She gathered up the pages of my letter from the ground, and handed them to me along with Arthur’s picture and the envelope.
‘I should leave now.’ Shoulders slumped, she trudged off down the winding path.
I stood at Hélène’s grave for several minutes, gazing blankly at my lovely angel. I can’t claim that I was doing well at that moment.
Alexandre’s theory had been right after all. And at the same time, he’d been wrong. Cathérine was interested in me, more than I’d thought she was, more than I’d wanted to admit. But she hadn’t taken the letters. She didn’t have anything to do with all the little gifts left for me.
Or did she?
My head began to buzz like a swarm of bees.
If she hadn’t done it, then who had?
Oh, Hélène, what an almighty mess!
I stuck the letter back in its envelope and set it inside the compartment, which was still standing open. As I walked down the cemetery paths, I felt as sluggish as an old man.
It wasn’t until the subway doors hissed shut behind me that I remembered I was supposed to meet Sophie. I stared into the darkness of the tunnel as we raced into it, little suspecting that it would be a long time until I saw the sculptor again.
20
The long silence
Sometimes so much happens in such a short time span, and events pile on top of each other and take your breath away. And at other times, nothing happens for weeks on end.
I had entered the second of these phases.
Silence reigned – silence from all sides. And this silence was getting to me.
Cathérine was avoiding me. After the confrontation in the cemetery, the invitations to her apartment stopped, and when Arthur went to her place to play, she always dropped him off at our apartment door and departed quickly. Whenever we ran into each other in the hall, she slipped past me with a murmured Bonjour and lowered eyes. She was ashamed. My harsh words might have hurt her. She retreated, and I wouldn’t have been surprised, if looking back, she had felt offended by me. Cathérine was just the type to wrap herself in silence in such a situation, even though it was she who had taken my letter and set off my reaction. Oh well, perhaps I had reacted too intensely, but at any rate I had forgiven her in the end. There was no call for her to play the injured party here.
The sculptor also seemed to have vanished into thin air. Over the next few weeks, every time I went to the cemetery I watched out for her. No, I actually searched for her everywhere. I even asked the glum caretaker if he had seen the conservator, or if her tool bag was in the shed. But the caretaker just shook his head and growled morosely that the stone breaker didn’t come any more.
This was all very strange. Where was Sophie? Now that I could no longer assume that she was perched up on some wall and calling out to me, or somewhere around to chat with, I began to miss her. I felt guilty whenever I thought about how I had described her as a ‘random acquaintance’ in my fury at Cathérine. And now I missed her – her one-off comments, her advice, her proverbs, her large, dark eyes as they peered out from under her cap. The way she would teasingly ask me: ‘Why the grim face, author?!’ That especially.
Had she fallen sick? Had her work at the Cimetière Montmartre somehow come to an end? She wouldn’t have just up and disappeared without telling me, would she?
At first, I didn’t feel her absence all that acutely, and I didn’t think anything of it. She had sometimes gone missing before for a few days at a time, but then the small black figure would pop up somewhere out of the bushes to chip away at one gravestone or the other, to sit up in trees or on benches, and cheer me up with her insights and good spirits.
On that disastrous Wednesday – before I discovered Cathérine at the grave and raged so badly that I yelled like a lunatic in the cemetery and then forgot to meet Sophie – everything had been like normal. She had sat on the wall and joked with me a little, as she always did – not a word about her work at the cemetery coming to an end. And I couldn’t imagine that she’d been offended when I didn’t come by to take her out for a drink afterwards. It had been a casual date of sorts, and it wouldn’t have been like Sophie to retreat into her snail shell the way Cathérine was doing at the moment.
On Friday, two days after the incident, I went back to the cemetery to offer Sophie some kind of excuse for why I’d bailed on her on Wednesday, as well as a casual apology. I had decided to invite her out for lunch to make amends. I didn’t bring a letter on this particular day. I had lost my eagerness to write them, at least for now, and I didn’t go by the grave. I really only went to find Sophie.
