I waited for Claudine and Laurent. I knew they’d come. During our short time together we had laughed about Père Abel-Louis and she had told me that the current priest was as he should be: a respectable servant of God. She trusted him as a priest and liked him as a man. In spite of a rebellious start, she was a good Catholic. I wondered what she said in confession and how much influence Père Robert had over her.
Finally they walked in, behind a mother with five young children. I was so busy watching the children, regretting for a moment that I had none of my own, that I almost missed them. Laurent strode in with his shoulders back, his chin high. Claudine walked beside him, hunched a little, her eyes on the group in front. Her face was in repose, her expression solemn. Her hands were in her pockets, his hanging by his side. They didn’t touch. They found places on the opposite side of the aisle, about eight rows in front of me. I had no fear of being seen. And anyway, why shouldn’t I be at Mass? I considered stopping them on the way out and engaging in conversation, but then the spy in me took over. I’d follow them home and watch. I wanted to see how he treated her. I wanted to know my enemy so that I could work out a strategy. I didn’t want to leave without her. I didn’t think I could.
Père Robert Denous was young and vibrant. His presence there injected the place with vitality, like spring after a barren winter. Gone was the ominous gray aura that had surrounded Père Abel-Louis. Père Robert was gently spoken with deep-set, kind eyes. He conducted most of the service in French, not Latin, and his sermon was encouraging and positive. I found myself drawn into it, having initially focused all my attention on Claudine and Laurent. I understood why these people flocked here every Sunday. If Père Robert was the gateway to Heaven, he was a welcoming one: a gate that embraced everyone no matter what. I couldn’t help but wonder how different things might have been had Père Abel-Louis been more like him.
At the end of the service, I left the church with the first few congregants, shook the priest’s hand, then lingered on one side where Laurent and Claudine wouldn’t see me. It didn’t take them long to come out. They, too, shook the priest’s hand. Laurent didn’t smile — his mouth curled into a mean grimace — but Claudine did. She said a few words, sandwiching Père Robert’s hand between hers, gazing up at him with reverence. The priest smiled at her warmly and I got the impression that she knew him far better than her husband did. Perhaps she had sought solace from the Church to help her live through her unhappy marriage. They shared a joke, but Laurent didn’t smile. He remained a little apart, as if, like me, he thought little of the institution that meant so much to his wife. He took her arm and they moved on, into the square.
I followed them as they walked home, keeping my distance. Laurent had dropped his hand and they walked a little apart. They didn’t talk much. Claudine was the one to initiate a conversation. He answered monosyllabically, then withdrew again, until, undefeated, she ignited another. I trailed them through the town, down the back streets, wondering where their friendship had gone, for the silences between them were not the warm silences of old friends, but the awkward pauses of a marriage turned cold.
They stopped at last outside a pretty house built in the same pale stone as the rest of the town, with a red-tiled roof and white shutters. However, it didn’t vibrate with coziness, but looked as empty as the window boxes that hung on the black iron balconies on the second floor. I hid around the corner, beside a bleak-looking hair salon, and watched Laurent unlock the door and stride inside. Claudine glanced up and down the street, a frown wrinkling her forehead, before she followed him indoors. I wondered whether she felt me watching her.
It was a dull, gray morning so when they turned on the lights, I was able to see clearly into the living room. They both disappeared for a while. I waited like a lion stalking a pair of wildebeest, with a wary patience. Finally, they returned. Laurent lit the fire and Claudine stood in front of the window, staring out, her arms folded in front of her chest, biting her nails. I knew she was thinking about me. She had that faraway look on her face, a melancholy expression of longing I recognized, because I had seen it on myself.
Laurent came up behind her like a shadow. He stood over her and placed his hand on her shoulder. She shrugged it off. This angered him. He raised his hands to the ceiling and let out a stream of words that I could not hear. Claudine shook her head and moved away. A few minutes later, the light went on in the upstairs window. Again she looked out into the street before closing the curtains. Laurent remained at the downstairs window, hands on hips, before disappearing. I don’t know what went on after that. I remained as long as I could stand. Then, when it grew too cold and my stomach began to twist with hunger, I reluctantly left and walked back up to the château.
