The Remaining Voice

by Angela Elliott

  “Ah, yes, that is true. Here, I have a photograph of them together.” Monsieur Baptiste sorted through the papers on the table and offered me a postcard. It was sepia toned and fading, but in it Berthe sat on a chair, whilst standing by her side, a tall bearded man in a uniform rested his hand on her shoulder and looked out confidently, as if challenging all to take his prize from him.

  “He was from an old family. They lived for the most part in Paris. He met her after a performance at a dinner given by some nobleman or other, I do not know who. It says somewhere. He was not very old I understand, when he died.” He looked to Laurent as much as to say ‘did I say the right thing?’

  “And Robert Truffaut?” I looked from Monsieur Baptiste to Laurent and back again.

  Monsieur Baptiste let out a long sigh. “He is more difficult.” He fiddled nervously with a ring on the forefinger of his right hand.

  “What do you mean?” I asked. I sensed there was something they did not want me to know.

  As if he could read my thoughts Monsieur Baptiste said: “You may look through everything here. We have no secrets.” He drew himself up to his full height. He was not very tall and eager to appear manly. I had the sense that, despite his offer, he was still trying to hide something. I stared at the young Berthe – so soft of face; so innocent. Her looks had not yet been ravaged by time. I tried to bring to mind the photograph that her neighbour in Hampstead had given me. I must have it somewhere. I searched in my purse. Had I lost it, just as I had lost the one old Michel Pascal had given me? I could not find it. Perhaps it was back at the hotel.

  “What can you tell me about Je Veux Vivre?” I asked, placing my purse on the table.

  “Ah… you know it was her favourite?” Monsieur Baptiste replied.

  “No. I know she was going to play Juliette, and I found the cylinders. She was singing it on one of them.”

  Monsieur Baptiste cut me off. “You have recordings?”

  I looked at him blankly: “Yes. A box of them.”

  “Oh, mon dieu! But you must take very great care of them. They are very valuable.”

  “I’m not sure they are,” I said, hesitantly.

  “Oui, but they are. To me. To lovers of opera.”

  “Then you can have them,” I said in a spontaneous act of generosity.

  “My dear, I do not think you should give anything away until we have finalised the matter of the estate, and it is all in the possession of your grandfather,” said Laurent. “Of course I am sure he would agree.”

  “Yes, yes I’m sorry Monsieur Baptiste. It will have to wait. I will take care of them in the meantime. If my grandfather agrees, then they will be donated to the Opera House for your archives.” I did not dare say that Jacques Le Brun had one of the cylinders. I would have to try and get it back off him.

  “Oh, Madame. That is very gracious of you.” Monsieur Baptiste clasped his hands together in prayer. “Please, spend some time looking through the record. Anything you want, I will try and help. Anything.”

  I looked hard at Laurent. “I want to know about this man Truffaut. I want to know what it is you are hiding from me.”

  Laurent pursed his lips and drew in breath. “Very well. Monsieur Baptiste. Tell her.”

  Charles Baptiste threw up his hands. “Oh… but this man Robert Truffaut, he was a businessman. There is nothing to tell.”

  “But she had an affair with him? She was going to marry him?”

  “She was?” asked Laurent.

  “Yes… it’s in her diary.”

  “You’ve found her diary?”

  “Yes, and letters. Letters he wrote her. I haven’t read them all yet but I gather he didn’t want her to continue singing and there was something about another woman.”

  “Another woman?” asked Laurent. “What was her name?”

  “Ah… I’m not sure… Marianne something, I think.”

  “Marianne Cloutel?” asked Laurent, forcefully.

  “Yes, yes that was it. I haven’t read everything I found, but I’m sure when I do I will get to the bottom of it. How do you know her name?”

  Laurent scowled at me.

  “What is it? What?” I stared at him and then at Monsieur Baptiste. He threw up his hands as if to say ‘don’t ask me’.

  “Laurent, what is going on?”