But she wasn’t there. Not on that day, or any that followed. Three weeks passed by without a trace.
I kept thinking about our last encounter. She had accused me of being in a bad mood – a true assessment at that – although my mood had been fantastic when compared with what later happened at Hélène’s grave. Sophie had lolled around on top of the wall like a cat in a sunbeam, but – and this only struck me later, when I carefully reviewed the words we had exchanged – hadn’t she also said that although she was doing better than me, she wasn’t doing so great?
And what if she really was having relationship problems? She might have told me about them that day, and I would have been in a position to help console her for a change. Maybe that Chouchou had dumped her, and she was curled up with a broken heart, weeping, somewhere in her small attic apartment in Montmartre.
It wasn’t like I knew exactly where Sophie lived. Or with whom. After the film, we had walked around a little, and then she had stopped at a fork in the street and sent me off.
I wished I could have just called her. I groaned as I once again remembered how nonchalantly I had brushed off her phone number. ‘No need,’ I’d said. ‘No need.’
What a blind idiot I’d been!
I must have searched for her cousin’s business card at least a hundred times. That evening I had carelessly stuck it somewhere. Now I couldn’t find it, and couldn’t recall the editor’s full name, which would at least have helped some.
I had even searched online for Sophie Claudel, sculptor, but that hadn’t turned up anything useful either.
When I considered everything closely – something I had plenty of time to do during those long weeks – I realised that I actually knew next to nothing about Sophie. Almost all of our conversations had focused on me. On my unhappiness, my mourning, my writer’s block, my inability to cope with the things in my life. For the first time, I recognised that in my pain, I had only ever concentrated on myself. There had been only me, then nothing at all for a long time. And yet Sophie had kept reaching out to me, kept trying to figure things out, to advise and cheer me up. The heart of the stone worker with the large dark eyes was actually as soft as butter. And yet she could also tease and act brusquely at times. What else could have motivated her to care so much about my emotional well-being? To ask about my little boy? To get so involved in my life story?
Sophie had everything. She was young, she was pretty. She had a job she loved, and a boyfriend. At least, she had had him as long as I’d known her. Everything else was speculation. She was rash, eccentric and impulsive. And she was just the kind of girl to throw her heart over a wall and jump after it if she cared for someone.
All of a sudden, I thought of a thousand things I wanted to ask her about, but Sophie remained missing.
On the other hand, my letter – the last one I’d brought to the grave before Cathérine removed it from the secret compartment – was still sitting in the gravestone.
Each time I went to the cemetery, I checked on the opened envelope which I had returned to the compartment after the incident. Nobody had moved it since then. The letter marked with the number 31 sat in the small cavity like a silent reproach. One week, two weeks, three weeks.
There were also no more signs. I had obviously drawn the fury of all women onto myself. Nobody spoke to me any more. Nobody called out for me, nobody left me any messages. And
after a while, I felt like that even Hélène had abandoned me. I was too disappointed to draw the right conclusions. Instead I wondered what I had done to dissolve the magic.
Worst of all, I had also lost my little leather bag with the silver disk in it on that galling day when I caught Cathérine red-handed. I was convinced that the little disk could have given me the explanation to everything, but it seemed that it was gone.
The fact that the whole game ended the moment I surprised Cathérine at the grave was naturally telling. Could it really be a coincidence? Not according to Alexandre. For him, the case was very clear cut.
‘Damn your gut feelings,’ he said in his gruff fashion, as I was once again overcome by doubt. ‘Of course, Cathérine didn’t tell you the whole truth. I bet that all your letters are sitting in her nightstand.’
‘No, Alexandre, I simply don’t agree,’ I’d said, recalling how Cathérine had sworn on my son’s life that she was innocent of that. ‘I don’t think she did it.’
‘You’ve been wrong about Cathérine already. The fact is that you caught her, and since then, nobody has shown any interest in your letters, not even Hélène. What could be more obvious? I mean, how blind can you be?’
Maybe I really was struck blind during those weeks. Sometimes you need a little more time to comprehend the things your heart has known for ages.
