Haunting Paris

by Mamta Chaudhry

As the gate shuts on them, Sylvie feels a sudden pang of grief. She walks on to the adjoining building, with its front door ajar. Pushing it open, Sylvie calls out “Bonjour, bonjour.” A clicking bead curtain is drawn aside and a woman peers out of the concierge’s lodge, holding a squirming little dog in her arms. Seeing the open door, the bichon frisé slips out of the woman’s grip and streaks toward the street, barking at Coco, who turns his head from these antics and yawns.

  “Stop, stop, you little rascal,” the woman shrieks.

  Sylvie scoops up the dog before he can escape. “A mind of his own,” the concierge says proudly, holding out her arms for the dog. “You wanted something, Madame?”

  Sylvie has thought of a ruse. She holds out the scrap of Julien’s stationery and says, “Is there someone here called Marie? I’ve come from Docteur Dalsace.”

  The word “doctor” works like a charm. “Come in, come in,” says the concierge, “that must be for Madame Charbon.” She shouts up the stairwell, “Madame Charbon, someone from the doctor’s.”

  “Tell him to mount,” a man’s voice yells back.

  “It’s a woman.”

  “Well, tell her to mount.”

  A thickset man waits for Sylvie two floors up, his arms crossed forbiddingly across his chest. “Marie-Louise,” he calls over his shoulder, and a woman comes to the door, her face anxious. “I thought the tests were normal.”

  “I didn’t mean to worry you, I just wondered if you knew Docteur Dalsace.”

  The woman shakes her head and the man says, “We don’t know him and we don’t want trouble.”

  “If it’s important, you can wait for the postman…”

  “That’s enough, Marie-Louise.” He shuts the door.

  For the rest of the morning, Sylvie wanders up and down the street knocking on doors, wondering if hidden eyes are watching her. A face behind a curtain, an eye at the peephole. There are fewer and fewer concierges in the city nowadays, but they seem to be here in full force. Will they call the police? Her presence might prove difficult to explain, though she’s done nothing wrong. “Coucou,” Madame Charbon calls out from her window and points to the end of the street. At last, la poste.

  Sylvie hurries to catch up with the postman. She hands him the note and explains her quest. He examines the paper with minute attention, then slowly puffs his cheeks. Sylvie prepares herself for the words she has heard all morning, “aucune idée.”

  But instead of shrugging it off, he says thoughtfully, “It’s very, very old, this note—see how the black ink has faded to gray? Written after the war, no doubt. During occupation, every scrap as thick as this would have been used to sole shoes or line clothing. And she’s obviously French, this Marie of yours, which means we can eliminate all foreigners right away, the Marias and Marys and so forth. So let’s assume that if she ever lived on this street, she lives here still.”

  The mailman strokes his beard and recites the lines, like a connoisseur savoring rare wine:

  “Mais si pendant ce temps je pense à toi, cher ami,

  toutes mes pertes sont réparées et tous mes chagrins finis.”

  To Sylvie’s surprise, he knows the words by heart. “Evidently a cultured woman,” he says, “to have chosen the Victor Hugo translation. The only person I can imagine writing this note is Marie Dubonnet at the end of the street. But she died a few months ago.”

  Sylvie sighs. Brought up short by death, where all trails run cold. Seeing her disappointment, the postman says, “Perhaps it’s Marie Forrestier, in that building with the blue door. I doubt she wrote this, poor woman, but who can say?”

  No one had answered when Sylvie tried the blue door earlier, and she wonders if she should return another day rather than wait around. No, better to put this quixotic impulse to rest once and for all. She walks to the end of the street, turns on rue du Parc Royal and enters the little park, looking for an empty bench to sit and rest her aching feet. But the sun is out now, and all the benches are taken. As she is leaving the park, a snub-nosed child brushes past her, pushing a pram and resisting all help from his parents. “Moi, moi, moi,” he says. A baby sleeps peacefully in the pram and Sylvie smiles at the mother, who smiles back at her. “Moi, moi, moi” says the whole world, look how sweet life is on this summer’s day, how beautiful the foxgloves nodding in the breeze, the butterflies fossicking in the grass.

