The Restoration Artist

by Lewis Desoto

  Linda interrupted. “You have cared for Tobias as if he were your own son. That is more important than anything else.”

  The priest, who was frowning deeply, said, “It has been seven years since the accident. How can any damage be repaired now?”

  “I don’t want to get anyone’s hopes up, least of all Tobias’s, if we put this to him, but Dr. Dault is willing to examine him and make a diagnosis. And if it’s possible, he’ll perform the necessary surgery.”

  “This is a risky idea, Leo. We are talking about a boy who has barely left this island. What do you think, Étienne? You are his legal guardian.”

  The old man sighed and raised his hands in a helpless gesture. “What of the cost?”

  “I’ll pay all the costs,” I said quickly. “And I have an apartment where we can all stay.”

  “I don’t know about these things. You will have to explain this to the boy, Père.”

  Turning to Linda and Victor, I said, “You have no immediate stake in the matter, but you also know Tobias. What is your opinion?”

  “Unless you try,” said Linda, “you will never know.”

  “How can this be explained to him?” Père Caron asked. “If the doctor can’t help him it would be horribly cruel.”

  “Well, is he better off as he is?” I said. “What kind of life will he have as he grows older? He will face an isolation far greater than he knows now.”

  The priest sighed. “It’s a big responsibility to take on.”

  “Who will take it on if not us?” I said.

  “Of course we must try, whatever the difficulties. It is the right thing to do. It might work. God willing.”

  “You have to be the one to put forward the suggestion, Père,” I said urgently, leaning forward.

  “Of course. And I will come to Paris with you.”

  “Good,” I said, nodding, something like hope stirring in me. “I really feel that this is something I can do for him.”

  “God willing,” Père Caron repeated. He crossed himself, the first time I had seen him do this outside of the church. Then he leaned forward and touched my hand.

  “I know what this means to you, Leo. But please, do this for the right reasons. Do this for Tobias.”

  CHAPTER 29

  “WELL, YOUR SON IS IN GOOD SHAPE. AREN’T YOU, young man? Except for that little problem in your throat. But we will soon fix that.”

  I wondered if I should correct the doctor’s slip of the tongue. I glanced at Lorca. She gave me a little smile in response. I let the doctor’s assumption pass without comment.

  We were in an office on the third floor of L’hôpital de la Salpêtrière in Paris, with the throat specialist Dr. Dault. When I first consulted him, I hadn’t actually said that Tobias was my son, but neither had I said he wasn’t. It didn’t matter now, though, since I had a notarized letter from Étienne giving me permission to make any decisions.

  “Have a seat on the couch, Tobias,” the doctor said, dropping the wooden tongue depressor into a trashcan and lifting Tobias down from the examining table. He took a jar of lollipops from his desk and offered it to the boy, then to Lorca and me. We both declined. He unwrapped one for himself and tucked it in his cheek.

  Tobias installed himself on the long leather couch with the copy of Les Aventures de Tintin: Les Bijoux de la Castafiore that I had bought for him at the railway station in Saint-Alban. He was wearing a pair of new khaki jeans with zippered pockets and a striped shirt with long sleeves. His hair was newly cut. Looking at him, I reflected that he seemed no different from any of the other boys we’d seen on the streets since we arrived.

  When I first proposed bringing Tobias to Paris, I had expected Père Caron would accompany us. The priest had explained everything to the boy, and then I had done my best to lay out an idea of what a visit to the doctor would entail, of the possibility of an operation. I had stopped short of telling Tobias that he might or might not regain his speech. Père Caron remained somewhat doubtful about how much Tobias understood. Knowing that the boy had an affection for Lorca, he had discussed my plan with her. To his surprise, and mine, she had offered to accompany us. He needs a woman with him, she’d said.

  Étienne had not come with us. He was too old, he said, and it was too far, and he had too much work to do. I didn’t argue. A further surprise came when Père Caron announced that he would travel no farther than Saint-Alban. His presence was superfluous, he said. Tobias was quite comfortable with Lorca and me, and the journey was too tiring for an old man. It was also a needless expense. I was unsure of the priest’s motives, whether he was just trying for the easiest way, or whether he was contriving to place the three of us in an intimate situation. But either way I was touched that he, and Étienne too, trusted me with the boy.

