Love Story

by Janine Boissard

  No thanks, Claudio, not tonight, not out of desperation.

  He insisted, forcing my hand to caress him. He breathed hard, smelling of alcohol, ugly and grimacing. I was not even sure if I loved him; I wanted never to see him again, to slam the door, to disappear.

  I managed to disengage from him and get up. He got up too, large, formidable.

  “Why don’t you reply when I talk to you?”

  He took my arm to hold me back. With his other hand, he fumbled for, then found, my face. I closed my eyes. His fingers traveled along my cheeks.

  “You’re crying, Laura. Are you crying?”

  His hand fell away. He remained for a moment, then turned his back to me.

  “Get out before I rape you. Go.”

  12.

  It was eight o’clock when the phone woke me: David.

  Claudio had just called him in Athens to inform him of his decision to stop singing. He had refused to respond to his agent’s questions. It was finished, over, definite. Period.

  “Laura, what happened?”

  The “father’s” voice was rougher than ever. Mine was hardly better when I told him about the night, La Traviata, Alfredo. I had barely slept, tormented by fear and remorse. Fear that Claudio would do something stupid; remorse for not having stayed close to him.

  And for not having agreed to what he had asked of me.

  What was my dear little body worth in the face of the despair of the man I loved? Yes, whom I loved. Haven’t I given my body out of habit, sometimes out of pity, sometimes for the simple pleasure of it? Maybe Claudio would be content with fucking; I could make love for two.

  “At twenty, he was already dreaming of singing Alfredo,” David soberly remarked then, from Greece. “Haven’t you ever asked yourself, Laura, why he refused all invitations to sing or record the great arias as they all do these days? Because an opera singer is also an actor, and for him, that was finished. Never again could he appear on stage and play an entire role. He will never realize his dream. And I would like to know which imbecile told him that La Traviata was on television last night.”

  “I think it was Hélène Reigner. She called him as soon as the opera ended. He didn’t answer.”

  “Good God, doesn’t she understand anything?”

  “You must come back here,” I said. “He’s desperate. I don’t know what to do.”

  “I’ll be there late tomorrow afternoon,” he promised. “In the meantime, look after him, Laura, and ask Maria not to leave the house.”

  Was he feeling the same dread as I?

  I was in Neuilly by nine o’clock. Maria had just arrived.

  “He’s sleeping.”

  I was anxious to reassure myself about that, which was easy to do since she had left the door to his room ajar to hear if he called. He was sleeping noisily, heavily.

  “He had a bad night,” I said.

  She shook her head sadly and gestured toward the chaos in the living room, the empty flask of cognac on the floor.

  “Could I have a cup of coffee?” I asked.

  We had a cup together in the kitchen, and when I admitted that I had skipped breakfast, she offered some fresh bread that she had just bought for Claudio. She brought him some every morning. He preferred bread to croissants: whole wheat bread.

  “Like me,” I said.

  Dark bread.

  Maria told me that she had taken care of Claudio for more than fifteen years, since he first arrived in Neuilly, a young man. She had been just about to retire when the accident happened. She continued for him. Only for him.

  I asked the question that often tormented me.

  “Don’t his parents take care of him?”

  “His mother comes from time to time, but he says that he doesn’t want to be treated like a child.”

  “And his father?”

  She sighed.

  “I don’t know. I think he didn’t support Claudio. He left.”

  Was his father one of those men who fled unhappiness? I didn’t press the issue.

  “If you had seen him before…There were always parties here. He never stopped playing jokes on me. I gave notice quite a few times.” She laughed while wiping her eyes. “Is there really nothing that can be done?”

  For the idea to have come to me so quickly, as though evident, vital, it must have come to me earlier, germinated in my mind.

  Yes. There was something that could be done.

  A cornea transplant would be possible, David had replied when I had asked the same question as Maria had asked.

  In Claudio’s papers, which I had organized, I easily found the contact numbers of Dr. Leblond, the ophthalmologist who had treated Claudio after the attack and continued to follow his case. A fine doctor; the best, according to David. Retired from the hospital, he now practiced in a private clinic.

  It was nearly ten o’clock. Claudio was still sleeping and I prayed that he wouldn’t wake up too quickly. Maria was cleaning the living room. I called from the kitchen on my cell phone.

  When I told the doctor’s assistant that I needed an appointment urgently for Claudio Roman, she found an opening the same afternoon. There are some names that open all doors.

  “You might have to wait a little.”

  “That’s not important.”

  I kept myself from telling her that the patient would not be accompanying me.

  When you have an idea in your head… Mom said.

  I entrusted Claudio to Maria. David would be there in the evening. If there was any problem, she shouldn’t hesitate to call me.

  I tiptoed out, like a thief.

  He doesn’t want to hear talk of transplants, David had said.

  13.

  Dr. Leblond’s office, in the seventh arrondissement, looked out onto the Eiffel Tower. It was still cold, but the sun triumphed in a pitiless blue sky. A long line of tourists waited to climb the famous monument to admire the view. Had Claudio ever done that? A lot of Parisians never bothered.

