Love Letters from Montmartre

by Nicolas Barreau

  ‘Was it at least nice?’

  ‘At the time it was, otherwise I wouldn’t have stayed the night. She looked so pretty, and I felt so sorry for her and for me, too . . . somehow . . . ’ I trailed off.

  Alexandre seemed to consider something for a moment.

  ‘Want to know what I think?’ he asked finally.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Two unhappy people can’t comfort each other.’

  ‘Thanks for the tip,’ I said, rubbing my temples.

  ‘At least if they’re unhappy about the same person. There’s no way that can work.’

  I didn’t contradict him. It seemed to work just fine in the novels written by certain authors.

  ‘I just feel wretched,’ I said.

  ‘I’m not surprised. What has Cathérine said?’

  ‘No idea. She called a few minutes ago, but I didn’t answer.’

  ‘Man, oh man!’ Alexandre sighed, and I sighed, too. ‘Boy, you’ve screwed things up royally. Everyone knows to keep their fingers off their wives’ friends. That’s the fastest way to cause all sorts of trouble.’

  ‘Really, Einstein? I thought that was only true when the wife was still alive.’

  ‘That’s true, too.’ He laughed guardedly. ‘Don’t worry, Julien, it’ll all blow over. It was actually a very human thing, wasn’t it? Didn’t someone once say that under certain circumstances we could fall in love with anyone?’

  ‘But I don’t love her,’ I cried. What was he talking about? ‘It was just a stupid cocktail of various factors that made it happen.’

  ‘I know, Julien, I know,’ he said soothingly. ‘And believe me, it could have been worse.’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘It’s true! At the party, Elsa L. turned out to be a man-eater. Just be happy you didn’t fall into her clutches. You wouldn’t have been able to get rid of her as quickly as your pretty neighbour.’

  ‘What do mean get rid of? That’s not what I’m trying to do. I don’t want to get rid of Cathérine.’ For some reason, I felt a need to defend her. ‘I don’t have anything against her. I just need to make it clear to her that last night was a one-time thing.’

  ‘If it’s that easy, then talk to her.’

  Alexandre hung up, and I stared at my phone, hoping that Cathérine would call one more time during the course of the day. But my wife’s friend didn’t do that, nor did she leave a message.

  Her silence bothered me. For the next two days, it seemed as if Cathérine had dropped off the face of the planet. I didn’t risk calling her, since it was best not to discuss such things on the phone. One evening, I timidly rang her doorbell, but she didn’t answer. I was actually relieved to go back upstairs. I’d managed to convince myself that perhaps the whole thing had been just as unpleasant for her as it had been for me. Or did she just happen to be out, but was constantly checking her phone to see if I had called? I, her betrayer.

  Whatever the case, the radio silence made me nervous.

  On the day of Arthur’s return, I ran into her by accident that morning in my traîteur on Rue de Buci, where I was picking up a few peaches, some cheese, puff pastry tarts, and little meatballs in marinara sauce, one of Arthur’s favourites.

  We stood there with our bags, looking at each other in embarrassment.

  ‘Salut, Julien.’

  ‘Salut, Cathérine.’

  ‘How are you doing?’

  ‘Oh, good . . . good. And you?’

  ‘Yes . . . also good.’

  We didn’t say anything for a moment, then we both said simultaneously:

  ‘I . . . ’

  ‘Yes?’ She looked at me in suspense.

  ‘No, you first.’

  ‘No, no, you . . . ’

  It couldn’t keep going this way. Nor could we keep standing between the French bean salad with bacon and the stuffed crabs in their pink shell-shaped containers.

  ‘Would you like to have a cup of coffee somewhere?’

  She nodded.

  It wasn’t easy. Our conversation got off to a bumpy start. We were both self-conscious, and neither of us wanted to offend the other.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Julien. I don’t understand how that could have happened,’ Cathérine said, and looked ashamed. ‘But I . . . ’

  She shook her head and seemed to be really angry that, in her empathy for me and my situation, she had managed to miss her mark so widely.

  ‘And then you just tiptoed away the next morning, and I didn’t know, I didn’t know . . . ’ Her eyes held a plea.

