The Lost Carousel of Provence

by Juliet Blackwell

  Fabrice started by writing tracts that were churned out on old mimeograph machines. Then a friendly printshop in the Marais allowed them to print their flyers in the middle of the night, running the risk that an astute German might notice the typeface was the same as officially sanctioned documents. They crowded the words together on a single sheet because printing materials—paper, ink, stencils—were scarce and precious, as their sale was prohibited to anyone but the occupiers.

  Fabrice began to wear mittens, even out of season, to hide the telltale ink stains on his fingers. Working for hours in the printshop most nights, he barely slept. In the mornings he and Claude would shove thick sheafs of freshly minted pamphlets into the fronts of their jackets, then leave small piles on busy street corners and church steps, secured with a rock so they wouldn’t blow away. When possible they might slip them directly into mailboxes, or hand them over to Paulette or other unnamed contacts in the dark.

  While he had been warned of the tension of living with the constant fear of exposure and betrayal, Fabrice relished his new role. He made up lie after lie to his parents to explain his whereabouts, and hardly spared a thought for his little sister, Capucine. Eventually he went home less and less, preferring to sleep on a small pallet at the back of the printshop, or on one of the doctor’s extra cots.

  He was playing a role in a drama, and Paulette was his heroine.

  Fabrice had lied about his age to his colleagues in the Résistance, claiming he was almost seventeen, but even so his nom de guerre was Garçon, or “the boy.” Paulette’s false name was Michelle. At nineteen, she was four years his senior. And those years were frustratingly significant to those around them. Worst of all, to her.

  But he dared to believe that they shared . . . something.

  Late one night, sitting on the floor in the printshop, shrouded in the darkness and silence of the citywide curfew, Fabrice and Paulette confided their true names to each other.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  PRESENT DAY

  PARIS

  Cady

  Cady made herself a simple supper of baguette, ripe pear, and an eye-wateringly stinky cheese called Époisses de Bourgogne that the owner of the fromagerie down the block had insisted she try. She poured a glass of garnet red Bordeaux and perched at her diminutive kitchen table, determined to slog through the literary quagmire that was The Château.

  Everyone said The Château was difficult to understand, so at least she wasn’t the only one. This time. Cady sometimes wondered if she had missed a critical developmental moment for learning to read, the way people who didn’t learn to speak early in their lives never really made up for it.

  She understood the meaning of the words once she sounded them out, so a dictionary wasn’t helpful; her vocabulary had been honed over the years by listening, intently, intensely. That was how she had managed all those years when she couldn’t read, but pretended she could.

  The first books Cady had read voluntarily were how-to photography books. Her fascination had been sparked when she found a small stash of antique cameras in Maxine’s cluttered back room. Noting Cady’s interest, Maxine made her a deal: for every book Cady could prove she had read, Maxine would give her one of the cameras. Cady borrowed books from the library and plowed through one after another as best she could, reciting her book reports to Maxine as they puttered around the shop. She learned about the process of photography and studied the principles of the camera obscura, making her own pinhole camera. She pored over the majestic nature photography of Ansel Adams, Jacob Riis’s gritty photos of urban life at the turn of the twentieth century, the Depression-era work of Dorothea Lange, as well as the photos Henryk Ross had taken in secret of the Jewish ghetto of Lodz, Poland.

  When Cady discovered audiobooks, she thought she had gone to heaven, and eagerly devoured one after another. Short stories, essays, epic novels—it didn’t matter. Audiobooks introduced her to worlds she hadn’t known existed.

  She used to listen while working in the darkroom, finding solace in an otherworldly solitude, an aloneness that felt anything but lonely. Even the sharp scent of the chemicals contributed to a sense of peace, of stillness. Everything was orderly: her pans were laid out in precise fashion, the jars and bottles and cans of supplies on the shelf lined up just so. There, in the dark, it was just Cady, the story she was listening to, and the magic of images appearing where once there was nothing.

  Thinking of it now, Cady felt that old familiar itch to develop the photographs she had been taking, to see how the carousel shots were turning out. She always took reference photos with her digital camera, but as she had told Jean-Paul, it wasn’t the same.

  She blew out a breath and flipped a page. The erratic storyline of The Château was not holding her interest. She took another bite of the Époisses on a crusty hunk of baguette and let her mind wander.

  Jean-Paul. What was his story?

  After their champagne apéro earlier in the evening, Cady had bid farewell to Jean-Paul Mirassou and Madame Martin. Jean-Paul was headed to Provence next week, and she was going back to the United States, so it was unlikely they would ever see each other again. Which was totally fine, of course. It was not as though she was interested in a fling—just look what had happened last time.

  He was attractive, she admitted to herself—très beau—but what would be the point? Setting aside the fact that Jean-Paul lived in France and Cady lived in California, she was just plain no good at human relationships. Maxine and Olivia were total flukes, crumbs tossed her way by the fates to keep her from snapping one day and throwing herself off the Golden Gate Bridge.

  Still, she would always remember Jean-Paul, Cady thought, sipping her wine. A man she had known all of two days. This wasn’t like her. Could she blame it on the heightened senses, the strange openness, that came along with travel?

