Eventually, I said: “I spoke with my father this morning.”
“That is good,” was all Laurent said. Perhaps he had decided that discretion was the better part of valour as far as I was concerned.
“I guess,” I replied. I had always thought I was close to my father; that we could talk. Now it seemed like he had shut me out from the truth my entire life. I was not sure what to make of it. The car crested the brow of a low hill and a small town came into view in the valley below us.
“He wants to come to Paris. I think I’ve managed to put him off, but I have to call him later.”
“Aha.”
“I read the rest of the diary, and all of the letters,” I said.
“You did?”
“She was in love with Truffaut like no other. She would have done anything for him. She brought him to Paris and introduced him to everyone who was anyone. I have no doubt he cashed in on her fame. She lavished gifts on him; bought him a car. Can you imagine, in those days, a car! Barely anyone had a car. She even allowed him free reign over her career. Her manager wrote complaining she should not allow Truffaut to dictate what she sang and where, but you know, she just told him that Truffaut was the best thing that had ever happened to her and that he should go find some other poor canary to bother.” I sighed. The things you do when you are in love.
“It is interesting,” said Laurent. “Go on. What else?”
“Truffaut proposed and Berthe accepted. Everything seemed to be going well between them. She started to plan the wedding – had a dress fitting. She and her maid Racine talked about it at length. Did I tell you that Racine was the wife of the building manager Michel Pascal?”
Laurent shook his head. “Non.”
“Well she was, and she did not approve of Truffaut. It seems her intuition was right because in the winter of 1906, he was in Marseille and he picked up a new girlfriend.”
“Marianne Cloutel?”
“The same. They came to Paris just after Christmas. By this time Berthe was pregnant with his child.”
Laurent cocked his head. “Pregnant?”
“Yes, and guess what?”
Laurent twisted in his seat, and stared at me.
“Pour quoi?”
“That child?” I glanced at the driver. Did it matter if he knew? Probably not. He had listened to everything else I had said.
“Yes?”
“It was my father.”
Laurent frowned. He did not understand. I looked out of the window. A line of trees graced the horizon.
“You don’t believe what I have told you about ghosts,” I said. “But yesterday I saw them – Berthe and Racine. I now know it was that she was giving birth to my father, but yesterday I thought she must have done something, or had a miscarriage. There was so much blood and she had a bottle of pills and…”
“Wait. Blood?” Laurent grabbed my arm. “You are saying you saw an apparition of this? And your father is Berthe’s child? But it is…”
“Crazy. Yes. I know. I read the diary and the letters last night and then I talked to my father. It all makes sense. Berthe was a career woman. She had a reputation. She couldn’t just go having a baby with no husband in the picture and Truffaut was not about to marry her. She left for London and gave the child to her brother, my grandfather. Only now… now I suppose he’s my great-uncle and she’s my grandmother.”
“And you are sure that the father is Truffaut? It could not be any other?”
I stared deep into his brown eyes. For a moment, a world of possibilities opened up. I felt at ease this man, despite that I was angry with him much of the time. I knew it was because I was attracted to him and had to guard myself somehow for fear my soon to be ex-husband Simon would use it against me. I shifted in my seat. Laurent relinquished his grip on my arm, and the spell was broken.
“There is no mention of anyone else.” I said. “I have to assume it was him. Besides, my father did not reject the idea. I think he already knew.”
Laurent nodded. “So see Truffaut and find out what he has to tell. It will be instructive. I am told he does not usually have visitors, but now it makes sense that he would grant you an audience.”
“He must have known about my father all along. Well, it’s a little late in the day to make amends now.”
The car entered the town and wound down through the narrow streets, turned right and continued for half a mile or so past a line of trees and a hedgerow bare of leaves. We came upon a pair of wrought iron gates set back from the road. Here, the driver left the car to idle while he opened the gates. Laurent brushed my cheek with the back of his hand.
