The Remaining Voice

by Angela Elliott

  “Merci. Please, thank your father again for the photograph.” I did not like the old man much, but I was grateful to him all the same.

  Armand Pascal shrugged and closed the door on me.

  *

  I found a small local shop and bought cleaning products: strong carbolic soap, a dust pan and brush, an apron, a roll of cheesecloth, two dusters, and rubber gloves. I asked the shopkeeper if she knew of anyone with a vacuum cleaner I could borrow. I doubted Armand Pascal owned one, given the state of his home.

  The shopkeeper shrugged. ‘Non,’ she said, packaging my goods in brown paper and tying it with string.

  I smiled bleakly at her. I had a mammoth task ahead of me. Sorting through the detritus of Berthe’s life was going to take forever. Not for the first time I wondered why she had just upped sticks and left.

  I stopped at the café on the corner of the Rue Tronson du Coudray and ordered an omelette filled with tiny mushrooms and much garlic, and a coffee. My package sat on the chair next to me. The locals eyed me with suspicion. I ignored them.

  The café owner leant over her counter and whispered in a loud voice: “Qu'est-ce que dans votre forfait?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “Rien.”

  “Ah… You are American?”

  “Yes, but my Grandfather is French.” I thought that might endear me to her and to others, listening in on our conversation.

  “And you have moved here?”

  “No. Not yet.” I was not sure I would be ‘moving’ to Paris as such. I gulped my coffee, eager to be gone.

  The café owner pressed on: “Où se trouve l'appartement ?” Is it close?”

  “Yes, just round the corner.” I had a thought. “Perhaps you know… Monsieur Pascal?”

  “Oh, mais oui. Deux d’entre eux. Him and his father. Though I have not seen the old man for a long time. You have moved into the old rooms, no?” She dusted the top of the counter with her dish cloth.

  “Old rooms?”

  “Oui, I know everyone who lives in that building. The old rooms are the only ones that are empty. You have heard the singing? Non?”

  “Singing?” I was about to pick up my coffee cup and my hand froze mid-way. “What do you mean singing?”

  The café owner came out from behind her counter, bringing the pot of coffee with her. She moved my parcel onto the floor and sat down next to me, setting the coffee pot between us.

  “No one has lived in there for many years. Personne.” Her whisper grew louder. All other conversation in the café ceased. “It is a sad place. Old man Pascal, he knew her. She was an opera singer you know.”

  “He told me.”

  The café owner stared deep into my eyes. “You have seen her, Non?”

  “No, I never met her. She died a few weeks ago.” I was confused. What was this woman telling me?

  “Ah… C’est intéressant.” She picked up the pot of coffee and rose from the table. “I wish you luck my dear. If you need anything…” she tapped her chest. “Colette is here.”

  I thanked her, mystified by what she had said. I wanted to talk further, but she turned her back and busied herself with the coffee machine. Conversation amongst the other patrons resumed and I fell in to wondering what it was I had gotten myself into.

  In the time it took for me to finish my lunch and down my coffee, the weather turned nasty. The driving rain sprayed under the café’s awning, the wind rattling the tables and chairs on the sidewalk. I clamped my hat firmly on my head, raised the collar of my mackintosh and tucked the parcel under my arm. I stood for a brief moment under the awning, and mused over whether I should wait out the shower, but in the end I made a dash across the street and round the corner. In no time at all my shoes were soaked and the brown paper on the parcel had stained dark like oil. By the time I reached the apartment I was wet through and the parcel falling apart.

  I let myself into the building, thankful to be out of the rain. The heavy air closed around me and in the gloom I missed the bottom step on the stairs and the parcel and its contents rained down on me in a clatter that echoed in the vastness of the stairwell. I sat on the bottom step and burst into tears from the sheer frustration of it all. I did not want to be here. Not really. I wanted to be home in Manhattan. I wanted my life back. I wanted things to be normal.

