The Postman's Fiancée

by Denis Theriault; Translated by John Cullen

  The third drawer was locked. Tania searched the apartment for the key. In the process, she made some unusual discoveries, such as the dried-flower collection – Grandpré’s, in all likelihood – in which a red carnation dried long ago was glued to each page; there was also, in the chest of drawers in the bedroom, an amazing assortment of unmatched socks, hundreds of them, enough to make a giant millipede happy. At last, rifling through the pockets of Bilodo’s postman’s jacket, Tania fished out a bunch of keys, one of which fitted in the lock on the third drawer.

  It turned out to be a filing cabinet, in which several file folders were hanging. The first ones contained hundreds of photocopies of personal letters, obviously penned by as many different hands. The oldest of these letters dated back four years, and they came from more or less everywhere, from as far away as Port-Cartier, Whitehorse, Salem, Las Vegas, Kandahar, Melbourne...None of them, however, was addressed to Bilodo, and Tania, puzzled, wondered how he’d been able to assemble such a collection of private writings. Was it possible that...

  It seemed incredible, but could it be that Bilodo was an inquisitive postman, one who secretly read and copied certain letters before delivering them?

  It wasn’t so implausible when you were familiar with Bilodo’s peculiar character. Tania had a mental image of him making his daily round and finding in his bag a personal letter, a thing that has become rare in this highly connected age of electronic messaging. Actually, it was easy to imagine Bilodo intercepting two or three letters a week like that, taking them home, steaming them open, and making copies of them before delivering them to their true addressees the next day. It was only a hypothesis, but Tania had no difficulty conceiving it: a complete loner like Bilodo just might take great pleasure in infiltrating other people’s lives that way.

  Passing from surprise to surprise, Tania pulled from the next folder a manuscript titled Enso, whose cover page had an illustration of a black circle with a frayed outline – and whose author was none other than Gaston Grandpré. Intrigued, she opened the manuscript and looked at the first page, on which were printed only three lines:

  Swirling like water

  against rugged rocks,

  time goes around and around

  The manuscript numbered about sixty pages, on each of which appeared a different haiku. Grandpré too, she concluded, had gone in for Japanese poetry, and seriously enough to have produced a collection of poems.

  Enclosed with the manuscript was an unsealed letter, in which Bilodo authorized Éditions Fibonacci to publish the manuscript Enso. Bilodo, it seemed, had taken the posthumous initiative of submitting Grandpré’s collection to the Montreal-based publishing house, which had accepted it. Tania noted that the date on the unsigned letter corresponded to the very day of Bilodo’s suicide attempt: he’d neglected to post the letter before trying to end his life.

  Putting the manuscript aside, Tania examined the contents of the last folder, which proved disappointing: fifty or so open, empty envelopes, each bearing Guadeloupian stamps and each with Ségolène’s address in Pointe-à-Pitre in the upper left-hand corner. An inspection of the postmarks revealed that the envelopes had been sent during the course of the preceding twelve months – and had no doubt contained the Guadeloupian woman’s haiku. Tania sighed. She now had reason to believe that Bilodo was a sort of postal voyeur, and Grandpré’s manuscript established a direct link between the two men. Her investigation was making progress, and yet she couldn’t get rid of the irritating impression that she was getting nowhere. ‘What a sorry detective you make, Tania Schumpf!’ she said to herself as she put the empty envelopes back into their folder. It was then that a detail leaped out at her: the envelopes were addressed to Grandpré.

  Not to Bilodo, but to Gaston Grandpré.

  Tania systematically verified this observation; they were addressed to the deceased, every one of them. For a brief, cloudy moment, she understood nothing. So Grandpré was the person Ségolène was writing to? Or believed she was writing to? Then something clicked, and she saw that the haiku must originally have been meant for Grandpré. Not knowing he’d been dead for more than a year, the Guadeloupian had continued to write to him, without suspecting that it was Bilodo who was reading her letters and replying to her.