  All she knew was that he smelled good. Really good. She liked the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed, the way they tilted down slightly at the corners, giving him a sad, romantic air. He had thick wrists and wore an old-fashioned dial watch with a brown leather strap. She thought back on the way his whiskers tickled her cheeks when they greeted each other, the electric feeling that ran along her skin when their hands had brushed together when he passed the bowl of olives at the table.

  She should have asked to photograph him.

  Still, as attractive and charming as Jean-Paul was, there was something simmering just below the surface that put her on edge. What it was she couldn’t imagine, but this she did know: She was broken enough for the both of them. She could be friends with Olivia because Olivia was so healthy and even-keeled. And Maxine had been a rock, unflappable in the face of Cady’s many challenges. Nothing could bring Maxine down.

  The last thing I need is another broken person in my life, Cady admonished herself as she got up from the table. She wrapped up the leftover cheese and baguette, corked the wine, and took her dishes to the sink.

  After washing up, she leaned against the counter and paged through The Château some more. She used Post-its to flag things that interested her, such as a few recipes that might be fun to try as well as a couple of references to a carousel.

  Now she spied another:

  Round and round on the carousel. Will I ever catch up?

  The apprentice Anon

  Round and round, chasing

  like a fairy tale

  The horses run and run but never arrive

  The carousel carver bows down

  And within the healed wound,

  the figure keeps the secret

  Anon

  What in the world was that supposed to mean? Was this a reference to the apprentice carver she had been seeking? And what was the secret?

  Cady scoured the next few pages, but the story careened off into a confusing mélange of musings about postwar taxes, the revolutionary notes of jazz music, and the genera
lly decadent state of French society.

  She had taken to using the mystery note as a bookmark. Gazing at it now, she drummed her fingers on the counter.

  Souviens-toi de moi.

  According to her plan, Cady was meant to stay in Paris for another week, continuing to photograph carousels and other related spectacles, such as carnivals and fairs, or vintage attractions like yesterday’s marionette show. Out of hundreds, or even thousands, of clicks, only a handful of final images would warrant being published in a book, so she needed to be able to show the publisher plenty of options.

  But what she really wanted to do was to find out if Gus truly had come from Château Clement in Provence. And if so, why he hadn’t been carved by the famous French carver Bayol, and who had hidden the box in his belly, and how had a hundred-year-old carved carousel figure made its way into her hands in California? And who was the woman in the photograph, and who was begging whom to remember . . . whom?

  You’re obsessing, Drake, she told herself.

  It was a stupid idea. Of course it was. But . . . Cady opened her laptop and located Saint-Véran on a map, not far from Avignon. Two rooms were available for rent in private homes in the village, both inexpensive. Giving in to impulse, she booked one, along with a ticket on the TGV from Paris to Avignon, and a rental car to drive from Avignon to Château Clement.

  After hitting the last Send button, Cady sat back and blew out a shaky breath. She poured herself another glass of wine, feeling impulsive, reckless.

  Round and round on the carousel.

  She couldn’t stop thinking about a derelict château in the Provençal countryside, inhabited by an elderly, reclusive novelist, hiding the remnants of a lost carousel.

  It was probably a recipe for disaster.

  But . . . it sounded a little like a fairy tale.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  1900

  ANGERS

  Maëlle

  The factory is in full swing, with half the workers finishing a carousel for the city of Nantes while the other half start on the carousel for Château Clement. Bayol spends many evenings with his designer, poring over concept drawings, developing the sweet barnyard faces for which he is so famous.

  Maëlle has learned that carousel designs depend on tricks of perspective to increase the sense of movement and size. For instance, the figures on the outside of the platform are larger in scale than those on the inside, creating a heightened sense of perspective. Often the top section of the carousel turns slowly clockwise while the main mechanism turns counterclockwise, increasing the dizzying sensations of spinning.

  The animal figures are the focus, but they are not the only artistic feature. There is also a richly decorated fixed ceiling over the top of the moving carousel ceiling. The movement of the prancing animals, spinning tubs, and tilting gondolas is achieved through gearing under the platform. The mechanism is built by the engineer Charles Detay.

  Bayol’s atelier de mécanique employs joiners, carpenters, and painters in the workshop, but the master calls on the famous landscape painter and professor of Paris’s École de Beaux-Arts, Fernand Lutscher, to paint scenery panels and the decorative canvas ceilings that cover the wooden swifts and overhead cranks.

  Eventually, Maëlle is allowed to carve some of the interior sides of the animals, the master closely watching her every chip and shave as she sculpts. She primes and gessoes and sands until her fingers are raw. Maëlle yearns to fully carve her own figure, but when she speaks up she is chastised.

  “Do you know how long Léon Morice has worked for the master?” responds Monsieur Maréchal. “And still he does not carve his own figures. Monsieur Bayol is the artist here; he is the one who gains the commissions. Do you understand? An apprentice might work here for ten years before carving his own animal. You are too ambitious by far, little girl.”

  She hates it when he calls her “little girl.” Her cheeks burn.

