The Lost Carousel of Provence

by Juliet Blackwell

  Fabrice lowered the gun, but continued to hold his onetime friend by the collar. His emotions and thoughts were at war; he had lived so long under the threat of betrayal, suspecting one day the woman at the boulangerie, the next the boy who swept the floor at the printshop, the day after that the old woman on the corner who sat in her window and peeked out at the world through shredded silk curtains.

  “We have to run, Fabrice,” said Claude. “Run and hide. I heard her call you by your real name; they might already know where you live. We are not safe; our families are not safe.”

  “What do you mean, our families?” Fabrice asked, his voice barely above a whisper. He felt drained of energy, and finally released Claude, sliding down the wall to sit on the dirty floor beside him. “My parents know nothing about my actions.”

  Claude let out a harsh laugh. “You think the Gestapo cares that our families are innocent? They are not known for their discretion. It might already be too late. You should go to them—or better yet, ask a neighbor to check, just in case there are soldiers there waiting for you already.”

  Claude grabbed a pipe overhead and hauled himself to his feet, wincing and holding his arm over his chest. Dully, Fabrice wondered whether his punches, fueled by fury and fear for Paulette, had broken a rib.

  Claude was only a year older than Fabrice, but his eyes belonged to a much older man. They were still just teenagers, but they had both changed since the war began, and even more since working with the Résistance; they had become hard, distrustful, wary.

  “Well, I am going to run,” said Claude, with sudden fervor. “It has been more than three years; this war cannot last forever. The Free French are working with the Allies; they will liberate us eventually. Of this, I am sure. Until then, I will live in the shadows. As should you.”

  Fabrice watched as his friend limped toward the back door, opened it a few inches, and peered out to check that the alley was safe before slipping through. The metal door clanged as it swung shut.

  Should Fabrice believe Claude’s version of events? If Claude himself was the informant, wouldn’t it make sense to cast blame elsewhere? Still, there was something about his words that resonated. And no matter whether it was Claude or Paulette or someone else who had betrayed the cell, Fabrice had to run and hide. But first he had to be sure his family was safe.

  His parents were innocent of anything but repairing statues, but it did not take much. Only a whisper of association, and they could be disappeared as swiftly and surely as the next person.

  He saw their faces in his mind: his mother’s patient, gentle smile; his father’s serious, dark gaze; his little sister’s chubby red cheeks. There were moments when he despised them, felt they were holding him back . . . but they were his family. They were all he had, and he loved them. Surely he had not put them in danger? They had nothing to do with any of his actions. If he had to, he would turn himself in to the Gestapo, confess to everything, to keep them safe.

  Tears stung his eyes as he sprang to his feet, flung open the door, and ran down rue Saint-Séverin and across boulevard Saint-Michel, the streets he had run through as a child, toward the apartment he had shared with his family his entire life. His father’s woodworking shop was on the first floor of a building on the Impasse Hautefeuille, not far from Place Saint-André-des-Arts. A small sign, CHARPENTERIE CLEMENT, was the only indication.

  The OUVERT placard hung in the window, but the door was locked.

  Fabrice banged on it and yelled, fighting panic. The door was never locked during business hours; Marc-Antoine did not believe in turning anyone away, especially now. The family needed every job that came in, in order to pay the rent, to find food, to survive.

  Guilt washed over him. Fabrice was supposed to have been here working beside his father, planing planks and carving details, using rottenstone and pumice to bring the wood to a high polish. He was supposed to have been here.

  He banged on the door again. “Maman! Papa! Capucine!”

  Still nothing. He was about to use his key when he saw the silk curtains rustle in the window on the corner. Fabrice ran into the apartment foyer and up a winding stairway to the second floor. He banged on the door of the old woman but heard no answer. He tried the knob; it was unlocked, so he burst in.

  The old woman was sitting in an upholstered chair by the window. The apartment was humbly furnished, and Fabrice remembered a time when his mother had sent him with a hunk of bread and a pot of soup when the old woman suffered from pneumonia. But for the life of him he could not remember her name.

