The Portrait

by Antoine Laurain

  ‘Leave this to me,’ he shouted at the other man. ‘It’s Monsieur le Comte!’

  He came over and shook my hand.

  ‘Can we help you, Monsieur le Comte?’

  ‘I believe so,’ I replied.

  ‘Is it about the car?’ he said straight away, pointing to the dusty old Santana.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘It’s … a sort of favour I have to ask you.’

  He nodded knowingly as if to say no further explanation was necessary.

  ‘Martial! Get down from that thing!’ he shouted up to his brother.

  The pincers stopped with a clang and then swung in the air, silent and menacing. Martial came to join us and shook my hand in turn. I had before me two ginger sheep ready to do anything their shepherd asked of them.

  ‘Fancy a beer, M’sieur le Comte?’ Noël suggested.

  On the table, four empty beer cans lay on the oilcloth alongside a map drawn in biro on the back of an old beige folder. I had shown them the layout of the apartment, the hallway, the living room and finally the study. They would have three hours to completely empty the room. It didn’t give them much time, but they would, as they put it, ‘sort it’. Neither of them asked why the Comte de Mandragore wanted to burgle an apartment in Paris. They didn’t need to know.

  ‘And the woman? What if she comes back?’ Noël asked.

  ‘She shouldn’t be there. Thursday’s when she goes to the hairdresser.’

  This seemed to satisfy Martial, but Noël returned to the topic of Charlotte.

  ‘If we see the woman, we’ll sort her,’ said Martial firmly. ‘Don’t worry, Monsieur le Comte. We know what we’re doing.’

  Afterwards we focused on the details: what kind of lock was on the door, what to expect from the neighbours, how much bubble wrap and boxes were required to pack everything, what sort of van and storage to arrange.

  On the question of storage, the Davier brothers offered me the use of a shed a few kilometres away, which currently only housed ‘a few bits and bobs’. The break-in was set to take place in five days’ time. As the boss of the operation, I had to be available on my mobile that day, in case anything came up. The new plan I had just signed up to with France Télécom-Orange would be put to use for the first time. True professionals, the Davier brothers came up with code names for us all. I was ‘Mate’, they were ‘Rascal’ and ‘Tintin’, and my beloved collections, ‘the Big Dog’.

  That Thursday evening, I went for a walk in the rose garden before joining Mélaine for an aperitif. We were expecting the McEllies, dear friends from America passing through Burgundy; it was Arthur who had given Mélaine the rose bearing her name. Having closely followed the news of my tragic disappearance, they were overjoyed at the prospect of seeing me again. Mélaine had shown me the sympathetic notes these lovely New Yorkers had emailed from their mansion overlooking Central Park.

  We had taken a picture of ourselves, cheeks pressed together, smiling into a digital camera held at arm’s length, and sent it to them. ‘I’m back’ was my straightforward caption. The reply was not long in coming: mcellie. nyforever@aol.com: ‘OH MY GOD!’ were the words writ large across the screen.

  I was walking on the white flagstones when my mobile rang. I picked it up straight away. I had not heard from the Davier brothers all afternoon and a dark thought was forming in my mind: I might never see my collections again. The brothers might have taken off with them, denying all knowledge when I turned up at the breaker’s yard. They might even fire a few warning shots. They were crooks but I trusted them, and they seemed happy to be able to repay their debt towards me. I’ve always had a lot of respect for lowlifes – their brutal, no-nonsense code of honour seems to me more reliable than the morality of men in white collars.

  ‘Hello, mate.’

  It was Martial speaking.

  ‘We’ve picked up your big dog. He’s in his kennel. But, my God, he’s heavy!’

  ‘He didn’t bark?’

  This was code for asking if Charlotte had come home.

  ‘No, he’s very well behaved, that dog.’

  ‘He didn’t bump his paws or scratch his nose?’

  Code for ascertaining if anything had been broken.

  ‘Not a single bump. You can come and play ball with him whenever you like. Bye, mate.’

  ‘Bye, Tintin, and say thanks to Rascal, too.’

  ‘Will do.’

  The next day, my collections went into the shed to which Martial Davier had given me the key.

  ‘Keep it, Monsieur le Comte. We all have our little secrets,’ he said solemnly, raising his chin as stiffly as a colonel.

  What exactly had happened in Paris? Had destiny obscured my pastel so that I would be the only one to recognise myself in it?

  I had often toyed with this somewhat fantastical idea. It was a compelling explanation, at once mysterious and romantic, like the pursuit which had led me to live in this chateau. I imagined that Auguste Chaumont de Rivaille had given his portrait to a shady alchemist who had performed some magic spells using mandrakes that rendered the portrait different according to who was looking at it. And yet really, of course, I knew that no such thing had occurred.

  Now, I began to see the only explanation that made sense. The truth, somewhat disappointing though it was, still made my head spin. I believe that Charlotte and her lover Chevrier and our friends who came for aperitifs were all in it together. It was not that far-fetched; I think they simply wanted to play a trick on me, the lawyer who had done better than them and who spent his money so shamefully on what they regarded as dull old things.