“You are very beautiful,” he said.
I blushed. The driver got in the car and saved me from having to say anything. I bit my lip and turned away. I could feel Laurent’s eyes on me. I wondered how much longer I was going to resist his attentions.
The car drew up outside the house. A woman dressed in a very smart black suit was waiting for us. She offered her hand, first to Laurent and then to me, introducing herself as Madame Hillarie.
In a low voice she said: “Monsieur Truffaut is waiting in the conservatory. He has not been well. I would ask you to be brief. His bodyguard, Albert will show you the way.” She stood aside to let us pass.
The hall was spacious with parquet floor and sweeping staircase. There was a faint odour of wood polish mingled with disinfectant. Double doors at the end led through to a salon. The silence was all-pervasive and I dare not break it by speaking. A door off to the right opened and I heard footsteps. A monster of a man in an ill-fitting suit inclined his head towards us. I assumed this was Albert.
“Suivez-moi,” he rumbled. We followed him through the salon and out into the conservatory beyond. A profusion of plants greeted us and there, in an ancient cane bath chair, sat a wizened old man. He had a knitted blanket over his lap and a cushion propping him up.
Truffaut’s skin was like parchment pulled taught across his cheekbones but falling to wrinkled jowls. He was dressed in a satin smoking jacket with cravat neatly tied under his heavy chin. A few silver hairs remained on his white pate and liver spots dotted his forehead. His eyes were closed and he made no indication that he had heard us enter. I thought perhaps he was deaf and I glanced at Albert. He pursed his lips and shrugged.
“Cinq minutes.”
“What shall I say?” I whispered to Laurent.
“I thought you had it all worked out,” he replied. “You wanted to hear his story. Ask him.”
I stepped forward. “Monsieur,” I began. “My name is Sophie Chalgrin.” I thought it would be easier for him to understand who I was if I used my maiden name. “I am Berthe’s great-niece.” Only that wasn’t true now. How to go on.
“Berthe died recently.” I waited to see if my words had made any impression. Apparently not. I continued.
“I have inherited her apartment, or at least, my grandfather has.” None of this was right. This man was my grandfather. “I… I understand you were close to Berthe?”
Truffaut’s eyes remained firmly closed, but his lips twitched slightly. I continued.
“This is very difficult for me. I was originally going to ask you if you could tell me anything about Berthe. I never met her you see, but now… now I’ve found something out and I don’t know what to say, except that whilst going through her belongings I came across a diary and some letters you had written to her.” I glanced at Laurent and then back at the old man. “You know of course that she had your child?” I waited for a reply. None came.
“This is pointless,” I said to Laurent. “He’s asleep.”
I walked away. Albert stood impassively, in the doorway. I would it one more try.
“Monsieur Truffaut. The child survived. He is my father.” I stared at Truffaut. Still nothing.
“Okay, I’m done,” I said, holding up my hands in frustration.
Albert opened the door and we turned to make our exit.
“She did not leave.” Tr
uffaut croaked.
I spun round. Albert grabbed me by the arm to prevent me from rushing Truffaut.
“What did you say? She did not leave?” I tried to shake the bodyguard off, but failed.
Truffaut’s steel grey eyes were on me. He lifted a crooked index finger. Albert nodded and tugged me sharply towards the door.
“No.” I said. “No, I have to ask him what he means. I have to know.”
Laurent exchanged glances with Albert and said: “It is best we leave now.”
“No, he said she did not leave. What does he mean? She did not leave?” I threw a last glance in Truffaut’s direction. His eyes were closed again and there was nothing about him to say it had been any other way. Reluctantly, I allowed myself to be led back through the salon to the hall. Madame Hillarie appeared, as if from nowhere.
“I trust you did not tire him?” she said.
I scowled at her.
“Non Madame,” replied Laurent. “Il dormait quand nous sommes entrés. Nous n'avons pas le déranger.”
