Love Letters from Montmartre

by Nicolas Barreau

  Life was as bright as a summer’s day, and everything we put our hands to seemed to meet with success. Until misfortune struck.

  ‘Blood at the wrong time,’ Hélène said one morning as she emerged from the bathroom. ‘Don’t worry, it won’t be anything bad.’

  But it was bad. Worse than bad. I was the author of romantic comedies that sold amazingly well. That was how I made my livelihood. And then all of a sudden, my vocabulary was punctuated with deeply troubling words like colorectal cancer, tumour markers, cisplatin, metastasis, morphine pump, hospice.

  I learned first-hand the truth that life is no walk in the park, despite Hélène’s brave face and the first, optimistic, prognosis. After one year, it looked as if the illness had been beaten. It was summer, and we took Arthur on a trip to the Brittany coast. Life was more precious than ever – a gift. We had once again dodged the bullet.

  But then Hélène complained about pain in her back.

  ‘I’m slowly turning into an old woman,’ she teased as she knotted her vivid pareo around her.

  But the cancer had already spread everywhere, clinging like tiny crabs to her body and refusing to be evicted. It was all over by mid-October. The metastases kept on spreading and Hélène was failing along with them. My ever-optimistic, joyful Hélène, who loved to laugh. All the dreams we’d had died with her.

  I remained behind, with our little son, a heavy heart, a promise still unkept, and a bank account that was gradually dwindling. It was March, and I hadn’t written even one line in over a year. My new novel consisted of fifty pages, and now my publisher was standing at my door, wanting to know how the book was coming.

  The ringing stopped.

  Monsieur Favre was a real gentleman. He had been extremely sympathetic, and hadn’t pressed me over the past year. He had given me time to pull myself together, to recover, to sort myself out, as people like to say. He hadn’t mentioned the novel even once, despite having originally planned for it to be released this year, before silently postponing it to next spring.

  He had tried to make contact for the first time two weeks ago. The grace period was obviously over. Tentative questions left on my answering machine, which stayed plugged in day and night. A sympathetic letter that concluded with a question. His number appearing over and over again on my cellphone.

  I was pretending to be dead, and in a way I was. My creativity had been extinguished. My wit had turned to cynicism. I floundered through my days and was at a permanent loss for words. What could I have said, anyway? That I would never again put anything readable down on paper? That I no longer had words left inside me – a sad, sad man who was supposed to create light-hearted comedies? The irony of fate. God was a sadistic joker, and I was hopelessly lost.

  ‘Drama, drama, drama,’ I murmured with a bitter smile as I peered out of the window again.

  Monsieur Favre had vanished, and I breathed more easily. He had obviously given up.

  I lit a cigarette and glanced at the clock. Three hours to go until I had to pick up Arthur from nursery school. Arthur was the only reason I was still among the living. Why I still got up in the mornings, got dressed, went to the grocer’s to buy food. Talked.

  My little boy never gave up. He got that from his mother. He would lace his small fingers into mine and drag me over to admire what he had built from Lego. He crawled into bed with me at night and snuggled up against me, trustingly. He drew me into conversations, asked thousands of questions, and made plans. He said things like: ‘I want to go to the zoo to see the giraffes,’ or: ‘Papa, you’re scratchy,’ or: ‘You promised to read to me,’ or: ‘Is Maman lighter than air now?’

  I stubbed out the cigarette and sat back down at the desk. I smoked too much, drank too much. I was subsisting on stomach tablets. I shook another cigarette out of a packet that featured a picture of a smoker’s lung. Oh, come on! That’s how I was going to end up, but before that point, I would finish at least this one letter – the first of thirty-three, which seemed as superfluous to me as a goitre. Letters to a dead person. I ran my fingers through my hair.

  ‘Oh, Hélène, why, why?’ I whispered, staring at the framed picture that sat on the dark green leather desk pad.

  It made me jump when the apartment doorbell chimed. Startled, I tugged at the small chain on the old-fashioned green banker’s lamp, cutting off the light that had been burning needlessly since early morning. Who could that be? A moment later, someone started pounding on the door.

