“I’m so old now, it doesn’t matter anymore. But the truth is, my father knew Yves was not his natural father.”
“He did?” asked Jean-Paul.
Fabrice nodded. “After the war, when I was reunited with my father, he told me part of the story, and then I found letters at the château that helped me put together the rest. My father spent two years in a German hospital during World War I, and when he was released he had a stack of mail waiting for him. There were letters from his father, Yves, about Josephine, and what she was going through toward the end of her life. Word had reached my father before then that his mother had died in an accident, but it wasn’t until he read the letters that he understood the rumors, the gossip about her. . . . It was Yves’s brother, Thierry, who was the most vicious. But Thierry’s son Pierre—Jean-Paul’s great-grandfather—was almost as bad. And he passed the attitude on to his son, Gerald.”
Cady glanced at Jean-Paul, who inclined his head. “I never knew Pierre, but my grandfather has always been a mean old man, even when I was a kid. I sometimes wonder if that was why my mother gravitated toward my father; his temper seemed familiar to her.”
“They tormented Josephine and Yves for years. The night of the accident, Josephine asked Yves to help her start the steam engine of the carousel. They’d lost almost everything by then, and no longer had more than a single housemaid, so there was no one else to help her. But Yves refused, so evidently she tried to do it herself, but used the wrong kerosene—she didn’t understand there were different kinds.
“Yves had invested far too much money into commissioning the carousel, which his brother harassed him for mercilessly. So he hated the contraption by then. And on that night his mind had been poisoned by his brother’s innuendo against Josephine as well; so he suspected she was meeting a lover. After the accident, he was distraught, and essentially drank himself to death within the year.”
“So gossip destroyed them both,” said Jean-Paul.
Fabrice nodded. “Josephine had been lying all along, but not in the way her husband thought. She missed her friend Maëlle, and their time together. She was lonely, and anguished not to be able to confide in her husband about their son.”
“And this Maëlle woman was the apprentice who stayed at the château,” Cady began, “and it was she who had a baby—your father, Marc-Antoine?”
“Yes. Yves had never suspected; it was only after Josephine died that he found letters to her from Maëlle, and put it all together.”
“And you’ve known this all along?” Jean-Paul asked Fabrice.
“I’ve known for quite a while, yes. But I swore I would go to my grave vexing Gerald, at the very least. I just kept hoping he’d die before me. Those people killed my grandmother Josephine and destroyed Yves’s happiness, just as surely as they killed my Paulette.”
“But it all happened a very long time ago, Fabrice,” said Cady. “It’s not the same village anymore; there are some very kind people, people who care about you.”
“I suppose. The whole story is written down in the novel I’ve been working on. Another roman à clef, but this one has an actual key this time—and it’s a relatively straightforward narrative of my life.”
“Wouldn’t that be called a memoir?” Cady asked.
“Well, well, look at Mademoiselle Literature over here,” he said, casting her a sidelong glance. “Whatever you want to call it, it lays out the whole story, as far as I know it.”
“So you always knew that the artisan, Maëlle, was your natural grandmother?” Jean-Paul asked.
“Among the letters awaiting my father was one from his mother, telling him about Maëlle, and about the special rabbit she had carved for him. He had run off to the war without telling his parents of his plans, so she wasn’t able to fulfill her promise to Maëlle, which was to tell him about his birth mother on his eighteenth birthday.”
“Why didn’t you ever look inside the rabbit?” Cady asked.
Fabrice chuckled. “We had no idea there was actually something hidden inside the rabbit—we thought her reference to a secret within the rabbit was figurative, not literal. Rabbits are the symbol of fertility, and all that. When we sold off some furnishings and such after the war, the dealer took the rabbit from the nursery by accident. My father hadn’t meant to sell it, but we did need the money at that point.”
“Do you know what ever happened to Maëlle?” Jean-Paul asked.
“No.” He shook his head. “My father searched for a while, but she was working as an itinerant carver, and he never found her. He tracked her down to a château in Nice where the family had her carve a niche for their chapel, and the owners there said she had gone on to another position near Bordeaux. Much later, in Josephine’s desk, I found a few letters from Maëlle postmarked San Francisco, but that was the last we heard of her.”
“She came to the U.S.?” Cady asked.
Fabrice nodded. “She sent a beautiful colored postcard to Josephine, displaying the buildings from the Panama-Pacific International Exposition in 1915. She said she had found meaningful work, and more opportunity, in the ‘New World.’”
After everything that she had gone through to track down where Gus came from, Cady was amazed to think she might have walked some of the same streets as his carver, Maëlle, back in California.
“And do you know for sure who Marc-Antoine’s biological father was?” asked Jean-Paul.
“Josephine mentioned only that Maëlle was ‘friendless,’” said Fabrice, “which was a euphemism for being an unwed mother at the time.”
“Fabrice,” Cady said, “you really do look a lot like Léon Morice, the head apprentice working on the carousel.”
“The one everyone assumed Josephine had an affair with?”
“Exactly.”
He shrugged. “I suppose that makes sense. It doesn’t particularly matter to me, to tell you the truth. Not after all this time.”
