so many carcasses, but rather than being butchered they are waiting for their final straps of wood to be cut and laminated, joined and carved. They lack wood filler and putty, sanding and priming with gesso. Most of all, they are in need of the bright paints of brown and yellow, turquoise and scarlet; the gold and silver and copper gilt; the carved tassels, bells, jewels, and rosettes that will transform them into miraculous carousel figures.
Maëlle knows.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle. May I help you?”
Maëlle’s reverie is broken by the most beautiful man she has ever seen. His face reminds her of an angel painted by an old master. His brawny, muscular arms are like those of the butcher’s son, who could carry an entire boar carcass over his shoulder without breathing hard; but the intelligence gleaming in his gray-green, sea-colored eyes is something else entirely. The sheen of sweat on his broad brow—and on the intriguing triangle of skin revealed by his open collar—only serves to make him more attractive.
“Bonjour, monsieur,” Maëlle responds, suddenly breathless. The man looks far too young to be the famous Monsieur Bayol, but Maëlle can’t be sure.
His eyes linger on her face for a moment before brazenly running down the length of her body. “What do you want, little girl?”
“You are . . . are you the master?”
The man’s laugh is a deep, resonant sound that gives her a confusing, unwelcome thrill somewhere down deep in her belly. Maëlle is not entirely naive about men; she had briefly entertained—and then turned down—two rather lackluster offers of marriage: one from the butcher’s son and another from a middle-aged widower with a small farm outside of town. But the men from her fishing village pale in comparison to the man standing in front of her now.
“No, I am not the master—yet. I am Léon Morice,” he says. “It is lovely to meet you.”
“I am Maëlle Tanguy. Enchantée.”
“You are from Bretagne?”
She nods. Her accent and her name give her away. She knows the rest of France looks down its Gallic nose at the Bretons, but she doesn’t understand why; the rocky coast is wild and alluring, the fishing villages charming, the houses tall and straight. But it is true that her village does not compare to the majesty of the architecture of Angers; on her way from the train station she had passed an old stone castle and walked along the remnants of medieval city walls. There were half-timbered houses with leaded glass and window boxes full of flowers, and vast white-domed buildings studded with balconies, and ubiquitous dark-slate roofs that had given the town its nickname, the “Black City.”
Maëlle had made the mistake of gazing up at the rooftops as she walked, narrowly escaping being run over by a carriage in the road.
“You see the man with the mustache, carving the chicken?” Léon leans in close to her, his long arm pointing to the other side of the studio. “He is the master you seek: Monsieur Gustave Bayol.”
“I . . . Thank you.” Maëlle reminds herself of her mission. She buttons the high neck of her blouse, tucks an unruly lock of dark hair back under her hat, smooths her traveling coat, squares her shoulders, and makes her way across the crowded atelier to stand beside the small man wearing a wide-brimmed hat. The waxed ends of his mustache curl upward to form two sideways question marks, one on each cheek.
“Bonjour, Monsieur Bayol. I am Maëlle Tanguy.” The words she had practiced on her train journey have flown as surely and swiftly as the marsh birds flushed out by her father’s hunting dog. In place of the eloquent lines she means to recite, she blurts out: “I wish to apprentice with you.”
Gustave Bayol laughs, his mustache vibrating.
The master’s hands never stop moving over the giant chicken: each feather is individually detailed, curls of wood rising as he applies the planer a
nd knife. Scritch, scritch, scritch. His hands are calloused and strong, scarred from countless nicks by blades and chisels. A sculptor’s hands.
“Please.” Maëlle’s heart flutters, but her voice is strong. “I carry a letter of introduction from a talented sculptor, with whom I have trained for many years.”
“Tell me, mademoiselle,” Monsieur Bayol replies. “This sculptor, he allowed a young woman to apprentice with him? What is his name?”
“Emile Tanguy.” Maëlle feels the heat rise in her cheeks. “The sculptor is my father, it is true, but he is very talented, and he has taught me everything he knows.”
“Mademoiselle—” Bayol shakes his head, his humor giving way to annoyance.
“I am prepared to work for free for six weeks, monsieur. If you are not happy with my work, you may send me away.” Maëlle has to raise her voice to be heard over tinks and clanks and the occasional chatting of the small army of men who swarm like ants over the carousel factory. “I will sweep sawdust and brew coffee; I can wash your windows for you, so you’ll have more light by which to work. I am very practiced at honing tools and sharpening knives. But much more than this: I can carve. I am an artist, monsieur.”
All she wants is to be part of this world, to work, to create, to feel the wood under her hands, to transform a plain stump into something new and magical. It is the only time she feels fully alive. What will be her future otherwise?
Her father, poor man, had sired four girls and only one boy, Erwann, who is sickly and lacking in talent for anything but poetry. Maëlle is the child who picked up her father’s blade at the age of four, caressing it, fascinated by its heft and shine, and over time learned how to sharpen it with the strap, grinding the edge on the whetstone at night by the fire. Maëlle is the one who watched, rapt, as her father set his chisel to the wood and tapped it with the hammer, sending tiny bits flying as he uncovered the form that dwelt within what had once been a tree.
The Lost Carousel of Provence Page 3