  The corner café is empty, the lunch rush over. She sits at an outdoor table and orders coffee and a roll. The waiter hovers over her, disposed for pleasantries. He remarks on the weather, fills a water bowl for Coco, then leaves to attend to the Japanese tourists clustered at the entrance.

  Sylvie stirs her coffee. What a vast world it is, close to her doorstep. Tunneling for so long into her own sorrow, her vision has suddenly turned outward, taken note of other lives. The anxious woman with her bully of a husband, the concierge doting on her dog, the loving couple in the sunset of their years. And the erudite postman who had greeted those lines of poetry like an old friend chanced upon after years; Sylvie had been too embarrassed to admit they were unfamiliar to her, that she had not realized it was a quotation. And she had been so intent on finding Marie that it’s only now something else strikes her. The Victor Hugo translation, he’d said; but then who wrote the original? Julien would have known and she feels she has somehow let him down.

  Over the years Julien had guided her to his favorites, the Greeks for drama, the Russians for fiction, the English for poetry; but it was French novels she had devoured, Balzac, Hugo, Colette, Dumas. She regrets now she never took to the poetry Julien loved, her attention wandered as she read. But when the postman recited the lines, their music had penetrated her ear. If only she had asked Julien to read aloud to her, what a treasure she would have laid by, to take out and exult over like one of Balzac’s misers. But surely it’s not too late, she can still listen to poetry, there must be recordings. And this winter she will go somewhere warm, if not Florida, then Italy, perhaps. Yes, it is a vast world.

  But instead of comforting her, the realization brings despair. A vast world in which she feels utterly alone. Her transformation into a “cultured” woman who travels to Florence, who quotes poetry, will be invisible to the only eyes that matter.

  Even when Julien floated between this world and the next, hooked to life by the machinery of modern science, his eyes remained fixed on her, though at times his gaze turned inward as the morphine did its work. Once he whispered urgently, “Belle vie.” Tears sprang to her eyes that he could say that now. She laid her cheek against his. “Oui, chéri, la vie est belle.” But he shook his head and repeated the words with increasing agitation, “belle vie, belle vie.” Another time he had asked, “It’s late, have they come yet?” His words were slurred and she thought he said “les cigognes.” Surely he meant the children when he spoke of storks? She dipped her finger in a glass of water and gently stroked his cracked lips. “Yes,” she said soothingly, “yes, the storks are here.”

  In the bluish hospital light, his face was translucent, as if his skin had lost all memory of the sun. Overcome with fear, she clutched his hand and whispered, “Don’t leave me.”

  Julien’s eyes flew open and his gaze focused on her, a sudden shaft of lucidity piercing the fog of morphine. He struggled to raise his head, his lips moving. Her heart leapt. There was life in him yet. But as he sank back she realized it was only a spark from dying embers.

  Sylvie, let me go.

  She read the message clearly in his eyes. They both knew it was not the tubes and wires that kept him tethered to the world of the living, it was love of her. But she could not snap that filament. Not yet, not yet. Not when it meant a separation that would last forever, and the long years stretched ahead, years in which she would be alone in this uncaring world, without the shelter of his love, her head bared to the elements. Even if her life were to suddenly fill with people or crowd wit
h incident, she would be absolutely, entirely alone. But as Julien’s body gave a shudder and a long, heaving sigh, she released her tight grip on his hand, raised it gently to her lips.

  Sleep, my darling.

  His breaths grew slower and slower, and even as his hand relaxed in her own, she knew she was already alone.

  Sylvie finishes her coffee, cold now and tasteless. Coco stretches out on the pavement, tucks his nose between his paws, and waits for Madame to come to her senses and head back home. His eyes wink back and forth between the passersby and Sylvie, until the afternoon shadows lengthen and his lids lie heavier and heavier on his eyes. A street musician materializes, sees the tourists, puts out his hat. On his old-fashioned accordion, the kind with typewriter keys, he spins out the bal musette melodies popular with both visitors and locals.

