Ava watches Finn chatter on, rather touched by his total unmooring. It’s somehow comforting to see someone she thought so completely perfect slowly unravelling, thus bringing the pedestal she’d put him on down by a notch or two. It seems, now, that in fact he’s not quite so different from her. He may be able to play the violin in a way that is sublimely other-worldly, but when it comes to love he’s just as crazy as anyone else.
Ava smiles, grateful that the tables have suddenly turned, that the attention is on him instead of her. It makes sublimating her devastation so much easier.
‘Oh, no,’ she says, magnanimously. ‘I don’t think you’re a total lunatic. Well, no more than I am, anyway. Though I must confess, I’m curious about the ghost.’
Finn sighs. ‘I’m not seeing things. I mean, I don’t know if anyone else can see her, or not. But I’ve been … close, and she is real, I’m quite sure of it.’
Ava considers this. ‘How do you know she’s a ghost?’
Finn frowns. ‘Because I can see right through her.’
Ava’s smile, and her gratitude, deepens. ‘I take it you’re not speaking metaphorically.’
Despite his furrowed brow, Finn lets escape a small smile. ‘No, I’m not.’
‘Ah, well then,’ Ava says. ‘Perhaps I’ll have to rethink my hasty judgement on your not being a lunatic – I’m kidding!’ she exclaims, seeing his stricken look return. ‘That was a joke. An attempt to lighten the mood. But I see I’ve failed miserably. I shall refrain from jokes in future.’
Ava grins, unable to believe how much fun she’s suddenly having. The morning hasn’t exactly turned out as she’d hoped – having realised all her worst fears of rejection and humiliation – and she couldn’t possibly have imagined this particular turn. But, despite the fact that Finn is either in love with another woman or is, in fact, certifiably insane, Ava is making jokes, she’s speaking effortlessly, she’s free and easy, she’s not worried about saying the wrong thing – blurting out a hideous premonition – or unable to say anything at all because she’s trying so hard to make a good impression.
Ava can’t remember the last time she was so relaxed, so unrestricted, released from all the stifling, crippling thoughts that normally tether her tight. She had no idea it felt so glorious to be so free.
And then, suddenly, she sees it: the worst event of Finn’s life to come. For a moment, Ava can’t move. Then she pushes her chair away from the table.
‘I’m sorry,’ Ava says, already standing. ‘I—I’ve got to go.’
Chapter Eleven
Clara sits forward in her chair, her glance shifting between Mr Akkersijk’s excited, twitching fingers and the letters he’s grasping tightly between them.
‘How?’ she asks. ‘How are they special?’
Mr Akkersijk takes a deep breath, smoothing the papers with a slow, soft, rhythmic circling of his palm. ‘Well, I will need to get them authenticated, of course, but I believe – from the content – that they were written during the Second World War, during the Nazi occupation of Amsterdam.’
Clara puts her own hand to her mouth. ‘Oh.’
He nods, eyes alight with excitement. ‘Do you know much about the author of the letters?’
Dropping her hand back to her lap, Clara shakes her head. ‘Not much. Marthe was my great-grandmother. She raised my grandfather in Amsterdam before the family moved to England in the 1960s. She died long before I was born. I only found the letters a few weeks ago in the attic. My granddad left a note, but he didn’t explain anything. I’m not sure he knew. But he wanted me to find out. That’s why I’m here.’
‘Ah,’ Mr Akkersijk considers this. ‘That’s very interesting. Well, often Holocaust survivors never spoke – quite understandably – of what they went through.’
Clara feels her hands go clammy in her lap. She squeezes them together.
‘Holocaust?’
‘Well, I can’t be certain, of course, until I’ve read them all,’ Mr Akkersijk says. ‘But, even though they aren’t dated, and even though they seem to be simply love letters, a few references are made that lead me to believe—’
‘—love letters?’
Mr Akkersijk nods, with the flicker of a smile. ‘Yes, they are really quite passionate.’
Clara sits forward again. ‘They are?’
‘Oh, yes.’ He nods again and points to the first letter atop the little pile. ‘Would you like me to translate some of them?’
