Sabine smiled regally, while Sophie’s eyes slipped past me curiously. ‘And who did you come with?’
‘Oh, I’m here alone,’ I said.
‘Really?’ she replied. ‘Are you a big Cocteau fan?’
‘It looks that way,’ I said, laughing.
‘Julien is also a writer,’ she explained to her cousin, and shot me a smile. ‘Although he always says he’s just a lousy writer of light fiction.’
Sabine cocked her eyebrows, a gesture she seemed to have practised extensively. ‘Truly entertaining people is an art that shouldn’t be underestimated,’ she declared, and I liked her right then and there. ‘How about we get something to drink? The theatre has a nice outdoor bar. If we hurry, we can get seats.’
‘Good idea!’ Sophie exclaimed, immediately rummaging around for something in her small handbag. ‘Go on. I’ll just call and say I’ll be out longer.’
A few minutes later we were sitting in a tiny courtyard located next to the café inside the theatre. Round Moroccan tables and potted palms had transformed this spot into an oasis. Black-and-white photos of famous actors were pasted together to create a gigantic collage. I recognised Jean-Louis Barrault, the melancholy mime from Children of Paradise, Brigitte Bardot, Jeanne Moreau, Cathérine Deneuve, Marlon Brando and Humphrey Bogart in his unmistakable Philip Marlowe trench coat. Every table in the small café was taken, and with our wine in hand we were happy to be among the select few who had managed to get a place here on this pleasant evening. We started out talking about the film, and then moved on to all sorts of other topics. Sophie was tactful enough to not mention that we knew each other from the cemetery.
For a change, the fact that I had lost my wife and was a widower didn’t matter one single bit this evening. Sabine had serious, intelligent eyes, but she could also be very funny. She worked as a culture editor for a magazine, and knew all sorts of insider stuff about books and films, which she voiced in vivid terms. She even knew my first novel, which she’d found ‘extremely amusing’. For some reason, this cheered me up.
The evening flew by. We didn’t notice that the small courtyard was empty until the waiter started to rather noisily shove the chairs under the tables.
Sophie glanced at her watch.
‘Mon Dieu! It’s past one o’clock,’ she exclaimed, turning to the waiter with a winsome smile. ‘Thank you for putting up with us so long.’
I insisted on paying for the wine – after all, I had received the tickets for free – and we said goodbye at the bottom of the theatre steps.
‘It was nice to meet you, Julien,’ Sabine said, handing me her card. ‘If you ever start doubting that you can write, just give me a call. I’d be glad to tell you how good you are.’ Her mouth curled into a mocking smile, and her eyes twinkled – an echo of Sophie.
I stuck the card in my pocket and nodded. ‘I’ll keep that in mind.’
‘Take care, Sophie. See you soon! Tell Chouchou hello for me.’ Sabine kissed her cousin on both cheeks and then walked down the street, her cape swirling around her.
Sophie grinned. ‘That was Sabine,’ she remarked. ‘My favourite cousin.’ She cocked her head to one side and smiled. ‘I have no cards with me, author, but it would be just fine if you wanted to call me in case you ever need someone to tell you how wonderful you really are.’ She winked. ‘I’d be glad to give you my cell number.’
‘That’s not necessary,’ I said, also smiling.
Sophie pulled a shawl around her shoulders and looked up into the sky, where the moon floated, full and silent.
‘It’s so quiet at this hour,’ she commented. ‘I think I like Montmartre the best at night.’ She looked at me. ‘Want to walk a little?’
We strolled down the street together.
‘That was a really strange film . . . strange and beautiful at the same time,’ she said.
I nodded vaguely as she absentmindedly climbed the steps to Place Émile Goudeau, which sat under its tall trees, silent and enchanted. The small restaurant on the lower side of the square had shut its doors hours ago, and closed white parasols stood between the empty chairs, like sentinels of the night.
Slowing her pace, Sophie paused beside the old-fashioned water fountain in the middle of the square, inside its ring of four greenish shimmering caryatids.
‘I liked one particular sentence a lot.’
