Love Letters from Montmartre

Home > Other > Love Letters from Montmartre > Page 17
Love Letters from Montmartre Page 17

by Nicolas Barreau


  She giggled, but broke off in surprise when she saw all the colour drain from my face. ‘Are you feeling sick, Monsieur? Let’s go sit down.’

  She took my arm and guided me back to the bench I’d just come from. I leaned forward and rested my head in my hands as I tried to pull myself together. What in the world had I been thinking? I was losing it – this student who was spending a semester in Paris didn’t even know my name, much less anything about the grave!

  The embarrassment was wholly mine.

  ‘Pardon me. For a second, I mistook you for . . . someone else,’ I explained, glancing up. ‘And then everything started spinning around me.’

  Caroline nodded. ‘Circulation. I know what that’s like. Maybe you’ve been in the sun too long.’ She rummaged around in her leather backpack. ‘Here, take this, Monsieur. I always carry a sugar cube with me for when that happens.’

  She held out a wrapped sugar cube covered in paper decorated with green writing. I slowly unwrapped it and stuck it in my mouth. The sugar crunched between my teeth as I cautiously chewed on it.

  ‘And . . . feel any better?’ Caroline watched me anxiously.

  If she thought I was some kind of freak who just sat around staring at walls and making strange remarks, she didn’t let on.

  ‘Yes . . . thank you.’ My faintness passed. I looked at the sugar wrapper and had to smile. ‘I see you’ve already been to Café de Flore. You really are making your way around,’ I said lightly, attempting to guide our conversation back into normal waters.

  She grinned. ‘I’m doing research for my bachelor’s thesis. I have to visit all the places Prévert and his Groupe Octobre went.’

  We stayed on the bench for a few more minutes, and Caroline told me about her research. I admit I only understood about half of what she was saying, but that might have been due to the fact that I was exhausted. Exhausted by the unsettling things that were going on in my real life, as well as by the things that merely existed in my imagination.

  She eventually stood up and held out her phone to me.

  ‘Would you mind taking another photo of me – or better yet, a short video of me in front of the wall?’ She straightened her cardigan, smoothing it over her summery dress.

  The video was for her boyfriend Michael, who had already returned to London. He was missing her terribly, she explained with a wink. She showed me which button to hit in order to record the video, and then asked:

  ‘What’s your name, Monsieur – in case we run into each other again?’

  ‘Azoulay,’ I said. ‘Julien Azoulay.’

  ‘All right, Monsieur Azoulay, let’s get started,’ she called. ‘But you have to get the wall in the picture.’

  I nodded, raised the phone and tapped the button.

  Caroline walked over to the wall, stood facing it for a moment, and then slowly turned around. A smile spread across her face, one that was so young, so gloriously young. She held her arms out as if she wanted to embrace the entire world and cried:

  ‘Je t’aime!!!’

  Oh, Hélène! We used to be like that – so happy and carefree and younger than a day in May. What would I have given for those words to have been meant for me? I miss you so much, mon amour, but I also miss having love in my life. Yes, I so want to be happy again, Hélène. I think of you as a lovely dream. Why couldn’t you have been the one standing in front of the wall and calling ‘I love you!!!’?

  I have already written you so many letters. There aren’t many more to go until I reach the thirty-third. I both long to reach that final letter, and also fear it.

  What will happen once I’ve written that letter, Hélène? What will happen? Will you suddenly be standing there waiting for me? Will someone be standing there? Or no one?

  I don’t know, I don’t know anything any more. All I know is that I can’t take this game much longer. I’ve started to see ghosts, and in my confusion I’ve begun to accost total strangers. This can’t continue, it must end.

  Oh, my beloved angel, I’m in such a mess.

  What should I do, my soulmate? You were always that for me and still are – the woman at my side who never failed to cheer me up whenever I despaired. That was so important to me, and always helped.

  But now I need a glimmer of hope, Hélène. I need that desperately! I will hold out my arms and wait.

  Come into my night and bring your light!

