Losing Julia

by Hull, Jonathan

  I stroked his cheek. “No bon bon. Can you say, ‘Bonjour? Bonjour Papa?’”

  “No, bon bon Papa,” he said sternly, tossing his head forward as he spoke.

  I reached into the inside pocket of my jacket and pulled out a small red candy, handing it to him. Then I took his hand and began walking back to the hotel. After I dropped him off at the room I ran over to Julia’s hotel, but she wasn’t there.

  “Why do you keep disappearing on us?” asked Charlotte, when I returned. She was sitting before the mirror applying her makeup.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean. You’re always heading off somewhere.”

  “I just went out to get some cigarettes.”

  “But you spend hours out by yourself.”

  “I don’t want to bore you with the military museums. And you know I can’t stand shopping—especially for shoes.”

  “It’s Margaret, isn’t it? You’re avoiding her. I’ve always known you didn’t like her. And don’t think she doesn’t know.”

  I started to deny it but thought: no, let her think that.

  “The sitter will be here in fifteen minutes. Margaret and I are going out. You’re welcome to join us.”

  “Shopping?”

  “You don’t have to go in the stores.”

  “I’ll meet you later. We’ll have a nice dinner.”

  Charlotte looked at me through the mirror. “Margaret was right. You are acting strange.” Then she stood and rummaged through her purse for her lipstick, which she carefully applied to her lips. After she was done she zipped up her dress, put on her shoes and went to the door. “You can’t dwell on the war forever, Patrick.”

  “No, I can’t.”

  “You could have some fun while we’re here.”

  “Yes. Maybe I’ll even buy that suit.”

  “Just try?”

  “I’ll try.” I walked over and kissed her briefly. “See you for dinner.”

  “Dinner.”

  “Bye.”

  When I returned to Julia’s hotel she was sitting in the lobby reading a newspaper. She jumped up when she saw me and her eyes were full of happiness. “I’m sorry about yesterday,” she said. “I shouldn’t get so upset.”

  “That’s all right,” I said, hugging her.

  “I was terrified that you wouldn’t come back.”

  “It’s getting harder to get away.”

  I saw the muscles in her face tighten. “How much time do we have?”

  “I’m meeting them for dinner,” I said. “Maybe I can get away for a few hours tomorrow too.”

  “Let’s go to the Louvre. No, let’s go up to my room and then to the Louvre.”

  Once inside her room we made love silently and quickly. Too quickly. But everything was too quickly now, so that our time together felt increasingly compressed.

  As we dressed I looked around her small room; at her suitcase on the floor in the corner and her things laid out neatly on the dresser and at the bed and the cracked blue paint on the ceiling and as I looked around I wondered how many more times I would make it back here, but I decided not to guess.

  Outside as we walked down the sidewalk I struggled to keep up with her. “I can’t wait to show you what I found at the Louvre,” she said, looking as excited as I’d ever seen her.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “You’ll see,” she said, smiling.

  I noticed a change in her as soon as we entered the museum. She moved differently and spoke in hushed tones as though she were in a church or a mausoleum. We strolled down the vast hallways for three hours without talking, pausing for minutes at a time to stare at various statues and busts and paintings and ancient artifacts. I looked into the eyes of kings and queens and emperors and princes and peasants and slaves and old men and young children and I saw the blood dripping from a hundred Jesuses withering on the cross. I saw Mantegna’s Saint Sebastian bound and run through with arrows and Titian’s alluring Woman in the Mirror and Delacroix’s Liberty Leading the People, her chest bared as she crosses the barricades, the dead at her feet. Before Velázquez’s portrait of The Infante Marguerite I thought of Robin and then I saw Murillo’s Young Beggar and I thought of all the orphans of war and I suddenly had a sense of losing time completely, as though the world had come to a screeching halt and I was privileged to walk about it unlocking its mysteries, both glorious and wretched, with Julia as my guide.

  As we walked slowly down a statue-lined hallway toward the Venus de Milo, Julia turned to me and asked, “Do you feel it?”

  “You mean the sense of history, of what these artists were trying to say?”

  She nodded.

  “Yes, yes I do. It’s quite overwhelming. And haunting too, all those faces staring at you from the past.”

  “It is, isn’t it?” She began walking again.

  “It’s so enormous, like a huge tribute to humanity.”

  “Did they get it right?” she asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did the artists get it right? The things you and Daniel went through, what you felt and saw and did. Not just the bad things but the good things too. Did they get it right?”

  I looked up into the face of a solemn statue. “Yes, they got it right.”

  “That’s good.” I could see she was biting her lip.

  “Shall we go outside, have a cigarette and maybe some coffee?” I asked.

  She nodded. We turned down the hallway.

  “Oh, Jesus.”

  “What is it?”

  “Charlotte’s here. With her sister.” I stepped back behind a cluster of tourists and watched as Charlotte and Margaret slowly worked their way down the hall toward us.

  “I had no idea they’d be here.” I looked at Julia. Her face was stricken.