  As my sobs faded, I heard the air move and I glanced up the stairs. I thought I saw a woman in a long gown, but I could not be sure. I brushed away my tears and stood to let her aside, but there was no one there. I leaned into the hall to check if she’d somehow passed without my knowledge, but all was silent…

  … and then I felt the softness of silk on my face. I stood transfixed, not exactly scared but not exactly okay with it either. The maw of time yawned wide, though in reality, I could not have stood there for more than a few seconds. Then quite suddenly, the clouds dispersed, and sunshine streamed in through the skylight above the door. The air was heavy with a musky fragrance, dust motes dancing in the rarefied air.

  I had not realised I had been holding my breath and it took me a while to come to my senses. My purchases were strewn across floor, and the brown paper a crumpled wet morass at my feet. I snatched it up and hurried to collect the items. I do not usually spook that easily, but I have to admit, I was confused and not a little scared by what I had seen. Was she a ghost? Had she made her presence known to any of the other residents in the building? I vowed to knock on a few doors before the day was out.

  *

  Inside the apartment I shed my wet coat, but could not kick off my shoes because the floor was too dirty and I did not want to ladder my stockings. I donned the apron and deposited the soap and cloths in the kitchen. I would banish my fears by cleaning. It had always been my favourite way of dealing with uncertainty. I found a broom in a closet, but the bristles were falling out of the head. At least the bucket under the sink was good. I doubted there would be water, but when I turned the faucet I heard a suck of air and a clanging, which ended in a splutter of brown sludge. Of course, the other residents in the building had water and although the faucet was old and the Belfast sink cracked, I could place the bucket inside and fill it. It would suffice.

  I pulled my notebook out of my bag and found a pen. Armed with wash cloth, duster, bucket, and soap, I took everything into the drawing room. I dropped the wash cloth in the bucket and placed the soap on the mantelpiece. My eyes were drawn upwards to the picture I’d seen earlier. It seems like a cliché but my heart really did skip a beat, for the ghost woman on the stairs was this woman here, right down to the silk of her dress. I was sure of it…

  …but it did not make sense. Was this picture of Berthe? I could not assume that it was. It could be anyone. I had no way of knowing, and then I remembered the photo that old Michel Pascal had given me. I almost ran into the kitchen to take up my bag and search for the autographed postcard. Where was it? I’d had it with me when… It should be… but it wasn’t there. It was gone. I searched my coat pockets. Perhaps I’d dropped it downstairs, or maybe I had looked at it in the café and left it on the table? Damn it. I flicked through the pages of my notebook and the coronation photo given to me by Berthe’s Hampstead neighbour fell out. Well…

  I peered hard at it, trying to make out whether the Berthe photographed in the Hampstead garden bore any resemblance to this painted diva. I gave up. The photograph was not clear enough. Perhaps if I concentrated on making some order of this mess, I would find out what and who I was dealing with. For sure, the youthful apparition I’d seen could not be Berthe. She had been an old lady when she died. There must be other photographs here, perhaps even a diary or correspondence of some kind. It did not look as if anything had been thrown away in a very long time.

  Setting aside my concerns for the moment, I worked steadily into the late afternoon. I started in one corner of the room and listed the larger items of furniture. I should have brought my camera with me because then I could have photographed everything and made my life a little easier, but t
hat would have to wait. I moved on to the paintings, and as best I could stacked them against the long wall, thereby clearing a little floor space. Moving the books sent me into a paroxysm of sneezing, but I diligently freed a chaise longue from the weight of paper and burrowed into a box of crockery, most of which was wrapped in newspaper. It was as if Berthe had half packed her belongings, meaning to take them to England with her, but then, for some as yet inexplicable reason, gave up. I glanced at the painting over the mantle and something in the atmosphere shifted. The apartment had never been warm and it was only spring, yet now I could see my breath as I exhaled. Perhaps I had done enough for one day. I glanced round one last time. Tomorrow I would find out what rooms lay beyond this.

