The Remaining Voice

by Angela Elliott

  He was younger than I had thought he would be, with dark hair and piercing brown eyes, which twinkled when he smiled.

  “It is good to see you again,” he said, seating himself behind his desk. He pushed aside a battered ledger and opened a newly created file on which was written the name of my great-aunt.

  “I’m sorry, have we met before?” I asked.

  “Outside your hotel I believe. You were kind enough to help me with my papers.”

  “I don’t…” The penny dropped. Of course. I had been tired and had not paid that much attention to him, save to know he was dangerous in the best possible way. I bit my lip and felt the attraction all over again.

  “I am sorry Monsieur. I didn’t realise it was you.”

  “Mais bien sȗr. Why should you? We only met in passing. I remember you though. As you can see, I am not very well organised, even despite Jacqueline’s efforts.” He nodded towards the door. I assumed he meant the secretary downstairs. I reached into my bag and pulled out the correspondence from Fletcher Kingston, namely the Power of Attorney, and a letter of introduction. I did not think it necessary to confuse things by also showing him the key and the note with its mysterious message.

  “I don’t know anything about French law. Mr Kingston has explained to me that in all probability my grandfather will inherit my great-aunt’s apartment. I assume everything is in order for me to pay a visit and make an inventory?”

  “That is so. You are free to come and go. We will take care of the legal side of things. I have spoken to your Mr. Kingston and we will resolve matters to your family’s satisfaction, I am sure.”

  “Thank you.”

  He twinkled a smile and, embarrassed by his attention, I looked away.

  “You have the key, I assume?” he asked. So his conversation with Fletcher Kingston had encompassed this fact.

  “Oh, yes. I do. I was planning to go this afternoon.”

  “That is good… and what do you make of the note?”

  “I haven’t given it much thought.” Not true, I had thought about it on and off since discovering it.

  “Well, I assume she must have meant something in the apartment? Something which meant a great deal to her. I will keep you in my heart like a treasure? It is a lover no? You will find romantic correspondence, gifts perhaps. I do not know. It is intriguing, n’est pas? I have not had the opportunity to visit the apartment. It is interesting. I’d like to know about her… about you.”

  We fell silent for a moment.

  “Well, if that is all,” I said, suddenly, standing up. I had much to do. I could not allow myself to be distracted.

  “C’est tout. I will be in touch. You are at the hotel?”

  “Yes.” Damn it, but I had anticipated finding somewhere quieter to stay. “For now.”

  “Perhaps you would care to meet for supper this evening? You could tell me about what you have found. Perhaps I might help in some way.”

  I stretched my fingers wide and then pressed them together. As pleasant on the eye as he was, I did not want to eat with this man. I did not know him, and, if truth be told, I considered myself too emotionally fragile to keep polite company.

  “I’m not sure what my plans are. Can I let you know later?”

  Monsieur Daviau shrugged. “Bien sȗr. You have my number. I look forward to talking with you again.” He was nothing if not a gentleman.

  “Thank you. You’ve been most kind.” I felt his eyes bore into my back as I opened the door. Jacqueline looked up as I descended the stairs. She scowled and I smiled at her. Poor thing. I would bet a cent to the dollar that Laurant Daviau had never asked her out for supper.

  Chapter 3

  The Rue Tronson Du Coudray was narrow and full of tall buildings, each with differently dressed windows. Some had white shutters, like country homes, and some like number twenty-five, had iron balustrades and pretentions to greatness. Berthe’s former home sported the latter and had a huge bronze door the colour of mahogany. I knocked and waited. The manager sounded angry at having been disturbed. I apologised profusely and asked to be let in.

  “Je suis le nouveau propriétaire de l'appartement de six,” I said, as best as I could. He stood aside, all the while coughing and grunting. I pushed inside and stood in the cold echoing gloom.

  “Personne n'a vécu là-bas pendant une longue période,” the building manager said. He was a scruffy man with a barrel chest. He smelled of tobacco and stale sweat.

  “Oui, je sais.”