  “Did they see us?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  Julia began backing away from me. Charlotte and Margaret were coming closer. I looked around for an exit. When I looked back at Julia she was farther down the hall, standing next to a large statue and staring at Charlotte. I hid behind a pillar, then edged my way toward Julia. She turned toward me and shook her head no, then backed away more.

  “Where will I meet you?” I said, whispering loudly.

  But Julia kept shaking her head.

  I pushed through a group of tourists, heading toward her, but she kept backing away.

  “Patrick? Is that you?”

  I froze.

  “Patrick?”

  I slowly turned.

  “Charlotte?”

  “What on earth are you doing here?”

  Margaret was next to her, scowling.

  “I thought… I thought I might find you here.” I turned and looked back at Julia. She was watching, her face constricted.

  “That was sweet of you,” said Charlotte, leaning forward and kissing me. “I can’t believe you found us.”

  I looked again at Julia. She was crying.

  “Patrick, are you listening to me?” Charlotte turned to follow my gaze. I started toward Julia but she shook her head no and began backing farther away, her fist pressed against her mouth.

  I turned back to Charlotte. “I… I thought I saw an old friend, from the war. Just a resemblance.”

  Don’t go, Julia.

  “You’re sweating,” said Charlotte, tracing her finger along my temple.

  Julia.

  “Yes, it’s hot in here, isn’t it?”

  “Not really,” said Margaret, who was wearing a sweater.

  Charlotte joined her arm in mine. “I was just wishing you were here. There’s a painting I want to show you. I’m just crazy about it.”

  More tourists streamed down the hallway. I strained for a glimpse of Julia. She was still there, but farther away now, still watching me, shaking her head. My legs begged to run. Go after her.

  Margaret was staring at me. I stared back at her. Charlotte tugged at my sleeve. “Come on.”

&nb
sp; I thought of Sean back at the hotel. Of his hazel green eyes and his giggle and the way he smiled when I walked into the room and how he was always trying to grab my nose and pull it off. I thought of Charlotte and our wedding and our comforting routine at home and how happy we were to finally own a house and how the neighborhood children were so good with Sean. I thought of the war and how lucky I was just to be alive and how I’d never let Sean face such a thing. I thought of Lawton and Giles and Tometti and Daniel and all that they would miss in life. And I thought of the look in Daniel’s eyes on the day he died; how he tried to give me strength.

  Give me strength.

  “Isn’t this place incredible?” said Charlotte. “Have you seen the Egyptian collection? And the jewelry. Did you see the jewelry on display?”

  Julia was harder to see now. Go to her.

  Charlotte tugged again at my sleeve. I slowly followed alongside of her. Margaret kept staring at me.

  Don’t leave her alone. Not again.

  “Isn’t this one beautiful?” said Charlotte, pointing to a marble.

  I turned again to look for Julia.

  “Yes, it’s very beautiful,” I said.

  Daniel, what should I do?

  “You’re trembling,” said Charlotte, turning toward me. “Are you feeling all right?”

  I shook my head.

  I don’t know what to do, Daniel.

  “You poor thing.” She put her arm around me and kissed me again, then felt my forehead. “God, you’re burning up.”

  Are you listening, Daniel?

  I turned and looked for Julia again, but she was gone.

  DANIEL?

  WE SPENT three hours standing before various paintings and statues and reading from Margaret’s guidebook, but all I could see was Julia with her green eyes filled with tears as she fled from the Louvre.

  After we were done Charlotte and Margaret wanted to stop for a drink but I told them I’d meet them back at the hotel. Once I got around the corner I ran all the way to Julia’s hotel but she had already checked out. The concierge said she left in a hurry.

  Two days later we sailed for New York.

  I could hardly breathe.

  IS THAT YOU, Daniel?

  Yes, it’s me. How are you, Patrick?

  But it can’t be you. Shit, I’m so confused.

  Did you tell Julia?

  Tell her what? That you… that you died? Daniel, I couldn’t find her. Not until I saw her at the memorial.

  She’s beautiful, isn’t she, Patrick?

  Oh God, yes. And you have a daughter.

  A girl?

  Robin. I’m so sorry, Daniel. You should have lived, not—

  That wasn’t for us to decide.

  But I’ve made such a mess of things.

  You love Julia, don’t you?

  Yes, yes I do, Daniel. But I didn’t mean to—

  My dear Julia.

  She misses you so. If you could have seen her. The look in her eyes. She was just like you described, only sadder.

  But you lost her too?

  Yes, I lost her too.

  I WAITED ten months to get a letter from Julia. The envelope was postmarked New York but there was no return address. The letter itself was short and formal; I assumed she feared it might fall into Charlotte’s hands. It read:

  Dear Patrick:

  Perhaps you’ll remember me: I’m the woman you met briefly at the dedication to the memorial. You were a close friend of Daniel’s, the father of my child. Anyway, I thought you should know that I’m engaged to marry. He’s a wonderful man and I’m sure he’ll make a good father to my daughter Robin.

  I hope this letter finds you and your family in the best of health and thank you again for all your kindness.

  Sincerely yours,

  Julia

  Married.

  I stood by our mailbox at the end of our walkway, steadying myself.

  Married.

  I folded the letter, placed it back in the envelope and put it in my pocket.