  I hurried to shed my apron and shook out my coat, still damp from the rain. It was as I was picking up my bag that the singing began. I could not make out the words, but the voice… oh the voice was magnificent: crescendos of sound softened by delicate phrases here and there, terrifying in their intensity of emotion, and yet strangely soothing. I listened for a full five minutes before the sound began to fade and I was left in total silence.

  It had to be a neighbour. Perhaps they were playing a record? But it did not sound like a recording, and the café owner had mentioned singing, and I had heard it when I first arrived. It was a somewhat unnerving sound. I had to investigate. I knocked on my neighbour’s door. There was no reply. I knocked again. Still nothing. Perhaps upstairs? There was just one apartment above me. I took the last flight up, knocked and waited. No one answered. I put my ear to the wood and listened, trying to work out if there was anyone inside, but it was too hard to tell. Just when I had given up hope, the door opened and a bird-like old woman poked her head through the gap. Her face twitched slightly.

  “Oui, que voulez-vous?” Her voice was barely audible. Certainly, she was not the singer. I wondered too how she managed the stairs. Perhaps she lived with someone more able-bodied. Or perhaps Armand Pascal ran errands for her.

  I replied in French: “Excuse me Madam. I am your neighbour. I live downstairs. I wonder if I might ask you… were you playing a record just now?”

  “Moi? Non. Non.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s just that it was such beautiful singing. Did you hear it?”

  “Non. Non. Allez-vous en!” She waved me away and made to shut the door. I put my hand out to stop it closing. I did not want to be rude, but I felt compelled to ask one more question.

  “Madam, is there someone else I can talk to?” Perhaps she had a visitor.

  “Non.” She fidgeted and I thought her frightened of me, or perhaps my questions. I smiled weakly and nodded, letting go my hold on the door. It closed quickly.

  I took my weary body back downstairs to the foyer. I could have knocked on the Pascals’ door, and doubtless Armand would have welcomed me in, but I was tired and did not want to wrestle with either his, or his father’s, lascivious attentions, so instead I opened the front door quietly, and slipped out onto the street.

  Chapter 5

  At the hotel I approached the reception desk to ask if they had a quieter room than the one I presently occupied. The desk clerk consulted his book, a disdainful look on his face.

  “I am sorry Madam…”

  I scowled at him.

  “We have no rooms, but I do have a message for you.” He reached into one of the pigeonholes behind him and offered up an envelope.

  “Merci,” I said, turning away angrily and tore the envelope open. On a single sheet of fine white laid paper was written:

  My dear Madam Webster

  I have taken the liberty of booking a table at my favourite restaurant and I would very much like you to accept this invitation to dine with me tonight.

  A car will be waiting to pick you up at eight.

  I am at your service

  Laurent Daviau

  “Damn it,” I muttered, opening the door to my room. I flung my bag on the bed and kicked off my still-damp, and now very dirty, shoes. I did not want to go out…

  …then again, I had to eat. I glanced at the clock. It was almost seven. I would run a bath and soak for half an hour.

  *

  It was both dark and smoky inside the restaurant. The maître d’ showed me to a leather-seated booth wherein sat Laurent Daviau. He stood and kissed my hand, guiding me into my seat with practiced ease. In all probability he had a long list of women, whom he charmed in just such a manner. I would proceed with caution. After all, I was a newly single woman in a foreign land, and I was an heiress. I had to be careful.

  “Thank you,” I muttered.

  “No,” He said. “Thank you for consenting to join me.”

  “But Monsieur Daviau, you left me little room to decline.”

  “C’est vrai. Please call me Laurent. I am intrigued by your quest. Yes. I think that is what it is… and you of course. You are intriguing also.”

  I stared straight at him, willing him to look away. I have always found directness the best policy when dealing with men. His gaze was soft, and in a face that was unlined yet difficult to read. I was loath to trust him, though he not done anything other than flirt mildly with me. I did not consider dining with him to be a ‘date’ as such. Lawyers dine with their clients all the time in New York. I assumed it was the same in France. Perhaps I was naive.

