Suddenly I heard a familiar voice. It rang out from long ago, when I had been wretched and alone. The years dissolved like mist and I was a little boy again, my heart aflutter with the excitement of first love. I turned around slowly, not knowing whether her cry was simply an echo of my own longing. “Mischa?” she exclaimed.
“Claudine, it is you.” She stood in front of the post office, her eyes glittering in the cold, her expression incredulous.
“What are you doing here?”
I shrugged. “I had to come back,” I said, gazing into her face, stunned by the woman who stared back at me.
“You grew up,” she said, then smiled. Her front teeth still stuck out a little, reminding me of the little girl I had befriended on the bridge.
“So did you.”
“You’re still Mischa.”
“You’re still Claudine.”
She shook her head and a frown wobbled between her eyebrows. “No, I’m not.” She sighed and averted her eyes. “I’m not her anymore. I wish I were.”
At that moment a man stepped out of the post office. He was dark-haired and olive-skinned, tall, with broad shoulders and an unshaven chin. There was something unkind about the twist of his mouth. “Bonjour,” he said. His arrogance already grated. He didn’t recognize me but I recognized him. He was the same, just older.
“You remember Laurent, don’t you, Mischa?” she said. “Laurent is my husband.”
29
I watched them walk away. Side by side, husband and wife, leaving me alone and bewildered on the pavement. Her parting glance was not enough to assuage my anger, in spite of its tenderness that caused my stomach to flip over. I had no justification for being furious. We had been children, after all. But she had been my special friend; Laurent my enemy. It amazed me how time did so little to erase old grievances, even those of a small child. I was now certain that, before that moment, I had never been in love. I had never suffered the dizziness in the head, the rush of blood to the heart, the spinning sensation in the stomach, the sense of grappling against gravity to hold on to someone, and the terror of losing them. I felt that now. She had never belonged to me, but I was overcome with a need to hold her.
I hunched my shoulders against the cold and thrust my hands into my pockets. With a pang of regret, I watched them disappear around the corner. Claudine didn’t look back. I was an old acquaintance, nothing more. Perhaps we’d meet again in the square, but then I’d return to my life in America and she’d remain here, among the memories I so cherished. Events that we had shared but which she had undoubtedly forgotten. I turned and walked back up the road towards the château, my heart heavy with sorrow.
When I reached the hotel, I ignored the cheery greetings from the staff. Jean-Luc wasn’t there, which was a blessing. I wasn’t in the mood to talk or listen to his ignorant chatter. I hid myself in my room, leaving a gray cloud in my wake, warning anyone off coming near. I sat on the bed with my head in my hands. I forgot my meeting with Père Abel-Louis. He paled in the brilliance of my chance encounter with Claudine. I replayed it over and over in my head. I had turned and there she stood, the toothy child grown into an attractive woman. She had smiled, brushed her hair off her face with a gloved hand, and gazed at me in a timid way, her soft green eyes full of disbelief and joy. I had felt it then, like the dawn after a long dark night: the sudden realization that there was only one woman in the world for me and that there she stood, gazing at me as if she knew it too. And then the horror of seeing Laurent. The sensation of falling and desperately struggling for balance. I had shaken his hand, but I had not smiled. I couldn’t pretend that I was pleased to see him. I couldn’t hide my jealousy that he had the woman I wanted. My manners deserted me, as did my ability to dissemble. Claudine had shaken me up and nothing was in the right place anymore.
I had to see her. But how could I, with Laurent by her side? He wasn’t stupid. He’d know my motives. I could hang about the Place de l’Eglise in the hope of catching her on her own. I could follow her home and wait for Laurent to leave. I could be devious; after all, I had once been an accomplished spy. But what would come of it? She was married. She had a life. I would return to mine, as empty as it was, and I would have to forget her.
It was now dark. The wind was up. I stood staring out over the lawn, the vineyard beyond engulfed in darkness. I remembered my grandmother’s belief in the wind. Well, it was blowing one hell of a gale tonight. I felt disgruntled and unhappy, beginning to wish I had not come. The only thing I had achieved was to torment Père Abel-Louis. A hollow victory. It didn’t make me feel any better. I was haunted by the past even more than before. The demons were still there; I hadn’t slain any. I had just fallen in love with someone I could not have.
I bathed and dressed for dinner. Once again I would eat alone. I was tired of my own company, and yet I was determined not to allow my solitude to evoke pity in others, for pity brought invitations. I resolved to look as grumpy as possible. I walked down the stairs and across the hall towards the library, where I intended to have a drink before eating. As I made my way across the floor where I had pushed toy cars as a child, I was detained by a receptionist. “Excuse me, Monsieur.” I turned and settled my eyes on him. He seemed to wilt beneath my gaze. With a shaking hand, he held out an envelope. I took it and frowned. The writing was neat and looped, as all French writing seems to be. Only when I reached the library did I realize that I hadn’t even bothered to thank him.
