by Marc Levy
“When you’re young, you think you’re being swept off your feet by love for someone else. More often than not it’s actually love for yourself. You were supposed to study prelaw in New York. You dropped everything and ran off to study drawing in Paris, then dropped that to go charging into Berlin. Puppy love from day one. Goodbye, artist dreams, goodbye, law career! Suddenly you wanted to be a journalist. And what do you know? That man of yours wanted to be one, too.”
“How was that any of your business?”
“I was the one who told Wallace to give back your passport the day you asked for it, Julia. I was sitting right in my office when you came to pick it up.”
“Then why not give it to me yourself?”
“We weren’t getting along terribly well back then, if you recall. If I had given you your passport, your adventure would have lost its edge. Rebelling against your father added a touch of spice to the whole affair.”
“You really thought all that?”
“I even told Wallace where to find your passport, but I was right in the next room. Truth be told, the whole situation really hurt my pride.”
“Hurt. You?”
“And Adam?”
“Adam has nothing to do with any of this.”
“I’d like to remind you that, strange as it is, you’d be Mrs. Coverman right now if not for my untimely demise. So, let me rephrase my question. But first . . . close your eyes.”
Julia couldn’t fathom why her father was asking this of her, but after some coaxing, she gave in and shut her eyes.
“Tightly now. Until you see nothing but complete darkness.”
“Come on. What is this?”
“For once in your life, please just do as I ask. It will only take a moment.”
Julia clenched her eyes shut, blocking out all the light.
“Now . . . eat.”
Amused by the absurdity of the whole thing, Julia did as she was told. She groped the tablecloth until she found her fork. She made a clumsy attempt at harpooning a piece of something on her plate. With no idea what she was putting in her mouth, she took a bite.
“Did your food taste different because you couldn’t see it?”
“I guess. Maybe,” she replied, keeping her eyes closed.
“Now, one other thing. Whatever you do, don’t open your eyes.”
“Go ahead, I’m listening,” she said with a hushed voice.
“I’d like you to picture a time when you experienced pure happiness.”
Julia could feel her father’s gaze even with her eyes closed.
I remember walking side by side with you on the Museumsinsel. When you introduced me to your grandmother, the first thing she asked was what I did for a living. You tried to translate what she said with your rudimentary English. I told her I was a student at the École des Beaux-Arts in Paris. She smiled and fished a postcard out of a dresser: a painting by Vladimir Radskin, a Russian artist she liked. Then she told us to go out and get some air—to enjoy the beautiful day. You hadn’t told her a thing about your incredible trip to the West or how we had met. When we were saying our goodbyes at the front door, she asked if you had seen Knapp. Your hesitation and the look on your face gave the truth away. With a broad smile, she said she was happy for you.
As soon as we were outside, you took me by the hand once more. Each time I asked where we were going, you answered, “Come on, come on . . .” We went over the little bridge that spanned the Spree and stepped onto the island.
I had never seen so many buildings dedicated solely to art. I had pictured your country only in shades of gray, but here everything was in color. You led me to the entrance of the Altes Museum. The building itself was square, with a sort of rotunda inside. I had never before seen architecture like that. It was strange, almost unbelievable. You brought me to the center of the rotunda and then started to spin me around in circles, faster and faster, until I was dizzy. Our crazy waltz came to a stop, and you held me in your arms. You said it was German romanticism through and through—a circle inside a square, the marriage between two completely different forms. Then you took me to the Pergamon Museum.
“Pure happiness,” Anthony repeated softly. “Did you find it?”
“Yes,” Julia replied, her eyes still shut.
“And who was by your side?”
She opened her eyes.
“Keep it to yourself. That’s yours and yours only. I won’t live your life for you.”
“Why would you make me do that?”
“When I close my eyes, I see your mother’s face. Every time.”
“It was Thomas . . . coming through that portrait, like a ghost or the shadow of some memory. It was meant to tell me I should stop thinking of him and get married without any regrets. It was a sign.”
Anthony coughed. “Oh, for the love of—it was just a drawing! If I throw my napkin at that umbrella stand by the door, whether it makes it or not doesn’t mean we’ll have rain tomorrow or clear skies. If the last drop of that bottle of wine lands in that woman’s glass, it doesn’t mean she’ll marry the ass she’s having dinner with—and for her sake I certainly hope she won’t. Don’t give me that look! If that idiot hadn’t been trying to impress his girlfriend so hard, I wouldn’t have heard every word of their conversation since we sat down.”
“Of course you’d say all that. You don’t believe in signs. You don’t believe in anything you can’t control.”
“There are no such things as signs, Julia. I used to toss countless crumpled balls of paper into my office trash basket, telling myself if I made ten shots in a row, my wish would come true. Then? Nothing happened. So I pushed the idea further, believing that three or four perfect shots would make it happen. After two years of relentless practice, I could hurl an entire ream of paper directly into the center of a wastebasket thirty feet away. It changed nothing.