“In the end, I suppose official provenance doesn’t matter, does it?” Jean-Paul said, holding Cady’s gaze. “Maybe family is just what you make of it.”
“Sounds like a T-shirt slogan,” said Cady, taking a sip of wine, “but I like it.”
“You’ll be pleased to hear that I let Toinon’s girl, Élodie, come out to take a look at your progress on the carousel,” said Fabrice. “She said you’ve done an excellent job so far. Toinon yelled at me for letting you go. Louise came and gave me an earful as well. And Johnny—you’ve got a true fan in that boy.”
There was a long pause.
“Tell her the best part,” Jean-Paul urged.
“Arthur, the village mechanic, checked out the steam engine. He thinks he can get the mechanism running again.”
“Are you serious?”
“I’ve decided that for the Fête du Muguet, we’re going to have the carousel ready to ride.”
“But you have only half the animals,” Cady said.
“The mechanism can still run without some of the figures. And Jean-Paul thinks he can shake a few more out of the family clutches.”
Jean-Paul nodded. “One or two, at least. Apparently my grandfather has the pig with its tongue sticking out, the one he mentioned the other day.”
“And I’d love to reunite my carved rabbit with the rest of the carousel figures Maëlle helped to work on,” Cady offered on impulse. “It seems only right that Gus should stay at Château Clement, where he came from.”
“Once we get the thing actually functioning, I guess we’ll have to invite people around to see it,” said Fabrice in a cantankerous tone that no longer fooled Cady. “Johnny went and blabbed to the kids in the village, and now they’re all excited. Hard to believe they’d want to leave their video games for an afternoon, but it seems so.”
“What are you saying?”
“I guess you were right about Johnny; he’s a decent kid.”
“No, I mea
n what are you saying about . . . me?”
“I’m saying we need your help to finish everything up in time. The fête is only a couple of weeks from now.” Fabrice’s voice gentled. “Come back to the château, Cady. I told you a while ago that you should ignore me—I’m just a mean old man. The fact is, you can stay as long as you like. Stay forever, as far as I’m concerned. And you’ll have unlimited free rides on the carousel.”
Cady looked out over the river Sorgue, at a loss for words. She had experienced these emotions once before: when Maxine had asked her to come and stay. It was the offer of belonging, of family. Not of blood, but of kindred souls.
A dragonfly flew by their table, glinting green, yellow, and blue in the golden light of late afternoon. It skittered along the waters of the Sorgue, then disappeared in the direction of the source.
Three pairs of eyes watched, wondering at the many-winged descendant of the great dragon that had once terrorized the countryside.
And at long last a huge platter of oysters arrived.
* * *
• • •
“That makes twenty-one animals, with Gus,” Cady said, checking her notebook as she and Jean-Paul meandered down rue de Rivoli after leaving an antiques sale in Le Village Saint-Paul, a famous brocantes district of Paris. “Just three more figures to go, and we’ll have a full carousel.”
“What do you suppose Bayol would think of us adding non-Bayol horses to his menagerie?”
“Don’t forget the hippogriff,” she said with a smile. “I think he’d like it, actually. At the very least, I imagine he’d be glad that we’re bringing his manège back from the brink. And I think Maëlle would as well.”
“I think you’re right.”
They walked several blocks in companionable silence. Cady enjoyed threading through the crowds of locals and tourists as they continued down the busy boulevard; after the sleepiness of Saint-Véran, the overflowing brasseries and incessant traffic were invigorating. Still, she thought, it would be nice to get back to the peace and quiet of the countryside.
She glanced up at Jean-Paul. She had found him attractive when first they met, but now she couldn’t stop looking at him. She was falling, hard, and the fluttering in the pit of her belly threatened to develop into full-blown panic.
“Remember to breathe,” Olivia had responded when Cady had called and told her what was going on. “Stay in the moment, keep your heart open to possibility, and have fun! What’s the worst that could happen? You’ve always got a spot on my couch. . . . But seriously, a French lover and restoring a lost carousel sound like a lot more fun. Maybe Sebastian and I will come for the Fête du Muguet!”
So Cady tried not to get too far ahead of herself. In this moment, in the here and now, she was strolling down a Parisian boulevard hand in hand with a kindhearted, talented, handsome man. She was on the hunt for three last carousel figures to complete a precious Bayol carousel once lost to history. She had been instrumental in helping an old man reunite with at least some of his family, and she had found a semblance of a home, of connection—however temporary—in the charming village of Saint-Véran.
Cady Anne Drake had accomplished something. It was hard to say what the future would bring, but she was determined to remain open to however it might unfold.
Dusk was falling by the time they reached the plaza in front of the historic Hôtel de Ville. The merry-go-round there, called the Carrousel La Belle Epoque, was lit up like a Christmas tree. The two-storied manège was a classic example of the Parisian carousel: horses and carriages, joined by more-modern sportscars, all painted in garish reds, blues, and yellows; ceilings and running boards dotted with exquisite oil paintings, mirrors, and carvings. Cady had photographed it when she had first arrived in Paris, what seemed a lifetime ago.