  Hearing the familiar strains of “Valse Midinette,” an old woman picks up her skirts and dances by herself. She has a string bag in her hand, like thousands of women returning from market all over the city, but unlike them, she seems unconcerned about her appearance. Everything about her is awry, crooked seams, mismatched stockings, a gaily striped skirt sagging at the hem, and her face, too, is like a cubist painting, nothing quite lines up, her smile especially crooked but infectious all the same.

  The snub-nosed boy pushes his pram past her, with the baby awake now and squalling. The old woman’s face lights up, and she bends over the pram. In a voice high and sweet she sings the familiar, tender song that has lulled so many fretful children to sleep. Recognizing the lullaby, the accordionist changes from the swirling dance to a rocking cradle without missing a beat. The scene carves out a silence on the bustling street as people turn their heads to look. Recognizing a moment of spontaneous enchantment, they stop whatever they are doing to listen to this chance duet in the street.

  Sylvie feels tears spring to her eyes as the Schubert lullaby comes to a close. She dashes them away impatiently. Foolish. More than foolish, ignoble, to come all the way here only to pick a bone with the dead.

  I have often thought how little it would take…a nudge, a whisper, a well-timed warning…to change the course of events. To turn the very tide of history, even. But that little is denied to the restless dead.

  Across the barrier of time, this is what we have in common: doomed to witness catastrophe, not prevent it. It’s the iron law of our twilight existence, against which there is no appeal. Yet it does not lessen our burden, the guilt of the word not spoken, the gesture not made.

  Once on a day filled with rain, Pierre Curie, his mind teeming with great discoveries, looked across the street and thought he saw his old teacher Jean-Gustave Bourbuze. “Cher maître,” he called out, and stepped eagerly off the sidewalk, paying no heed to the sound of hooves. A heavily laden cart with its runaway horses thundered into the intersection and it would have been the work of an instant to grab his sleeve, to pull him to safety. But his mentor’s ghost could not do it, could only gaze in horror at what happened next. The cart rolled right over his brilliant student, the front wheel missing him by millimeters. And then the back wheel crushed his skull.

  When they took the body in to his young widow, all she could think was that her husband was dead, but the wildflowers he had picked for her the day before were still alive. From that day on, Marie Curie’s pale face turned away from the sun, finding comfort only in the gray skies that had covered Paris the day Pierre Curie was killed.

  The endless tragedy of her life. And if we were capable of acting, we could have prevented it—the endless tragedy of ours.

  I turn away as Sylvie pushes back her chair, gathers her belongings. Suddenly there is a commotion. As the musician squeezes out the final bars of the melody, Coco solemnly rises on his hind legs and dances round and round. And he does what I cannot, he changes the course of events.

  Clapping with delight, the boy lets go of the baby carriage and runs toward Coco. Some distance away, his parents call out “Attention, Paul, attention!” as the perambulator rolls toward the curb. The old woman in her harlequin clothes leaps to intercept it and the baby suffers no greater harm than a rude jolt which sets it squalling again. The mother runs toward the pram, the woman wanders away, and reports of the incident grow more and more exaggerated as they pass from mouth to mouth. An old lady hurled herself between a child and a rabid dog, the dog bit her, they’ve carried her off to the hospital, perhaps she is dead.

  Gradually the excitement subsides, and the crowd thins out. The tourists go back to their apéritifs, and the waiter mutters under his breath that he still hates to hear German in the streets of Paris, even if it’s only a song. Sylvie bends to fasten Coco’s leash. Time to admit defeat and go home.

  I had failed in my quest, but Sylvie’s defeat strikes me harder. How bravely, how stubbornly she has pursued each unpromising lead. To give up now when she is getting so close! If only I could point her in the right direction, nudge her toward a certain door. If I could do something. Anything. But there’s nothing I can do.

  Except…except…except…just one thing. Very, very carefully I balance myself on the razor’s edge between two worlds.

  Sylvie feels a sudden gust of wind and turns to look down the street. Everything is still, except for a piece of paper flapping on the sidewalk. And then she sees the old woman’s net bag with its meager contents spilled out: a morsel of cheese, some sugared almonds, a chop wrapped in butcher’s paper. She gathers them up and hurries around the corner to rue Elzévir. There is no sign of the woman, but farther down the street, the blue door is open. She slips into the building, tells Coco to wait, and starts up the staircase.