  This was the only explanation that could fully account for the facts: Bilodo had taken Grandpré’s place.

  It must have been while acting as the inquisitive postman that Bilodo had become aware of Grandpré and Ségolène’s poetic correspondence and fallen madly in love with the beautiful Guadeloupian. When Grandpré’s death had threatened to dry up the source of that cherished correspondence, Bilodo had made the audacious decision to take the lately departed’s place. His calligraphic talent had enabled him to imitate Grandpré’s handwriting without too much difficulty, but even so, he’d still had to learn the basics of Japanese poetry; Tania remembered his sudden enthusiasm for the art of haiku.

  Following that strange logic of substitution to its extreme, Bilodo had rented the dead man’s apartment and moved in, receiving there the poems intended for Grandpré and responding to them in his stead – and all for the love of Ségolène.

  Such, therefore, was the nature of the obsession that was consuming Bilodo. And this also explained the proximate cause of his suicide attempt: the arrival of the poem in which Ségolène announced she was coming to Montreal. Bilodo had realized that he was trapped, for the Guadeloupian woman and Grandpré had exchanged photographs, and she knew what he looked like – and thus Bilodo’s imaginary world had collapsed. The mental process that had led to his identification with the deceased, an identification so complete that he’d recreated the circumstances of the other’s death, remained obscure, but his reason for doing so was now obvious: it was his certainty that he would soon be unmasked. Rather than reveal to Ségolène that he was an impostor, Bilodo had preferred to kill himself.

  The doctor informed Tania that the blood in Bilodo’s brain resulting from his stroke was being satisfactorily reabsorbed. If his condition continued to improve, his sedation dosage could be decreased, and he could be gradually brought out of his artificial coma. ‘Don’t worry,’ the doctor said. ‘He’ll wake up eventually.’

  ‘But in what state of mind?’ Tania wondered, studying Bilodo’s lethargic features.

  Because he was, without any doubt, daft.

  To act the way he’d done, Bilodo simply had to have gone mad. But what right did Tania have to condemn his actions? Had she shown herself lately to be so much more rational than he was? Didn’t her own recent actions demonstrate that she was as daft as Bilodo, and that they were therefore perfectly matched?

  ‘Yes, Tania Schumpf,’ she scolded herself, ‘you’re mad to love such a madman!’ Her reason told her to flee before she lost the plot altogether, to run away and not come back. But instead she leaned over Bilodo and planted a tender kiss on his lips. She wanted to see him wake up smiling, as in the fairytales, but his eyelids remained sealed. He lay before her, vulnerable, and Tania’s duty manifested itself to her with dazzling clarity. She knew her role was to protect Bilodo. Protect him from himself, from the whims that disoriented him, but first and foremost from the diabolical Guadeloupian woman who would soon be deplaning in Montreal.

  The woman must not get anywhere near Bilodo. He’d never wanted her to come, he’d feared her coming so much that he’d preferred to throw himself under a truck. In his extremely weakened state, the consequences of such a confrontation could be nothing short of dramatic – it might even provoke another suicide attempt. And that was something Tania would not permit. She would do everything she could to prevent any meeting from taking place.

  ‘Fear not, my love,’ she whispered in Bilodo’s ear. ‘I won’t let that woman do you any harm.’

  9

  Unless Ségolène’s aeroplane conveniently vanished into thin air over the Bermuda Triangle, she’d arrive on the twentieth. And then what would happen?