A shiver of something: anticipation, excitement, nerves, panic, flushes through Clara. ‘Well, yes, that would be … lovely. Thank you.’
Mr Akkersijk nods once more and bends his head over the letter.
‘My dearest, darling Otto,’ he begins. ‘How I—’
‘Otto?’ Clara interrupts. ‘Who’s Otto?’
Mr Akkersijk smiles. ‘I rather hoped you might know that. You certainly have a better chance of knowing than I do.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Clara says. ‘Sorry, I just didn’t realise, I mean, I didn’t know who the letters were for.’
‘He wasn’t your great-grandfather?’
‘No,’ Clara says. ‘I’m pretty sure he was called Lucas, like my granddad.’
‘Ah, well then it would seem that Marthe had another love, this Otto, before she married Lucas.’
‘Yes,’ Clara agrees. ‘So it would seem.’
‘Shall I go on?’
Clara nods, a little more vigorously than she expected to. ‘Please.’
Mr Akkersijk returns to the letter.
My dearest, darling Otto,
How I miss you. I never imagined life could feel like this, full of shadows, memories, empty pockets of longing I stumble into every few minutes or so … How long do you think we are to be parted? I cannot imagine it will be too long. I pray not too long. Dare I hope it will be not more than a few weeks? Of course, we must be careful. I know I can’t leave to post these to you. But still, I will write & one day soon, when we are curled up together in our marriage bed, I will read them aloud, so you can know that I was thinking of you all this time, always.
I will write as often as I can – though I must ration the paper, for I don’t know when I’ll have more. Know then, my love, that I am thinking of you every minute, that each word I write represents a hundred thousand thoughts I have of you. While I am locked away in this room I remember us running down the Rozengracht, hand in hand, bent over in laughter. I let memories of every kiss we’ve shared comfort me at night – my favourite at the moment: the Oosterpark, under the birch tree when you pulled me to you so quick and tight that I gasped in surprise. I can only hope that it won’t be so very long before you will hold me again.
Until that moment,
Marthe
When Mr Akkersijk reaches the end of the letter, he looks up at Clara. Not quite catching his eye, she glances quickly down at her still-clammy hands clasped in her lap. She hadn’t taken her eyes off him while he read – the words ribboning from his mouth to curl around and tug at her heart – but suddenly she’s embarrassed for him to see her staring, in case he can tell on her face the way she’s feeling.
At thirty-three years old she’s never known love as it’s written in Marthe’s letter. She’s never known love unlike it either, because she’s never known true love at all. To hear Mr Akkersijk speak such love aloud, even though, of course, he’s not actually addressing his words to her, causes Clara’s body to react in strange blushing ways, as if he’s touching her, as if his voice is blowing softly on her bare skin, as if he’s whispering into her ear, little puffs of air brushing past her hair.
Clara coughs. When, at last, she glances up Mr Akkersijk is looking right at her.
‘It is beautiful, no?’
Clara nods.
‘From what I’ve read so far, I believe she was writing during the war, most probably to a lover she was separated from.’
‘A soldier?’
Mr Akkersijk gives a slight shrug of his thin shoulders. ‘I cannot t
ell. I hope to gain that information when I have a chance to read all the letters in detail.’ His eyes glint with excitement and the silver edge of glee coats his voice.
Clara wants to ask: Have you ever been in love like that? Are you still? Tell me, tell me how it feels. But, of course, she doesn’t.
Mr Akkersijk stands. He presses one hand next to the pile of letters, fingers just touching the paper edges. He reaches out his other hand across the table. Tentatively, Clara takes it.
‘Thank you for bringing me these letters. I will take great care of them,’ he promises.
‘Thank you,’ Clara says. ‘I’m very grateful for, for ….’
Gently, he releases her hand.
‘When I’ve read them, how shall I contact you?’ he asks. ‘You’ll be returning home soon, I imagine?’