  Married.

  I began walking down the sidewalk, away from our house. I could hear Sean’s laughter in the backyard, then Charlotte calling for him.

  Married.

  I said the word out loud.

  Married.

  So that was it, the end of any hope. And so quickly. Not even a return address. No way to reply.

  I carried the letter around with me for several days, studying the words and handwriting for something more, then burned it in the fireplace.

  Married.

  She’d found somebody. Somebody she could talk to. Someone who understood her. Someone like Daniel.

  I was devastated.

  A YEAR LATER Kelly was born. I guess I’d resigned myself to make the most of what I had; what Charlotte and I had. I also needed another person to love and to hold. Each day as I came home from work I couldn’t wait to see Kelly and Sean and hug them and roll on the carpet with them, and as I walked down the sidewalk toward our house I’d promise myself to draw closer to Charlotte, to concentrate on the things that we did have and not on the things that we didn’t.

  Sometimes at night I would stand in the children’s bedrooms and watch them sleep and wonder if I could ever have left them for Julia and the answer was always no, I couldn’t have. At least not until they were much older. Then I would look at Charlotte while she slept and I would wonder if I could ever stop thinking about all the parts that were missing—the things I’d felt with Julia—and I knew that the answer to that was no as well.

  I’m not sure if there is an exact moment when you realize that you married the wrong person or whether the realization just creeps up on you, stalking you occasionally at first and then relentlessly until you can no longer deny that there is a feeling even more lonely than being all alone. But once the feeling starts, it grows like ivy over every thought and gesture. I don’t think Charlotte ever figured out what happened. She just withdrew and grew angry and eventually made her own plans. I don’t know how long I would have lasted if she hadn’t asked for a divorce when Kelly was two. She had found a wealthy real estate agent named Amie with shiny blond hair and a large empty house in Florida. When I asked her for the children she burst into tears and screamed and told me she would fight. So I stayed up all night thinking and crying and drinking and in the morning I told her they belonged with their mother.

  I visited Sean and Kelly three times a week up until the day they moved to Fort Lauderdale. I promised Charlotte I’d sell the house for her and after they drove off I sat on the barren living room floor crying as I searched the empty walls for all the laughter and tears and birthdays and Thanksgivings and Christmases.

  Before I left I went upstairs, stopping first in our bedroom, which still smelled of Charlotte. I closed my eyes and inhaled, picturing her before the mirror in the bathroom. Then suddenly I laughed through my tears. Charlotte never did smell right. Even just out of the bath her skin and hair smelled all wrong, at least to me. It didn’t matter what perfume she wore, her own smell always came though. It always does. I think if the smell of a person is wrong, if the pheromones aren’t right, you can just about forget the rest of the relationship and save a lot of grief.

  I walked down the hallway to the children’s bedrooms and stood in each one studying the crayon marks and the stickers on the walls and the stray pieces of Lincoln Logs and little blocks still littering the closet floors. When grief overwhelmed me I hurried out and drove for three hours before returning to the small one-bedroom apartment I had rented. Six weeks later I sold the house and sent Charlotte the money. Then I quit my job at the accounting firm—business was so bad then that there wasn’t enough work for me anyway—and took six months off to drive across the Depression-wracked country, wondering what to do with the rest of my life.

  If I drank too much, which was seldom then, I would question whether Julia had ever really existed at all, or whether she had just risen from the mist temporarily like the Angel at Mons; a vision c
onfined to soldiers in need. That’s when I started writing letters to her, unsent letters that I wrote in my journal telling her all the things I wanted to say but couldn’t. Writing page after page late into the night was the closest I could come to her, though it wasn’t very close at all, especially after I turned out the light.

  DEAR JULIA,

  What do I say to you tonight, another night when I wonder where you are and if you really are happy and if you ever still think about our days together in France. I quit my job, Julia, did I tell you that? You’d be proud of me, I think. I’ve got a job starting in the fall teaching history at a small high school in Vermont. Remember how Daniel used to say there were only three noble pursuits in life? Well, you know I’m no artist and I don’t feel strong enough for charity work right now so I’ve gone into teaching. You’d be pleased, wouldn’t you? And did I tell you that I’ll be able to take Sean and Kelly for the summer now? They hate the heat in Florida and I’ll have a small cottage right near campus with plenty for them to do. I do miss them so and I often wonder how your family is and whether Robin now has a brother or sister.

  Please take care of yourself.

  Good night, Julia.

  WHAT A CRISP, clear memory today! July 1955, and I was just about to start teaching a class on European history when a headline in the newspaper on my desk caught my eye. A tremendous underground explosion in Belgium near Messines: one of two massive mines that never detonated on June 7, 1917, when British tunnelers mined the German lines, killing ten thousand outright. One more mine remains. Waiting.

  Did Julia hear about it? She would have thought of me. She must have. The class stared at me, waiting. I spent the hour talking about the mines at Messines.

  I FINALLY captured Julia. Not perfectly. But closer than I’ve ever gotten before. Certainly closer than I’ll ever get again. I spent four days on the drawing, sequestering myself in my room for the final day.