  She would wait at the air
port for her dear pen pal Grandpré. Who would present himself, if at all, only in spectral form. The Guadeloupian would probably take a cab to the apartment on rue des Hêtres, whose address she knew, and where she would come up against a definitively closed door. Could it be hoped that such inhospitality would suffice to discourage her and prompt her to return to her island on the next flight? Too good to be true. Ségolène wouldn’t give up so easily. She’d knock on the neighbours’ doors, ask questions, and inevitably end up face-to-face with Madame Brochu, who would inform her that Gaston Grandpré had been dead for more than a year. As soon as she recovered from the initial shock, Ségolène would attempt to learn her correspondent’s real identity; she’d grill Madame Brochu, who wouldn’t fail to steer her towards Bilodo. Could Tania obtain Madame Brochu’s cooperation? Or was there any way to make sure the old lady wasn’t home when Ségolène turned up? In any case, Grandpré’s unexplained absence would surely alarm Ségolène, who would eventually report his disappearance to the police.

  How to erase the trail leading to Bilodo? Or how to cover it so well that Ségolène wouldn’t be able to follow it all the way to him?

  Dear Madame Ségolène,

  I am writing to let you know that you are the victim of a hoax. It is my painful duty to inform you that your correspondent Gaston Grandpré died last year. The poems you have continued to receive are the work of an impostor who has written to you since Mr Grandpré’s death, passing himself off as the deceased, with disastrous consequences for his own mental health: upon learning of your impending visit, he tried to kill himself. He is currently in hospital, in a serious condition. For your own sake, but also for his, I implore you to cancel your journey and put an end to your correspondence. Stay where you are, and don’t write to him any more. Thank you for your understanding.

  From someone who wishes you well.

  Tania put down her pen and reread her letter. She wasn’t satisfied with it. When Ségolène learned she’d been deceived, she would probably cancel her trip and set about dynamiting all the bridges connecting her with the impostor; however, posting that letter didn’t guarantee a definitive resolution of the problem. Disastrous consequences could ensue. The Guadeloupian might take offence and demand an apology, or maybe even some kind of reparation for emotional injury. Or she might have a contrary reaction, and the sad fate of the author of those marvellous haiku could move her enough to overcome her indignation and rush to his bedside on the next flight. Not to mention all the other forms that catastrophe might possibly take.

  Upon reflection, Tania concluded that it would be best not to post the letter – the effects it might cause were too unpredictable. She was back at square one, and the question, reformulated, presented itself in these terms: how to push the Guadeloupian woman away from Bilodo without revealing the truth to him? Buried in thought, Tania jumped at a sudden, loud clack that came from the cover of the letterbox in the front door – the postman had just passed. She went to see, absent-mindedly, and froze on the threshold of the doorway. On the floor, waiting for her, was a letter from Ségolène.

  Will you have me, then?

  Your silence troubles my heart

  Answer me quickly

  Tania reread this haiku for the umpteenth time, doing her best to grasp all of its implications. ‘Bilodo hasn’t answered her last poem,’ she deduced. And in fact, that was obvious; why would he have responded? What could he have replied to the announcement of a visit that left him no way out except death?

  Ségolène had guessed something was awry; the tone of her haiku proved that. Having waited in vain for a reply from Grandpré, she was beginning to doubt, and she wanted to confirm that she would be welcome in Montreal. Which changed the situation completely. ‘She won’t dare come without an invitation,’ Tania realized, with immense relief. The problem would resolve itself, and suddenly she felt as if she was floating. She gave outward expression to her joy, skipping around like a little girl, dancing in the middle of the living room, planting a kiss on Bill’s fishbowl: ‘Sé-go-lè-ne won’t be com-ing...’ she sang to the wriggling fish, which was as excited as she was.

  After a while, she restrained herself. ‘Don’t gloat too soon, Tania Schumpf, the game isn’t over yet,’ her inner voice warned her, forcing her feet back down to earth, because the most delicate challenge of all still lay before her. Ségolène probably wouldn’t come, and thus a major obstacle would be removed, but Bilodo wasn’t going to forget her so easily: she, Tania, must lead him to recognize that the beautiful Guadeloupian had been but a mirage, and that she, Tania, was the only real woman in his life.