Clara wishes she wasn’t. She wants to say ‘no’, to say that she’ll be staying, that she’ll wait until he’s ready to see her again, that she’ll stroll the streets of Amsterdam for the next few weeks – or however long the translating will take – and return to the steps of The Amsterdam Archive of Paperphilia the moment he calls. But, of course, she can’t. She must return to the shop; she must leave on a ticket already purchased for the day after tomorrow. But Clara doesn’t want to leave. Since the moment she set foot on the first cobblestone, Clara has felt a strange sort of claim on this place. As if it were hers to explore, as if it would unfurl slowly to reveal all its secrets, its nooks and crannies, its places of darkness and light.
‘I’ll give you my phone number,’ Clara says, conceding to the duller reality of practicalities. ‘And, again, thank you so much for helping me.’
Mr Akkersijk nods. ‘Not at all, Ms Cohen. I’m sure it will be a very illuminating experience for me too. It’s always a thrill to find historical correspondence such as this. I thank you for bringing it to me.’ He gives a little bow and Clara realises that, much as she might like to stay, this is her cue to leave.
Edward sits happily at the kitchen table, devouring his chicken dinner – rather pleased that it’s actually edible – and still utterly thrilled to be sitting between his wife and his daughter. He wonders if the experience will ever become commonplace again. He hopes not, just as he hopes it will last for ever.
Swallowing a slice of potato – only slightly burnt – he turns to his wife. ‘Have you been outside the house yet?’
An odd glimmer of guilt flits across Greer’s face. ‘Wh—no, why do you ask?’
‘Oh, no reason,’ he says, chewing on a piece of chicken – admittedly a little too dry. ‘I was just wondering if you’re able to?’
Greer shakes her head.
‘I don’t think Mum can go out, Dad,’ Tilly says sagely, pushing a forkful of peas across her plate. ‘I think she’s trapped by some sort of spiritual force field and can only remain manifest in the house.’
Both her parents turn to face her.
‘Remain manifest?’ They echo, almost in unison. ‘Spiritual force field?’
Tilly gives a self-satisfied nod. ‘I’ve been doing research. You can find out everything on the Internet.’
‘Clearly,’ Edward says, swallowing another potato. ‘Though how accurate is, I imagine, another matter.’
Tilly regards her father with a look he’s become sadly familiar with lately, the look that says: Oh, what do you know?
Edward returns to his wife. ‘Well, force fields aside, I was just wondering if you’d seen that new atrocity they’ve erected in the city centre?’ He grimaces, plunging back in without waiting for an answer. ‘It’s nearly as awful as the Queen Anne multi-storey car park …’
Tilly gives a dramatic sigh. ‘Oh, here we go again.’
‘Well, it is hideous,’ he snaps. ‘There aren’t enough expletives in the English language to adequately describe that monstrosity. I swear, every time I drive past it I get hives. And, if you’re ever forced to park there, you can feel how angry the architect who built it was – I bet he was pissed off not to get a greater commission, just a car park, he was ranting, just a bloody car park! – the parking places are far too small, too many pillars, too many twists, too many kerbs to trip and fall off. I bet, when he finished, the architect gave a self-satisfied “fuck you!” to the city council. Who, probably, couldn’t have cared less—’
‘Dad!’
‘Oh, yes, sorry, I didn’t mean … But still, I meant every word, except the swear words, of course.’
Greer smiles.
‘But, seriously, can you blame me?’ Edward storms on. ‘I mean, the city of Cambridge is one of the most beautiful in the world, elevated to the sublime by nine-hundred-year-old colleges, by the intricate carvings of King’s College Chapel and the like, by buildings so beautiful they bring tears to my eyes, and then the council let total idiots shit on all that splendour with buildings that look like they’ve been chucked together by children. Except that your average three-year-old could do a much better job building that parking lot, I’m—’ Edward regards his wife. ‘You’re getting that look again.’
Greer sits up, defensive. ‘What look?’
‘That glazed look you get when I talk about architecture.’
‘I do not,’ Greer protests.
Tilly shuffles in her chair. ‘May I be excused?’
Greer shifts her gaze to Tilly’s plate. ‘Are you sure you’ve finished?’ She dips her head meaningfully to indicate the chicken breast that has been cut up but barely consumed, the potatoes and peas pushed around the plate collecting congealed gravy. ‘It doesn’t look like you ever started.’