There was a boisterous fire in the grate. I ordered a martini and sank into a leather armchair. A few people sat reading the papers. No one spoke. The room was pleasantly quiet. I tore open the envelope and read the note: Mischa, please meet me tomorrow morning on the bridge at nine-thirty. Your old friend, Claudine. I stared at it in disbelief. Had she, too, felt the sense of destiny? I read it again, taking pleasure from her handwriting, as if her very essence was captured in the ink. The waiter brought my martini and I sat back in the chair, staring into the fire, suddenly feeling a whole lot lighter.
“Bonsoir, Monsieur.” I looked up to see Jean-Luc, the manager. Had it not been for Claudine’s note I would have grunted and opened a newspaper to avoid him. But I felt euphoric with excitement and, to my own surprise, offered him the chair opposite. “I trust that everything is to your liking,” he said, settling into the chair.
“Yes,” I replied, folding the letter and slipping it into my breast pocket. “Everything is just perfect.”
“I have been wanting to ask you about your childhood here at the château.”
“I was born here,” I said, taking a sip of my martini.
“Then perhaps you might be interested in old photographs of the place before it became a hotel. When it was a family home.”
“I would be very interested,” I replied, unable to think of anything but Claudine.
“The Duvals kept everything, which is very lucky, because the archives are full of documents, albums of photographs, visitor books, game books, inventories, even shopping lists. I thought, since you lived here then, you might find some photographs of old relatives.” His reference to my great age did not offend me. I was amused.
“I was born in 1941, Jean-Luc. I am not a fossil. Nor was I here before the war. My mother worked here, that’s all. I don’t remember much about the château before it became a hotel.” I didn’t wish to inform him about my father and the other Germans who had resided here during the Occupation.
“I beg your pardon.”
“I’m glad you got rid of that horrid carpet in the hall.”
“The beauty of these old châteaux is in their original forms. The less one changes the better, don’t you agree?”
“When I was a boy, Jacques Reynard ran the vineyard. Is he…” I shuddered. The drink and Claudine’s note had made me reckless.
Jean-Luc smiled. “He lives just outside Maurilliac. About forty minutes from here.”
I was stunned. “He’s alive?”
“Of course. He bought a sma
ll farm. Now he has retired, but he still runs his farm.”
“Why did he leave?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. He was old.”
“But he loved it here. I would have thought he might have moved into one of the cottages on the estate, or into Maurilliac at least.”
“You’ll have to ask him.”
“I shall. Is he married?”
“His wife died about eight years ago.”
“Do you remember her name?”
“Yvette, she used to —”
“Cook. Yes, I knew her. Well, I’ll be damned.” I pictured them in the old folly. What a sight they had been for a young boy. He had had a funny name for her; I tried to remember, but could not.
“I met her once or twice, a charming woman,” Jean-Luc continued. I didn’t answer because even though she elevated me to “grabber,” I had always feared and hated her.
That night I was unable to sleep. I lay awake, staring up at the ceiling, my childhood replaying before my eyes like an imaginary reel of film that I could rewind and fast-forward at will. I was amazed that although it all seemed like another life it was, at the same time, strangely tangible. I had recognized the familiar brightness in Claudine’s eyes, but also noticed a warm maturity and, if I was not mistaken, a shadow of pain. She was the same person beneath the layers of experience accumulated over the years, just older and wiser and more than a little frayed around the edges. I longed for dawn to break. I was desperate to see her. I didn’t know what would come of it, if anything. But that night, while my heart thumped against my rib cage and I lay willing the hours to pass, all I wanted was to talk to her. I must have slept, for I awoke at eight. It was already light. I pulled back the curtains to find the ground was covered by a thin layer of frost. The air was full of mist, casting the lawn and fields beyond in a magical glow. The day held such promise. I dressed and shaved, tried to make some sense of my hair — long and unruly, graying at the temples, the color of wet sand. There was no avoiding it; the glossy blond boy of my youth had not fulfilled his early promise. I had breakfast in the dining room, reading the papers, although only my eyes took in the words; my mind was already at the bridge.
I put on my coat and hat and strode out of the conservatory on to the lawn. The ground was so hard it didn’t matter that the shoes I wore were inappropriate for cross-country excursions. My breath rose on the icy air and my cheeks stung. I thrust my hands into my pockets and made my way to the track that led down to the river. How often I had taken it with Pistou. We had chased rabbits and birds, played catch with my ball, or simply ambled along, kicking stones. The landscape hadn’t changed in the years I had been away. The hill retained its gentle curvature, the forest still smelled of pine. The river still wound its way down the valley; the bridge, when I reached it, was as it had always been. Only our lives were transient, like the leaves that came and went, blown about on the wind of Fate, battered by the rain, warmed in the sun. Standing on that stone link between one land and another I sensed more than ever before my own mortality. If my past was a blink, then so was my future. One day I’d be gone, but all this would remain. It would continue without me. Where would I be? In an eternal sleep, or in some spirit world with those who had gone before me? I had wasted so much time already. Years I had chosen to fill with anger and bitterness. It now appalled me. I was determined not to waste any more time.