  ‘That wasn’t right of me,’ I said quickly. ‘But I was so bewildered that morning, and now it feels like I betrayed Hélène. I feel awful.’

  ‘No, Julien, don’t beat yourself up over this.’ Cathérine leaned forward and patted my arm briefly. ‘It was . . . Uh, I’m not sure either. It was just the situation, right?’ Her eyes were doubtful. ‘Do you think Hélène would be upset with us?’

  Fingers in the wounds, I thought. Fingers in the wounds.

  I shook my head helplessly and didn’t answer the question.

  There was no us, only the sad unavoidable companionship on Rue Jacob.

  ‘Oh, Julien! We’re just both kind of unhinged these days,’ Cathérine declared. ‘Otherwise, it wouldn’t have happened.’ Her blue eyes watched me steadfastly. ‘But it has to get better sooner or later.’

  I nodded. ‘Yes, sooner or later, exactly.’

  We sipped our coffee and stayed sitting, both at a loss.

  ‘Know what, Cathérine?’ I finally said. ‘I think a good relationship is based on hope, not on mutual pity.’

  She nodded. ‘But . . . We can still be friends, right, Julien?’ she asked uncertainly.

  ‘Of course, Cathérine! What are you thinking? Of course we’ll still be friends!’

  I really meant it, too. In that moment, I was so relieved we’d finally been able to talk things out. However, there was one thing I wasn’t thinking about: Cathérine and I had never been friends. She was my wife’s friend. We didn’t have any common history. And whenever I saw her during the following weeks – when we ran into each other in the entry area, or I picked up Arthur from her apartment – I always had the feeling that the ground beneath me was slightly unsteady.

  Hélène, my beloved Hélène,

  The last few days have flown by. I had planned to go to Alexandre’s party on Saturday evening – I wrote you about it, as you might recall – but all of a sudden, Cathérine was standing at my door with a bottle of wine. It was her birthday, and she didn’t want to celebrate alone. A friend of hers had apparently cancelled on her at the last minute, and as you might suspect already, I ended up unexpectedly enjoying her marvellous lasagne.

  Cathérine was so happy I stayed with her, and it wasn’t any great sacrifice from my end. I must confess I wasn’t all that thrilled about going to the exhibition anyway. Alexandre means well, but I’m not ready yet to socialise with people I don’t know. I quickly feel quite lost in such situations. It’s nothing like it was earlier, when you and I would go places together. Even if we didn’t spend the entire time at each other’s side, our eyes would meet over and over again across the room and over people’s heads. With you at my side, dearest, I would have felt just fine at any kind of party. It feels strange to go everywhere on my own now. And mainly, to leave all alone. I walk down the street and feel somehow incomplete, alone with my thoughts. No post-event discussions, nothing amusing to recall. This is taking some time to get used to.

  So instead of the spring exhibition at L’espace des rêveurs, I spent a cosy evening in with Cathérine. We talked a lot about you, Hélène, and about the old times. It was really nice, but when we thought back to Cathérine’s thirtieth birthday, we both started feeling really sad.

  ‘I miss her so much. I don’t know what to do with it all,’ Cathérine said.

  Her words went straight through my heart. How quickly all of our lives have changed – in just two years. You are missed all over, H�
�lène. Oh, how you are missed!

  Cathérine has Zazie, and I have Arthur, but nothing, nothing, can fill this terrible void you have left behind. We toasted you, my darling, and thought about you, and how differently the evening would have gone if you’d been there!

  Arthur returned from Honfleur the day before yesterday. He came stomping up the stairs, holding Mamie’s hand and sporting a new tan. He jumped into my arms. I know it’s impossible, but it seems as if he grew a little taller while he was gone. I can’t begin to tell you how happy I am that he’s back. It was so very quiet without our boy here. Now the apartment is filled with life again. And with toys. You wouldn’t believe how quickly he pulled out his things and scattered them all over. Someday I’m going to slip on one of his damned Playmobil figures and break my leg.

