Charlotte

by David Foenkinos

  The word library stopped me in my tracks.

  I am looking for one, which has haunted me as long as I remember.

  It is a childhood vision, an obsession.

  Is it a memory of a previous life?

  Something drew me to that name: Aby Warburg.

  So I read everything I could find about that strange character.

  Heir to a fortune, the firstborn, he bequeaths all his money to his brothers.

  On the sole condition that they will buy him any book he asks for.

  So Aby Warburg is able to create an unprecedented collection.

  He has his own theories on how books should be arranged.

  Most famously the “good neighbor” theory.

  The book we are looking for is not necessarily the one we should read.

  We should look at the one next to it.

  He walks among his books for hours, in ecstasy.

  On the edge of insanity, he also talks to butterflies.

  He will be institutionalized on numerous occasions.

  So he summons all the doctors.

  And attempts to prove to them that he is not crazy.

  If I prove it, you must set me free!

  After his death, in 1929, his work endures thanks to his disciples.

  Foremost among them is Ernst Cassirer.

  Sensing the coming danger, he decides to save the library.

  He transfers it to London in 1933 (books fleeing Nazism).

  It is still there now, in Woburn Square.

  I have often been to visit.

  In July 2004, I received a grant for a literary journey.

  The name of the grant is a Mission Stendhal.

  I had to go to Hamburg, to visit the house where Warburg was born.

  I wanted to write a book about him, of course.

  But I also wanted to bring my infatuation into contact with reality.

  Because I couldn’t stop thinking about him.

  His personality, his epoch, the story of the exiled library.

  I went, certain I would find illumination.

  But nothing happened.

  What exactly did I expect?

  I no longer even knew what I had gone to look for.

  Increasingly, I felt myself attracted to Germany.

  And obsessed by the language.

  I listened to lieder sung by Kathleen Ferrier.

  In several of my novels, my characters speak German.

  Certain heroines teach or translate that language.

  I navigated my way by this vague intuition.

  All the artists I loved were Germanic.

  Even the designers, which is saying something.

  Nothing interests me less than furniture.

  But I adored Bauhaus-era desks.

  I went to the Conran Shop just to look at them.

  I would open drawers the way others try on shoes.

  And there was Berlin: I was falling in love with Berlin.

  I would spend hours on the terrace of a café in Savignyplatz.

  Or leafing through art books in the area’s bookstores.

  Apparently my infatuation was fashionable.

  It’s true, everyone loves Berlin.

  I am surrounded by people who want to live there.

  But I didn’t feel fashionable.

  On the contrary, I was old and passé.

  And then I discovered Charlotte’s work.

  Purely by chance.

  I had no idea what I was going to see.

  I was eating lunch with a friend who worked in a museum.

  She told me: you have to see this exhibition.

  That’s all she said.

  Maybe she added: I think you’ll like it.

  But I’m not sure.

  There was nothing premeditated about it.

  She led me to the exhibition room.

  And it was instant.

  The feeling of having finally found what I was looking for.

  The unexpected climax to all my vague longings.

  My wanderings had brought me to the right place.

  I knew it as soon as I discovered Life? or Theater?

  Everything I loved.

  Everything that had infatuated me for years.

  Warburg and painting.

  German writers.

  Music and fantasy.

  Despair and madness.

  It was all there.

  In a blaze of bright colors.

  The immediate complicity with someone.

  The strange sensation of having already come to a place.

  I had all of that with Charlotte’s work.

  I already knew what I was discovering.

  The friend, who was standing close to me, asked: so, do you like it?

  I couldn’t answer her.

  Too much emotion.

  She must have thought I wasn’t interested.

  Whereas in fact …

  I don’t know.

  I didn’t know how to express what I was feeling.

  Not long ago, I came upon a short essay by Jonathan Safran Foer.

  He is not an author whose work I really know.

  But I feel a slightly idiotic sympathy for him.

  Because the two of us are sometimes placed next to each other on bookstore shelves.

  We create connections the best we can.

  Another version of the good neighbor theory.

  In the essay, he describes the shock he felt when he discovered Charlotte.

  It was in Amsterdam.

  He too found her by chance.

  He mentions the important meeting he had that day.

  Which literally escaped his memory.

  I emerged in the same state of mind.

  Nothing else mattered.

  It is so rare, that feeling of being completely overwhelmed.

  I was an occupied country.

  Days passed, and nothing happened to alter that sensation.

  For years, I took notes.

  I pored over her work incessantly.

  I quoted or mentioned Charlotte in several of my novels.

  I tried to write this book so many times.

  But how?

  Should I be present?

  Should I fictionalize her story?

  What form should my obsession take?

  I began, I tried, then I gave up.