Tilly nods. ‘Maybe we could go back to getting takeaway tomorrow night.’ She raises her eyebrows in Edward’s direction. ‘Sorry, Dad, but cooking isn’t really your forte.’
‘Cheeky monkey,’ he says, then shrugs. ‘But, yeah, I suppose you’ve got a point.’
‘Perhaps you should leave chickens alone,’ Tilly suggests, ‘and just stick to buildings. Maybe you should ask the city council if you can design the next available car park – show them how it should be done.’
Greer laughs.
And, despite these harsh criticisms of his culinary prowess, Edward still can’t imagine ever being happier than he is right now.
‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Well, maybe I will.’
Chapter Twelve
How strange it is, Ava thinks, that you can be perfectly decided upon a course of action, certain that it will bring your greatest happiness, and discover instead something even greater – joy you couldn’t possibly have conceived – springing from the exact opposite outcome from the one you wanted.
Ava had never before, at least not to her memory, experienced herself in the way she had with Finn – the freedom of self-expression, the delight in her own self – and it hadn’t come from love but, really, from an absence of love. But, why? And, how? Could it be because, after Finn had told her he was in love with a ghost, she had – with the shock – suddenly stopped caring what he thought, given up trying to seduce him, realised that it didn’t matter how she acted any more. The experience was, Ava thinks, rather like being drunk or on drugs. Not that she’s ever actually experienced these things personally, but she’s read about them in books …
‘I’m looking for Tractarians and the Condition of England.’
Ava looks up to see a tall, blonde, beautiful young woman standing in front of the desk. She has a breezy, effortless air. Ava imagines that this is a woman who always experiences the freedom of self-expression and delight in herself, who’s never known anything else. But perhaps she is wrong; perhaps appearances are deceptive.
Do you ever swallow your words because you’re afraid people won’t like you? Ava wants to ask. Do you ever just nod and smile during conversations when you really want to shake your head and scream?
‘Certainly,’ she says instead, ‘you just need to fill out an order slip and it’ll be collected on the next trip to the stacks in twenty minutes.’
‘Thank you,’ the student
says. And then, much to Ava’s surprise: ‘You know, you really do have the most beautiful eyes.’
Ava blinks. This statement is so surprising, so unexpected, that it leaves her quite unbalanced. ‘Oh,’ she mumbles. ‘Oh, I …’
Ava grapples for the right response, the best thing to say next but, as she begins to form a disclaimer in her mind, the beautiful student turns away and is gone.
‘I … I …’ Ava echoes, ‘I … I …’ Then she shuts her mouth before she starts attracting speculative glances. A sense of slight panic sweeps through her. She searches the nooks and crannies of her mind for a few unanswered cryptic questions she can focus on. Ava’s stomach turns as she realises she’d forgotten – for the first time in forever – to read The Times cryptic crossword puzzle that morning. So she has nothing else to focus on except the discomfort rising in her chest, which she’d really rather not do.
Ava sits behind her desk, praying she’s not pounced upon by any other generously expressive students, while wishing she wasn’t afflicted with such a cruel ‘gift’. If she hadn’t seen the worst event of Finn’s life, she’d still be able to visit him, to experience again the delight and joy of speaking without censorship, of just being herself without any effort or extra energy. Now, of course, she can’t see him again since the risk of just blurting it out over coffee is too great. And then he’d hate her and she’d hate herself into the bargain.
Finn wakes at dawn. He yanks aside his curtains and peers out, bleary-eyed, into the milky grey light. It isn’t raining. With a half-smile he stands, pulls his long, thin fingers through his hair, patting down the stray black curls, then tugs on a T-shirt and pyjama bottoms. Finn picks up his violin and bow and walks quickly across the room.
Five minutes later he’s standing underneath the apple tree in his garden, warming up the wood with a few scales. And, as he begins working his way through Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, Finn’s breathing quickly falls into time with the music so each note draws each breath, pulling it from his lungs and into the air. He is quite lost to the soaring ebbs and flows of spring when Greer appears above the grass beside him. But, with eyes closed, fingers darting up and down the strings, every cell of his body vibrating with sound, he’s still quite oblivious to everything substantial around him – not that Greer is particularly substantial.
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