“Once, I was out to dinner with three important clients from China, and while one of them was going on and on about various branches and global subsidiaries, my mind wandered . . . I thought of the one I loved most, and hoped she was thinking of me. I imagined her footsteps along the streets she walked when she left home in the morning. As we stepped out of the restaurant onto the street, one of the clients shared a wonderful legend. He said that if you leaped into a puddle bearing the reflection of the full moon—leaped with both feet—the one you’re thinking of would magically appear before you. Once outside, my coworker turned white as a sheet when he saw me leap straight into the gutter. The client ended up soaked from head to toe, with water dripping from the brim of his hat. In lieu of an apology, I told him his trick didn’t work—the woman on my mind had not appeared.
“So, yes, I’ve given up on senseless, idiotic signs. They’re nothing more than a crutch for people who’ve lost their faith in God.”
“Don’t you say that!” cried Julia. “When I was little, I would have jumped in a thousand puddles to make you come home at night.”
Anthony’s sad eyes pleaded with his daughter, but she only seemed to be getting angrier. She pushed back her chair and walked straight out of the restaurant.
“Please excuse my daughter,” Anthony said to the waiter as he left a few bills on the table. “She must be allergic to your champagne.”
They walked back to the hotel in silence down the narrow, winding streets of Old Montreal. Julia had trouble walking straight and stumbled from time to time on the uneven cobblestones. Anthony held out his arm to steady her, but she shunned him and regained her balance on her own, avoiding contact with him at all costs.
“I’m a happy woman!” she said as she staggered along. “Happy and perfectly fulfilled . . . I have a job I love. I live in an apartment I love. I have a best friend I love, and guess what? I’m about to get married to the man I love. Life couldn’t be better!”
Julia’s ankle buckled and she nearly fell, catching hold of a lamppost just in the nick of time and sliding down to the ground in a heap.
“Shit,” she grumble
d, sitting on the sidewalk.
She batted away her father’s helping hand, so Anthony simply eased himself down and sat next to her. The street was empty. The two of them stayed there, backs against the lamppost, for a whole ten minutes. Then, at last, Anthony took a little bag from his coat pocket.
“What is that?” she asked.
“Your candy.”
Julia rolled her eyes and turned her head.
“I reckon there are still a few gummy bears tumbling about at the bottom . . .”
Julia showed no reaction, but when Anthony started to put the bag back in his pocket, she promptly yanked it out of his hands.
A carriage being pulled along by a reddish-brown horse was making its way in their direction. Anthony hailed it.
It took an hour to get back to the hotel. Julia crossed the lobby and took the elevator to the right. Anthony took the one on the left. They crossed paths again in the hallway on the top floor and walked side by side down the hall to the door of the honeymoon suite. Anthony stepped aside and let his daughter pass. She went directly to her bedroom, and he went to his.
Julia threw herself onto her bed and rummaged around in her purse for her cell phone. She glanced at the time before calling Adam, but only got his voicemail. She listened to the prerecorded greeting but hung up before the ominous beep. Instead, she called Stanley.
“Well, look who it is.”
“I miss you, you know that?”
“Do tell. So how’s your trip going?”
“I think I’m coming back tomorrow.”
“So soon? Did you find what you were looking for?”
“More . . . or . . . less.”
“Adam just left my place,” announced Stanley abruptly.
“Really? He was at your place?”
“That’s what I just said. Have you been drinking, baby-doll?”
“Maybe just a teensy bit.”
“Feeling okay?”
“I’m fine! Why do you all think I’m such a mess?”
“Who’s ‘you all’? I’m solo here, honey.”
“What did Adam want?”
“To talk about you, I imagine. I highly doubt he was here for me, and anyway, it’d be a waste of time. Not my type.”
“Adam came to talk to you about me?”
“No, he came hoping that I would talk to him about you. It’s the sort of thing people do when they miss somebody they love.”
Julia sighed softly into the mouthpiece . . .
“He’s feeling pretty sad, baby-doll. Even if I’m not exactly Adam’s biggest fan, I never like to see a man suffer.”
“What’s he so sad about?” she asked, sincerely concerned.
“Should be plain to see, unless you’re totally drunk or you’ve lost your senses. Imagine: two days after he was supposed to marry his lovely little fiancée, she up and disappears without a trace, no explanation and no forwarding address. Do you understand now? Or do I need to FedEx you a cup of detox tea and some aspirin?”
“First of all, I didn’t disappear without a trace. I came by to see him at work, and I told him where I was going.”
“Vermont, darling. You told him you were going to Vermont. Your cover story was flimsy at best.”
“What’s so flimsy about Vermont?” asked Julia.
“Nothing. At least . . . not anymore.”
“Stanley. What did you do?” asked Julia, holding her breath.
“I sort of kind of maybe—okay, more than maybe—told him you were in Montreal. It just slipped out! How was I supposed to know you told him Vermont? Next time, take some advice from the master before you start crafting your alibi. Or at least give me a heads-up so our stories match!”
“Shit, Stanley!”
“You got that right.”
“Did he come for drinks? Dinner?”
“Oh, it was nothing. I just whipped up a little something . . .”
“Stanley!”
“I couldn’t let the poor bastard starve to death. I don’t know who you’re with or what you’re up to, and hey, I’m the first to say it’s none of my business, but please call him—it’s the least you could do.”