  I couldn’t manage to string two sentences together.

  At every point, I felt blocked.

  Impossible to go on.

  It was a physical sensation, an oppression.

  I felt the need to move to the next line in order to breathe.

  So, I realized that I had to write it like this.

  Part Four

  1

  An important event in Charlotte’s life occurs now.

  This event is a man.

  It is impossible to say whether Alfred Wolfsohn is handsome or ugly.

  Some appearances are like an unanswerable question.

  You simply know that you can’t look away.

  When he is there, he is all you see.

  At the moment when I am searching for him in order to describe him, he is walking fast.

  Striding through the streets of Berlin, covered in sweat.

  He has to take care of his sick mother, of his unemployable sister.

  But where can he earn money?

  A singing teacher, he is no longer allowed to do his job anywhere.

  All that remains to him is the Kulturbund.

  The mutual aid association founded by Kurt Singer.

  He is the only person that can help Alfred.

  Late as always, he finally enters Singer’s office.

  He stammers a few incomprehensible excuses.

  Arms whirling excitedly.

  Despite the comic effect of this appearance, Singer doesn’t smile.

  Because Alfred is an eminent man.

  He is strange and capricious, but hugely talented.

  He has developed new t
heories on singing methods.

  You must search for your voice deep inside yourself.

  How is it possible for babies to scream for so long?

  Without even damaging their vocal cords.

  You must return to the source of this power.

  A crazy dive down to what is hidden within us.

  And all of this has perhaps some connection with death.

  Alfred is charming: people want to help him, to save him even.

  Kurt thinks about it, then glimpses a solution.

  The great opera singer Paula Salomon no longer has a teacher.

  The one who worked with her for so long has just quit.

  Reluctantly, he put an end to their collaboration.

  He had no choice.

  He was in danger if he continued working with a Jew.

  Their final lesson was intensely painful.

  They separated on the landing, in silence.

  A few days later, the doorbell rings.

  It must be the teacher sent by Kurt Singer.

  That’s good: he’s on time for a change.

  She opens the door, shows him in.

  Before even taking off his coat, he says: this is an honor.

  Before even saying hello, in fact.

  A compliment that makes Paula happy.

  Praise is increasingly rare these days.

  She hardly ever sings in public anymore.

  They have taken away her right to be applauded.

  But she must continue to work on her voice.

  Because she will be back one day, undoubtedly.

  Alfred walks straight over to the piano.

  Ahead of Paula, as if he’s at home.

  He strokes the instrument, and only then does he take off his coat.

  He turns toward his hostess, and looks her in the eyes.

  After a moment of silence, he launches into a monologue.

  You must hire me, it’s essential.

  You sang better before, at the start of your career.

  The routine of success has deadened you.

  Your last record was horribly mechanical.

  I can tell you honestly: it has no soul.

  You have an immense talent, but that is not enough.

  I will make you the greatest opera singer in the world.

  My methods are revolutionary, you’ll see.

  Or rather, you’ll hear.

  He talks on and on, as Paula stands dumbstruck.

  How dare he?

  How can he show up and pontificate so presumptuously?

  And yet, he’s not completely wrong.

  Paula senses that her relationship with music has become too unemotional.

  What happened?

  Is it because of the political situation?

  Or has success numbed everything?

  This man was supposed to help her, but now she feels lost.

  No one has delivered so many harsh truths to her in a long, long time.

  Alfred is taking a considerable risk.

  He desperately needs a job.

  It is an act of hubris, speaking to her like this.

  She could send him packing.

  Who is he to judge her in this way?

  He continues speaking as he paces the living room.

  Hands behind his back.

  Will he ever stop?

  Paula wants to interrupt him, to say: I understand.

  She wants to, but it’s impossible.

  Whole centuries of words seem to pour from Alfred’s mouth.

  He has not even been entrusted with this task yet, and already he has taken it to heart.

  Paula realizes she should not dig her heels in.

  This man, however clumsy, has good intentions.

  He wants nothing more than to teach her his beliefs.

  She lifts her hand to signal that he should finally be quiet.

  It does no good: he talks and talks.

  Paula does not grasp everything he says.

  Apparently he’s in the middle of an anecdote about Bach.

  At last, he sees her hand in the air.

  And, suddenly, he stops.

  Paula feels exhausted by what she has heard.

  But she finds enough strength to say: you start tomorrow morning.

  I’ll expect you here at ten.

  2

  This is the beginning of an intense relationship.

  Each morning, they come together at the piano.

  While this is happening, Albert heals the sick.

  And Charlotte draws herself.

  At the Academy, she is studying self-portraiture.

  Alfred is now a real diversion for Paula.

  He is charming, eccentric, incredibly erudite.