I ate alone. Claudine dominated my thoughts and stole my appetite. I ate because I knew I should and because I couldn’t bear the long, empty hours of waiting before I could see her again. I tried to think of a way of smuggling her into the hotel, but it was too risky; someone would recognize her and our secret would be out. I wondered whether there was somewhere else we could go. Somewhere we could lie naked together. I felt that if we made love that would somehow seal our affair. That it would make it impossible for her to stay. I wanted so much to take her away with me to America.
After lunch I sat in the library leafing through books I had no desire to read. I was consumed with anxiety and jealousy. Laurent grew into a powerful demon in my mind, the kind of demon Père Abel-Louis had been in my childhood. I let myself spiral into decline.
Suddenly Jean-Luc appeared before me, his face wide and smiling. In his hands he carried a faded green book. “Excuse me, Monsieur. I thought you might be interested in looking at the old family photographs of the Rosenfelds.” I was grateful to be drawn out of myself and offered him the armchair opposite. He gave me the book and I placed it on my lap.
“Whatever happened to the Rosenfelds?” I asked, not really caring.
“They all died in the war,” he replied.
My interest was aroused. “Of course, they were Jewish.” I had never given more than a passing thought to the Rosenfelds and my mother had never spoken of them.
“They must have died in the camps.” With a pulsating heart, I opened the book and looked through a window into a secret world: my mother’s secret world.
There were photographs of the family at Longchamp in Paris, the women in fashionable dresses and wide-brimmed hats, the men in pale suits. Photographs of grand banquets and balls, garden parties and charity dinners. There were pictures of trips to London, where they went to the races and the Chelsea Flower Show, photos of them sightseeing in Vienna, New York, and India. Safaris in Africa and an annual visit to Jerusalem. They had chauffeurs who drove shiny cars, their white-gloved hands on leather steering wheels, their faces solemn beneath the peaks of their black caps. They seemed to me gracious people with large, generous hearts. They were always smiling and laughing, but what struck me most about the family scenes was the obvious affection they felt for their children. It appeared to me out of step with the norms of society at that time. They were always embracing, kissing, holding hands, and cuddling the little ones. There were playful scenes of their five children rolling around on the lawn with their father, or teasing their mother, and tender moments of tranquillity when they seemed not to know they were being photographed. This was a sheltered world, ignorant of the régime that was quietly gathering power over the border, preparing to stamp it out forever. The knowledge of what was to come made their gaiety unbearable. My heart buckled at the thought of those beautiful, innocent children suffering at the hands of the Nazis. Of their blithe, carefree faces turned gray with fear. Of their glossy, vibrant bodies reduced to ash.
My mother had known these people. She had held the children in her arms, been privy to their intimate life. I knew now why she had never spoken of them. It must have been too painful. But to have remained in the château after their rarefied world had been shattered — that I didn’t unders
tand.
It was strange to see the château as it had been when it was a home. The furniture had changed but the rooms were the same. The moldings and plasterwork on the ceilings had not been touched and the grand fireplace in the hall roared with the blaze of a similar fire. The limestone floors were partly covered with rugs where black dogs lay sleeping after running around the vineyard, before the Germans came and removed them. I believed in my father’s innocence although my rational mind told me otherwise. I didn’t want to believe that he had been part of the régime that tortured and destroyed millions of innocent people.
I was about to close the book, because the window into their world had now misted with sorrow, when I was struck a terrible blow. There on the wall, behind a formal portrait of the family, hung The Gypsy Madonna. I was frozen with horror. I felt my face throb. Jean-Luc leaned forward in alarm. “Are you all right, Monsieur?” he asked. I nodded, unable to speak. “Let me get you a glass of water.” I barely noticed him get up and stride across the floor. I was swallowed into the photograph, all sorts of scenarios rising in my mind like lava from a once dormant volcano. Had my mother stolen it? Had she kept it safe from the Nazis, believing the family would return at the end of the war? Had my father purloined it and given it to her as a gift? One thing was for certain: it had originally belonged to a Jewish family. It was a valuable piece of stolen Jewish art and therefore its possession was a war crime. I was both sickened and saddened. No wonder my mother had never told me about it; she must have been too ashamed.
