The Lost Carousel of Provence

by Juliet Blackwell

  “God forbid, if this war goes on for another year,” Marc-Antoine continued, “we can talk about it then.”

  “I can’t wait another year,” said Fabrice, mimicking what his friend Claude had said to him earlier when talking Fabrice into attending the clandestine meeting. “And neither can France.”

  “Have you forgotten that I was shot for my trouble? Two years,” Marc-Antoine said, holding up two calloused fingers. Small nicks and splinters covered his fingers: the by-product of his craft. “For two years of my life I languished in a German hospital. No one expected me to survive. No one. By the time I was released, my parents were dead, my family home in shambles.”

  Fabrice used to crawl into his father’s lap and beg to be shown the scar, fascinated by the puckered skin, shiny and raised in some parts, sunken in others, a stark red against the white skin of his chest. How could a German bullet find your gut, and yet not leave you dead? Fabrice would plead to be told the story, over and over: the confusing cacaphony of the battlefield, the heroic actions of the medics, waking up days later in a German hospital . . .

  Now, though, Fabrice wondered about the nice things his father had to say about his time in the German medical center: the pretty nurses, the caring doctors, the officer who declared his survival a miracle.

  The Germans were the invaders; there was no room for kind thoughts.

  “I’m not a child,” Fabrice insisted. “I can contribute. It doesn’t have to be combat. There are other ways—”

  “What your country needs from you now is your carpentry skills,” his father reiterated. “Not your blood. Besides, this family does enough for the war effort right here in this atelier. Now, use that rottenstone to polish the filler on the John the Baptist from Tarcenay. I finally finished him last night.”

  Marc-Antoine’s workshop had become a secret repository of sculpted artworks from rural churches and museums, châteaux and fine homes. Fabrice found the work insignificant, too small compared to the crucial struggles playing out on the streets of Paris outside these walls; still, he acknowledged that his father was taking a risk. Though these rustic saints and cupids, angels and saviors were nothing akin to the valuable artworks the Nazis had looted from the Louvre, they had an intrinsic cultural value reflected in their artistry and tradition.

  Simply helping to maintain the histories of small-town chapels could be sufficient grounds for a death warrant, depending on the mood and character of the soldier who stumbled across their stash, or the dictates of the officer in charge, or the judgment of the dreaded Gestapo.

  Fabrice barely remembered France’s humiliating defeat after the six-week blitzkrieg in 1940. He had been only eleven at the time, and was convinced along with everyone else that France’s fighting forces were up to the job. But the Nazis were a different breed.

  In World War I, the Great War, the bloodshed had been based on a struggle over territory. This time the Nazis seemed to want to appropriate the very cultural life of France, to win Paris over by flattery as much as through repression. German officers mingled with Parisians in cafés and cabarets and nightclubs, acquired cases of fine wine and great art, and wolfed down foie gras and champagne. Their German-language newspapers glorified French singers, playwrights, and actors. The occupying forces even took it upon themselves to resuscitate the film industry in an attempt to show that French cultural life was flourishing under occupation. The Nazis declared that France was destined to become the holiday resort of the Herrenvolk, the master race.

  Many Parisians found themselves collaborating out of sheer necessity. Fabrice had never blamed them; with Nazis living amongst them, and the threat of starvation looming, who could cast stones? Still, Fabrice felt compelled to act.

  “Instead of volunteering to get yourself shot, you should thank the heavens we are in Paris instead of in my hometown. As hard as things are here, they are worse in Provence under the Vichy government.” Marc-Antoine put down his tools and turned toward his son. His tone softened. “Don’t you understand, my boy? Listen to me: Just getting enough to eat, merely surviving, is an act of rebellion.”

  The Madonna gazed back at Fabrice, her beatific expression never changing. Her mien of placid acceptance angered Fabrice.

  The statues his parents spent so many hours on were relics of another time, a different way of life. Fabrice disdained his father’s business: making cabinets by day, saving saints at night.

  Fabrice’s passion was for words: finding graceful ways to string them together himself, and reading the prose and poetry, literature and sonnets, written by others. Surely words were what would lead France into the modern world, not an ancient craft like carving.

  Words were what transported Fabrice.

  And those words had brought him to Paulette.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  PRESENT DAY

  PARIS

  Cady

  Despite her misgivings that Jean-Paul might want something from her, he simply bade Cady a polite “good evening” when they arrived at her Métro stop, thanked her for the lovely day, and kissed her on each cheek.

  His rapid departure felt rather anticlimactic after the day they had spent together—not to mention the many questions that had nagged at her—but Cady was also glad to retreat, alone, to her small apartment, dining in silence on simple falafel takeout at her postage-stamp-sized kitchen table, gazing at the woman in the photo, and wondering who had carved Gus and why.

  She spent the next day photographing the Montmartre carousel, situated at the very foot of the steps to the Basilica de Sacré-Coeur. Afterward she meandered up the hill to the cathedral, trying to ignore the way her photography bag dug into her shoulder as she explored the winding cobblestone alleys that had hosted so many well-known artists: Picasso and van Gogh, Degas and Toulouse-Lautrec.