  He stared at me, hands on hips, breathing hard like a train that’s run out of steam. “Qui êtes-vous?” he asked, through gritted teeth.

  “Je m’appelle Sophie et je suis sa petite-nièce de Berthe Chalgrin. She has died – erm… Elle est décédée et a quitté l'appartement pour moi.” I hoped he would understand my poor French.

  “Vous êtes une Américaine.” he said, squinting at me. “She went away.” His English was thick with misuse.

  “Berthe? You knew her?”

  “Mais oui. I have been here a long time. You look like a nice girl. Too nice for this place. Monsieur Pascal. You may call me Armand.” He offered his hand to shake. It was warm and damp. He attempted a grin. His face broke out in a volley of twitches. “It is a long way up.” He pointed to the stairs. “If you need anything Mademoiselle, let me know.” He pursed his lips. I nodded my thanks and glanced upwards. The wooden handrail shone with a burgundy hue.

  “C’est tout. Allez-y.” Monsieur Pascal waved his hand at me. “Go. See what the old witch has left you. Then you come to me. There is a story to tell.” He twitched a grin, cocked his head and turned on his heels.

  I waited until he had gone before I started up the stairs. He would tell me a story? I should have asked him there and then. I did not want to enter his lair. I wanted only to talk to him on common ground… with the front door open for preference, so that I could slip out, or hail a passer-by, just in case Monsieur Pascal tried anything untoward. I shuddered at the thought that he might want more from me than conversation.

  On the second floor I stopped to get my breath back and promised I would do more exercise when I got home… Home? Where was that exactly? All my belongings were in storage. I had only the clothes I had brought with me to Paris. I looked through the well of the stairs to the third floor and saw it spin above me. Boy, was I tired.

  “Okay, okay, I’m coming.” My voice echoed whispers until I could no longer recognise it. My heart pounded and a wave of heat, like desert sand, blew through me. I was shaking - but why? What was there to be afraid of? I was simply going to open up an apartment that had been closed for a very long time. I would probably find mouse droppings and old newspapers, and nothing much else. I could not let my fears get the better of me.

  I reached the third floor landing and leant on the bannister awhile. Dust danced in the shafts of light coming through the small-paned window behind me. The walls were cream coloured, the woodwork dark with age.

  “I will keep you in my heart like a treasure,” I said, fitting the key in the lock. It was difficult to turn and for a moment I thought I might have to go back downstairs and rouse Monsieur (call me Armand) Pascal again, but then I heard the tumblers groan and the door gave, grudgingly. I did not open it all the way. I allowed it only a three inch gap. A susurration, warm like summer air, issued forth, as if the apartment was a living being and I had just nudged it awake. The lightest of touches on my shoulder made me spin round. I almost lost my balance and fell headlong down the flight of stairs, but I reached out and grabbed the bannister. My hat, set until then at a jaunty angle on my head, soared like a bird and came to rest on the first step of the last flight up. When I looked, there was no one on the landing. There was no one on the stairs either above me or below. I was completely alone.

  I pushed the door all the way open on the dead air of decay. The smell was of mould, damp, dust, cobwebs and age. A deep hall lay ahead of me. There was just enough light to see a great shuttered window, to my
immediate left, with drapes that had lost their colour in the gloom. I stepped onto a dusty carpet, and reached out to unlatch the shutters. They groaned their complaint in the hazy air, as a shaft of sunlight pierced the inner reaches of the apartment. Further along, to the left was second, similarly encased window. Between the two stood a gilt chair with velvet upholstery that may have once been pink, but was now faded and mouldy. On the opposite wall were two doors and between them a huge mirror with ornate frame threaded with cobwebs so that when I observed my reflection it was to see the ghost of Miss Haversham. I had not realised I was so gaunt looking, nor so badly attired in my spring gabardine and chequered scarf. I rubbed a spot clean on the mirror and touched my hair. I had no one to dress for, though Laurent Daviau must have seen something he liked, unless he was a perpetual lady’s man. I sighed; exploring Berthe’s former home was going to be dirty work. What did it matter what I looked like?