“I know you’re thinking the worst, Stanley. It’s not like that.”
“How would you know what I think? If it helps at all, I told Adam that your taking off had nothing to do with him. I said you were on a vision quest to learn more about your father. See what I did there? Now that’s a proper cover story.”
“Because it’s the truth!”
“I told him you were really shaken by your father’s death, and you needed to sort it out in order to move on with your life. After all, you can’t start a marriage on the right foot if you’ve got ghosts hanging around . . .”
The words stung. Julia said nothing.
“So how is the investigation into Papa Walsh’s past coming along?” continued Stanley.
“Found lots of reminders of all the things I hated about him.”
“Perfect. What else?”
“And maybe . . . one or two things I loved.”
“So why come home so soon?”
“I don’t know. I feel like I have to be with Adam.”
“Right. ‘Have to.’”
“Earlier tonight, Stanley . . . there was this portrait artist . . .”
Julia recounted her experience at the Old Port of Montreal. For once, there were no witty interjections. Stanley just gasped.
“So you understand why I feel like I have to come home. It’s weird being away from New York. Don’t you miss your favorite good-luck charm?”
“Do you really want my advice? Get out a piece of paper and write down the first thing that comes to mind about tomorrow. Then do the exact opposite. Good night, baby-doll.”
Stanley hung up. When Julia got up to go to the bathroom, she was too exhausted to hear the sound of her father retreating from her door and back into his room.
12.
The sky was a blush of pink as dawn broke over Montreal. Sunlight gently flooded into the sitting room between the two bedrooms in the suite. A knock came at the door, and Anthony greeted the waiter, who wheeled in breakfast on a tea cart. The young man offered to set up the meal himself, but Anthony slipped him a few dollars and took over instead, leaving the waiter to quietly exit the room. Anthony hesitated between setting breakfast up on the coffee table or on a side table with a sweeping view of the city. He opted for the view, and set about preparing breakfast with the utmost care: tablecloth, a single plate, silverware, a small pitcher of orange juice, a bowl of cereal, a basket of pastries, with the final touch of a single rose standing proudly in a bud vase. He stood back, adjusted the flower until it was just perfect, then moved the milk jug a millimeter so it was perfectly aligned with the bread basket. He carefully placed a rolled-up piece of paper tied with a red ribbon on Julia’s plate, then covered it with a napkin. Anthony moved back a few feet to assess the arrangement. Then he straightened his tie and knocked on his daughter’s bedroom door, announcing that Madame’s breakfast was served. Julia groaned and asked what time it was.
“Rise and shine! Time to wake up. The school bus will be here in fifteen minutes, and you don’t want to miss it again!”
Buried up to her nose in blankets, Julia opened one eye and stretched. She ran her fingers through her hair and kept her eyes clenched shut until they had adjusted to the daylight. At last Julia rose, but the movement was a bit too quick for her hangover, and she had to sit for a moment as she grappled with a brutal head rush. The alarm clock on the bedside table read six o’clock.
“Why so early?” she moaned as she stumbled into the bathroom.
While Julia took a shower, Anthony sat waiting in an armchair in the small sitting room. He contemplated the red ribbon peeking out over the edge of the plate with a heavy sigh.
The Air Canada flight had taken off from Newark at 7:10 a.m. Not long afterward, the captain’s voice crackled over the loudspeakers, announcing the plane was starting its descent in
to Montreal. They would be arriving at the gate perfectly on schedule. The head flight attendant took over and directed the passengers to prepare for landing. Adam stretched as much as the cramped confines would allow and put his tray table in the upright position. He glanced out the window. The plane was drifting over the Saint Lawrence River. The suburbs of Montreal loomed ahead, and the outlines of Mont Royal could be seen in the distance. The MD-80 banked, and Adam tightened his seat belt. The lights along the runway were already visible.
Julia tied the sash of her bathrobe in a knot and walked into the sitting room. She looked at the impressive breakfast laid out on the table and smiled at Anthony, who pulled out a chair for his daughter.
“I asked for Earl Grey,” he said, standing over her and filling her cup. “The waiter gave me the choice of breakfast tea, black tea, green tea, white tea, Lapsang souchong, jasmine, and about forty others, before I threatened to jump out the window if he listed one more.”
“Earl Grey is perfect,” replied Julia, unfolding her napkin.
She caught sight of the paper tied with the red ribbon and peered up at her father suspiciously.
Anthony took it straight from her plate and held it behind his back.
“Best wait until after breakfast.”
“What is it?” asked Julia.
“Those?” he said, pointing to the pastries. “Those long twisty things are known locally as ‘croissants.’ That one there with the brown stuff sticking out is a pain au chocolat, and the spiral-shaped one with the dry fruit on top is a pain aux raisins.”
“Very funny. And how about the thing you’re holding behind your back?”
“Like I said—after breakfast.”
“Why put it in my plate in the first place?”
“I changed my mind. It’ll be better on a full stomach.”
Julia shrugged, then waited until Anthony turned his back to her. In a single gesture, she deftly snatched the paper out of his hands.
She untied the ribbon and rolled out the paper to see Thomas’s portrait, his smile beaming straight back at her.