  Julien

  P.S. I had already stuck this letter in an envelope by the time I remembered something. Arthur painted a picture for you, which I was ordered to put in the ‘coffer’. Here it is. Since learning to write his name, he signs all his pictures with ‘ATUR’. He asked me this evening if I thought you would like the picture, and I told him I knew that you were sure to. THAT I know without a doubt.

  19

  Discoveries

  ‘Know what, my friend? I have a feeling that someone’s been playing you. And I happen to know who it is, too.’

  I was sitting with Alexandre in a café on Rue de Grenelle, not far from L’espace des rêveurs. We’d taken a small streetside table, and the ashtray next to me was almost full.

  As a result of my abruptly hanging up on him after catching sight of Caroline at the Wall of Love, Alexandre had threatened to terminate our friendship if I didn’t instantly come to him and explain what the hell was going on.

  But instantly wasn’t possible from my end, since I had to pick up Arthur from nursery school. Besides that, I wanted time to organise my thoughts, which didn’t turn out to be a very successful effort. This was why I trudged over to Rue de Grenelle with mixed feelings the following day at noon, where I faced Alexandre’s intrusive questions and told him everything. He managed to refrain from making any remarks about unhappy, unstable widowers.

  ‘Man,’ was all he said, ‘that’s quite the story.’ He grinned. ‘Just wait until everyone at my club hears about this.’

  ‘Which club?’ I asked. ‘The Dead Poets Society?’

  ‘Haha,’ Alexandre chuckled. ‘Still a shred left of your famous wit.’

  He beckoned the waiter and ordered two servings of steak frites. ‘Don’t protest,’ he said. ‘And take this with you, s’il vous plaît.’ He held out the ashtray to the waiter.

  ‘You need to hide there and watch, Julien,’ Alexandre continued. ‘Then you’ll catch her.’

  By ‘her’, he meant Cathérine, since by this point no one else came into question for him. It was either her or a random psychopath about whom we knew nothing, and how likely was that?

  ‘She’s the one, Julien. One hundred per cent. Excuse me for being so blunt, but she’s the only one who’s interested in you. I don’t see any other options.’ He took a sip of wine, doing his best Sherlock Holmes. ‘You have to figure out the motive.’

  I shook my head. ‘You’re way off the mark, believe me.’

  ‘Shush, Watson. Why haven’t you just asked her? Outright?’

  ‘Because I have no desire to make a fool of myself again, which is what would happen. I’d ask her why she’s taken my letters, and she’d look at me like I’d grown a third eye.’ The thought of sharing more of myself with Cathérine for no compelling reason made me quite uncomfortable.

  ‘I know Cathérine,’ I declared like an idiot. ‘She wouldn’t do anything like that.’

  ‘But why are you so defensive about this possibility? Your neighbour has a motive, plus she was your wife’s friend, plus she knows your routine. I bet Cathérine knows exactly on which days you go to the cemetery.’

  I recalled our interactions in the lobby. Cathérine saying: Well, Julien, heading to Montmartre? And me answering: I like to make myself scarce on Fridays when Louise is tearing through the apartment.

  ‘Others know that, too,’ I said.

  ‘Really? Who?’

  ‘For example, my mother.’

  ‘Come on. Don’t give me that with your mother. That’s ridiculous.’

  ‘Hmm,’ I replied. I wasn’t convinced. ‘And what do
you really have in mind? Should I set up a one-man tent in the cemetery and keep the grave under surveillance?’

  Alexandre looked thoughtful for a moment.

  ‘You could at least change your routine,’ he suggested.

  As a result, I decided to head to Montmartre on Wednesday this week, admittedly with no great hope of obtaining any new insights. Nonetheless, since Alexandre had insisted on this minor change, I followed through on it, if only to be able to tell him that going on another day hadn’t made a difference.

  This didn’t turn out to be so.

  I had just stepped through the gates of the Cimetière Montmartre, letter and flowers in hand, when I heard someone call my name.

  It was Sophie, who was perched on top of the cemetery wall like the first time I saw her. I waved briefly and left the Avenue Hector Berlioz to cross over to her, weaving between the gravestones.

  ‘Why the grim face, author?’ I felt dizzy just watching her sway back and forth. ‘Even at a hundred metres away, anyone could tell that you’re in a bad mood.’