  I made footprints on the carpet back to the door and closed it, sealing the apartment once more from the outside world. Turning back inside, I saw for the first time the room beyond the hall. The black interior gave out only the looming shape of bookcase or some such piece of furniture on the far wall. The sound of singing startled me. It was coming from behind one of the doors to my right. I tried the first but it was locked. The second opened onto the kitchen. A dirt-dulled haze came in through the window. The room had a high ceiling, with an old fashioned stove against one wall and range of shelves and cupboards piled high with crockery and pans against the other. In the middle stood a table, doubtless once scrubbed clean, though now layered with grime. A scullery and I thought probably larder too, opened off at the end by the window. The singing had stopped and I assumed that it had been from the apartment above. I retraced my steps and walked into the main room, bumping up against a low table.

  At first my eyes could not make anything out, but gradually they became accustomed to the quality of the light and I made a path to the window between a chair and a painting, propped against some boxes. The window, shuttered against the world, as had the others been, did not give readily, and I tugged on the boards, creating a miasma of choking dust in the process. I prised it open a couple of feet.

  I had stepped into Aladdin’s cave.

  It was on one of my father’s trips to Paris, that he took me to a small house tucked away down a back street on the Left Bank. It was run by an old friend of his by the name of Jacques Le Brun, who had whiskers that curled up from his face like an over-sized smile, and who wore dog-tooth trousers and a red velvet waistcoat. I was nine and although the Second World War had just started, we Americans were as yet immune from its effects. From the moment I stepped inside Monsieur Le Brun’s home I was caught up in a fantasy. Never had I seen such an amazing collection of artefacts and all of them old beyond belief and each with fantastic stories that wove their magic spell over my childhood so that I wanted only to live in my imagination and nowhere else. The light was golden with enchantment and the dust-weathered collection a precious jewel to be cherished and loved back to life. I spent three charm-filled hours there, playing in the grime of yesteryear, while my father caught up with the news from his old friend. Monsieur Le Brun had been a circus high-wire artiste, a knife swallower, a brush salesman, and a con-artist, but his passion was antiques. He collected them avidly, not caring to collate or order them in any way, not bothering if spiders wove webs over them, or if they were correctly stored. “It is all about the patina,” he would say. “Everything should be allowed to age naturally. I do not care for science.” He was a curious man, out of time with trappings of modern life.

  I had not thought about Monsieur Le Brun in many years, but here I was, entering a very similar realm to his. I had not been afraid when I was a child. I was excited, and intrigued, but mostly I was entranced. Berthe’s apartment was a perfectly preserved time capsule, and far from being devoid of her belongings, it was chock full of them. I could not believe that it had survived two wars, when all around it was so badly abused. It was as if Monsieur Le Brun had been keeping a watchful eye so that one day he could offer me another fantasy to explore.

  “I will keep you in my heart like a treasure,” I whispered, again. The apartment was like a newly opened treasure chest, full of wonder and glory. Was this what Berthe was referring to when she wrapped the key in paper and placed it inside the envelope and deposited it with Fletcher Kingston?

  I could not move without bumping into furniture, or piles of books. Every chair was laden with miscellany - paintings being the most obvious items in evidence after boxes filled to the brim with paper and crockery, trinkets and… well, just plain junk mostly. A great fireplace, surrounded by ornate mantle and topped with huge vases the like of which I had only ever seen in museums, faced me. On the chimney breast hung a painting of a woman, looking very glamorous in a pink satin ball gown. In front of the fire was a chair with gilt legs and threaded gold satin cushions, on top of which rested a violin, a china cup with rose design and a shoe with a broken heel.

  It was going to take me a lifetime to sort through this. Not to mention the cleaning. I noticed another door and wove between the furniture towards it. Beneath my feet was, what must have been at one time, a quite beautiful Turkish carpet, and on the walls, soft silk moiré paper, peeling and blackened with mould. I removed a wooden crate containing musical scores from the chair that was set against the door. I could not find anywhere to put the box, save to balance it precariously on top of another behind me. I pulled the chair forward and found there was nowhere to put that either. So I simply left it and squeezed behind. The door knob turned quite easily, but I could not open it more than a few inches. I peered into the gloom beyond. Another hall. Another set of rooms. I was going to have to go out for cleaning products. I had no doubt there was a broom in the kitchen, but like as not it would fall apart with age, as would any rags or scourers. I would need an apron and rubber gloves. I made a mental shopping list and retraced my steps across what I had decided to call the ‘drawing room’. Time to discuss matters with Monsieur Armand Pascal.