  I think that when Charlotte’s gaze fell on the portrait in the living room, and I pressed her to give me her opinion of it, she saw an ideal opportunity to get back at me. ‘What am I supposed to notice?’ ‘He looks nothing like you.’ She knew that those remarks would get to me far more than quizzing me about the cost. And she was right.

  I think she wanted to teach me a lesson. She was annoyed because objects that were supposed to be confined to the study had started making an appearance in the rest of the apartment, and no doubt there were one or two other things I was guilty of in her eyes. A phone message from one of her friends that I had forgotten to pass on, or a promised meal in a restaurant also forgotten, or maybe a plan for a weekend I had not followed through on. The portrait gave her the chance to exact a little revenge, and she had told Chevrier about it so that he could back her up if I showed him the portrait. She must also have warned our friends that ‘Pierre-François will show you a weird portrait which does look quite like him, but whatever you do, don’t let on that it does …’ They must all have been exchanging looks, and enjoying their complicity in denying the resemblance. As soon as I left the living room, disappointed, to return the picture to my study, how they must all have laughed. All my circle knew each other and they would have delighted in the little trick, whose consequences they could never have predicted.

  So there was no alchemy, magic or spell. Just a petty practical joke, a mean-minded plot by embittered little people who had decided to get under the skin of the most successful member of their group. Unfortunately, I fear, it was nothing more than that.

  If Charlotte had expressed astonishment the day I had shown her the portrait, if she had immediately cried, ‘Where did you find that, Pierre-François, it’s incredible!’, if that’s what she had done, nothing would have happened. And if only our friends had accepted that I was the one who had been clever by snapping up the portrait … But they didn’t want to, not any more. Deep down, they didn’t like me; they had never liked me. Their attitude to the portrait had just been the conclusive proof of that.

  ‘Go and get your picture, Pierre-François.’ I can still hear her triumphant voice. That was the signal. ‘Get lost’ is the expression you use to someone you want to get rid of.

  And I did get lost and I found myself here.

  And here I still am.

  The walls
of the shed are wobbling in the sweltering heat, as if the metal is inflamed and swelling noisily. Inside, it’s like a furnace. I get up and take a last look at my treasures in the candlelight before putting out the candles one by one with the snuffer, a little pair of silver scissors with a trap on one of the blades to catch the wick and quickly snuff out the flame. Twenty-three candles to extinguish – my visits always end this way. It’s a ritual, like the cigarette and the mug of Bowmore. My mass is over and the heat is making my cheeks drip with sweat. I put the snuffer back on its stand and feel my way towards the shed’s heavy door. I slide it open and I’m dazzled by the sun. It’s like a decompression chamber; the shed is a little parallel universe to which I alone hold the key, a darkened room in which to commune with the departed. Pierre-François Chaumont, are you there? Knock once for yes, twice for no.

  I wipe my forehead with the back of my sleeve and head towards the dirt track that leads up the hill to Rivaille. In half an hour I’ll be at the chateau, in the living room on the moat side, having tea with Mélaine.

  ‘What have you been up to?’

  ‘Not much, just a walk,’ I’ll reply.

  We enjoy the ritual of taking tea in this cool, slightly damp room. If you listen carefully when the windows are ajar, you can sometimes hear the slap of a carp breaking the surface before diving back down into its liquid night. Mélaine goes to the window and lifts the net curtain, her gaze lost in the dark waters, and then turns and looks at me. A knowing smile appears on her face, she drops the curtain and slowly walks towards me, step by step, never taking her eyes off me. When she reaches me, she sits down beside me, runs her hand through my hair and, as I open my mouth to speak, she places a finger on my lips. Then we look at each other without a word. At moments like this, I’m sure she knows.

  She knows I’m not her husband. And I’m just as sure that we’ll never speak about it. We love each other too much to risk spoiling our happiness by bringing up what is, after all, a minor detail.

  A thud like the fall of a meteorite wrapped in cotton wool rings out behind me and I freeze. Suddenly I feel dizzy and the hot trails of sweat glistening on my forehead turn ice-cold. I know what this noise, this thud is. There’s nothing else it could be.

  I try to catch my breath, gritting my teeth, as the first creaking sounds come from the metal walls. I can’t move; it’s as if my legs are welded to the ground. All at once a rising crackling sound can be heard on the warm breeze, followed by more pops and bangs like firecrackers. They’re coming from the old ammunition crate that was left near the sacks of fertiliser. I’m rooted to the spot. My mind is entirely blank. I am already in the moat-side living room drinking tea with Mélaine. I’m looking at her; my gaze glides over the white cotton dress she was wearing this morning and then back up to her hair. I see her body and feel her presence so strongly it’s surreal. Now that I’ve understood what went on in Paris, something must happen. Now that I’ve found the woman, the love and the beauty I spent so long searching for in objects as I built up my collections, now that I’ve passed from the inanimate to the living, a strange kind of transaction must take place, like paying a smuggler a fortune to cross a forbidden frontier: every object I own, for a single woman.

  It’s the price I have to pay. The cost of happiness.