  Watching Tobias now, as he sat with his legs swinging and his head bent over the Tintin book, the lollipop shifting noisily from one cheek to the other, I felt a pang of sympathy for him. He’d been very brave so far, even though he’d looked unsure when the train pulled out of the Saint-Alban station and the waving Père Caron disappeared from sight. But then he settled himself on the leather seat, looking up at me with eyes that showed the trust and the affection I now valued so much. Soon he was pressed against the window again, watching everything with wide-eyed interest.

  Lorca and I hadn’t talked much during the journey. For most of the trip she busied herself with her music manuscript, reading it over, sometimes tapping out a rhythm with her pencil or making corrections to a line. I looked at her often, trying not to be too obvious about it, trying to absorb everything I had learned about her in the past week, wondering whether things had changed between us since our encounter during the storm. In all the excitement of preparing for the trip to Paris, she and I had not had an opportunity to talk properly. And now, the time was not right. I turned my attention back to Tobias.

  When we arrived at Gare Saint-Lazare, we were too late to stop off at my apartment, so we took a taxi directly to the hospital. Once we’d been let off at the gates, we walked up to the imposing building. Only then did Tobias’s footsteps slow and his hand clutch my arm. Noticing, Lorca kneeled down and explained that both she and I would be with him the whole time. After that, he’d seemed more curious than anything else, and the doctor had soon set him at ease.

  Now, Dr. Dault placed his lollipop in an ashtray on the desk and glanced over at Tobias before addressing me. “Tobias’s condition is what we refer to as ‘aphonia.’ It literally means ‘no voice.’ The situation, to put it simply, is that some nodes have formed over Tobias’s vocal cords. It’s uncommon in children. I usually see it in people who sing for a living. These nodes, which are a kind of growth on the vocal folds, prevent a proper adjustment to the airflow, making normal speech difficult, and sometimes impossible. Obviously, it is as a result of that first trauma to his throat.”

  “Can you do anything about it?” asked Lorca.

  “It’s a safe and relatively minor surgery. I’ve done a number of them.” He paused. “Whether your boy will talk afterwards or not is another question. However, I don’t see why he should not be able to learn. He is young, his body is still growing and changing, and he is intelligent. I know of a speech therapist in Rennes who can help you with that. However, all I can say with any confidence is that from a physical point of view, after the operation the boy will have the means to speak. If he is prevented from doing so by any psychological damage from the accident, then that is out of my sphere.”

  “Will he have to stay in hospital for long?” Lorca said.

  “We can do it late this afternoon. I reserved a surgery room when you telephoned yesterday, Monsieur Millar. He will stay overnight, of course, so that we can keep him under observation. There will be an incision in his throat, which will take a while to heal, and his meals will be liquid in the first few days. As with any medical procedure, some time and patience will be needed during the healing process, but his doctor in Saint-Alban should be able to handl
e that as well as taking out the stitches.”

  I glanced across at Tobias, then at Lorca. “Well then, I think we should go ahead.”

  I had brought the consent forms, signed by Étienne, and I gave them to the doctor now. He read them through, raised an eyebrow at Lorca and me, then shrugged and signed the forms.

  “Tobias hasn’t eaten today, has he?” he asked.

  “Only water since last night,” I replied. “As you instructed.”

  The doctor consulted his watch. “I will see you later this afternoon, eh, Tobias?” The boy looked up and nodded.

  Once all the forms had been filled in and a blood sample taken, we walked through the hospital grounds to the street. I took Tobias’s hand. Being on these familiar streets, I couldn’t help thinking of Piero. The Jardin des Plantes where we had spent many hours kicking a football around was nearby. Yet the memory didn’t bring on the usual pang of regret and loss.