Jean-Luc returned with the glass of water, which I drank in one gulp. “I imagine it’s hard for you to look back into your past. So much here has changed.”
“Actually, you’d be surprised at how little has changed. Just the people,” I replied, closing the book.
“I’m sorry. Perhaps I should not have shown it to you.”
“I’m glad you did, Jean-Luc. I think I need something stronger than a glass of water, though.”
“Absolument!” He took the book and leaped to his feet.
I stared into the fire, reflecting on all that the Rosenfelds had lost during the war. I realized that I knew very little about them. My mother hadn’t spoken of them; like so many who had suffered, she hadn’t been able, or perhaps had been unwilling, to share her experiences. Yet, the château had been the foundation stone upon which I had built my life. My parents had met here, married here and I had been born here. My earliest memories were of the hall where my father’s presence still cast a ghostly shadow. I deserved to know what had gone on within these walls, however horrific, however great my disillusionment.
I drank the whisky, which burned down my gullet into my stomach, and immediately felt better. “You said Jacques Reynard lives nearby,” I said. “Would you be able to give me directions?”
“Of course. I’d be happy to,” he said. I was suddenly gripped with the desire to find out more about my mother’s past. Jacques was the only person who would know. Jean-Luc went off to write down the address and the route. I returned to my room to retrieve my wallet and car keys. I glanced out of the window, to the fields of vines that stretched out beneath the gray wintry sky, and thought of Jacques. How he must miss them. I realized that I hadn’t thought of Claudine for a few moments and that my jealousy of Laurent had subsided. At least she was alive. At least I had found her. I was lucky.
The cold hit me hard. I breathed in the icy air and let it invigorate me. I felt a surge of energy in the face of the mystery unraveling before me. Never had I been so inspired to find out about the past. It no longer frightened me; it intrigued me.
The drive across the countryside was uplifting in spite of the dreary monotone of the landscape. I reflected on the photo album and the shock of discovering the rightful place of The Gypsy Madonna. I now believed my mother had given it to the Metropolitan because she knew the Rosenfelds were all dead. That was why she said she had to “give it back.” Perhaps she had held on to it all those years hoping they might miraculously appear to reclaim it, or perhaps she only revealed that she had it when she was on the point of dying and beyond the reach of the law. I would telephone my lawyer and explain it to him on my return.
Finally, I drove the car into a rustic farm entrance. There were barns on either side, their walls pale beneath red tiles like the houses in Maurilliac. I noticed a red tractor and smiled; in the days when I had lived at the château, Jacques had used horses. I drew up outside the house. It was pretty, with tall slim chimneys and windows framed by white shutters. Ivy grew up the walls like the beard of an old man. I stopped the car and stepped out. Standing a moment on the gravel I looked about me and soaked in the warmth of Jacques’ home. I knew he was there because I could feel him. A moment later, when he stood in the doorway, his wizened face broke into a tearful smile and he opened his arms to welcome me home. As I said, those who had loved me recognized me instantly.
32
Jacques took off his beret and embraced me like a son. I towered over him, but still he held me against him, his tears soaking into my coat. Neither of us spoke, but we both thought the same thing: why had it taken me so long to come back?
Age had withered him like a gnarled tree. He must have been in his mid-eighties at least. But when he withdrew and I looked into his face I noticed that the light that radiated from within was as brilliant as ever. “It’s good to see you,” I said. He laughed at my understatement and shook his head.
“I should reprimand you for not even writing.”
“I’m ashamed of myself,” I said truthfully.
“Disappearing like that in the middle of the night!”
“I was a boy.”
“That’s why I forgive you.” He sighed and turned serious. “But I don’t forgive your mother.”
“Let’s go inside. I’m freezing,” I said, rubbing my cold hands together.