  ‘Azoulay? Azoulay, open up. I know you’re in there!’

  Yes, I was in here, in the prison of my own choosing up here on the fourth floor. I couldn’t help thinking back a few years, to the time when Hélène and I had met with the real-estate agent in the empty rooms of this old apartment, which we could actually afford with my first royalty payment. The agent had called it a dream apartment: sunny, only a few steps from Boulevard Saint-Germain, but still quiet. But no elevator, Hélène had protested. When we’re old, we’ll be huffing and puffing by the time we clamber all the way up here. We’d laughed – ‘When we’re old’ had sounded so distant then. How strange, what people think about – and then something completely different comes along.

  In any case, Jean-Pierre Favre had successfully entered the apartment building, and had nimbly conquered the stairs as well.

  He had probably rung the neighbour’s doorbell. Hopefully it hadn’t been Cathérine Balland, who had a key to our apartment – in case of emergency.

  Cathérine had been my wife’s best friend. She lived on her own with her cat Zazie, one floor below us, and had tried to support me as much as she could. Up until five days before Hélène’s death, she had kept the faith that everything might still turn out all right. She occasionally babysat Arthur and spent hours playing Uno with him, a card game whose appeal I had never understood. She really was amazingly nice, but she missed Hélène too much to actually provide much consolation. Quite the opposite – I sometimes couldn’t bear her ‘Oh, Julien . . . ’ and the mournfully expressive gaze from her half-moon, Julie Delpy eyes.

  So far, I hadn’t started bawling in front of her. Thank goodness for that.

  ‘Azoulay? Azoulay, don’t be silly. I just saw you at the window. Open the door! It’s me, Jean-Pierre Favre. Your publisher, remember me? Don’t leave me standing out here like an idiot. I just want to talk. Open up!’ Renewed pounding.

  I stayed in my chair, not moving a single muscle. How could a little man with such perfectly manicured hands muster up so much endurance and strength?

  ‘You can’t stay holed up in there for ever,’ he bellowed through the door.

  Sure I can, I thought defiantly.

  I tiptoed over to the hall door, hoping to hear his footsteps fade away down the wooden staircase. But I didn’t hear anything. Maybe we were both standing there – me on the inside, he on the outside – holding our breath and straining to listen.

  And then there was a noise, the sound of someone tearing a page out of a notebook. Seconds later a white sheet of paper slid under the door.

  Azoulay? Are you all right? Please tell me, at least, that everything is fine. You don’t have to let me in, but I won’t leave until you have given me some sign of life. I’m worried about you.

  He clearly assumed I was standing on a chair with a rope around my neck, like the sad hero in Bread & Tulips, one of his favourite films.

  I smiled against my will and softly padded back to my desk.

  Everything is fine.

  I printed neatly on the page before pushing it back under the door.

  Why won’t you let me in?

  I thought for a moment.

  I can’t.

  This received an immediate response.

  What does that mean? Are you naked? Or drunk? Do you have a lady visitor?

  I covered my mouth, pressed my lips together, and shook my head. Lady visitor – only Favre would still use such an old-fashioned phrase.

  No, no lady visitor. I’m writing.
/>   I shoved the sheet back under the door and waited.

  I’m so happy to hear that, Azoulay. It’s good that you’re writing again. It will help distract you, you’ll see. I won’t bother you any more. Write, my friend! Let me hear from you. Talk to you soon!

  Yes. Soon! I’ll be in touch.

  I wrote back.

  Jean-Pierre Favre hesitated a moment, irresolute, but I then heard his footsteps on the stairs. I hurried to the window and watched him leave the house, his coat collar turned up. With quick little steps, he headed along Rue Jacob towards Boulevard Saint-Germain.

  I sat back down at the desk and started to write.

  Dear Hélène,

  You’d have enjoyed the funeral. That makes it sound as if it were yesterday, and for me it is, although six months have passed since then. Time has stood still since that glittering golden October day that was so unsuited for a funeral and so suited for you, who were always aglow. I hope you can see that I’m finally writing to you. The first of thirty-three pointless letters. No, forgive me. I don’t want to be cynical. You wanted this, and we shook on it. I will keep this last promise. You had something in mind, I’m sure of that, even if I have no idea what it might have been.