‘Which sentence do you mean?’
Her face turned dreamy. ‘Every world is touched by love.’
‘Yes, that is a very lovely sentence.’
‘Do you think there are other worlds besides our own, Julien?’
‘Perhaps. It sometimes seems that way, doesn’t it? The universe is so unbelievably large.’
‘Unending,’ she said. ‘That’s practically impossible for us to comprehend.’
Our footsteps echoed off the pavement.
‘You know what? That man, Orphée, reminded me a little of you.’
‘Why? Because of his dead wife?’
‘No, because he almost picked the wrong side.’ She smiled. ‘In any case, I’m very glad the black princess released Orphée. Life should always win in the end, not death.’
We stopped walking and looked at each other. For a moment, it felt like our hearts touched across the few steps that separated our bodies.
‘This is where we part ways,’ she then said. ‘I have to go along here, and you have to head down there. Good night, Julien!’
‘Good night, Sophie,’ I replied.
I watched her go. An impish wind was playing with the hem of her dress, and with sudden regret, it occurred to me that the nicest girls were always taken.
18
The map of my heart
I had a growing feeling that I was caught inside a film. I kept thinking about my evening at the theatre, and the swirl of images in my head churned up a stream of other images. And then I found the map.
It happened on a hot July day around noon, an hour when the cemetery was typically deserted. Sophie was also nowhere to be seen. As I opened the compartment to drop off my latest letter, I discovered a map of Paris, which was obviously far from new. I glanced all around before sticking it in my satchel.
Seriously? I thought. Why would a Parisian need a map of Paris?
‘Is this some kind of joke?’ I grumbled quietly, gazing at the bronze head whose neutral smile didn’t flicker. ‘Oh well, I guess no answer is a kind of answer.’
I stepped behind the gravestone to pull out the vase that sat there, then filled it with water from a nearby tap and eased my bouquet inside it.
I had accomplished quite a bit since that evening at the theatre. Like a man possessed, I had written fifty new pages – real, authentic pages that had more in common with my life than the plot I’d invented for the other book which had unexpectedly won the Prix Goncourt. And when Jean-Pierre Favre asked me over lunch at Le Petit Zinc how everything was going, I stared at the lovely Art Nouveau woman standing behind him on her pedestal, sniffing her flowers, and answered enthusiastically that my novel would be finished by the end of the year. I admit that prediction was a little premature, but I had a strong feeling that by that point, the invisible thread being played out by my mysterious Ariadne would lead me back out of the labyrinth of my life. And when that happened, my novel would also reach its conclusion.
Luckily, we didn’t discuss the book’s content, otherwise Monsieur Favre would have choked on his steak tartare with its raw egg garnish.
‘Marvellous!’ he cried as he cheerfully forked a portion into his mouth. I wasn’t sure if his enthusiasm was inspired by the raw beef or by the fact that his author had obviously rediscovered his rhythm.
Besides that, I had actually made plans for the summer holiday. At first, I failed to realise that the nursery school was going to close for a few weeks during the summer. That’s how much I was caught up in my own little film. Cathérine was actually the one who reminded me about the holiday one afternoon when I picked Arthur up from her apartment.
‘Do you have plans for the summer break?’ she asked, and for a moment I stared at her cluelessly.
‘Hmm . . . Well . . . ’ I snatched at the first idea that came to me. ‘I think we’ll go to Honfleur. But thanks for saying something. I need to discuss the details with my mother.’
Arthur looked up from the picture book he had just been paging through.
‘Can Giulietta come, too?’ he asked. ‘That would be so cool, Papa!’
I was struck by the sudden vision of the two children decorating the entire house in Honfleur with fingerpaint, and I had to sigh as I smiled: ‘I think that might be a little too much for Mamie.’
Arthur shook his head. ‘Mamie already said Giulietta could come,’ he declared.
‘What?’ I was caught by surprise. ‘You already asked Mamie?’
Cathérine chuckled when she saw my astonishment. ‘It looks as if your son plans a little further in advance than you do, Julien. He definitely gets that from Hélène. Remember how much she loved to make plans?’