  “Did you see anything?” he demanded. “Have you seen my family?”

  She shrank back from Fabrice’s ire.

  “Madame, excusez-moi. But did . . .” He was afraid to even say the words. “Did anyone come? Did the . . . did soldiers come?”

  Finally, she answered in a flat voice: “Ce matin.”

  This morning.

  “But what did they . . . where did they go?” he stammered. “What do I do?”

  She pulled her black shawl tighter and shook her head, sadness in every move.

  “What do I do?” Fabrice shouted, wanting to hit her, wanting to hurt her. Wanting to ask why she did not intervene to help the kind neighbor lady who had sent her bread and soup when she was ill.

  Fabrice returned to Charpenterie Clement, hesitated a moment, then slipped his key into the rusty lock and turned the latch. He pushed the door in carefully.

  “Allo? Maman? Papa?”

  He knew it was dangerous; the Nazis often left a young soldier behind to round up the strays, anyone coming to look for their loved ones. But in this moment Fabrice almost hoped for arrest, to be reunited with his family, even under these circumstances. He was desperate to know what had happened to them, where they had been taken. Would they be sent to a work camp? Or perhaps they would be released—some people were released, after all, and Marc-Antoine had skills that might be useful to the occupying forces. Capucine was nothing but a sticky cherub, barely five years old; surely she would not be seen as any kind of threat. Or . . . would his parents be tortured for information? Information about him? They knew nothing; he had never told them about any of his activities. Which meant they would have no tidbits to offer the Gestapo to trade for their lives.

  These thoughts whirled around in Fabrice’s head, incessant, excruciating.

  The workshop was empty; boot marks marred the film of wood dust on the broad-planked floor. One shelf had been knocked over, the tools and squares and knives scattered in the doorway.

  Upstairs, in their apartment, a pot of cabbage soup still sat on the stove, but the fire was off, the broth gone cold. He ducked into his parents’ bedroom, and then the one he shared with his baby sister. The beds were neatly made, but the closet doors stood open, the contents ransacked. Surrounding the small desk by the window, papers and books had been tossed on the carpet like oversized confetti.

  The Nazis came for people, but they always checked for valuables. It was the way of it.

  Fabrice stumbled back down the stairs, his mind a blank.

  The Madonna stood atop the workbench, her hand repaired, her blue velvet robes mended, fruitlessly praying for them all.

  Fabrice knocked her to the ground, cursing her name.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  PRESENT DAY

  CHTEAU CLEMENT

  Cady

  Johnny showed up with a black eye.

  “Where’d you get that?” Cady asked.

  He shrugged. “A fight.”

  “I should see the other guy, huh?”

  “What?” he asked with a sneer.

  “It’s something we say in English if someone was hurt in a fight, like the other guy had it worse. Never mind. Some things don’t translate.”

  Something about the way Johnny held himself, his defensiveness, made Cady wonder if there was somethi
ng else going on.

  It’s none of my business, she reminded herself. She had already butted in far more than was expected, or probably socially acceptable, given that she was an interloper in a small village, a foreigner who would be leaving soon.

  She put the teenager to work covering up the graffiti tags with paint she’d found in the shed by the old car. Then she had him take the measurements of the windows he had broken and sweep up the glass. He didn’t speak much, mostly grunting his replies, not unlike a certain grumpy recluse.

  “So, why have you been over here vandalizing Fabrice’s things?”

  “He’s a jerk.”

  “A lot of people are jerks. But you know, when someone makes you mad, there are other ways to deal with it, rather than lashing out.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Why did you slash my tires?”

  “I thought Fabrice got a new car,” he said, dumping glass shards into a plastic trash bin. He shrugged again. “My mistake.”

  While Johnny worked, Cady brought her cameras out and started snapping photos of the old buildings, the shadow of a cypress on the gravel drive. She loved the slanted spring light of mid-April. It was chilly in the shadows, warm in the sunshine—she wanted somehow to capture that feeling on film.

