by John Tagholm
‘Where did she live, exactly?’
‘Over by Buttes Chaumont.’
‘In the rue Manin?’
‘You know it? She’d been there for years.’
‘That was the address on the birth certificate.’ Beatrice wanted to say more, but there were too many questions clambering for answers.
‘Will you have supper here?’ Sandrine asked. ‘I can recommend the veal.’
Beatrice said that she would be delighted and would return at eight o’clock. She wanted to walk across and see where Odile used to live, the mother who Joseph used to describe in glowing terms but whose funeral he failed to attend.
She had to walk back over the canal to reach rue Manin before finally locating the apartment block where Odile had lived for so long. It was not what she expected, more Italian than French, an early concrete building with rounded, modernist balconies and metal framed windows. She sat in the park opposite and tried to imagine pre-war Paris and the young woman who lived here, strong and self-possessed enough to become a single parent and cope with what Beatrice could only imagine as the muttered disapproval of society. How different for Amanda, who had become pregnant with Harper after a short relationship and whose decision to keep the baby was applauded by all her friends and even by her parents. Half the children at his toddlers’ group, she had told Beatrice, came from parents who weren’t married and at least fifty percent of those were single parents. Society changes and history forgets.
Odile Leval lived opposite until she was ninety-two, her son a world famous figure but, it appears, estranged from her. What more would she discover about this strange man on the one hand so accommodating and on the other so evasive.? Beatrice imagined that Odile might have sat on this very bench, the Parc des Buttes Chaumont no different then from what it was now, in a city that would soon be invaded and Jews like her rounded up and shipped to the camps and exterminated. Odile had even changed her name to help protect him from deportation. How could Beatrice think of her own dissatisfactions when she had never been confronted with matters of life and death, merely the discontents of a rich, middle class child in the early years of the third millennium.
Later, as promised, the veal was good and her mood was restored even if Joseph Leval remained tantalisingly out of reach.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
It is hot and she seeks the shelter of the wooden seat. Her body aches from the long voyage and although she is thirsty she is allowed to drink only a small amount each day. After a week, just after the storm, they stop at a harbour to take on more supplies and when she stands on the stone pier her body continues to move with the sea. Their journey southwards has kept them close to the coast and the girl cannot understand how the sailor knows their position. The houses overlooking the harbour are of stone, strong and permanent.
They stay a short while but are soon continuing their journey towards the sun, the water becoming bluer by the day. After a further week they change direction again and she can see the excitement in the sailor’s face. Now there is land on both sides and he points to the triangular mountain to the north and tells her that they are in a different sea and will be home in four more nights. She thinks about the home she has left behind and then the one she is sailing towards. The sea sparkles all about and it is warm on the deck and occasionally fish leap from the water and she remembers the ruined building she has left behind and her friend who might be playing there now. Who would be safer, she thinks? She hears the other men talking on the deck, sensing they are nearly home. She watches her mother, who has swapped one world for another and hopes that she will have the same strength to control her own destiny, for already she glimpses that this is the key.
When, finally, they come upon the white stone coastline, which makes the sea bluer than ever, the girl watches the boat turn towards the land rising on both sides, a tall hill to her right and a lower swell to her left. Then there are buildings and boats, more than she has seen together before until finally they are embraced by the natural harbour and can go no further. The sailor steps out of the boat first and then helps her mother and finally, with an elaborate bow, takes her hand and guides her ashore. She stares around her, squinting her eyes against the sun, the light quite different from what she has left behind. Some of the men carry their belongings up the hill and they follow the sailor through houses of stone and wood. They enter a fortified gate where servants greet them, bowing to the sailor. In a courtyard there is water splashing into a stone pool and the sailor gestures for them to drink. She is shown to a room with an arched window overlooking the harbour and a bed which, when she lies on it and shuts her eyes, seems to sway. She marks this moment, the stone walls around her, the bright light outside and a future she cannot guess. In her hand she holds the gold cloth which she unfolds to take out the brooch, her fingers tracing the round smoothness of the crimson stone. She holds it to her chest and for the first time in almost twenty days, drifts into a deep sleep undisturbed by the splash of the sea, the snores of the men and the flap of the sail pulling them along, the accompaniment to her dreams.
When she wakes it is dark and at first she is frightened, but the shape of the doorway is clear from the light from below and she follows it, down stone stairs to where a fire is burning in the courtyard. She looks at her mother and the sailor and takes the plate she is given. She tastes olives for the first time and the flesh of squid, new names that the sailor tells her and she sits down in the strange land and smiles.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
That Beatrice felt wretched was not solely down to her period, although she was prepared to use it as an excuse. There was no reply from Troumeg’s phone yet again and she pressed off her mobile in irritation. Last night’s meal had been good, but the carafe of red wine which Sandrine had offered on the house was now slowing her down and making her movements clumsy. She only had one place to go and set off for the rue Manin hoping to catch one or more of the residents as they left for work. How ridiculous not to be able to ask Troumeg about all this instead of having to act like a private detective and she asked herself again, was it worth it? She took a chance when she got there and rang on 23b, not expecting a response. When a female voice answered she told the truth, that she was making a film about Joseph Troumeg and believed he may have been born here. She was buzzed up to be met by a woman probably a few years younger than herself and certainly a lot more awake. The apartment was a perfect reflection of the period it was built, geometrically shaped black leather and chrome furniture with abstract paintings on the wall, circles and squares in primary colours.