  Just imagine: he brought a gift for me, and was so extremely proud of it. He had actually found a starfish on the beach. It’s supposed to bring me luck, he told me. We spent hours figuring out the best place for the starfish. Arthur can be a very conscientious little boy sometimes. He vacillated for a long time between my nightstand and my desk, but now the starfish is sitting in all of its beauty on the desk in front of your picture. So you can see it, too, Arthur explained.

  It had been ages since Maman and Aunt Carole had spent so much time together without arguing. Everything must have been quite peaceful. The days at the beach also did my aunt a world of good, and the sisters were able to talk about all sorts of things. It isn’t always a walk in the park for Carole, having to deal with Paul and his illness. He can’t be left alone for even a moment. But Camille seems to have done all right with him.

  And now for some good news! Camille is pregnant – by that nice man she met a few months ago. Talk about fast! But the two of them must be incredibly happy. The prospect of having a baby can bring such a rush of hope. Camille even told her father about it.

  ‘Papa, I’m going to have a baby,’ she said.

  And old Paul supposedly smiled at her blissfully and asked: ‘Is it mine?’

  You see how funny it actually would be if everything weren’t so sad.

  Maman told me that you have to trust in life itself, and that, in the end, everything will make sense. But when it comes to your death, my darling, I still can’t see any sense at all.

  I plan to go to the cemetery tomorrow and take you my letter. I can hardly believe this is already the twentieth I’ve written to you. Yes, sweetheart, I’m catching up, and it’s ended up being easier than I’d thought it would be. My voice, your silence. I wonder if you are seeing any of what is happening down here.

  Sometimes I think yes, sometimes no. And sometimes I just wish that I could receive an answer from you. Just once, that’s all.

  But that will never happen, and so I’ll just remain, until we can be together again,

  Your deeply saddened

  Julien

  Dearest Hélène,

  Arthur discovered our little secret yesterday. This is what happened.

  I had wanted to go to the cemetery in the morning, but then the nursery school called. Arthur had a stomach ache and wanted to go home, so could I please come and pick him up? When I got to the nursery, he was already feeling better. The teacher winked at me and said it was probably more mental than physical. He obviously wanted to be with me. Perhaps he was having a hard time adjusting from his holiday back to life at home. So I decided to take him along to the cemetery.

  We had hardly walked inside the gates and started down the path to your grave, when he caught sight of the conservator I already told you about. She was working on a weathered angel sculpture, and Arthur insisted on staying with her to see how she was going to reattach a broken wing.

  ‘May I watch for a few minutes, Papa?’ he wheedled, and since Sophie didn’t mind, I left him there and went on to your grave.

  I studied the countenance of the angel who gazes out, both day and night, and her face suddenly seemed more forbidding, her mouth more stern.

  I had just placed the letter in the compartment, when Arthur popped up, watching me.

  ‘What are you doing, Papa?’ he asked brightly.

  ‘Oh . . . well, I sometimes write letters to Maman,’ I confessed guiltily. ‘And to keep the letters from spoiling, I put them in this little mailbox.’

  ‘Cool,’ he said. That’s what all the kids in his class say – ‘Cool.’ The letters didn’t seem to bother him at all. ‘She’ll like getting them. It’s probably boring up in heaven sometimes,’ was his commentary. ‘Too bad I can’t write yet. When I can, I’ll write her some letters too.’

  I shut the little door and said: ‘But this is a secret, Arthur. Don’t tell anyone about it, all right? Nobody. Otherwise . . . otherwise, the letters won’t be picked up.’

  He nodded solemnly. ‘I won’t tell, Papa,’ he promised earnestly. ‘I know what a secret is. I’m not a baby any more.’

  He took my hand, and as we walked back along the path we saw Sophie sitting on a bench in the sunshine, eating her lunch. She had brought along several tartines and a small bottle of beer and she offered to share her sandwiches with us. Arthur talked a blue streak, describing everything that had happened on his trip to the beach. I was far off, lost in my own thoughts.

  Oh, Hélène! There’s something weighing heavily on me. I also have a secret, and it’s not a nice one. Maybe you already know about it, if you are actually still here, somewhere, looking down on us.