  Twice Cady stopped at cafés: first for coffee, then for a Campari. She liked to think it was proof that she was falling into the rhythm of the City of Light. When she asked a waiter if he knew of an English-language bookstore, he suggested she try the Abbey.

  According to her phone, it was located not far from her apartment. She took the Métro back to the Quartier Latin, walked down Boulevard Saint-Jacques, then took a left onto rue de la Parcheminerie.

  Cady spied a Gothic façade, carved arched doors, a Canadian flag waving in the breeze, and several book-crammed carts crowding the sidewalk. Inside was a warren of book-lined paths.

  A slightly musty smell hung in the air, reminding Cady of Maxine’s Treasures.

  Grief, sodden and heavy, weighed upon her chest. If Maxine was looking down upon her now, Cady knew, she would be proud. But that didn’t keep Cady from wishing, desperately, viscerally, hopelessly, that things were different. That she and Maxine were huddled over the counter in the shop, debating names for the baby, looking forward to adding to their unorthodox little family unit.

  “Bonjour, may I help you?” asked a young man behind the register, in unaccented English. He was thin and wore wire-rimmed glasses and a cardigan, as though sent from central casting to work in a bookstore.

  “Have you ever heard of the novelist Fabrice Clement?” Cady asked.

  “Oh, sure. Clement was one of the new wave of French authors that emerged after the Second World War. This area was a hotbed of creativity and radical thinking back then. Sartre and de Beauvoir, Albert Camus, they all hung out in cafés and jazz clubs in this neighborhood. Americans, too: James Baldwin and Richard Wright.”

  “Would you have any of Clement’s novels? Preferably in English?”

  “Let’s see . . . we should have a copy of Le Château around here somewhere. That was Clement’s biggest success by far, though he went on to write several other novels.” He led the way along one narrow hall of books and down a steep staircase. Finally he stooped, scanned a couple of shelves, sneezed, and said, “Aha. Here it is.”

  He handed her a sli
ghtly battered copy of a book with a red-and-black dust jacket, titled The Château. A photo of the author on the rear cover showed a brooding, hawk-eyed man, good-looking but severe.

  “It’s a classic from that time,” the bookseller said as he straightened and headed back to the register.

  “Is he still writing?”

  “I doubt he’s still alive, to be honest. I haven’t heard anything about him for years. People still read the book in university, sometimes, in courses about the Nouveau Roman or anti-novel movement.”

  “Oh.” Cady had no idea what he was referring to.

  “What I always thought was interesting about it is that it’s a roman à clef.”

  “What does that mean?”

  The young man looked surprised.

  “Sorry,” Cady said, trying to ignore her flaming cheeks. “I wasn’t what you would call a literature person in school.” She hadn’t been any sort of person in school.

  He smiled. “No worries. Really, I was just surprised because most people pretend to know stuff like that. Especially in here. A roman à clef is a book based on reality, and real people, but with all the names changed.”

  “To protect the innocent?”

  “And to avoid scandal, or to maintain a certain plausible deniability, I suppose. But it’s believed to have been written about his family, the family Clement.”

  “Great, that’s perfect. I’m doing some research on Château Clement.”

  “Then you must have this! I must warn you, though: the Nouveaux Romans are notoriously—and purposely—difficult to read, sort of like James Joyce’s Ulysses.”

  “Why would an author write a book that’s intentionally hard to read?”

  “It was an experimental thing, to wake people up to romanticism and our implied assumptions about narrative structure. Or so my literature professor at uni told me.”

  Cady flipped The Château open to the first page. Slowly, painstakingly, she made out:

  Picture a château, symbol of power and privilege, lain to ruin by avarice and jealousy. Echoes of longing reverberate along its halls, their vibrations seeping into the grout, the mortar, the very stone of the walls.

  Mr. Petra appears, descending the steps in a handsome brocade jacket, holding a hammered copper bowl atop which sits a strap and a shaving blade. Steam rises, an unfurling question mark looming, threatening, over his morning chocolate.

  It didn’t seem too bad.

  And whether it was traditional or “Nouveau Roman,” Cady would struggle to make out the words, much less the meaning.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  2001

  OAKLAND

  Cady, Age 13

  One day, after Cady had been working at Maxine’s Treasures after school and on weekends for more than a month to pay her back for the things she had stolen, Maxine handed Cady a set of instructions for assembling an old mantel clock.

  Dread washed over her. She knew what was coming.

  “Read these to me, will you?” Maxine said. “I don’t have my glasses.”

  Cady slung her backpack over her shoulder. “Sorry, I really have to get going. I have a . . . dentist appointment.”

  “I thought you just told me you wanted to help with this. You said you didn’t have anywhere to be.”

  “Today’s Tuesday, right? I just remembered.”

  Maxine’s eyes settled on Cady. They were near black, and so deep yet reflective that Cady sometimes wondered if they were full of sorcery, if Maxine was some sort of witch, sitting here in her enchanted store, making Cady believe life was beautiful and full of possibility when in fact every day was just the same pile of garbage and disappointment and heartbreak. Cady felt tears stinging the backs of her eyes.