“We did not bother him? He needs to answer questions. I have to know what happened,” I said, angrily.
Madame Hillarie held her hands up. “Please, you cannot shout in here. Outside. Go. Now.”
Laurent guided me from the house back to our waiting car. He opened to door for me. I was not happy. I sat like a petulant schoolgirl all the way back to Paris, my arms crossed, my eyebrows knitted, trying to work out what it was Truffaut had meant by the tantalising bombshell he had dropped: she did not leave. Wisely, Laurent did not say anything until we reached the outskirts of the city and then he gently touched my elbow.
“Where would you like to be taken?” he asked. “Back to the hotel?”
I shook my head. I did not know. I did not understand any of it. We came to a crossroads and a car drew up beside ours. I glanced over at the man driving it. His wife, or at least, I assumed she was his wife, sat in the passenger seat. In the rear two little girls dressed in red coats, their hair tucked neatly beneath matching hats, sat quietly; a perfect family. Why could I not have that? Why did I not have any children? Why did I have a marriage on the rocks and a fear of emotional intimacy? And why was I blessed with an inheritance that was not yet mine and ghosts that no one but me could see? Should I be checking out an asylum? Was I going mad?
I sighed. “Take me to the apartment. I want to visit one last time.”
“So be it,” replied Laurent. He certainly had a way about him. I sank back into the seat and closed my eyes. It was no good I had to end my marriage to Simon. I could not move on until I did. Certainly, I could not keep Laurent on a thread forever… and somehow, some way I had to sort out the mess that Berthe had left me.
Chapter 13
One last visit, I told myself, and then I would go home and allow Jacques Le Brun to sell everything of value. Provided that was, that grandfather agreed, and the paperwork was in order. The confusion about my father’s birth would delay matters somewhat, but I felt sure that Laurent would find a way to resolve things to our satisfaction. Briefly, I considered calling my father, but finding a telephone that could handle the transatlantic connection would be difficult. It would have to wait. He would have to wait. I just hoped he had not gotten a flight to Paris. I hoped he was not waiting for me at the hotel.
Laurent’s driver delivered us to the Rue Tronson Du Coudray. This time the car sped off, leaving us outside the front door. I gave Laurent a quizzical look.
“If you do not mind. I would like see the apartment for myself?” He said. “And then perhaps we can get a bite to eat?”
“Of course.” I had not really wanted to be there alone. I knocked on the door and waited for Armand to open up. He seemed more annoyed than usual. Food stained his shirt and he was barefoot, his trousers dirty, his hair uncombed.
“I have something for you,” he muttered, and shuffled off.
“That is Armand Pascal.” I said. “His mother was Racine.”
“Oh,” mouthed Laurent.
“It is a long way up. I hope you are fit.”
Our footsteps echoed in the yawning stairway and I heard a door slam up above me. On the third floor landing Laurent leaned against the wall.
“You were not joking. Three floors are as much as anyone wants to climb.” He smiled, nervously. I could tell he was still feeling his way with me, unsure of how I might react. I wanted to reassure him that all was well, but did not know how to do it without sounding disingenuous.
I put the key in the door and swung it open. I did not step inside.
“Here you are,” I said. I took a deep breath.
“Oh,” Laurent exclaimed, as he entered. I followed him and shut the door behind us. I was scared, but eager to cover it up.
“The layout is quite simple really. There is a kitchen here,” I indicated to the right, and through there is the drawing room.”
“And this door here?” he asked. I had forgotten about the door in the hall, next to the kitchen.
“I can’t open it. It’ll be a closet or something.”
Laurent wandered into the drawing room. I followed cautiously, not sure of what to expect. He made a comment about preservation, while I stood looking at the painting. It was ripped to shreds, just as I had photographed it. Laurent paid me little attention. He lifted lids, he fingered books, he blew dust off shelves and when he saw me glance at him, he smiled like a little boy caught doing something wrong.