And yet, the ending was different than Alexandre thought.
Completely different.
August descended. Paris seemed to be empty, and only a few tourists were left to wander around the hot pavement in Saint-Germain, apparently unaware that August is the worst conceivable month to visit. A leaden weariness had settled across the city. I worked on my novel with less enthusiasm than usual, and anyone who could leave the city did so. They were already strolling through the small airy cities of the Côte d’Azur or ambling along the endless beaches of the Atlantic.
Arthur had also already left on his trip, together with Maman and his little friend Giulietta. I remained standing on the train platform and waved at them for a long time, even though I couldn’t see anyone on the other side of the mirrored glass.
I felt oddly untethered and abandoned, and didn’t know what I should do with myself on this fragmented Thursday.
Then Alexandre called.
‘So, did you ditch all the baggage? I’m sure you‘re dying of boredom, aren’t you?’
‘How’d you guess?’ I replied, concealing the fact that I was really touched. Alexandre was the best. I couldn’t wish for a better friend.
‘Listen. I’m going to that new jazz club near the Bastille with a few friends. Come along.’
I decided to make an effort. ‘Yes, why not,’ I said.
Anything was better than hanging out at home with my own gloomy thoughts. Why not jazz? Why not a few drinks? After all, there wasn’t anyone I needed to take care of tonight.
We arranged that I would pick up Alexandre at L’espace des rêveurs after the shop closed. And a few hours later, as I walked down the summery, empty Rue de Grenelle, I had no idea that I would find something there that I had already given up searching for.
As I opened the shop door, Alexandre emerged from the back room and held out to me a small, brown leather bag, which dangled from his fingers at the end of narrow straps.
‘Look!’ he said. ‘You were right – it was here after all. Gabrielle thought it was mine, since I have a bag that looks a lot like this one. She stuck it in the closet with some of my other things.’
I gasped – ‘You’ve got to be kidding!’ – as I took the small bag that I’d spent the past few weeks delving for.
I had finally given up, accepting that after that fatal Wednesday at Hélène’s grave I had left it sitting in some bar. It had seemed like the perfect ending to a black day on which everything that could go wrong had gone wrong, the afternoon after which Sophie had gone missing. The only thing that hadn’t been destroyed was all my illusions.
I’d forgotten my agreement with Sophie because after my terrible row with Cathérine, I’d gone straight to Alexandre’s shop to unload my anger and disappointment. We had eventually gone to a bar and then to another one. When I drunkenly stumbled into my empty apartment that night (Arthur was spending the night with a friend), my leather satchel and its precious silver disk were suddenly missing.
I had retraced my footsteps the next day – to Alexandre’s shop, the bars, wherever we had been. I had even called the Metro Lost and Found Office. I had torn up my apartment in the vain hope that in my inebriated state I had simply dropped the bag somewhere. I searched under my bed and went through the garbage can. However, I eventually gave up. The last message was gone – from whoever in the world had left it. I fantasised about it and became obsessed with the idea that the silver disk would have revealed everything to me. It was the key to me understanding everything. Alexandre had looked at me with pity and said: ‘Do you want to know what I think?’
‘No!’ I shouted, beside myself.
‘Nothing’s been lost, at least nothing big. It was from Cathérine anyway, whatever might’ve been on it. Just be glad your wallet wasn’t in it – that would’ve been tragic.’
And now the little bag had shown up, out of the blue. I quickly opened it.
‘The disk’s still in there,’ Alexandre remarked nonchalantly. ‘I already looked.’
‘That makes me feel better. Did you play it?’
‘No, of course not.’ He grinned. ‘I thought we could do that together, right here on my computer. I would enjoy watching Cathérine’s confession video. It’ll be funny.’
‘No way,’ I replied, pressing the little bag tighter against my chest.
Whatever was on this disk was meant just for me. I gave Alexandre a determined look, and he relented.
‘In that case, I assume you won’t be coming to the jazz club, will you?’