  Laurent walked over to the window and stared out. I shuffled the papers on the table. I would need more time to read them. I turned to Monsieur Baptiste.

  “I will need a couple of hours to look through everything here. Perhaps tomorrow?”

  Laurent interrupted me. “Robert Truffaut was linked with an actress by the name of Marianne Cloutel. She disappeared on the Riviera in 1906 and was never seen again. It was in the archive here because of his link with Berthe. I asked Monsieur Baptiste to withhold the information because…”

  “What?” I shouted, angrily. “Because what? You were trying to protect me? From finding out something bad about Berthe? From finding out she was involved in something unpleasant? What?”

  “Truffaut was born in Marseille.”

  I shrugged. I did not know what Laurent was getting at.

  “Oh Sophie,” he sighed. “You claim to have French ancestors but you do not know anything about us. You especially do not know anything about Marseille.”

  “So tell me,” I replied, and folded my arms. I did not appreciate begin spoken to like a child. Monsieur Baptiste backed off. He was trying to slip away.

  “Marseille has always had a reputation for crime. Truffaut was part of an organisation that took advantage of cheap labour and foreign workers… mostly Italians. Always, he maintained a veneer of respectability.”

  “That’s it? He was a businessman who took advantage of poor people? That’s all you’ve got on him.” I was felt exasperated.

  “No, there is more. He handled stolen goods, ran an extortion racket, and trafficked women, most of whom went to various establishments throughout Marseille as prostitutes.”

  Laurent drew up a chair and sat down next to me. He stared into my eyes and I saw a great sadness come over him.

  “Sophie, you must be careful. You must finish what you have to do in the apartment and go home.” He took my hand and kissed it, lightly. “I would not want anything bad to happen to you.”

  I pulled my hand away.

  “I don’t understand,” I said. “It was all a long time ago.”

  “This is true, but my dear… Truffaut is still alive and he has a long memory and some say fingers in many puddings.”

  “Pies. You mean fingers in many pies,” I sulked.

  “Yes, pies.” replied Laurent. “He is not a good man.”

  “But if he can tell me about Berthe? If he can help me understand her? Then I have to talk to him. Where does he live?”

  “I…” Laurent hesitated.

  “Oh don’t tell me you don’t know. Of course you do. This changes everything. What about this girl Marianne? Who was she? Did she end up in a brothel? Is that what you think? Is that why you won’t tell me? You think I need to be protected against women like that?”

  “Ah… you test my patience,” said Laurent. “It is not a matter of…” He shook his head.

  “Well?” I was not going to let him get away with it that easily. He sighed.

  “She was a small time actress much feted in her home town of Aix en Provence. She and Truffaut had a brief affair. Her family, her friends… she gave up everyone for Truffaut. The local newspaper ran her story for two weeks. Berthe’s name was mentioned and the Paris journalists picked up on it. Truffaut was questioned by the police, but there was no evidence of foul play. To this day Marianne Cloutel has not been found.”

  “And Truffaut? You say he is still alive? Where is he now?” I frowned at Laurent. I was determined to have the information.

  “He is a very old man. Very old.”

  “So?”

  “So he lives in a private care home.” Laurent sighed. “I can arrange for you
to visit him. But there is no point. He will not tell you anything.”

  “You’re still trying to put me off.” I said, angrily. “Make the call. Arrange the visit. You can come with me if you are concerned. But I will see him. Especially now.” I stood up. The diminutive archivist had disappeared. “Please thank Monsieur Baptiste on my behalf. Tell him I will return tomorrow to look through the papers. In the meantime, I have another appointment.”

  I turned on my heels.

  “Sophie… wait,” Laurent called out. I paused and half turned. He said: “I do not wish to anger you. I have been stupid. I should have realised you are a modern woman. You do not need a man’s protection. I was simply trying to…” He looked crestfallen.

  I considered. “Call me at the hotel later. I have to visit someone… and you need not worry. I can take care of myself.”

  Chapter 10 – Present Day

  “I’m going to make a cup of coffee. Do you want one?” I ask Eva, easing myself up off the sofa.