  Pain and humiliation fed her anger, her dragon surging up to destroy everything in a fiery burst.

  She swiped her arm across the table, sending the dismantled clock to the floor with a satisfying crash. The glass face shattered, metal parts skittering along the plank floor and disappearing under a nearby bureau.

  “I don’t have time to spend with you every day!” Cady shrieked. “You’re just a lonely old woman who wants me to do what she wants! You’re just like everybody else!”

  Cady stormed toward the door. She didn’t know what she expected: maybe that Maxine would shout back, tell her to leave and never come back. But a tiny part of her hoped Maxine would race after her, hold her in her arms, smooth her hair and tell her everything was all right, that she was all right.

  Instead, nothing but silence followed her. Cady made it to the front door, willing herself not to turn around. Still, she slowed her pace. Surely the old woman wouldn’t let her just leave, without saying a word, would she?

  Her hand reached out for the brass doorknob. Turned it. Opened the door.

  “Cady.” Maxine didn’t shout or cajole. Her voice was calm, firm but gentle.

  Cady halted, her hand still on the doorknob. She did not look back.

  “Cady, do you know how to read?”

  The tears finally came. “Of course I know how to read, you stupid old bitch!”

  She slammed the door behind her and ran.

  * * *

  • • •

  Cady didn’t return to Maxine’s Treasures the next day, or the day after that.

  Three days later, she was called into the office of the group home. Maxine was sitting with the director of the home, Ms. Lee.

  “You made a commitment to Ms. Clark,” Ms. Lee said to Cady. “She expects you to work at her store tomorrow after school.”

  “I’m not gonna apologize,” Cady insisted.

  “Cady—,” Ms. Lee began.

  But Maxine cut her off. “I won’t ask you to apologize, Cady. But you do need to clean up the mess you made, as best you can. First, though, we have an appointment at the library.”

  “What kind of appointment?” Cady loved the library—the hushed tones, the way she could sit for hours with nobody bothering her. Some of the librarians were intimidating, but others were kind and helped her look things up, or suggested books for her to read. She loved to sit and flip through the pages, looking for pictures.

  Neither woman answered her question, but Ms. Lee turned to Cady and, using her I’m-not-fooling-around voice, said: “Go with Ms. Clark, Cady. Understood?”

  Cady followed Maxine out to her car.

  “What kind of appointment?” she repeated.

  “We’re going to see a literacy tutor.”

  “A what?”

  “Is there something wrong with your hearing, too?”

  “No.”

  “Nobody’s good at everything, Cady. The only shame is in not asking for help when you need it.”

  “I don’t need any stupid tutor.” Cady’s words came out as a sullen mumble.

  “Well, I do,” said Maxine.

  “No, you don’t. You know how to read.”

  “True, but knowing how to read doesn’t qualify me to teach you. So we’re going to meet with the tutor, and she’s going to teach me to teach you.”

  Cady stared at her in disbelief. Anger surged, tears threatened, and she felt like throwing up. What was the old lady talking about?

  Peering over the top of the car, Maxine fixed Cady with a look. “Here’s the deal, Cady. I’m every bit as stubborn as you are, and because I’m a lot older I’m a lot more experienced at it. So don’t even try to out-obstinate me.”

  Cady gaped at her. No one had ever spoken to her like this.

  “We’ve known each other a couple of months now,” Maxine continued, noting Cady’s reaction. “Answer one question, and take your time to think about it before you answer. Will you do that for me?”

  Cady shrugged.

  “Here it is: Do you think I would take the time and energy to try to do you harm?”

>   When Cady didn’t answer, Maxine added: “Or do you think, perhaps, that you can trust me this once? Trust me just this one time, and see if my years of experience might be helpful in making your life better.”

  Cady avoided her too-knowing eyes.

  “You’re not stupid, Cady,” Maxine said, a weary note in her voice. “I’ve met lots of stupid people in my life, and you’re not one of them. Not by a long shot. You’ve just had a very tough road. I don’t generally like children, but for some reason I like you. You’re moody and stubborn and a pain in my patootie, but I like you.”

  “Patootie? Who says that?”

  Maxine gave a slight smile. Cady’s heart soared at the sight of it.

  Still, she hesitated, staring at the spot where the blue paint was chipping away from Maxine’s junky old Ford sedan. Cady wanted so very badly to believe what the old woman was saying. To trust her. To know that someone understood what was going on, could (and would) give her advice and help her. She wanted it so badly, and yet it scared the hell out of her, took her breath away just to imagine such a thing, because what if she was wrong?

  Cady reached a hand out to the chipping paint, digging her nail into it, feeling the sharp poke of a flake in the tender flesh under her fingernail.

  “You ruin one more thing of mine, Ms. Cady Anne Drake, and we’ll have more than words.”

  Maxine had come around the car and was standing right behind her.

  Cady met Maxine’s eyes. She could feel her lower lip tremble. She breathed in Maxine’s scent: a mixture of some kind of cooking spices and the oil she used in the shop, paint, and old-lady perfume. Cady had come to associate the aroma with someone who was happy to see her every day, with being in a safe place. For the first time in her life.