  I wasn’t completely honest with you, my dearest! That evening with Cathérine, that birthday evening I wrote about . . . it ended very differently.

  It’s true that we were both very sad, and it’s also true that we were both thinking a lot about you. But then, I don’t know how, we suddenly fell sobbing into each other’s arms. One thing led to another, and we ended up spending the night together.

  I’m so horribly ashamed, Hélène. I don’t love Cathérine, not even a little. We were both so unhappy that evening, and we clung to each other for support. It was wrong. It was a mistake. But I miss you so much all the time, and you are gone for ever. That’s hard to cope with. Oh, if only I could have you back! If only my letters could make you come back to life, I would write a thousand letters!

  And now I am sitting here with my guilty conscience, hoping that you can forgive me.

  ‘Would Hélène be upset with us?’ Cathérine asked when we were talking through everything.

  I didn’t have an answer for that. It feels as if I betrayed my darling Hélène. That is what you are for me, my darling.

  Can you forgive us? Can you forgive me?

  If only you could send an answer, you ever-silent angel send a sign to show me that everything is all right. I would give anything for that!

  I love you, my angel. I will always love you.

  Forgive me!

  Julien

  11

  Good spirits

  It would be May before I made it back to the Cimetière Montmartre.

  Maybe it was all the excitement with Cathérine, maybe the cold wind that was blowing across the Pont des Arts after I’d spent an evening with Alexandre close to Beaubourg. Or maybe it was Maxime, Arthur’s little friend from nursery school, who came over one afternoon and coughed all over me as we played Rabbit and Hedgehog. Whatever the case, I came down with the flu, and was laid flat out. My head roared, and my arms and legs ached. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d even run a low fever in the past few years. What I ran now made up for that. I dragged myself from bed to bathroom and then back to bed, helped Arthur get dressed in the morning, stuck a film in for him in the afternoon, and that was about it.

  During this time, I learned to value the good-hearted people who seemed to pop up everywhere to help me. Maman advised me to not go to the doctor – ‘They can’t do anything for the flu anyway, and all you’ll do is catch more germs in the waiting room’ – and came over every day to cook for us. I even managed to gain some weight during the fourteen days of my illness, which wa
s anything but typical. Élodie – the mother of Arthur’s coughing playmate, who was no longer coughing by this point – rang our bell every morning and took the children to nursery school. From the onset, Cathérine volunteered to pick Arthur up in the afternoons and to play with him on the days she could. She also frequently brought me, the patient, a small treat, which I accepted gratefully.

  Even Alexandre, who has an absolute phobia when it comes to bacteria and viruses, came to visit me twice. He held a handkerchief in front of his mouth and nose, and pulled his chair as far away as possible from the sofa I was stretched on.

  I slept a lot during this time. My body waged its battle against the virus, and so I dozed on, aided by half-closed curtains and some effective pain tablets, which put me in a peaceful frame of mind.

  One time, I dreamed about Hélène. She appeared before me, smiling, in a white robe with a crown of daisies in her hair. Was this the current fashion up in heaven? She kissed me softly on the lips and said:

  ‘I wanted to look in on you, Julien. Are you doing all right?’

  ‘Now I am,’ I sighed, relieved that she was back. ‘Please don’t leave again, Hélène. I need you so much.’

  ‘But Julien, mon drôle de mari,’ she replied with a gentle laugh. ‘I’m always with you. Didn’t you know that?’

  She sat on the edge of the bed and tenderly brushed the sweaty hair back from my forehead. I grasped her hand, which was so long and slender. I simply won’t let it go, I thought. I won’t ever let this hand go. I blissfully closed my eyes. Everything was good again. Hélène was with me, and I clutched her hand tightly . . .

  And when I woke up, I found myself still holding one of the bedposts. I stared at the wood for an age, in disbelief.

  One afternoon – I was well on my way to recovery at this point – Cathérine brought Arthur back home and lingered a little indecisively in the living room. She obviously had something on her mind. We could hear Arthur singing in his room, where he was sitting at his little table and colouring one picture after another, his newest favourite activity. Cathérine raised a finger to her lips and quietly shut the living-room door.