I nodded. ‘That’s right.’
‘Then send me a text at least. I’m interested in knowing what’s on it. Want to bet it’s the pretty neighbour?’
‘I don’t make bets any more,’ I replied.
21
Secret heart
Nobody had never covered the distance between Rue de Grenelle and Rue Jacob in so little time. I practically ran down the narrow street until I reached Boulevard Saint-Germain, where I waited impatiently for a few seconds on the light, before crossing the boulevard against the red. Jogging down Rue Bonaparte, I passed the Deux Magots where tourists sat outside in the evening sun, sipping their glasses of white wine while gazing at the unpretentious old church of Saint-Germain. I rapidly turned right down Rue Jacob, and in just a few steps I was standing in front of my building.
I punched in the combination for the front door, dashed up the three flights of stairs, and shoved my key into the apartment door with trembling hands.
I then switched on my computer, but before I inserted the mystery disk I jumped up and fetched a bottle of wine from the kitchen. I poured myself a large glass. My father had always said: ‘With a glass of good red wine, you can handle most things, though perhaps not everything.’ I toasted his memory, murmuring: ‘I hope you’re right, Papa!’ before draining half the glass.
Whatever was on that disk, it was going to bring changes.
As single-minded as Orpheus, who received his mysterious message from the radio in the black limousine, I huddled in front of my computer monitor. Who would appear on the screen? Would it really be Cathérine, who had chosen this way to confess her love? Or would Hélène’s face materialise on the screen and speak to me – greetings from another world, so to speak? Perhaps my wife had been foresighted enough to record herself before her death and ask someone – Cathérine? – to play the video for me at some point.
I stared mesmerised at the screen, but it remained black.
From the computer’s speakers played the first notes of a glockenspiel, followed quickly by the subdued rhythms of a bass guitar. Then a voice that reminded me of Norah Jones s
tarted singing a song I’d never heard. The voice of the singer was pleasant and multifaceted, soft, hoarse, dark, childlike.
The song was called ‘Secret Heart’. I listened to it again and again, until I understood the full lyrics.
The song focused on the hidden heart of a particular man, and the silky, somewhat brittle voice of the singer asked what his heart was made of, why it was so scared, and if perhaps he was afraid of three simple words, afraid that someone might hear them. Each of the verses ended with a challenge to let his love into his secret heart.
I felt especially moved by one particular part of the song. It addressed the secret that the subject was obviously trying to hide. Ironically, it was the very secret that he so wanted to admit as well.
It was a wonderful song about hidden love, about the fear and pride that you can feel. The song also discussed the benefits of admitting and sharing love.
I tried to find out something about the singer. Her name was Leslie Feist, and she was from Canada, but that didn’t help me out.
I wrote out the lyrics and read them line by line as I listened to the song again, its melody now lodged in my head.
The message seemed clear – but was it supposed to reveal something about the feelings of the person who had left the CD for me in the compartment? Or was the song and the challenge it presented meant for me?
Was this about my secret heart, my secret feelings that I couldn’t show? Or about the secret letters of Montmartre?
And who was the she I should let into my heart?
I sat at the desk for hours, drinking one glass of wine after the other and staring at the things I’d found at Hélène’s grave over the past few months, which were lined up in a little procession across my desk.
Weren’t these all signs of love?
In the middle of the night, I woke up to the sound of the balcony door crashing shut. A summer wind was driving a bevy of white clouds across the moon, floating high and pale above the city. I glanced at the clock: a few minutes after four – the favourite hour of everyone who sleeps poorly. I drank a glass of water and tried to find a different position that would allow me to fall back asleep. I tossed and turned, plumped my pillow, and pulled one leg out from under the covers, but the images kept recurring. People and situations swept through my mind, jumbled up with both spoken and written words. I once again visualised everything I had experienced in recent months – since the day I had begun to write the letters to Hélène. While this was going on, ‘Secret Heart’ rang in my ears, portraying the images and feelings like a film score.
Love Letters from Montmartre Page 18