  “Mr. Roman isn’t with you?” The doctor’s assistant was surprised when I pushed open the door to the office.

  “He couldn’t come out.”

  She knit her brow.

  “But…”

  “Something very serious happened to him,” I said quickly, terrified that she might cancel the appointment.

  She became wary.

  “Who are you, miss?”

  “His sister.”

  The reply came instinctively. I could have said his publicist, and no doubt she would have turned me away.

  She pointed to a small waiting room, where two people were already sitting: an old woman accompanied by a young one, probably mother and daughter. Did they notice that my hands were shaking as I took a magazine?

  The doctor received me some thirty minutes later. He didn’t seem surprised to see me alone. His assistant must have alerted him.

  He was well into his sixties, with white hair and an understanding look, a father’s look, behind his thick glasses. My throat tightened. Even having the best father, you don’t stop searching for others a little bit everywhere, especially those in white coats. And the most obstinate of daughters, even with the best intentions, can feel themselves close to succumbing.

  After having closed the door, he didn’t return to his desk. He gestured toward two armchairs side by side.

  “Let’s sit here.”

  Then he looked at me with a mischievous smile.

  “I didn’t know that Claudio Roman had a little sister.”

  He knew. He knew that I had lied and he had received me anyway. Gratitude swelled in my chest and I told him everything: my work with the singer, our travels, all the nights he came into my room to cry for help, his fear, his despair. And yesterday, the explosion while hearing La Traviata, Alfredo. When Claudio had gone out barely dressed, his throat exposed, into his icy garden, it had been a kind of suicide, I was sure of it. To kill his voice. To kill himself.

  “Besides, he decided to stop singing. It’s
not possible, Doctor. What will he become? If he doesn’t sing, there will be nothing left for him.”

  The doctor took a handful of tissues from his desktop and held them toward me. And I wanted to laugh then. Laughter had long served as my defense.

  “What do you expect of me, miss?” he asked after letting me calm down for a couple of minutes.

  “It seems that a cornea transplant would be possible for his right eye, the one least injured.”

  “That’s correct. The cornea of his right eye suffered less damage than his left eye. The tension of that eye is normal; the retina and lens are intact.”

  “If you operate, what are the chances that he will regain his sight?”

  “About fifty percent.”

  One chance in two.

  He dreads finding himself in complete darkness if it fails, David had said.

  “If that fails, would he continue to see a little?”

  “At the worst, he would be as he was right after the attack.”

  I breathed more easily.

  “And when could you operate, Doctor?”

  Dr. Leblond opened his eyes wide.

  Always in a rush, my mother would have said.

  “Unfortunately it’s very difficult to find organ donors. For a cornea, the wait could be six months to a year.”

  I was overwhelmed by disappointment.

  “So it won’t be possible.”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “I can’t put Claudio in this position and ask him to wait six months.”

  Dr. Leblond looked at me incredulously.

  “Put him in this position? Do you mean to say that he hasn’t changed his mind? That he’s still opposed to a transplant?”

  “Claudio doesn’t know that I’m here,” I confessed.

  The doctor sighed.

  “You had led me to hope for better news.”

  I leaned toward him. How could I succeed without his aid? Without his trust?

  “Doctor, I will change his mind. I know I can. But six months…Isn’t there any way to move more quickly?”

  “A few weeks at the most. The waiting list is long. Everything goes through the French Eye Bank.”

  “And if I gave him one of my corneas?”

  The idea had just come to me. Yes, why not?

  “I have excellent eyes, twenty/twenty,” I added.

  This time, Leblond looked at me as though I were completely mad. I guess he wasn’t wrong.

  “You’re joking. You really believe such an offer would be accepted?”

  The telephone rang. He picked it up and listened for a couple of seconds.

  “Later,” he said impatiently. “Give me another fifteen minutes, please.”

  He hung up.

  “Another fifteen minutes to tell me that it’s impossible? That Claudio will never see again? That we forget about it? That we let him die?”

  Rebellion paralyzed my voice. I felt as though I was fighting against the entire earth.

  “You seem to forget that it was he who refused the opportunity,” Leblond said dryly.

  That was right. And I lost my head.

  “I beg you, help me,” I murmured.

  He rose and took a few steps, frowning, thinking. Then he turned to me again.

  “Would you be prepared to take Claudio to New York?”

  “Anywhere, if that can give him the chance to see again.”

  “In the United States, there’s practically no waiting list. There’s less hesitation than here in donating organs. And for those who have the means to pay, there’s no problem. I have a friend there, Dr. Miller, a great admirer of our singer too. If I ask him, he will certainly agree to take care of this, and relatively quickly.” He smiled at me. “But you can’t get around this, Miss ‘Sister’: we will not be able to do anything without his consent.”

  “I will have his agreement.”

  “And I would like to have your faith.”

  “They say that it can move mountains.”