It looked different to her now, after she had spent so much time with Bayol’s farmyard animals. Its frothy exuberance formed a strong contrast to the restrained, simple but sweet elegance of the Château Clement carousel.
A small girl with a pageboy haircut and a bright red coat stood nearby with a stooped gray-haired man who leaned on his walker. The girl was crying angry tears, her arms crossed tightly over her chest.
Cady caught the old man’s eye.
“My granddaughter is afraid to ride the carousel by herself, but I’m afraid I can’t manage it,” said the man.
“Quel dommage. Comment tu t’appelles?” Cady asked the girl, who scowled at her in sullen silence.
“This is Agnes,” the man replied.
Cady smiled. “You know what, Agnes? I haven’t been on a carousel for a very long time. Not since I was about your age. Would you like me to go with you?”
After a moment’s hesitation, Agnes gave a grudging nod.
Jean-Paul bought them two small paper tickets. When the tinny notes wound down and the machine came to rest, Cady took Agnes by the hand and they climbed aboard. After some deliberation, they chose side-by-side horses.
Cady helped Agnes onto one steed and threw her own leg over the other, then gripped the pole, feeling a little thrill of impatience.
A few moments later, the carousel started up with a jerk. The horses galloped up and down, and music filled the air. As they gained speed, the Hôtel de Ville, the cafés that ringed the plaza, the cars and pedestrians crowding the surrounding boulevards, all meshed into a blurry kaleidoscope of light and color.
Each time her horse whirled by, Agnes waved to her grandfather. He smiled and held up his hand in return, every time.
Cady joined in, waving to the girl’s grandfather, to Jean-Paul, to the tourists and the locals and to all of Paris.
In her mind’s eye, at least, they waved back.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Who amongst us hasn’t thought of carousels with nostalgia?
Years ago, when I was working as a social worker, one of my colleagues was a young woman who had been raised in foster care. She was one of the strongest people I’ve ever met, wise far beyond her years, and yet she struggled to fit in and contribute to the world. She told me about attending “prospective parents” fairs, one of which was held at a park with a merry-go-round. That bittersweet image haunted me . . . and inspired the character who would later become Cady.
Years later, while visiting Paris, I saw a sweet-faced carousel cow for sale at an antiques fair in the Marais. The vendor explained that the figure was made by the famous French carousel carver Gustave Bayol. Bayol was already a well-known sculptor when he established one of the earliest French carousel factories in Angers; even after he sold the factory to his foremen, the House of Bayol continued for decades to create exquisite hand-carved carousels. Recently, I had the opportunity to interview a professional antique carousel restorer, Lise Liepman, in her studio not far from my home in California. Lise has worked on several Bayol figures over the course of her career and described what it felt like to work on such sweet-faced masterpieces.
Thus the ideas for The Lost Carousel of Provence started to come together. I make annual visits to stay with friends and relatives outside of Avignon, and have visited many of the châteaux—in varying states of repair—that dot the French countryside. While driving by one such dilapidated old mansion, my local companion told me it was inhabited by a reclusive old man. I wondered . . . what if Cady was somehow drawn into such a situation by the search for a Bayol carousel figure? When I read that Bayol had made custom carousels for a number of wealthy château owners, I knew I had my story. That was when Maëlle, the Aspiring Apprentice of Angers, began to whisper to me about her own quest.
Château Clement is based on an actual building, but is a wholly fictional locale—as is the Provençal village of Saint-Véran. And while I use the actual names for the characters of Gustave Bayol and his apprentice Léon Morice, their stories are entirely works of my imagination.
THE
Lost Carousel
/> OF
Provence
JULIET BLACKWELL
QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION
Imagine you have just arrived in a foreign city (Paris, Rome, Moscow, Beijing—you name it!) where you do not speak the language, or have memorized only a few words or phrases. How would you cope? Do you think being a cultural and linguistic “outsider” would give you unique insights?
How do you interpret the novel’s epigraph by Pablo Neruda, which reads: “My soul is an empty carousel at sunset”?
Do you have any childhood memories of riding on carousels? What is the first thing you remember about it?
Why do you think so many people feel a sense of profound nostalgia when thinking about carousels?
Originally built to train warriors to fight, carousels later became a festive recreation for adults, and we now associate them with the innocence of children. What do you think these changing functions reveal about how society has changed over time?
Cady’s personality was profoundly affected by her lack of important human connections as a child. Do you think her uniqueness works as a strength or a weakness for her?
Would you characterize Maxine as a mother figure for Cady? Or as a loving friend? Do you feel there’s a difference between maternal love and the love of a friend?
What role does Olivia play in Cady’s life? Was Olivia right to try to talk Cady into doing something because Olivia thought it was in Cady’s best interests? Is it ever acceptable to push someone we care about to do something they are hesitant to do?
Cady mentions that photographing carousels brings her a kind of “painful joy.” What do you think she meant by that? Is it a feeling that you’ve experienced in your own life?
In what ways is Saint-Véran like any American small town? In what ways is it different and uniquely French?
The Lost Carousel of Provence Page 33