‘Do you like it?’ the woman said, watching her visitor’s eyes roam around the room.
‘It’s perfect. I can’t imagine it was like this when Troumeg lived here.’
‘Who knows. The woman we bought it from was very ill. She needed the money to afford a nursing home but she died shortly after the final compromis was signed.’
‘Odile Leval?’
‘Yes.’
‘She was Troumeg’s mother, but don’t ask me where the surname came from. What was she like?’
‘Frail but dignified. To tell you the truth, we felt bad buying from her but she insisted. She liked us. Or should I say, she liked my husband who deals in this sort of furniture. The old woman was comforted by the idea of the apartment retaining its originality.’
‘How long did she live here?’
‘Almost seventy years. At least that’s what she told us and what the deeds indicate. Incredible isn’t it?’
What Beatrice thought she kept to herself. How could Joseph Troumeg, clearly a very rich man, not help his mother by paying for the home? And, if she died soon after selling the flat, to whom did she leave the proceeds in the will, assuming she had one?
‘The truth is,’ the woman continued, ‘she was so ill at the end that we let her stay on after we’d bought the place. She died about two weeks later, in that bedroom.’ She pointed at a door. ‘It seemed right and I’m glad we did.’
Beatrice stared at the door, wishing she been able to talk to the old woman, aware that she was lifting the curtain on a private family issue and now intrigued.
‘Did she have any other family, do you know?’
The woman shook her head. ‘I really don’t know. There was a friend, a few years younger, who used to visit her. She lives in the block, down on the first floor. I’m afraid I don’t know her name, or which apartment it is.’
Afterwards, Beatrice went across to the park and sat on the bench overlooking the lake, as she had the night before. She tried to imagine what it was like for Odile to live in the same home for seventy years and couldn’t help speculate on whether it was pleasure or disappointment that kept her there so long.
Her mobile rang and, seeing that it was her mother, she let the phone pulse in her hand for a moment before answering. Eileen Palmenter had developed over the years the uncanny knack of phoning at just the wrong times.
‘Darling, I think you’re in France, aren’t you?’
Beatrice was amazed that she had remembered.
‘I’m phoning from Toulon,’ she continued. ‘Surrounded by sailors, let me tell you. Gorgeous uniforms.’
So Toulon was the Toulouse of their lunch at John Lewis. She waited for the point of the call, for a demand was surely not far behind.
‘You said you might be able to join me here, since you were going to be in France.’
Beatrice had said no such thing but Eileen Palmenter had the ability to slightly alter the facts in her favour and her daughter had yet to decide whether she did this knowingly or not.
‘It would be so nice if you could. Are you still there?’
‘I’m sitting in a park in northern Paris. I’m working.’
‘They do those nice fast trains, don’t they darling? You could be here in a trice.’
And was the selective hearing part of the same set of skills her mother used to get her own way? It was now over twenty-five years since her husband had died and in that time, Beatrice had concluded, her mother had become expert in looking after no one but herself.
‘How long are you there for, mother?’
‘Well, that’s the point. Slightly longer than we thought. There’s something wrong with one of the ship’s engines, we’re told and they’re putting us up for a week in a rather nice hotel. It’s the least they could do, of course, but there are worse places to be. I know you’re not with anyone.’
Eileen Palmenter popped in this last sentence in what sounded like an afterthought, but Beatrice read it as code for it’s not difficult for you to drop what you’re doing and take the train.
‘I’ll need to phone you back.’
Even before she rang off, Beatrice could visualise the turn down in her mother’s mouth, the disapproval at not having got what she wanted. A lone magpie landed on to the path in front of her and walked lopsidedly towards a rubbish bin.
Her phone rang again and she glanced at her watch. It was ten o’clock in Paris, an hour behind in London and Harry Wesley was about to start his day.
‘How nice,’ she said. ‘I’ve just been talking to my mother.’
‘Now, let me unpick this. Compared to speaking to my mother, it’s nice to hear from you. Or, by the by, I’ve been talking to my mother and it’s nice to hear from you.’
‘Oh, the former. With a bit of the latter.’
‘Well, I’ll try and extract the best from both versions. The truth is, I’d like to see you.’
‘You mean in relation to Flotsam?’
‘No, I mean in relation to you. You didn’t call me back so I thought I’d try again.’
Beatrice got up from the bench and turned around, shielding the phone for reasons that weren’t clear since there was no wind. ‘What did you have in mind?’
‘Look,’ he said, ‘I can’t really work out the impact you’ve had on me, but you have. I’m grateful that Flotsam has been acting as a go-between but it’s a bit more than that. I don’t want to use strontium isotopes to get to you anymore.’