  She noticed Johnny sneaking glances at her while she twisted this way and that to get just the right angle.

  “Want to try?” she asked, holding out her Leica camera.

  “Nah. I have a phone.”

  “Taking pictures with a phone is really different. And this way I get to develop my own photos.”

  He rolled his eyes. “You sound like the tile guy. He’s always going on about old-fashioned photography.”

  “Really? The tile guy? Here in town?”

  “Yeah, there’s a tileworks on the outside of town. There’s an old Italian man there, named Guido.”

  Just as she had with the dimensions of the new glass for the windows, Cady jotted down the information in her journal.

  “What do you keep writing down?”

  “Everything. Things I need to remember, like phone numbers and names. And other things, too: ideas, or recipes, or just . . . anything. Since I’ve come to France, there are lists of French words and phrases I need to look up.”

  He turned his attention back to scraping the glazing from the window frame.

  Cady tried again to peek into the outbuilding that held the carousel, but as before, she couldn’t see much more than amorphous black shapes.

  She thought about what Fabrice had said about showing her the carousel, and what she’d promised: to take him to Fontaine-de-Vaucluse when his ankle was better. She hadn’t been entirely sure she’d still be in France, much less Provence, in “a day or two.” Jean-Paul would probably be happy to see her gone. The charge to change her flight reservation was not insignificant, and she had assumed she would be back in Paris in time to make her plane. But now . . . ?

  Oakland seemed less and less real to her lately. The wind-tossed scents of lavender and thyme—the aroma of Provence—seemed to be seeping into her, holding on, making her feel almost as if she belonged in this foreign country, in this small village, in this decrepit château.

  She wasn’t going anywhere, at least not for the moment. If she could get access to the antique carousel, she would change her ticket in a heartbeat and damn the expense.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  1900

  CHTEAU CLEMENT

  Maëlle

  Maëlle had thought staying at Château Clement would allow her more time with Léon, out from under Monsieur Maréchal’s direction and Madame Bayol’s astute gaze. But since they arrived, Léon rarely pays attention to her. It makes her think back with longing to his annoying teasing on the train.

  They had taken one walk together, down through the gardens, along the intricate topiary, which she thought lovely but he deemed a “dreadful attempt to harness the wilds of nature.” She argued that in one sense any sort of gardening was an attempt to harness the wilds of nature, but weren’t some gardens lovely? He had snorted in disgust.

  “I think Château Clement is the loveliest place I’ve ever seen,” she said, her chin rising in defiance. “And the Clements are so kind and genteel—they’re not at all the spoiled rich people you thought they’d be. Admit it.”

  “I’ll admit no such thing. I’ll tell you a secret, though: The only reason you were allowed on this trip is that you are half price.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Bayol wanted you out of the factory—you’re too much of a ‘distraction,’ he said. Little girls don’t belong in such an arena. So he wrote to the Clements and told them they could have you for as long as they wanted you, for half what they would pay for even the lowliest assistant in the shop.”

  Maëlle’s mouth fell open, but she didn’t know how to respond. She studied the intricate shapes of the topiary, feeling a deep-down but strangely detached sense of devastation. Simultaneously, she tried to talk herself out of it: It was nothing personal. Everyone had implied that the Clements had money trouble; it only made sense they would seek a bargain. And everyone knew that women were thought to be worth less than a man. Everyone knew that.

  Léon was staring at her, but when she did not react with anger or tears, he let out an exasperated sound and stormed off, his boots clicking on the hewn stone of the walkway.

  Since then he had disappeared increasingly frequently, or when he did appear he was drunk. More than once Maëlle had to hide his intemperate state from their patrons. She set up a pallet in the back of the building so he could sleep it off without returning to his rooms and alerting the household staff to his inebriated presence.