  He talks for hours.

  Her teacher is obsessed by the myth of Orpheus.

  In fact, he’s writing a book on the subject.

  He thinks constantly about crossing through darkness.

  How does one recover from a state of chaos?

  To understand his obsession, we must go back into the past.

  At barely eighteen, he leaves for the front.

  He wants to run away, disappear, but it’s impossible.

  A man’s life then is a soldier’s life.

  And so he faces up to the worst.

  He knows fear.

  Standing in the mist, forbidden to retrace his steps.

  All deserters will be shot.

  The clouds are so low.

  The churned earth stinks of decomposed bodies.

  The landscape is one vast desolation.

  Like Otto Dix, Alfred thinks this is the devil’s work.

  An attack decimates his regiment.

  All around him, he sees mutilated bodies.

  Surely he is dead too.

  And yet, something continues to beat inside him.

  It must be his heart, hidden in the depths of his body.

  His ears hurt.

  The explosion perforated his eardrums.

  All the same, he thinks he can hear someone calling.

  Or are they groaning?

  Alfred opens his eyes, so he must be alive.

  He sees the soldier dying next to him.

  Begging for help.

  In this instant, Alfred perceives a presence.

  French soldiers moving toward them.

  Probably searching for survivors to finish off.

  He can’t help the other soldier.

  He can’t.

  It’s not possible.

  He must leave him like that.

  To a certain death.

  Alfred crawls under a corpse.

  And stops breathing.

  How long does he stay like that?

  Impossible to say.

  Finally, a patrol picks up the wounded.

  Alfred remembers nothing more.

  Sent back to Berlin, he does not even recognize his mother.

  He remains like this for a year.

  For him, 1919 does not exist.

  He can’t speak anymore, is sent to sanatoriums.

  With other broken men.

  Months pass, and he has to leave that hell behind him.

  And, above all, never turn back, like Orpheus.

  In the heart of darkness, a melody sounds.

  To begin with, it is barely audible.

  It is the rebirth of his voice.

  He starts to sing, very softly.

  More than ever, music and life are intertwined.

  That is why Alfred throws himself into song: to survive.

  The way you might throw yourself into water in order to die.

  3

  In Alfred’s hands, Paula senses she is making progress.

  She lets herself be guided entirely by him.

  Sometimes he is cruel to her.

  He will cut her off in the middle of a lied.

  And yell at her for having the wrong tempo.

  She bursts out laughing when that happens.

 
; He takes his work so seriously.

  How can we describe the way he feels?

  Let’s just say he feels he is where he belongs.

  Something keeps him here.

  In truth, he has fallen in love.

  He writes a few impassioned letters to Paula.

  Oh come on, don’t even go there.

  You love being with me, but you don’t love me.

  Maybe she is right.

  Alfred is simply happy to feel his heart beating.

  That day, Charlotte comes home earlier than expected.

  She wants to meet the famous singing teacher.

  Master and student do not hear her.

  Paula makes strange cries, as Alfred grows overexcited.

  He lifts his arms, as if to touch the ceiling.

  Charlotte can’t believe it.

  Again, again, again! Alfred demands.

  Her cry is so piercing, it is almost inaudible.

  Charlotte puts her hands to her ears.

  She doesn’t dare show herself, or warn them of her presence.

  But Paula suddenly spots her, and the cry ceases.

  Ah, it’s my Lotte.

  Come in here, darling, come closer.

  Let me introduce you to Herr Wolfsohn.

  No need for that, she can call me Alfred.

  Charlotte walks over slowly.

  So slowly, it’s as if she’s not moving at all.

  4

  When the lesson is over, Alfred goes into Charlotte’s room.

  She is drawing at her desk, but she freezes when she sees her visitor.

  He observes the room in great detail.

  So, you’re studying at the Academy?

  Yes.

  Yes: that is the first word she speaks to this man.

  Alfred starts asking lots of questions.

  Which painters does she like best?

  Does she have a favorite color?

  Does she like the Renaissance?

  Does she support the degenerate artists?

  How often does she go to the movie theater?

  He speaks too quickly, the words cascading from his mouth.

  Charlotte, lost, mixes up her answers.

  She says “mauve” when he asks her if she’s seen Metropolis.

  Paula enters the room.

  My dear Wolfsohn, leave this child in peace.

  I love her like my own daughter, so please don’t annoy her.

  He’s not bothering me, Charlotte replies.

  It is rare to see her react this way.

  Usually, she hesitates.

  Eons pass between her thoughts and her words.

  Paula is surprised.

  Is she jealous?

  No, she’s not in love with Alfred.

  On the contrary, she is glad that he’s interested in Charlotte.

  Her stepdaughter meets so few people.