  “The trouble is that Claudio is a mountain chain by himself.”

  We laughed. Joy trembled inside me. I could no longer believe that I had won, at least this match.

  He came back to me and took a calling card from his desk.

  “Here are my personal contact numbers. If, with any luck, you achieve your goal, call me immediately. I’ll get in touch with Miller. As for you, you must be ready to leave very quickly with Claudio, as I suppose you will accompany him to New York.”

  “We’ll be ready.”

  I took his card and stood up. My fifteen minutes were over. I felt as though I were in a dream. I was afraid to wake up.

  “One last thing: you should know that it’s often the last moments before an operation that are the most difficult for the person who will be operated on. The patient wants and refuses the transplant at the same time. ‘And if the operation fails? If I’m like I was before? Or worse than before?’ Some call that the torture of hope. Some prefer to resign themselves just to escape that torture.”

  “Claudio will never resign himself to not being Alfredo.”

  Alfredo is there, a prisoner, he had said as he put my hand on his chest and I had felt the beating heart of a condemned man.

  We were at the door. The doctor stopped.

  “Whatever happens, you should absolutely stay close to him until the last minute. I would almost say until you reach the door to the operating theater, to prevent him from changing his mind.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  All along my way, it would be my tearful eyes

  With which I would watch the far horizons.

  Mozart. Hope.

  Night is lifted.

  Day is come.

  Renaissance. Mendelssohn.

  14.

  “What’s gotten into you, Laura? Have you lost your head or what? To show up at Leblond’s, just like that, without telling anyone, not even me.”

  High treason?

  “If I had spoken with you about it, David, would you have let me go?”

  “Of course not. Claudio refused this transplant once and for all. By putting this subject back on the table, you’re going to stir all this up again; you’re going to completely destroy him.”

  “Destroy? He’s already destroyed. And nothing is over, you know that. He was never resigned to not singing opera again.”

  David didn’t respond. He was also suffering for Claudio. He also must have been afraid of what despair could do. Besides, hadn’t he spent the night in Neuilly?

  It was eleven o’clock on this white winter morning. The cold hadn’t let up since Sunday. We were in one of the reception rooms of a large hotel near the François I square. Above me was gold leaf, dazzling décor, luxury where there was no suffering—or where suffering was hiding.

  The agent laughed.

  “Don’t tell me that Leblond wasn’t surprised by your…surprise visit. He must have taken you for a fool.”

  “Not at all. New York and Dr. Miller were his idea. He believed me when I told him that I’d be able to convince Claudio.”

  “No one has been able, Laura. Not Leblond, not me, not anyone else. Do you think we haven’t tried? The only thing we succeeded at was putting him in a terrible state. And didn’t the fifty-chances-in-a-hundred failure rate make you think?”

  “Fifty chances in a hundred that the operation would succeed: that kept me going.”

  He sighed. I leaned toward him. Of course I was audacious, oblivious even; but did I have a choice?

  “David, when Claudio went out into the garden Sunday without covering himself, he wanted to die. It was suicide; he’ll do it again.”

  “He’s already had similar crises. He’s already decided ten times to stop everything. Then he calms down. We’re going to cancel his engagements for a few weeks and then, you’ll see, he’ll ask for new ones.”

  “Until the next time, the next despair…”

  David May lifted his eyes to the sky. He seemed ex
hausted. Since his return from Greece, he hadn’t had time to put his suitcase down in his beautiful house in Saint-Cloud. When he called this morning and I told him my intention to ask Claudio to go through with the operation, he wanted to see me right away.

  To dissuade me.

  He motioned to the waiter and asked for a second coffee. None for me, thank you. A bundle of nerves, my mother would have said.

  “You’re right, up to a point,” he admitted. “It was indeed Hélène Reigner who told him La Traviata was on TV. They were bombarded with requests to sing the principle arias as a duet. She dreams of it. She would make a superb Violetta.”

  “Claudio didn’t tell her that he didn’t want to?”

  “But she didn’t change her mind.”

  “And Sunday she made him crazy.”

  I hated her. She stirred up everything.

  “Claudio fell in love with that opera at sixteen while watching the Zeffirelli film. The most beautiful love story ever written, according to him. He knows all the versions by heart. He was offered the role just before the attack. He had begun rehearsals…with Hélène.”

  His coffee arrived. No sugar. He stirred the coffee mechanically. He didn’t wear a wedding ring, just a large signet ring.

  What did I know about him?

  A little Bulgarian who arrived in France with only the shirt on his back became important thanks to talent and tenacity, my old boss, his friend, had said. At first he had intimidated me. That was over now; but I respected him. He had overcome greater obstacles than those in my way. I respected and understood him. This desire to appear better than he was often hid a wound or something missing. Would I one day know David May’s wounds?

  Sometimes his glance told me that he was lonely.

  “When Claudio woke up in the hospital, after the attack, the first thing he said to me was, ‘I’ll never be Alfredo.’”