  As we passed a news kiosk, I set down the suitcase I’d bought for Tobias. The newspaper headlines on the racks outside the kiosk were all about President de Gaulle’s meeting with the Soviet premier, Alexei Kosygin, and his anti-American speech in Cambodia earlier.

  “What about going to a movie,” I said, pointing at the big poster showing the comedians de Funès and Bouvril dressed up in German army uniforms. “La Grande Vadrouille. It looks like fun. What about it, Tobias? Would you like to go the cinema?” I knew that he had been to the movies in Saint-Alban a couple of times with Victor and Linda.

  The boy nodded, pointing at de Funès and making a comical grimace.

  “But not that one,” Lorca objected, shivering. “I don’t want to see anything about the war, not even a comedy.”

  I was reminded of what Jeanette had told me about Lorca’s background. Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out a couple of centimes and bought a copy of Pariscope, the weekly magazine that listed all of Paris’s entertainments.

  “Here’s another de Funès film, Le Gendarme de Saint-Tropez.”

  So we passed the next two hours sitting in the darkness, watching the antics of de Funès as he cut a swath of confusion and chaos through the resort town. Glancing across at them, I saw Lorca smiling broadly and the boy’s body shaking in silent laughter. Soon I forgot what lay ahead of us and began to enjoy the movie myself.

  By the time we made our way back to the hospital after the film, Tobias seemed tired and a little withdrawn. He did not let go of my hand in the elevator on the way up.

  In the hospital room, once the nurse had helped him into a gown and he climbed into bed, his Tintin book clutched in his hands, I sat down next to him and said, “Are you afraid?” He shook his head, but his eyes betrayed his nervousness. “You will fall asleep soon and Dr. Dault will look into your throat while you’re sleeping.”

  Lorca sat on the other side of the bed and stroked his hair. “We will be here when you wake up,” she reassured him.

  He looked so helpless and alone and out of place. This wasn’t his world; he seemed to belong in the woods of the island. Yet I knew that he could not remain in that paradise forever. I reminded myself that Tobias was just a little boy afflicted with a handicap, who, for all his apparent freedom, was living a deprived and isolated existence. It was my duty to help him, to give him a chance in the world, and to do so without harbouring any illusions about what that could mean for me. Père Caron’s words came back to me: Do this for Tobias.

  “When you wake up your throat will hurt a bit, but you can eat all the ice cream that you want,” I said.

  Tobias nodded vigorously.

  Soon enough, the nurse came back. Tobias was given an injection, and in a moment his eyelids drooped, fluttered and he drifted off into unconsciousness. I gently eased the book from his fingers and placed it on the night table. We walked next to the gurney as he was transported to the operating theatre. Looking down at the slight frown that crinkled his smooth brow, I smoothed my thumb over the furrow, wanting to erase it, and felt a twitching response in the hand that I was grasping. I was afraid now, for this little boy, for all that might or might not happen. At the operating theatre, the nurse held up her hand, telling us that we could not enter. Then the door closed behind her and Tobias.

  We took the stairs down one floor and sat in the waiting room. Lorca seemed strangely preoccupied. Time passed. I paced the floor. My mind was blank. Lorca went outside and smoked a cigarette, then came back and reclaimed her seat. It seemed like we had been sitting in silence for hours when, at last, Dr. Dault appeared.

  “Success,” he said. Seeing the hope on my face, he added, “As far as removing the scar tissue, that is.”

  “How is he?” I asked anxiously.

  He told us that Tobias would fully recover from the anesthetic in a couple of hours and we should return then. I wanted to remain in the waiting room, but Lorca urged me to come outside. We strolled along the tree-lined walkway leading to the boulevard de l’Hôpital.

  “He will be all right,” Lorca said. “Don’t worry. Why don’t we go to a café and have some lunch?”

  “I’d prefer to wait here at the hospital.”

  She looked at her watch. We stood awkwardly. Having acted in the role of parents, we now found ourselves unsure of the next step. We had not really talked about what would happen in Paris, other than in regards to Tobias. Of course I knew that she had a life here, but she hadn’t brought it up. And neither had I. I wanted to pretend it didn’t exist.