I looked at my watch. It was past nine-thirty. I strained my eyes to see if she was coming. The mist hung low like a shroud, making it difficult to see beyond fifty yards. I imagined her running through it, shouting for her hat. Once or twice I thought I heard her footsteps, but it must have been an animal stepping on a twig, a deer or a hare. A spray of birds flew into the air, disturbed by the crackling sounds on the ground, but it was not Claudine. I wondered suddenly whether I had got the wrong time and burrowed about in my pockets for her note, before I remembered that I had worn a dinner jacket the night before and had placed it in the breast pocket, where it remained. Perhaps she had said PM and not AM. Or perhaps she had got cold feet. Maybe Laurent had stopped her coming. I started pacing the bridge, up and down, up and down, stamping my feet to keep warm. The minutes dragged, but as they moved on, so diminished the likelihood of Claudine turning up.
At ten the mist began to lift and the sun to shine through. I was affronted by the beauty of the morning. The dew sparkled on the leaves, the particles of mist that remained glittered and twinkled in the air, and the frost that clung to the grass sparkled like little jewels. My disappointment would have been easier to cope with had the day not been so magical. It was hard to feel miserable in the midst of such beauty. I knew there was no point in waiting around in the cold. My dreams dissolved with the fog and I was faced once more with the possibility of leaving Maurilliac without seeing Claudine again. I wished I hadn’t seen her; then, at least, I wouldn’t have had to suffer such disillusionment. That fleeting meeting the day before had held within it the promise of something tremendous. My life now seemed more dull and monotonous than it had before, and certainly a great deal lonelier. I turned and walked away.
30
Mischa!” I heard her voice and turned around. She was running up the path beside the river. “Mischa! Wait!” I hurried back down the track towards her. My elation was so great that any formality that might have dictated our encounter was banished and I swept her into my arms so that her feet dangled above the ground.
“Claudine!” I breathed into her neck. “I’m so happy to see you.”
“I’m sorry I was late. I couldn’t get away sooner.”
“It’s okay. You’re here and you don’t know how happy that makes me.”
She laughed and my stomach lurched with nostalgia. Her laughter had bubbled and gurgled like that of a child. I found myself laughing too. I put her down but we continued to hold each other. For a long moment we simply stared at one another, taking in the faces molded by time and adulthood, finding that we hadn’t changed that much after all.
“You’re still Mischa,” she said at last, smiling incredulously.
“You’re less toothy,” I replied and she laughed again.
“Thank Heaven for that. I looked like a donkey.”
“No, you didn’t. I liked your teeth.”
“They’re still crooked, but they seem to have sorted themselves out as I’ve got older, or perhaps I’m just used to them now. Why am I talking about my teeth?” She shook her head and smiled. “God, Mischa, it’s been nearly forty years. Where have you been? What have you done?” She stared at me for a long moment, her gaze a caress that turned my blood to honey. I realized then that I hadn’t lost the gift of clairvoyance that I had relied on as a child; I just hadn’t needed it. As a mute child I had dwelled in the subtext of life; a part of me was still there, reading in the eyes the words that remained unexpressed.
We started to walk along the riverbank towards an old iron bench that I had once made into a pirate ship with Pistou. “Well, it’s a long story.” I took the hand that she had linked through my arm. “We lived in New Jersey for about seven years and then my mother and I moved to New York.”
“How is your mother?”
“She died of cancer.”
“I’m sorry. That must have been a terrible blow for you. It was only when I grew up that I realized the truth about your past. Oh, I knew who your father was and why they treated your mother as an outcast, but I never really understood what it all meant. You and your mother must have shared an incredible bond, to have gone through all that together. I’m sorry she’s gone. Are you married?” I noticed the change in tone, as if she were trying to sound jolly but in reality, feared my answer.
“I’ve never married,” I replied.
“A handsome man like you?” she laughed, the brightness in her voice restored.
“I’m a bit of a sight, actually.”
“You’re still Mischa. It could have been yesterday, couldn’t it?” She sighed and dropped onto the bench.
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“We were children — and yet, with you, I don’t feel I have changed all that much,” she continued. I sat down beside her. “I mean, when I saw you yesterday, it was as if we had always remained in contact. You weren’t a stranger. You were my old friend.” She turned to me and smiled bashfully. “You still are my old friend, Mischa. You know, I loved you over and above everyone else.”
“Why? I’ve always wanted to ask you. Why did you bother with me? After all, I couldn’t speak.”
“I don’t know. I suppose I looked at you as another human being, not as a freak. Everyone talked about your mother and how you had the devil’s blood in you. But I knew that wasn’t true: your blood was the same as mine. I thought the grown-ups were stupid and superstitious and the children lame sheep without minds of their own. I resented them. I wanted to show them, by example, how silly they all were. At first my smile was a small show of rebellion, but then, when you looked at me, your eyes were so full of fear, like a wild animal’s, my heart bled for you. It didn’t matter that you couldn’t speak. It made me like you all the more. I felt sorry for you and yet, at the same time, I admired you for being different. You had incredible charisma and you were also handsome, with those light blue eyes and pale hair. People talked about you in whispers. You were like forbidden fruit. I’ve always been attracted to things I shouldn’t have.”
“Like Laurent?” I couldn’t help the jealousy that stuck in my throat. I wished I hadn’t sounded so bitter.
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