We both laughed – we had reached the point of being able to talk about Hélène’s endearing quirks without getting melancholy. For a moment, I recalled all those New Year’s days on which Hélène could think of no nicer activity than to sit down at the table and fill out her new calendar: birthdays, concerts, weekends with friends or relatives, nursery-school activities, day trips, vacations.
‘Writing down the joys,’ she had always called it.
And so I spoke with Maman and then with Giulietta’s parents. Eventually the plan was for Maman to travel to the coast in August for two weeks with Camille, Aunt Carole’s daughter, and the two children. I intended to join them at the end of that time for another two weeks, allowing Camille to return to Paris with Giulietta. It had been a long time since I’d been to Honfleur, and I was looking forward to seeing the old house where I had spent so many wonderful summers as a child. That was the plan.
But we plan, and God laughs.
As I strolled down the cemetery path that afternoon, sunk in my thoughts, I had no idea that I wouldn’t be going to Honfleur this summer. There was much I had no idea about at that point. Looking back, it seems as if I was utterly blind.
I walked down Avenue Hector Berlioz. As so often before, the grim caretaker trudged toward me, dragging behind him a grey garbage sack, this time stuffed with plant debris. He glared at me in silence. And then I noticed a large black hat bobbing among some bushes behind a gravestone. It belonged to a lady in an elegant black outfit who was standing in front of a grave watched over by a tall stone angel. Of course, I couldn’t help thinking about Alexandre’s theory about the lovely widow and Sophie’s comment about catching sight several times of a woman in a large hat around the cemetery. However, the lady wasn’t standing at Hélène’s grave. As for me, I had more important things to do than shadow widows in black. Besides, I was getting hungry.
I ate at a Moroccan restaurant on the Boulevard de Clichy. While I waited for my lamb tagine with couscous, I pulled the map of Paris that I’d found in the gravestone out of my bag, unfolded it awkwardly on the loaded table, and examined the snarl of alleys, streets and wide boulevards. As I’ve said, it wasn’t a new map, and it was ripped at several spots.
As I scanned the map, I discovered that a circle had been drawn in ink around a small square. To the right of it was a star, the kind used for footnotes.
Strange.
I leaned closer and realised that what had been marked was Jehan Rictus Square – a small square very close to the Abbesses Metro station and not far from the bistro in which I was currently sitting. What was located there?
My tagine arrived, and the scent of braised lamb, dates and honey filled my nose. I was quickly and rather ineptly refolding the map – I’m clumsy with such things – when I realised that someone had written something on the reverse side of the map. The sentence was marked with another star:
When in love, a person tosses their heart over the wall and jumps after it.
Nobody had ever wolfed down tagine as rapidly as I then did, doing a grave disservice to the marvellous dish that had spent hours braising in the oven until the tender meat fell off the bone as soon as the fork touched it.
I swallowed several scrumptious bites, took one large gulp of red wine, and called for my cheque.
The dark-skinned waiter looked at me as if I had personally insulted him.
‘You didn’t enjoy it, Monsieur?’
‘Not at all! It was wonderful.’ I stood up hastily, almost tipping over the chair. ‘I’ve just found out I have to go, that’s all.’ I glanced quickly at the map to figure out the shortest route to Jehan Rictus Square.
The waiter nodded concernedly. He had no idea what was wrong. Anyone who left such good lamb tagine on his plate couldn’t be from anywhere around here.
‘Can I help you, Monsieur? Do you know where you’re going?’
‘Of course I do. I’m from Paris.’
I stuffed the map into my satchel and set off.
*
A few minutes later, my heart pounding loudly, I was standing at Jehan Rictus Square. It was a small, shady square, one side of it enclosed by an inscribed wall. I had heard about this wall (since, after all, I grew up here in Paris), but had never seen it personally. It was the famous mur des je t’aime – an old house wall on which was mounted a gigantic panel displaying the phrase that has always made our world turn round, supposedly written in every language that exists.
I love you.
I love you – hundreds, thousands of times.