“Would you like to see the rest of the apartment?” I asked him.
“Of course. Of course.” He stopped by the painting. “This is it? It was beautiful but sadly now destroyed.”
“Yes.” I knew it had been like this all along and I had simply seen what I had needed to see. “I don’t think it’s that the apartment is haunted, so much as I’m being haunted. Does that make sense?”
Laurent laughed. “Not really. But perhaps you are sensitive and have picked something up from these things.”
It was the first time he had indicated any belief in what I had told him. I pointed out the door in the corner of the room.
“Through there is the bedroom, bathroom and music room.”
“It is where you saw them yes?” he said, going through into the inner hall and thence into the bedroom. I jiggled anxiously by the hallway window. Blue sky was trying to break through a bank of clouds. The sunlight was thin.
“Yes,” I said. “Do you mind taking a look in the drawers?” I did not want to enter the bedroom again. “There may be other diaries, or photographs. Anything really that might give me more information.”
Laurent rotated slowly, taking everything in. He nodded and held his nose up, as if smelling something on the breeze. But of course, there was no breeze and nothing much to smell, save for dust.
“What are you doing,” I said to him, coming closer to the bedroom door.
“There is something. I felt it when I entered.” He indicated that he meant the apartment itself and not just this room.
“What do you mean, you felt something? I thought you did not believe in ghosts?”
“Oh no. I do not. Not in so much as they are spirits from another time.” He opened the drawer to the bedside table. “An address book I think.” He lifted it out. “And a bottle of pills. Laudanum.”
“What’s that?” I asked, coming fully inside. Whatever it was it had dried to red-brown stain.
“Opium. Everyone took it - for pain, for sleep.” Laurent placed the bottle back in the drawer.
“You think she used it when she went into labour?” I looked at the bed. There was no sign of the blood I had seen before. No sign of anything untoward.
“Probably, yes,” said Laurent. “You want to check for jewellery?”
I had not thought about that. I opened a gilt decorated box on the dressing table. It contained an ivory comb for holding hair up and a compact. A second box, this time with mirrored sides, held an assortment of rings, bracelets and a pearl choker. In the top drawer of the dressing
table I found evening gloves and a small locked leather-bound box.
“We will take the jewellery with us. Your man Jacques, he will arrange for people to come in, to take things to the auction house? So, there will other items besides these you do not wish them to have. At least not yet.”
I was unsure. I did not really want to take anything from the apartment for myself. Laurent noticed my reluctance.
“It is alright. I will take them into safekeeping. As soon as your grandfather agrees we will put them into a sale. Leave them on the bed for now. I will find a box we can use. Now the apartment has been opened people will start to talk. They will know it has many antiques. It might be burgled.”
He left me in the bedroom to go find an empty box. My hands were shaking. I dare not look behind me. I headed for the relative safety of the inner hall. I could hear Laurent rooting around in the music room. I brushed my hair out of my eyes and it was then that the singing came to me.
“Laurent? Can you hear that?” I called out.
“Mmm?” He muttered.
“Singing. There’s singing. Can you hear it?” I made for music room. Laurent was emptying a tea chest of books.
“She must have had second thoughts about taking her belongings to London,” he said.
“What?” I said, annoyed with him.
“Perhaps it was too expensive to pay the carriage,” he said. He noticed the fear on my face and came directly to me, taking my hands in his own.
“But you are shaking my dear. You must sit down.” He tried to lead me to the piano stool, but I resisted.
“No. No. I want you to listen. Can you hear that? Can you hear the singing? Everyone can hear the singing. Everyone. But they never see her. Only I see her. Only me.”
Laurent glanced around the room.
“Yes, there is singing. A beautiful voice. A neighbour perhaps?”
“No. No it’s not. It’s her. I know it is.”
“If you say, but we must find the small valuable items and pack them. Your grandfather would not want them to be pilfered, of that I am sure.”
The Remaining Voice Page 10