  “Sure, why not?” she says. She stretches her long limbs and frowns. “Why haven’t you told my any of this before?”

  “I didn’t know how to,” I say. “I was scared, I guess.”

  The kitchen is small, but is as clean as a new pin and has everything we could possibly need. I fill the kettle with water and find two mugs on the rack.

  “It will have to be instant,” I shout, as I open the cupboard. Eva does not reply, but when I turn round, she is standing next to me.

  I jump. “Oh you startled me,” I say, hand on my chest.

  Eva pouts. “It sounds a bit implausible Mom. I mean, you see a ghost and you go chasing after some French crook… and this is not how you said you met Dad.”

  “You have not heard the rest of it. You don’t know.”

  “Uhuh,” Eva says, picking up a mug and heading back into the living room. I spoon coffee into the mugs and pour the hot water over the granules. I find myself slightly annoyed. I do not like feeling like this.

  “You want milk with that?” I call out.

  “No. I’m good,” she says.

  I follow after her, my hands cupping the mug for warmth. These days, I have bad circulation.

  “If you want we can leave it for tonight,” she says.

  “There’s not much more.” I say. “Besides, I have something for you.”

  I go upstairs. When I come back down I carry a small box with me. I set it on the table.

  Eva eyes me cautiously. Sometimes there is friction between us – Mom and daughter stuff. I do not want to aggravate her, buy this is important.

  “What’s that?” she says.

  “It’s for you. It’s something I’ve kept from that time. But you cannot open it until I have finished.”

  The box is tied with long-faded pink ribbon.

  “It’s the letters isn’t it?”

  I nod. Eva sips her coffee. I am pleased she has forsaken whiskey for caffeine.

  “I find it harder and harder to fall asleep at night,” I say, and give a little laugh. “It is easier to nod off during the day. Usually after lunch.”

  “Why are you drinking coffee then?”

  I think she is humouring me.

  “I need to stay awake. This is important.” I put my mug down next to the box. “You do believe me, don’t you? I might have been ill, but I’m not senile.”

  “The thought never crossed my mind,” says Eva. “You do have an active imagination though Mom. All those stories when I was a kid, about fairies in the garden and princesses.”

  “Well I seem to remember you liked them at the time. And look at you now. There can’t be anything much more unrealistic than some of those operatic stories. Everyone is always falling in love with a relative and killing themselves.”

  Eva does not reply. I have annoyed her. It is high time she realised that her career is based on complete fantasy.

  “What I’m telling you is true,” I say. “I’m not making any of it up. This is the proof.”

  “Okay,” Eva says.

  I pat her leg. “You’re a good girl.”

  “Hmm.”

  Chapter 11 - 1957

  It was raining again so I took a taxi to Jacques Le Brun’s house. I was angry, but in many ways that was a good thing. I had always found that anger was a fuel for action. Laurent was a fool if he thought that his story about Truffaut and his crooked dealings were going to scare me off. I wanted to know what had happened between Berthe and the crook from Marseille. I wanted to know why she had gone to London.

  I knocked on Jacques’ door and pulled my collar up, tapping my feet nervously on the flag-stone step. I glanced round to see if I had been followed. Rain had just started to dampen the sidewalk again and a woman pushing a pram hurried by, her head tucked down. I looked up at the first floor windows and then back out into the street. It beggared belief as to how a woman such as Berthe could be lured into a world of crime, but then, perhaps she had not known how Truffaut made his money. The man must have had some redeeming characteristics. Or perhaps it was that as a young widow she was vulnerable and needed a strong man to care for her. Something though, told me this was not the case. She must have loved her first husband to have married him in the first place. So what was she doing falling for man like Truffaut when she would have barely been out of her widow’s weeds? Or were things different for performers of her ilk?

  The door opened slowly and Jacques peeped out. He looked sallow and had dark rings around his eyes.

  “Jacques? Are you okay?” I said.