  Nevertheless, I said, “If there’s anything you need to do, since we’re here, I mean anyone you need to go and see …”

  “Well, there are some errands I want to take care of.” She looked at her watch again. “But I’ll be back before Tobias wakes up.”

  We kissed. Once on each cheek, like old friends. She moved away first.

  “Will you be all right? What will you do?”

  “I’ll buy some newspapers,” I said. “And I’ll see if I can telephone the harbourmaster in Saint-Alban and ask him to relay a message to the hotel so that they can give Père Caron the news.”

  “Yes, he’ll be anxious.”

  We agreed on a time to meet again. She hesitated, then touched me on the arm and said, “See you soon.”

  Watching her make her way to the boulevard, I wondered what her errands were. I wondered if she would let Daubigny know she was in Paris. And what would happen tonight? Would she go home? I wanted her to come with me to the apartment on rue du Figuier. But would she want to spend the night in another woman’s apartment? Would she find the notion macabre?

  I walked down the boulevard to Place Valhubert, where I waited for a break in the traffic before crossing onto Pont d’Austerlitz. Looking down the river towards Île Saint-Louis and the familiar shape of Notre-Dame, I thought how odd it was to be back in Paris under the present circumstances, half in and half out of my old life.

  Below the parapet of the bridge the river flowed swiftly, echoing my restless thoughts. I looked in the direction of the hospital beyond Gare d’Austerlitz. A child slept there. That was why I was here. I could help him, I could share some of my talents with him. But could I ever fill the gap in my life? Was it fair to even want that?

  On the river below, a long narrow river barge passed beneath the bridge. I glimpsed a woman sitting in the cabin at the far end. She was knitting. A small terrier appeared and went bounding across the deck. A man sat down next to the woman and put his hand on her shoulder in a familiar manner. She looked up from her knitting and smiled at him with a tenderness that opened her face. For a moment I wished I could be that man, could have someone look at me with that familiar look, and know that I was loved.

  I remembered how the doctor had initially mistaken the three of us for a family. It had happened on the train too, when we were finding seats and there were only two adjacent, and a man sitting across said, “I can move so that you can sit with your wife and son.” Lorca and I had exchanged glances. I had enjoyed the pretense.

  After finding a
post office and sending a telegram to the harbourmaster in Saint-Alban, which he would relay to Père Caron and Étienne at the hotel, I sat at a café and read the newspapers and drank two cups of coffee. Then I walked through Jardin des Plantes and watched some boys playing football on the grass. As I made my way back towards the hospital, I looked up to the sky and mouthed a prayer to a God I had not appealed to since those long-ago days in the chapel at the Guild. “Please God, give him a chance.”

  It was late in the afternoon now and lights were coming on in windows as the flow of pedestrians increased on the streets, people returning home from work, walking with brisk eager steps, going back to their apartments to meet children and loved ones, or looking forward to a drink with friends in a familiar café. I walked around the gardens and then sat outside the entrance on Square Marie Curie. A glance at my watch told me that Lorca was late. Would she even come back? I wondered. Maybe she had had a change of mind about the whole enterprise. I waited ten more minutes. There was still no sign of her.

  I didn’t linger, but went on into the hospital. In the waiting room I checked in with the receptionist. Just at that moment Lorca came dashing in through the double doors. She was out of breath and flushed as she hurried over to me. I took her in my arms and kissed her, almost fiercely, so that she stepped back and looked at me with alarm.

  “Is everything all right?” she asked. “What’s happened?”

  “Everything is fine. I was just on my way up. I thought you weren’t coming.”

  “Sorry.” She made an apologetic face, shifting her heavy shoulder bag. “There were stoppages on the Métro.”

  Dr. Dault was waiting for us in his office on the third floor. “Can I see Tobias?” I asked. “Is he awake?”

  “He was briefly, but he is very groggy from the anesthetic.”

  “I want to see him.”

  “Of course. I understand. He’s still in the recovery room down the corridor.”