  On the twentieth of September, Tania anxiously watched dawn break over the city. The sole flight from Guadeloupe that day was scheduled to land at one forty-five in the afternoon. Would the Guadeloupian dare? Unable to confirm Ségolène’s presence on the passenger list – confidential information – Tania crossed rue des Hêtres at two o’clock and sat on the terrace of a café that directly faced the apartment. It was an ideal lookout post; there was no possibility of her missing Ségolène’s arrival, if she should come.

  Tania waited. The hours passed. Ségolène wasn’t coming. The watchful Tania waited some more... Finally, at eight in the evening, calculating that an appearance on the part of the Guadeloupian was no longer to be feared, Tania allowed herself to leave her observation post. Apparently, Ségolène had understood that her presence was undesirable – and Tania felt almost grateful to her.

  Tania confidently crossed the street again and rang Madame Brochu’s doorbell. Saying that she was there on Bilodo’s behalf, Tania gave the lady a notice of non-renewal of his lease on the apartment. Madame Brochu was disappointed to see her quiet, trouble-free tenant go. Tania promised that the apartment would be completely vacated by the end date on the lease (in late October) and then she went up to Bilodo’s and fed Bill. The apartment contained little in the way of heavy furniture, but she would nevertheless need to hire some movers and put everything in storage. Tania turned on the computer and did a little Internet research, trying to compile a list of moving companies she could contact. A few notes of Japanese music signalled an incoming email. Curious, Tania performed the appropriate clicks. It was a message from Ségolène:

  Aeroplane takes flight

  carries off the fall

  I’d dreamt of for you and me

  ‘You can always dream!’ thought Tania, refusing to let herself be moved by the distress emanating from the haiku. Just in case, she made a note of Ségolène’s email address, and then, with a merciless click, she added her name to the list of blocked senders, and with another one deleted her message. If the Guadeloupian woman had only a little common sense, she wouldn’t be heard from again.

  Over the course of the following days, there was – except in Tania’s nightmares – no sign of Ségolène. Tania dismissed that particular worry from her immediate preoccupations and devoted herself to Bilodo, assiduously watching over him. The hospital staff stopped giving him the sedatives that were keeping him unconscious, and Tania was assured that he’d wake up naturally, some day soon. Caring for Bilodo occupied all her attention; this was not the moment to be moving house, and so Tania cancelled the lease on the suburban apartment where she’d planned to transfer her home. Instead she once again rented her present place, for which, luckily, a new tenant had not yet been found.

  Weary as she was, Tania almost failed to hear her telephone ringing a little before midnight on the second of October. It was a nurse from the Intensive Care unit, informing her that Bilodo had opened his eyes.

  ‘Amnesia?’ said Tania in dismay.

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ the doctor replied. He’d insisted on speaking with her in private before letting her see Bilodo. ‘That was one of the possible consequences I told you about, a result of the head trauma he suffered.’

  ‘He remembers nothing at all?’

  ‘He can recall his youth, but later memories get vaguer and vaguer. The last six years of his life
are a black hole.’

  ‘So he’s lost his memory for ever?’ Tania asked worriedly.

  ‘That’s impossible to say. His amnesia might perhaps be only temporary, but it could also be permanent. We’ll learn more over the course of the next few days.’

  Tania was granted permission to see Bilodo but cautioned against tiring him. Stopping on the threshold of his room, she glanced inside furtively. Bilodo was staring wild-eyed at the ceiling. Some of his bandages had been removed. An ugly scar adorned his shaved skull. He looked like a zombie.

  ‘Hello,’ said Tania, venturing into the room.

  Bilodo turned a concave stare on her. ‘Who are you?’ he asked in a broken voice.

  Tania hid her consternation. The doctor hadn’t been exaggerating: Bilodo seemed to have no memory of her.

  ‘I’m Tania,’ she replied simply.

  ‘Tania?’ Bilodo croaked, examining her distraughtly. ‘Tania...’ he repeated, making a laborious effort to process the information. ‘Do we know each other?’