  In the meantime, the carousel is developing before her eyes, little by little, pieces coming together, the joints filled and sanded, primed and painted, gilded and sealed.

  She hears the men snickering, talking about how Léon is keeping warm these days. Humiliation stings, but it hardens something deep down inside her. Have they always known? Is that why they whisper in front of her, or is it simply that she is a woman and therefore not privy to their jokes?

  Finally, Maëlle decides she’s had enough. If she is mistress of this project, then so be it. But if so, she will take a page out of Monsieur Maréchal’s book, and yell.

  “Where is he?” she demands of Romain as he brings in a stack of new lumber on his shoulder.

  “Who, mademoiselle?”

  “You know very well who. This carousel is supposed to have nine men working on it. I realize that as a woman I am worth at least two men, but since Léon Morice is being paid for his labor I would like to know where he is.”

  The men hoot at her tone, and the assertion of her worth.

  “Is he in town, at the café?” she persists.

  Guy, with whom she had traded interesting conversations over the past ten days, steps forward. “I saw him out in the vineyard this morning, Maëlle. He . . .” Guy drops his voice. “He wasn’t alone.”

  “Thank you, Guy. Everyone carry on.” Maëlle hopes her voice sounds as steady and stern as Monsieur Maréchal’s always did in the factory, though she fears it shakes slightly. “We should have that mechanism running within the next few days, and if the painting of the salon remains on schedule we’ll book tickets back to Angers within the week.”

  Then she unties her apron, tosses it on the sawhorse, and leaves the building. She heads down the drive, through the vineyard, to the edge of the surrounding woods, where she hears a twig snap.

  “Léon?” she calls out, venturing into the forest.

  She happens upon Yves Clement, with his ever-present camera.

  “Mademoiselle! How nice to meet you out here. Are you a nature lover like me, then?”

  “No. I mean yes, monsieur.”

  He crooks his head and smi
les. “You’re not sure?”

  “It’s not that . . . Yes, I am a nature lover, and your woods are so lovely. All of the grounds, in fact.”

  “But you are not enjoying nature at the moment?”

  “No, monsieur. At the moment I’m looking for my—” She hesitates, then says, “My master, Léon Morice. Have you happened to see him?”

  “No, I’m sorry to say. Though as it happens, I’ve been searching for my lovely wife this morning,” he says. “I wanted to show her a bird’s nest I found. Would you like to see it?”

  “No, no. I’m sorry, monsieur,” says Maëlle. She felt a wave of heat sweep over her, leaving nausea in its wake. “I-I really must get back to the carousel. Another time, perhaps.”

  He nods, then lifts his camera to his eye and focuses on a leaf hanging listlessly upon a loose branch. “Tell you what: If I find your master, I’ll send him back to the carousel building. And if you find my wife, you’ll send her back to me, hmm?”

  “Oui, monsieur, of course.”

  Maëlle hurries away, choking back tears and disgust, engulfed by a ravenous sense of betrayal. They are together. They must be. This is why Josephine was asking all those questions about Léon the other night. Of course.

  Josephine and Léon. Maëlle can’t get the image out of her mind: Léon leaning down to kiss that heart-shaped mole on Josephine’s long, pale neck. And why wouldn’t he fall in love with her? Josephine is pretty and wealthy and sweet, and always smells like roses. And Léon is dashing and handsome, a vital young man next to that corpse—a very genteel corpse, but still—that Josephine calls husband. It would be like night and day, to be kissed by a man like Léon after knowing only Yves’s touch.

  She can hardly even blame her friend. Except that . . . Josephine had become her trusted confidante. Almost a sister. Or so she’d thought.

  Maëlle lurches back toward the carousel building, unseeing, until she falls against an old oak and closes her eyes in despair. Last night she had dreamt that Leon and the other men had boarded the train back to Angers without her; she had awoken with her heart pounding, as she called out and chased the train, but to no avail. It was as though happiness, which not long ago had seemed within her grasp, was pulling farther and farther away no matter how fast she ran.