  Chapter 4

  “Ainsi, vous voulez connaître Madame Chalgrin?” Armand Pascal sported an old leather jacket and looked as if he was about to go out. I blocked his path to the street door and smiled my most winsome smile, though I did not feel kindly disposed towards him. Now I stood closer, he smelled of garlic and old man’s pee.

  “If you don’t mind,” I said. “Only I do not have much time and there is so much to do. You said you would tell me stories… about Berthe Chalgrin?”

  “Oui. I was a child when she left, but I know something of her.” He leaned in closely. “Mon père, la connaissait intimement.”

  “Really?” His father knew her intimately? What did that mean exactly?

  “Cest vrai. She gave him a signed photograph.” He tapped the side of his nose.

  “Signed? But why? Were they…” I dare not say the word ‘lovers’ for fear it was true.

  “Come, come with me. You will find out.” Monsieur Pascal led the way. I was reticent to follow but I was curious, and if I was to learn about Berthe then it would by talking to the people that knew her. Armand Pascal opened the door to a small room and there, lying in sheets the colour of a cloudy sky and surrounded by a thick smog of cigarette smoke, was Pascal Senior, a wizened, hairless, toothless old man. He wore a nightshirt darkened with food stains and he smelled worse than his son.

  “Papa, c'est la femme. Elle est Américaine. Elle veut savoir à propos de Madame Chalgrin.”

  The old man beckoned me forth. “Oui. Viens ici mon cher,” he croaked.

  “Monsieur?”

  Pascal Senior ground his gums. “You are not very much like her,” he said in perfect English, which took me by surprise. “Yes, yes. I have English. I knew many Americans during the war. What do you want?”

  “I’m sorry. I am given to understand you have a photograph of Madame Chalgrin?”

  “Oui. I do. She was a famous
beauty and an even better singer. You may have it. I have no use for it. There, there…” He pointed a bony finger at the bedside table. “In the drawer. Open it. Take out the Bible. Be careful. God will rain terror on you if you damage his word.”

  I did as he said. The Bible was leather-bound and greasy to the touch. I flicked through pages with curled edges and underscored passages.

  The old man shrugged. “Ah but it was a long time ago.”

  The photograph was on a postcard, as was the way in those days. It was tucked into Revelations. Berthe had been captured smiling coyly to the camera. Her hair was curly around her face, but the length pulled back into a loose bun, which was in turn tucked into a small feathered clip. She was corseted and wore a silk off the shoulder dress, as if about to go out to the theatre. She held an ostrich feather fan, open and dusting her chin. I had not expected her to be a great beauty, but she was. She had signed her name across the bottom of the photograph and when I flipped the card I read the message she had written there: Mon cher Michel, avec tous mon amour. Berthe.

  “Yes, with all her love,” growled Pascal Senior. “She wrote hundreds of them. Not simply to me. To all her admirers.”

  “I don’t understand. She was on the stage?”

  “But my dear, she was an opera singer. One of the best.” Michel Pascal broke into a volley of coughs and reached for his cigarettes. “Keep it,” he said, waving me away. “I am dying.” He made a vulgar gesture. I tucked the photograph into my bag and thanked him profusely.

  “I like a pretty face. It is better than looking at this monster.” Michel Pascal nodded at his son, standing with his back to the door.

  “Tu vais bientôt mourir assez vieux fou,” spat Pascal Junior. “Come. He has a dirty mind.”

  I followed Armand Pascal back through his apartment. At the door he turned to me and said: “Come back later when he is asleep. I will answer your questions then. Here, you will need a key for the front door.” He handed me a key on a string.