  She is taken aback to find the old woman peering down at her from the landing. “It’s you,” she says excitedly, “I knew you would come. But what took you so long?” Sylvie’s bewilderment grows at the woman’s strange behavior. Instead of remaining barricaded behind the door like a true Parisienne, she hurries toward Sylvie, takes hold of her hand and draws her into the apartment.

  The shutters are pulled against the sun and as Sylvie’s eyes adjust to the gloom, she notices the frayed and worn furnishings, the plain wooden furniture. But everything is immaculate, the wood polished to a gleam, the mantelpiece crowded with framed photographs freshly dusted. A large bookshelf displays beautifully bound books, their leather spines and gold lettering strangely opulent in the dim surroundings.

  But like the woman herself, there is something askew about the room. Though the windows are lofty, their effect is marred by the low ceiling which presses down upon them. The woman waves Sylvie to a chair and whispers, “The grandmother eats our bonbons.”

  Sylvie stares at the face beaming down at her. “Pardon?”

  “But Marie says it’s a secret.”

  “Marie?” Sylvie falters. “Are you Marie?”

  The woman laughs merrily. “My, how you get things mixed up, you silly girl, I’m not Marie, I’m Mathilde.”

  Sylvie can’t make sense of what the old woman is saying, she’s talking in riddles. And then Sylvie realizes she’s speaking to a child in a body that has grown old without her awareness. In any event, she won’t get any sense out of her. Sylvie tries to get up, but Mathilde pushes her back with surprising strength and stands before the door.

  Nervous now, Sylvie glances around the room, looking for a means of escape. Inscrutable faces stare back at her from the mantel. Her gaze is arrested by one in particular, a face she recognizes. No possibility of a mistake, she has seen it all too recently.

  Clara.

  Sylvie’s head swims and everything goes dark.

  When she comes to, she is alone. Her legs are unsteady as she tries to stand, and she realizes she is faint from hunger. She feels around the chair and notices that her purse is gone. Nothing of great value taken, but she finds it disquieting all the same. Suddenly Coco bounds in through the open door, barking in triumph.

&n
bsp; Mathilde bursts into the room behind him, brandishing a stick to chase him away. Holding on to Coco, Sylvie gapes at the transformation in the woman, now in a neat and sober dress. Her expression is different, too, no longer welcoming and friendly like a door flung open, but shuttered with mistrust. She stops dead at the sight of Sylvie. To her amazement, the old woman says, “How did you get in?”

  Sylvie struggles to her feet. “I’m just leaving.”

  “Who are you? Are you alone?”

  “Yes, I’m by myself.” Then she thinks the words unwise and adds, “I must leave, they’re waiting for me at home.”

  “Answer me. Who are you? What do you want?” The woman’s tone is aggressive as she takes a step toward Sylvie and Coco growls, No closer.

  “I must go, Mathilde.”

  “Mathilde?” Her surprise is unmistakable.

  Mathilde comes in behind her and says reprovingly, “Wrong again, silly, I told you I’m Mathilde, she’s Marie, we’re ex-act-ly the same.”

  Marie turns to her sister and says despairingly, “Don’t let people in like that, we’ll be robbed and murdered in our beds one day.”

  “How can she rob us when I already took away her purse?” She brandishes it, proud of her cleverness. “Here it is. Oh look, a dog, he’ll protect us, won’t you, good dog?”

  Coco pricks up his ears hopefully. Good dog. Those words always mean some treat is forthcoming. He follows Mathilde to the kitchen, smells the chop on the counter, and waits for it to slide providentially to the floor.

  Alone with Sylvie, Marie pulls open the shutters. The rays of the late-afternoon sun flash into the room and Marie draws a deep breath. “Yes, I see it now, the resemblance. Of course Clara would be much older than you now, but that wouldn’t occur to Mathilde, she’s been expecting her all this time.”

  “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to disturb you.”