  Everything has become pointless since you left.

  But I’m trying, truly I am. You told me that you would read my letters from wherever you happened to be. I really want to believe that my words will somehow reach you.

  It’s almost spring, Hélène. But spring without you isn’t really spring. The clouds are moving through in clusters. It rains, and then the sun comes back out again. This year we won’t be able to go for walks through the Jardin du Luxembourg, holding Arthur’s hands and swinging him through the air with a ‘one-two-three upsy-daisy’.

  I’m afraid I’m not very good at being a single dad. Arthur complains a lot that I never laugh. Tonight we watched an old Disney film together, Robin Hood. You know, the one with the foxes. We’ve seen it five times this month. When we reached the scene where Robin Hood and his men use a rope and pulleys to steal the sacks of gold from bad old Prince John, while he’s snoring away in his bed, Arthur suddenly announced: ‘Papa, you have to laugh. That was really funny!’ I tried to smile and pretend like it was.

  Oh, Hélène! I spend all my time pretending. I pretend to watch TV, pretend to read, pretend to write, to talk on the phone, to go shopping, to go for walks, to listen. I pretend to live.

  Life is so damned hard. I’m trying, you must believe me. I’m trying to be strong the way you said, to keep on living without you.

  But without you, the world is so lonely, Hélène. Without you I’m lost. It feels like I can’t get anything right any more. Anyway, you would have liked the ceremony. Everyone said it was a really nice funeral. I know that’s a contradiction in itself, but still . . . I planned everything the way you wanted. I can at least be proud of that.

  I found a wonderful spot in the Cimetière Montmartre, right next to an old chestnut tree. Heinrich Heine’s grave isn’t too far away, either. You’d be pleased. I told everyone who came to the funeral to wear anything but black, just as you’d asked. On that October morning – only a few days after your thirty-third birthday – everything would have been perfect, had we not been saying goodbye to you for ever. The sun shone, and the leaves glowed in shades of yellow and red. Everything was peaceful, almost cheerful. A long procession of brightly dressed guests trailed behind your coffin with all of its flowers, almost like they were going to a party of some kind. I wondered if something so dressy could also be so sad. And yes, it could.

  Everyone came. Your father, your brother, and your aunts and cousins from Burgundy. My mother and her sister Carole, who even brought along old Paul, her perpetually bewildered husband, who kept asking every few minutes: ‘Who died?’ He forgot again as soon as you told him. All our friends were there. Even your childhood friend Annie from Honfleur came, dashing into the cemetery after the ceremony in the chapel had already ended and we were gathered around the grave. She was so late because some poor guy had thrown himself in front of her train. She managed to find a taxi driver willing to drive her at breakneck speed over the last stretch to Paris. Her arrangement of roses and lilies was in tatters, but she made it, loyal soul.

  So many of your worker friends were there, as well as the students from your class. The principal said words in the chapel, and the priest also handled his part with some feeling. The school choir sang the Ave Maria. I surprised myself by finding it moving. Cathérine gave a wonderful eulogy, which touched everyone. She was very calm and collected, and I really admired that. Later she confessed that she’d taken a sedative. I couldn’t manage anything – I’m sure that comes as no surprise – but I did set up a large photo of you in the chapel – the one of you standing in the giant lavender field, your arms folded as you laugh so exuberantly into the camera. Our first trip together to Provence, remember? You look so happy. It’s one of my favourites, even if you always complain that the sun makes you squint.

  I picked out a song for you, and it was played as we stood around the grave. ‘Tu est le soleil de ma vie’, our French version of Stevie Wonder’s hit. Because that’s what you always were for me, my love, the sunshine of my life.

  I couldn’t console Arthur when they lowered the coffin into the ground. He clung to me, and then to Mamie. It was horrible for all of us to have to watch you disappear, for ever and irretrievably, into that deep hole. Alexandre stood beside me, like a boulder in the surf, and squeezed my arm.