‘Is that an alco-pop?’ Beatrice’s flippancy was an instinctive reaction to protect herself, the trip of an overloaded fuse on a circuit board.
‘We find them in teeth and they will help tell us where Flotsam came from. I could come to Paris for the day.’
Many men flirted with Beatrice. Indeed, it was part of the process she found easy but at this moment she thought of Amanda’s observation about the repeated pattern of unsuccessful relationships. Clearly, she was saying, that discernment was necessary at this stage and here her judgement was uncertain. If it’s possible to entertain a series of important thoughts in less than two seconds, this is what Beatrice did now.
‘I’m not sure.’
‘You’re not sure about me coming to Paris? You’re not sure about me?’
‘I’m simply not sure.’
‘You mean you’re usually sure but now you’re not?’
‘I think that’s it exactly,’ she said.
She could hear him thinking before he replied. ‘And that might not be to do with me, per se? I least I hope that’s true.’
‘I think that’s partly true.’
‘Partly. So there’s a little hope, then.’
She didn’t say anything.
‘How is Mr Troumeg?’
‘I can’t find him. Well, I did have supper with him and now he’s disappeared.’
‘Do you always have this effect on men?’
The question, although asked lightly, made her think, for the truth was quite the opposite: she usually disappeared first.
‘Can I call you back, Harry? I haven’t decided what my plans are.’
‘Don’t leave it too long, Beattie, because I’ll only call again.’
For the second time this morning she was procrastinating, uncertain of her own reactions, in need of a route map to show her the links and distances between the disparate strands of her life. She was pushing away the decisions, not committing herself but perhaps this was the very point Amanda was making to her the day before. Had she set out for Paris and the pursuit of Joseph Troumeg to deliberately isolate herself so that she could gain some perspective? The thought cheered her up and for the first time that morning she felt better. The single magpie had now been joined by another and she took this as an omen.
She was about to get off the bench when her phone rang for the third time.
‘It’s me, Amanda. I hope you didn’t mind what I said to you yesterday?’ She didn’t give Beatrice time to answer. ‘The thing is, I got a call this morning from that archaeologist fellow, Harold Wesley. He wanted to know more about you.’
‘What did you tell him?’
‘Well, that’s the funny thing. It wasn’t so much what I told him, more what he told me.’
‘Go on.’
‘Well, he started by saying how brilliant you are. He’d made a point of seeing your Bafta films. They showed the final one again the other night, by the way, and he picked up the others on iPlay. Then he said you’d been worried that you didn’t use your forensic – that’s the word he used – forensic skills on your own life. He was taken by this since he’d been told the same thing about himself.’
‘And…?
‘And he sounded different from the others. Joshua, Ben, Chris, Anthony…the others.’
‘You’ve been warning me not to keep repeating my mistakes. Now you’re phoning to encourage me.’
‘Not quite, Beattie. I’m just saying he sounded different. He was asking the right questions. He was certainly very interested in you. Anyway, I thought you’d like to know. Enjoy Paris.’
The gardens of Buttes Chaumont, with a folly perched on the hill to one side and a lake in front with the sound of a waterfall, were a fantasy gardens to release Parisiennes from their daily grind. She took the bridge across to the island and climbed to what she discovered was a faux temple and looked down on the northern flank of the city and the sweep of the road where Odile Leval had lived for
so long. She must have known this park intimately and had no doubt stood on this very spot, perhaps even with her son.
She took the mobile out of her pocket, knowing that she had two calls to complete, but almost immediately slipped it back for she realised she still had no answers for her mother, or Dr Harold Wesley.
CHAPTER TWENTY
She watches the fishing boats unload on the long stone quay. She is brown now and when she stands in the sun it no longer bites into her neck and shoulders as it had in the beginning. The fishermen know her and she is learning to understand them and use their words. In front of her the iridescent blues of a thousand tiny fish wriggle in a wooden box and next to it, in line and glistening, larger fish with names she is beginning to recognise. The sailor had been right. The sea is almost too blue and bright to look at, flashing repeatedly in the morning sun. In the market the colours continue, reds and yellows on fruits she has never seen before. She wonders why everyone doesn’t live here. Occasionally she remembers her friend, her blond hair like the sun but accepts they will never meet again. Like the old grey river, she belongs to another life. Here she has long stopped looking towards the mouth of the harbour in fear of the Norsemen.
In a town of many races, she is still regarded as a curiosity. This suits her for she enjoys being an outsider and it matches her increasingly independent life. She spends most her days outside and although she has made friends along the waterfront she is happy in her own company. Her mother continues to make jewellery and the sailor is often away for weeks at a time, so she enjoys a singular existence, sometimes accompanying the fishermen on trips to markets inland but more often climbing the white hills to the east of the port to look out over the sea. Here she can see forever and when the wind blows she stands with her arms outstretched, her body leaning forward, perfectly balanced, free and untouchable.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