  “Will you tell me what you have found?” he said.

  “Of course.” I picked up the menu. I had no idea what was good here. I would have to rely on Laurent’s recommendation. He clicked his fingers for the waiter and with a nod of his head in my direction, ordered rare steaks and asparagus, together with a bottle of red wine - plain and simple tastes for a French man.

  “I have come here every night since my wife died.” He let out a sigh.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” And there I was thinking he was a lothario, when all the time he was a grieving widower.

  “Non, it is my, how you say? Cross to bear. We had three wonderful years, although she had her problems and… I suppose I had mine. And you, what of your life?”

  I bit my lip. I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt, but it is hard to open up to someone who is carrying more emotional pain than you are, and I did not know if he was telling me the truth.

  “I have no life,” I blurted out. “My husband ran off with his secretary…. I am so sorry about your wife.”

  “It was a car accident. She was… she had… too much to drink. Like I said, she had problems. It was a while ago now. I suppose I am coming to terms with it.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “If you say you are sorry one more time.” He smiled gently, and in that moment I fell for him. Stupid I know. You meet someone, you do no more than make small talk and yet there is a spark of something there that goes beyond simple friendship. I looked away, embarrassed by my feelings. I did not think it appropriate to encourage him.

  Thankfully, the waiter came with the wine. He offered it up to Laurent, who swilled a little in the bottom of his glass, and both smelled and tasted it before nodding that it was acceptable. The waiter poured.

  “I’m…” I laughed. “Okay. Can we make a pact? No talk of our past?”

  “A good idea.” He raised his glass. “To the future.”

  “To the future,” I said and clinked my glass with his.

  We talked for an hour or so, mostly about what I’d found so far in Berthe’s apartment, and he asked if I needed someone to appraise the antique furniture. I told him I knew of someone from my childhood who might help; thinking of Jaques Le Brun and how, if he was still alive, he might jump at the chance to root around in such a mess. I did not tell Laurent of the woman or the singing. It did not seem the right time.

  At a little after nine thirty I told him I ought to be going back to the hotel. Tiredness had taken hold and I could barely keep my eyes open. I excused myself to visit the rest room and when I returned he was standing with my coat over his arm, ready to hold it open for me. But it was not Laur
ent that I noticed as much as the woman standing slightly behind him, with her back to us. My first assumption was that she had been sitting in the next booth, but when I reached out to put an arm in the sleeve of my coat she turned and looked me full in the face, before walking towards the door. It was the woman on the stairs – and in the picture. I knew it was. Was she flesh and blood after all? Had she followed me here?

  “Qu’est-ce que sais?” said Laurent, following my gaze. The woman was nearly at the door, and barely visible now in the gloom of the restaurant.

  “I… do you know her?” I asked him.

  “Who?”

  “That woman. She was…” Not there. She had gone. I ran to the door and out onto the street. It was dark but there was enough lamplight to see up and down both sides for a hundred yards or so. Apart from an old drunk who sat with his back against a tree, and young couple kissing in a nearby doorway, there was no one in sight. I turned back to the restaurant. Laurent had followed me outside.

  “What is it?” he asked. “Someone you know?”

  “No… no.” I was confused. Did I know her? Did she know me? For a moment, it was as if she was going to say something to me. “I’m not sure,” I said. “But I think… I think I’ve seen a ghost.”

  *

  We sat in the bar at my hotel and I told Laurent Daviau about the woman I’d seen on the stairs and then again in the restaurant… and of course, there was the singing – easily dismissed as being a neighbour or a record playing, only I didn’t think it was either of those, given what the I’d been told in the local café. The fact that I had lost the postcard photo of Berthe still annoyed me, but there was the painting. I had not yet verified the identity of the sitter but I had the oddest feeling that it was of my great aunt in her youth – and if that were so, then nothing made sense.

  “And what of the difference in the way she lived?” I asked. “It was as if in London she had no identity.”

  “Surely it is simply a question of an old lady living a solitary life,” said Laurent.