  ‘Be careful, or you’ll fall off,’ I said. Good grief, I really was in a foul mood. ‘How are you doing?’ I added. I hadn’t seen Sophie since the night at the movies.

  She shifted her position and stretched out like Goethe in the Roman Campagna: on her side, leg bent and arm draped casually over her knee. She studied me pensively.

  ‘Not all that amazing either, but obviously better than you,’ she declared.

  ‘Oh! Relationship woes?’ I asked.

  ‘Who knows?’ she answered with a grin. ‘I’ve been thinking a lot about that evening at the theatre. And about Orpheus. You, too?’

  ‘Honestly – no,’ I confessed. At the moment, I seemed to be going from one emotional extreme to the next.

  ‘Pity,’ she said, sitting back up.

  As I watched her scoot around the wall, the sentence from the map suddenly came to me.

  ‘I have a nice sentence for you, though.’

  ‘Now you’ve got me curious,’ she said. ‘Spit it out!’

  ‘When in love, a person tosses their heart over the wall and jumps after it.’

  She cocked her head and considered the sentiment for a moment.

  ‘That really is a nice sentence,’ she replied. ‘Did you write it?’

  ‘No.’ I shook my head as my eyes caught hers.

  For a moment, neither of us said anything.

  ‘Who did?’ she finally asked.

  ‘No idea. I thought you might be able to tell me.’

  She wrinkled her brow and shook her head. ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you, author,’ she said. ‘However, it’s a nice, true sentence. When you love someone, you shouldn’t spend too much time analysing it.’ She tugged her cap lower over her forehead and looked at the flowers I was holding. ‘Heading to the grave?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Want to go get something to drink afterward? I’ll be done in just a minute, and it’s such a pretty day.’

  She smiled at me, and I nodded, sensing that my mood was brightening.

  ‘Sounds great. I’ll be right back and pick you up.’

  ‘Très bien,’ Sophie said. ‘See you in a bit, Julien.’

  She turned back to her tools which were spread out beside her atop the wall, and I made my way back to the main path.

  A few minutes later, I was slipping my letter into Hélène’s gravestone. This time I found a square envelope inside the cavity. A silver disk was tucked inside – either a CD or a DVD, but without any writing on it. Surprised, I stuck it in my small brown leather bag and shut the compartment. I stood back up and glanced around the lush verdant landscape. At the other end of the cemetery I noticed a small figure heading toward me from the entrance along the Avenue Hector Berlioz.

  I felt foolish as I retreated a few metres and hid behind another gravestone. Alexandre’s advice to watch and wait shot through my mind, and I choked back a hysterical laugh. I stood motionlessly behind the random gravestone and waited in vain, like Samuel Beckett’s hero.

  Whoever was coming up the avenue wouldn’t take the small path to the old chestnut tree and stop at Hélène’s grave.

  I was wrong about that.

  *

  After a few minutes, which felt like an eternity, I heard footsteps cautiously draw closer. Someone stepped past the angel, leaned down, pushed the marble plaque aside, and extracted an envelope.

  My heart raced, as I peered around the edge of the gravestone. It only took one glance for me to recognise the woman who hastily opened my letter and began to read it.

  It was Cathérine!

  I can’t even describe what shot through me at that moment. My emotions were too fragmented. A combination of anger, astonishment and profound disappointment bubbled up to the surface.

  It actually was Cathérine! Of all people!

  Alexandre had been right. Blithering Cathérine with her guileless blue eyes! I think I would have preferred to see anyone else in the world at Hélène’s grave than my blonde neighbour. Even a widow in a black hat would have been better. How hypocritical! I lost control as my anger blew up.

  ‘Aha! I caught you!’ I leaped out from behind the gravestone as I yelled this, and Cathérine gave a startled cry. She dropped the letter, and Arthur’s picture sailed across the path like a giant leaf.

  ‘Julien!’ Her wide eyes stared at me. ‘What are you doing here?’

  I stood right in front of her. ‘What am I doing here?’ I yelled. She flinched at each question as if I were whipping her. ‘What are you doing here?! You’re creeping around the grave and stealing my letters! Reading my letters. I can’t believe this! They’re private, understand? Private! How could you do this?’