  At last I find the strength to turn around. Just then, the roof of the shed caves in and a blast of scorching air and ash hits me in the face and rushes through my hair. I close my eyes.

  ‘Pierre-François Chaumont, are you there? Knock once for yes, twice for no.’

  Two cartridges explode in reply, one after the other, loud and clear.

  Reading Group Discussion Points:

  What significance do inanimate objects have for Pierre-François Chaumont? How do you interpret the eventual fate of his collection?

  Antoine Laurain’s characters often undergo a transformation which allows them to start their lives afresh. To what extent is he an optimistic writer?

  Le Figaro said of Laurain’s last novel, French Rhapsody: ‘What makes it one of the must-reads of the moment is not just its off-the-wall humour, but its deep sense of melancholy. If it wasn’t so funny, you’d weep for the roads not taken.’ How does Antoine Laurain balance humour and melancholy in The Portrait?

  To what extent can The Portrait be read as a fable, and the painting as having magical properties?

  Does Pierre-François behave in a morally acceptable way, in your opinion? What about Charlotte and Mélaine?

  To what extent is The Portrait about identity, the way we see and present ourselves and the way others perceive us?

  The Portrait was Antoine Laurain’s first novel, written while he was working for an antiques dealer. What themes from this book carry on into his later novels?

  Copyright

  First published in France as Ailleurs si j’y suis

  by Éditions Le Passage

  Copyright © Éditions Le Passage, 2007

  First published in Great Britain in 2017

  by Gallic Books, 59 Ebury Street,

  London, SW1W 0NZ

  This ebook edition first published in 2017

  All rights reserved

  © Gallic Books, 2017

  The right of Antoine Laurain to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  ISBN 9781910477458 epub

  The President’s Hat

  Antoine Laurain

  translated by Gallic Books

  Dining alone in an elegant Parisian brasserie, accountant

  Daniel Mercier can hardly believe his eyes when

  President François Mitterrand sits down to eat at the table next to him.

  After the presidential party has gone, Daniel discovers that Mitterrand’s black felt hat has been left behind. After a few moments’ soul-searching, Daniel decides to keep the hat as a souvenir of an extraordinary evening. It’s a perfect fit, and as he leaves the restaurant Daniel begins to feel somehow … different.

  ISBN: 9781908313478

  e-ISBN: 9781908313577

  The Red Notebook

  Antoine Laurain

  translated by Emily Boyce and Jane Aitken

  Bookseller Laurent Letellier comes across an abandoned handbag on a Parisian street, and feels impelled to return it to its owner.

  The bag contains no money, phone or contact information. But a small red notebook with handwritten thoughts and jottings reveals a person that Laurent would very much like to meet.

  Without even a name to go on, and only a few of her possessions to help him, how is he to find one woman in a city of millions?

  ISBN: 9781908313867

  e-ISBN: 9781908313874

  French Rhapsody

  Antoine Laurain

  translated by Emily Boyce and Jane Aitken

  Middle-aged doctor Alain Massoulier has received a life-changing letter – thirty-three years too late.

  Lost in the Paris postal system for decades, the letter from Polydor, dated 1983, offers a recording contract to The Holograms, in which Alain played lead guitar.

  Overcome by nostalgia, Alain is tempted to track down the members of the group. But in a world where everything and everyone has changed … where could his quest possibly take him?

  ISBN: 9781910477304

  e-ISBN: 9781910477380

  An extract from

  French Rhapsody

  French Rhapsody

  By Antoine Laurain

>   Translated from the French by Jane Aitken

  and Emily Boyce

  Gallic Books

  London

  Within all of us there are secret things, obscure, profound impressions, which, like the rest of our previous existence or the glimmerings of a future life, are a sort of psychic dust, ash or seed, to be remembered or foreseen.

  Henri de Régnier

  Les Cahiers (1927)

  Rhapsody:

  In classical music, a rhapsody is a free composition for a solo instrument, several instruments or a symphony orchestra. Quite similar to a fantasia, a rhapsody almost always draws on national or regional themes.

  A Letter

  The assistant manager, a tired-looking little man with a narrow, greying moustache, had invited him to sit down in a tiny windowless office brightened only by its canary-yellow door. When Alain saw the carefully framed notice, he felt nervous laughter return – but more hysterical this time, and accompanied by the disagreeable feeling that if God existed, he had a very dubious sense of humour. The notice showed a joyful team of postmen and -women all giving the thumbs up. Running across the top in yellow letters were the words ‘The future: brought to you by the Post Office.’ Alain chuckled mirthlessly. ‘Great slogan.’

  ‘No need to be sarcastic, Monsieur,’ replied the civil servant calmly.

  ‘Don’t you think I’m entitled to a little sarcasm?’ demanded Alain, pointing to his letter. ‘Thirty-three years late. How do you explain that?’

  ‘Your tone is not helpful, Monsieur,’ replied the man drily.

  Alain glared at him. The assistant manager held his gaze for a moment, then slowly extended his arm towards a blue folder which he opened with some ceremony. Then he licked his finger and started turning the pages, rather slowly. ‘And your name is?’ he murmured, not looking at Alain.