  “Ah,” he groaned. “I have been better. Come, come in.” He ushered me down the hallway and we took up residence in his parlour, as we had on the previous day.

  “You have the photographs,” he said, coughing into a less-than-clean handkerchief.

  “Yes, but what about you? Do you need a doctor?” Seeing him like this made me realise how frail he must be.

  “Non. Je serai bien.” Jacques fingered the arm of his chair, where the fabric had thinned and the horse-hair stuffing showed through spikey and brown. “It is simply that I did not sleep. I was worried about you… about your fantôme. You must tell me all if I am to help you.”

  I did not know where to start. I took out the packet of photographs and handed them to him.

  “You’ll find photos of the apartment in there. The three at the back… they are of the picture I told you about. The thing is…” Jacques sorted through the photographs as I talked. He grunted over a couple of shots of the drawing room and briefly inspected a close up of a large Oriental vase. He found the last three photographs in the packet and spread them out on his lap.

  “But it is damaged, n’est pas?”

  “It was untouched when I took the photograph.” I hoped he would believe me.

  Jacques looked mystified. “It is a good painting probably by Paul Helleu, but it is hard to tell, it is so damaged.”

  “Helleu? But Berthe wrote about him in her diary,” I replied.

  “You never told me you found a diary.”

  “I only came across it this morning.”

  “And you have not brought it with you?” said Jacques, petulantly.

  “No. I couldn’t. Something happened.”

  Jacques cocked his head. “What? It is your ghost?”

  “She was…” I hesitated. I did not think I was meant to share Berthe’s pain with anyone, but this was Jacques. He was like family to me. I had to confide in someone. Laurent had already made his position clear. He did not believe in ghosts.

  “Please Sophie. I must know. It is very important,” insisted Jacques. “You want my help? You must trust me.”

  “I have heard singing… others have heard singing… in the apartment… in the building, but I think I am the only person to have seen her… and not just there, but in a restaurant, and on the street and outside here.”

  “Here? Why here?” Jacques pressed. “There can be nothing for her here. Oh… but perhaps the cylinder, no? Perhaps she wa
nts it back.”

  “It cannot be. I saw her here before I gave you the cylinder. I cannot believe she followed me. Oh…” Was she haunting me, and not the apartment? Jacques nodded, as if he had thought the same thing.

  “What else?” He looked at me from beneath eyebrows that met in the middle of his forehead.

  “There was another woman with her. A small woman. I think it was her maid. She talks about her in the diary. Her name was Racine. They were in the bedroom. They saw me… they heard me…”

  “No… it is not likely.” Jacques waved the idea away.

  “But they turned to me. I bumped the wall and they turned… and now I’m afraid to go back there.”

  “But you must if this is to be resolved. You must find out what it is she wants.”

  “She wants to live. She keeps on showing me. There’s the cylinder, and the sheet music on the piano and… and the note.”

  “Note? What does this mean?” asked Jacques

  “It was wrapped around the key to the apartment. It said…I will keep you in my heart like a treasure… and that is a line from Je Veux Vivre – I want to live.”

  “But she cannot. Elle est morte.”

  “Yes. Yes, I know. So what do I do? What does it mean?”

  Jacques shrugged, as if the answer was obvious. “You finish what you came to do. What she wanted you to do.”

  “But I don’t know…” I was confused and frustrated. I knew I had to go back to the apartment, but I was putting it off.

  “Tomorrow Cherie is another day. You will feel differently in the morning.” He waved one of the photographs of the painting at me. “This… this is most unusual. If it is true that it was undamaged when you photographed it, but now it is destroyed… then something very strange is happening in that apartment. You must go back. You cannot let this frighten you. She cannot harm you. It is only your own fear that is dangerous. I think you will have your answer before long.” He smiled, kindly.

  *

  Laurent was sitting in an armchair in the foyer of the hotel, waiting for me to return. I tried to walk straight past him, but he dogged my progress to the elevator. Impatiently, I pushed the call button.