He showed me through the hall into the living room where a fire burned in the grate. By contrast to the grandeur of the château, Jacques’ house was cozy, threadbare, and filled with objects and books that held sentimental value. Like the barns outside, his home was orderly. I sank into an armchair and warmed my hands against the orange flames. Jacques poured me a drink and came over to stoke the fire. He knelt stiffly and poked the logs with an iron rod. “That’s better,” he said. “It’s been a harsh winter.”
“You left Maurilliac?” I said. He nodded.
“Nothing left for me there. Besides, I was too old to continue working.”
“So you bought this farm and settled down with Yvette.”
“Yvette.” He chuckled and looked at me with a twinkle in his eye. “Yvette was a good wife. I ate well and grew the belly of a satisfied man. She was an earthy woman, nice to lie on, too!”
“I spied on you, you know.” He got up and sat opposite me, sighing with pleasure as he sank into the chair.
“You did?”
“Yes, I saw you making love in the folly.”
“You devil!” he growled, clearly enjoying the memory.
“I remember now. You said she was as juicy as a grape!”
“I was very fond of Yvette.” I didn’t tell Jacques how much I had hated her. He obviously saw a side of her that I never did. But then he said something that surprised me. “She was very fond of you.”
“She hated me,” I replied.
“She might have hated what you represented, Mischa. But I put that right.”
“She treated me better when I became her grabber.”
“Her grabber?”
“She lifted me up to grab things from the tops of cupboards and from those racks hanging from the ceiling. She hated heights.”
“She found it hard to resent you. I know she wanted to. You have to understand that this was a country ashamed of what had happened in the war. You were an innocent reminder of a national disgrace: the defeat and rape of France. But you were a very dear little boy and of course, I loved you like my own. You might find it hard to believe, but she cried bit
terly when you left.” He sipped his coffee thoughtfully. “I cried bitterly when you left.”
“You and Daphne Halifax were the only people who were kind to me,” I said. “And a woman from America called Joy Springtoe. You see,” I added, looking at him steadily, “I don’t forget them.”
“Tell me, Mischa. How is your mother?” Suddenly there was an unexpected change in the air, as if it had been sucked out through the windows. I hesitated because I experienced another dawning, like the lifting of summer mist at daybreak. Jacques looked so sad, so forlorn, so lost, that I was left in no doubt that he had loved her. I averted my gaze because I couldn’t bear to look into his eyes.
“She’s dead,” I replied and felt his sorrow like a weight on my shoulders. When I lifted my eyes I saw that his were filled with tears. “Did she know you loved her?” I asked gently.
He nodded. “She knew.”
“That is why you stood by us.”
“That is why I stood by you, and so much more.” I sensed he wanted to talk about her, so I probed a little deeper.
“How long had you known her?”
“Since childhood.” My mother had never told me that. I had assumed they had known each other through their jobs at the château. “Anouk and I grew up together here in Maurilliac. When she left, I couldn’t bear to remain. So I left too, as far as I dared go.”
“Tell me about her, Jacques.”
“Anouk was the girl everyone wanted to marry,” he began and the light returned to illuminate his face from within. “She was coquettish, mischievous — vain even. She was very beautiful, but she had a wonderful sense of humor. I was fifteen years older than she, but we became friends. We laughed at everything. She had compassion, too, and a vast capacity for love.
“When she turned twenty-one we embarked on a love affair. I had started working for Gustave Rosenfeld’s father when I was sixteen. I helped Anouk get a job there when Gustave and his wife, Pauline, inherited the place on his father’s death. They were young, with small children. Anouk worked as jeune fille, looking after the family, arranging their entertainment. The Rosenfelds were a very important wine-growing family. The vineyard exported all over the world, and people came to visit. Anouk was kept busy. But she loved her job and she loved the family, especially the second daughter, Françoise.” He stared into the fire as if he were talking to himself. “For three years before the war we worked together by day and loved each other by night. I asked her to marry me, but she said she was too young. I said I would wait.” He shrugged. “Who wouldn’t have waited for Anouk?”
The Gypsy Madonna Page 28