  ‘Trust me, this is the worst moment,’ he said. ‘It won’t get worse than this.’

  This reminded me of the words from Philippe Claudel, who once wrote that eventually we all end up following coffins.

  I stood there, frozen, and saw all the flowers and wreaths with the final wishes. I watched my sobbing child who no longer had a mother, and that was the last thing I saw, as the tears wouldn’t stop. Things eased up once we reached the restaurant afterward. The guests chattered busily, loaded up their plates, even laughed. Everyone was relieved to be on the other side, and this brought a temporary intimacy and joviality. I even ended up chatting with various people, and eating some of the appetisers because I was suddenly ravenous. Arthur flitted from one person to another, explaining that you had taken all of your suitcases and moved to heaven, where you would be pretty once more. And that you were bound to be happy to see your Maman again. (I wasn’t quite sure about that, though, knowing how difficult your mother was. I just hope you won’t end up arguing up there in heaven, where they say great peace and quiet is supposed to reign.)

  Anyway, Arthur imagines that you’ve been able to somehow magically abandon your coffin and are now floating above the clouds. He is convinced you are doing well because now you’re an angel and can eat clafoutis aux cerises up there every day. You adored that warm cherry cake, didn’t you?

  I recently fixed him spaghetti and his favourite sauce (a little ketchup combined with cream and everything warmed up in a pot – I can still manage that), and as I did so, Arthur suddenly announced that you’d told him you were going on a very, very long trip, and that you wouldn’t be able to get phone calls where you were going because the reception was so bad.

  ‘But don’t worry, Papa,’ he added. ‘We’ll see each other there someday, and until then, Maman will visit us in our dreams. She said she would. I often see her in my dreams,’ he assured me, though I wasn’t completely sure that he wasn’t just making this up to help me feel better. ‘She looks like an angel, and has long hair now.’

  Yesterday, he also wanted to know if you had wings and if you really could see EVERYTHING from heaven. I think he’d secretly eaten some chocolate after brushing his teeth and was a little anxious about that.

  I wish I could cope with your death as well as Arthur has, Hélène. Now and then he’s sad and misses his Maman, but he has been much quicker at accepting that you no longer exist down here. He often asks me what Maman would say to things – and
I wonder that myself. I have so many questions and no answers, my beloved. Where are you now?

  I miss, miss, miss you!

  I have used only one exclamation mark here, but it ought to be a thousand.

  I’ve grown humble in my pain. I’d be satisfied if I could just borrow you from ‘up there’ for one afternoon a month, so we could spend a few hours together. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if something like that were possible?

  Instead of that, I’m finally writing to you. Anyway.

  I’m glad that Mamie lives so close that she can take care of Arthur. She helps me so much. She misses you, as well. She liked you from the start, from the very first time I took you home to meet her. Remember? She is the complete opposite of the evil mother-in-law. And like every good grandma, she idolises little Arthur. He can twist her around his little finger with his endless chattering, and she can’t resist any of his requests. It’s enough to make you jealous. I don’t recall her being nearly so patient and kind with me. When it gets warmer, the two of them want to drive to Honfleur for two weeks, to the beach. It will do the boy good to not have to see my mournful expression all the time.

  Favre showed up at my door this morning. He also came to the funeral with his wife Matilde, who seems like a very nice, warm-hearted person. Of course, he wants to know what’s going on with the new novel. I have no idea if I’ll ever finish it. You would tell me that I need to pull myself together, but I still need some time. Time gives, time takes away. Time heals all wounds. That’s the stupidest saying I’ve ever heard.

  I can only hope that you are doing better, my angel! By the way, you might be happy to hear that I ordered a marble gravestone for you. It’s decorated with a bronze tablet with the head of an angel on it. Alexandre, our super-aesthete, knew of a stonemason who works with a sculptor. He was the one who designed the relief, using a picture of you as the model. Even Arthur recognised you right away when we visited your grave recently. It turned out exquisitely. I told him that the two of us had met at this cemetery, at Heinrich Heine’s grave. I explained that without this poet, he might never have been born. That made him laugh out loud.