I had no idea who had thrown their heart over the wall. Map in hand, I sank down on a nearby bench which commanded a good view of the mur des je t’aime.
I learned much about love that afternoon.
I saw two friends standing arm in arm by the wall as they read aloud the various sentences. I saw lovers gaze into each other’s eyes and kiss. I watched as newlyweds had themselves photographed in front of the wall, so they could later share this moment with their children. I saw two Brits take pictures of each other jumping across the face of the wall. I saw a group of Japanese tourists tirelessly wave and laugh and form hearts with their hands. I saw a girl carrying a backpack stand motionlessly beside the wall for a long time. And an elderly couple, awkwardly holding hands, grateful that life had granted them such a long time together.
I observed so many people that day – people of every age and from every country imaginable. However, they all had one thing in common: when they turned and walked away, every one of them wore a smile.
The afternoon sun was setting swiftly by the time I abandoned my seat on the bench. As I stood up I heard a sharp ‘ping’ emanate from my bag. I pulled out my phone and found a text message from Alexandre, who had obviously been trying all afternoon to reach me. I gazed at the screen and had to grin.
So where are you hiding? Heading off again somewhere with the pretty neighbour? You can’t fool me, my friend.
Alexandre just couldn’t let it go. Ever since the two of us had allegedly gone to the movies together, he simply didn’t want to believe that there was nothing going on between Cathérine and me.
I dialled his number, and he picked up immediately.
‘Good grief, Julien, where have you been all day? You’re harder to reach than the Pope,’ he grumbled. ‘Cellphones are great things, but you actually have to check them.’
‘Now I’m here, what’s so important?’ I asked, amused.
I glanced once more at the wall where a young woman with flaming red hair was now standing, studying the inscriptions across the plaque. She slowly turned around, and for a moment, I thought I was staring at Hélène. As she finished her rotation, everything around me seemed to come to a stop.
‘Alexandre, I have to go,’ I rasped into the phone.
Only a few metres away from me stood Caroline – the same Caroline with whom I had chatted about Jacques Prévert’s poems on the steps of the Sacré-Cœur – and she was smiling
at me.
Hélène, my beloved,
It is late already. Arthur is fast asleep in his room, and I’m sitting at my desk, still wound up by all that has happened today.
When I dropped off my letter for you, I discovered a map of Paris in the secret compartment. Thanks to a circled spot and a charming sentence about walls and hearts, this map led me to le mur des je t’aime.
I sat on a bench there for an age, watching the people who came to the Wall of Love, and oddly moved by the scenes that played themselves out. I sat, watched and waited, until suddenly I was overcome by the desire to once again be able to say: ‘I love you’ to someone who could gaze at me and take my hand the way you used to, Hélène.
I had to call Alexandre back at one point, and for a moment I was distracted. But then I looked up and saw YOU standing there next to the wall, Hélène. For a second, my heart literally stopped, and I felt like I was in free fall.
But it was actually Caroline, the red-haired student from the Sacré-Cœur. Remember her? The one who likes to read poetry and who reminded me of you, mon amour, that other time? The young woman who spoke to me on the day I found the stone heart, that first sign. And once again, my dumb heart began to stumble.
Caroline stood there as if she were the answer to all my questions. She smiled at me, and I was suddenly absolutely certain that she was the one who had left me all the clues and who had finally led me to this wall.
I staggered toward her.
‘Caroline,’ I exclaimed. ‘Caroline! Was it you? Did you leave all those signs for me?’
Her eyes were friendly, but also confused.
‘Which signs?’ she asked, baffled. ‘What do you mean, Monsieur?’
‘But . . . but . . . what are you doing here?’ I stammered. ‘Why are you here right now, at this wall of all places?’
‘Well,’ she said with a slightly embarrassed laugh. ‘I wanted to see the famous mur des je t’aime and . . . take a picture.’ She brushed back her red hair. ‘Oh, this is embarrassing. You must think I plan to take selfies in front of all of Paris’s landmarks, just like any silly tourist.’
Love Letters from Montmartre Page 16