  Lifting her eyes, she finds Léon’s gaze on her from across the studio.

  * * *

  • • •

  The workers in Bayol’s atelier labor for many months over the Clement carousel. There are twenty-four animals—four pigs, four horses, four rabbits, four chickens, four cats, four dogs—plus a gondola rocked by gearing under the floor and two spinning tubs. But these pieces are just the beginning: There is also the construction of the mechanism, the engineering of the bellows, the installation of the steam engine, and the building and decorating of the salon room that will house it all. It is forty feet wide with sixteen-foot-high walls, all of which are decorated and covered in gilt-framed mirrors and exquisite murals painted by artists brought in from Paris. Monsieur Bayol sent plans to workers at Château Clement to prepare the foundation, but the true magic must wait until the carousel arrives.

  The salon itself will not be fully assembled until arrival, and any problems will be worked out on-site. But the carousel must be tested in the factory before it is shipped across the country.

  Madame Bayol has prepared a special lunch for the trial day.

  “If all goes well, it will be a celebration,” she says, a worried look in her eyes. “If not, we will need the extra sustenance to keep our spirits up. My husband does not deal well with failure.”

  Nine men have been chosen to put the carousel together. That is the greatest number of workers that Bayol can spare from the factory; they will accompany the apparatus on its journey by train. After arriving at Château Clement, they must be able to assemble all the pieces, including the engine and the gears, over the course of two or three weeks, a month at most.

  Maëlle watches their progress as she works on her carving, priming, and painting. She has excelled at all of these crafts over the last several months, and is now allowed to recarve some of the inside halves of the horses destined for the next carousel—this one for the city of Nîmes.

  Still, Maëlle is jealous that she will not be accompanying the Clement carousel to its final home. To travel by train across all of France, through Paris, sounds like the most exciting adventure she can imagine. Besides, there is Léon.

  Léon will be going with the carousel. He will be gone for weeks, perhaps a month. She is bereft at the thought.

  She looks forward to seeing him every day, to interacting with him. What will work be without him? She is already finding the tasks rote, sometimes even boring.

  “You are too anxious. You want things to move too quickly,” says Monsieur Maréchal. “Apprentices work with the master for years, not months, before they work on their own.”

  “But I am a better carver than half the apprentices here,” Maëlle declares. “And yet I am still not called an apprentice. Simply an ‘assistant.’ It isn’t fair.”

  Monsieur Maréchal smiles. Though his manner is often gruff, his soft brown eyes are kind. “I admire your ambition, Maëlle. Truly. It is a rare thing in a woman, and I have no doubt that you will be well known one day.”

  “I have no desire to be well known,” Maëlle replies. “Simply to carve.”

  “Your painting skills are very fine as well,” he says.

  “I don’t mind painting,” she says, drawing herself up to her full height and lifting her chin. “But I am a carver. It is a part of me, as surely as my hair is brown.”

  Maëlle has written to her brother, Erwann, every week since she arrived, telling him of her progress. He assures her that his poem for her, “The Aspiring Apprentice of Angers,” was prescient, that one day she will surely sculpt her own creations. She carries the letter in her pocket, folded up tight, and rubs it like a talisman whenever her ambitions are frustrated.

  One day Maëlle walks into the factory to find Monsieur Maréchal talking with Monsieur Bayol at his desk, their graying heads bent low.

  Maëlle keeps her eyes averted and gets to work, but she feels a thrill go through her. One of the apprentices, a teenage
r named Philippe Boisson, has begun coughing, a terrible hack reminiscent of her brother’s ailment. The other day she saw spots of blood on his handkerchief before he tucked it away.

  He is one of the men scheduled to accompany the Clement carousel to Provence.

  If Philippe is not able to go, Monsieur Bayol will have no choice but to send Maëlle in his place. She is the only one with the appropriate skills who can be spared from the factory. They have begun their contract with the city of Nîmes; Monsieur Maréchal is needed here, as are all the others.

  Maëlle is ashamed to be glad of anyone’s misfortune, but she can barely contain her excitement when the master approaches, his mustache twitching.

  “Maëlle, I would like you to accompany this manège to Avignon. Léon Morice will act as master of the project, as you know.” He hesitates, as though searching for the right words. “I don’t need to tell you that I will expect you to comport yourself as a lady.”

  “I understand,” Maëlle says, chafing at the implication. Madame Bayol has discovered Maëlle arriving late from an errand, flushed and disheveled, on more than one occasion. She has confided her suspicions to her husband. Maëlle wonders whether anyone asks the young men she works with—Luc or Romain or Philippe—why they arrive five minutes late to the factory. If a clandestine kiss, or more, means they are bad men, worthy of disdain.

  She wonders why being “a lady” seems to be such a heavy burden.

  “There are always minor nicks and scrapes that need to be repaired, and the façade of the salon housing the carousel will need extensive gilding and decorative painting once it is set up,” Monsieur Bayol continues. “The family must be kept happy, so whatever Monsieur and Madame Clement ask for, you are to give them. Are you willing to remain as long as necessary to finish any details?”

  “Of course, monsieur,” Maëlle replies. “It will be my honor.”