  As her eyes filled with tears, she gazed at me contritely. I felt a strong urge to shake her.

  ‘Stop blubbering! You’re just making it worse!’ I was beside myself. ‘Of all the dishonest behaviours! I felt like I was losing my mind, doubted my own sanity. And Mademoiselle here has been helping herself to one letter after the other, leaving little tokens behind to soften me up.’

  ‘Julien . . . I . . . I don’t know . . . ’ she stammered as the colour drained from her face.

  ‘And what?!’ I hurled at her. ‘YOU read all of them. You know my thoughts, my hopes, my stupid ideas. You took all my letters, leaving things behind for me in the gravestone – poems, music boxes, maps, cards with quotes from Tagore . . . I convinced myself that I was communicating with a dead person while all the time you’re the . . . YOU! I can’t believe it!’ I spun around, ready to stomp off in fury.

  Cathérine began to cry in earnest. ‘Julien, Julien!’ she sobbed. ‘No, please don’t go. At least, hear what I have to say.’

  ‘No way. I’ve seen enough. I’m done letting myself be led down the garden path.’

  She clutched my arm. ‘Please, Julien! I understand that you’re horribly upset, but I didn’t lead you on. I never left anything in that compartment, no music boxes or maps. And as for this letter here’ – she gestured at the pages that were scattered around the path – ‘it was the first and only one I’ve read.’

  I stopped and stared at her in astonishment.

  ‘You want me to believe that?’

  ‘Please, Julien! This really was the only letter,’ she insisted, wringing her hands nervously. ‘I swear it on . . . on . . . Arthur’s life,’ she stammered as tears trickled down her cheeks. ‘I didn’t know anything about the compartment in the gravestone.’

  ‘Then how do you know about it now?’

  She wiped away her tears. ‘Arthur . . . Arthur told me about it last week . . . when he was painting that picture for Hélène. He told me that you sometimes take letters to the cemetery and that there was a secret compartment in the gravestone where you stick them. “But it’s a secret,” he told me. “Not even Sophie knows about it.” And then he suddenly told me about the nice woman from the cemetery who repairs angels. He also said you like her a lot and laugh wi
th her. I was jealous, just like that.’ She hiccuped.

  ‘Good grief, Cathérine!’

  ‘Please forgive me, Julien. You have to forgive me,’ she pleaded. ‘I’m not a bad person. I . . . I just wanted to know . . . I mean . . . I thought maybe you’d written something about you and Sophie in this letter . . . ’ She hung her head. ‘It was a huge mistake, Julien. Please don’t stay angry with me.’

  I sank down numbly onto the small wall that surrounded the grave.

  ‘I can’t believe this is happening.’

  Cathérine joined me on the wall. For a while, we sat there in silence, staring at the small path. From somewhere came a little sneeze. Or it might have been a cat hissing or a bird fussing among the chestnut leaves.

  As if at a secret signal, Cathérine turned toward me and clasped my hand.

  ‘I really didn’t take any other letters except this one, Julien,’ she declared. ‘Please believe me!’

  I stared at her. A liar didn’t look like this.

  ‘All right. I believe you, Cathérine.’

  ‘And – you forgive me, too?’

  I nodded slowly.

  ‘Thank you.’

  I stood up, and Cathérine also rose to her feet. She hesitated.

  ‘Do you think . . . that someday there might . . . be something between us?’

  ‘Oh, Cathérine!’ I pressed my lips together and shook my head. ‘To be honest, I don’t think so, but what do I know? I’m just human.’

  ‘And . . . and what’s going on between you and this Sophie right now?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ I said, annoyed, as I brushed the dirt off my pants.

  ‘I mean . . . are you in love with her?’ she asked shyly.

  Her questions were getting out of line.

  ‘Cathérine, stop right now,’ I insisted, louder than necessary. ‘Sophie is just a random acquaintance from the cemetery, that’s all. I loved Hélène, I loved her very much. I still love her, if you really must know. And I have no idea if I can ever love another woman,’ I added defiantly. ‘Is that clear enough for you?’

  She nodded meekly. ‘Yes, Julien.’

 

‹ Prev