The Travels of Daniel Ascher

by Déborah Lévy-Bertherat

  On this particular day she couldn’t avoid him, he introduced her to the man from the hardware store, his old friend Louis, you mean your long-standing friend, I’m no older than you are, don’t you forget we were classmates at school. Louis, heavy and almost completely bald, looked much older than Daniel, and it took her a while to grasp that this wasn’t a joke, that the school they were talking about was one Daniel had attended in early childhood, back in the beginning, before Saint-Ferréol. He was a troublemaker, young Daniel, the shopkeeper went on, the teacher gave him sentences to write and detentions, but it was no good, that’s not true, you’re getting it all mixed up, old boy, you were the one who was on the wild side. But Louis was on a roll, your mother used to send you here when my parents ran the store, you’d come over from rue Delambre to buy Marseille soap, and afterward you’d tell her you’d lost the change.

  This reminded Hélène of a time when, without her parents seeing, Daniel had slipped a ten-franc coin into her hand, then put a finger to his lips, she must have been eight years old. She’d hidden the coin deep in her pocket like a thief, thrilled and guilt-ridden in equal measure, and then she’d forgotten about it, the jeans had gone through the wash and the coin had disappeared.

  Daniel was laughing and coughing at the same time, my poor Louis, you’re losing your memory, I didn’t live on rue Delambre but on rue d’Odessa, oh yes, you’re right, it was rue d’Odessa, but you didn’t give the change back all the same. Daniel looked down and, as if talking to himself, he repeated rue d’Odessa. Louis didn’t notice and carried on talking, do you remember there were hookers on rue Delambre in those days, they’ve all gone now, the neighborhood store’s shut up shop, my friend, he guffawed but Daniel looked embarrassed.

  As Hélène headed toward the intersection, she pictured a very young boy, not much bigger than Jonas, she could see him crossing boulevard du Montparnasse beside her, carrying a great block of soap, hurrying to get home to his mother. Rue d’Odessa. She knew vaguely where that was, over toward the metro station, Odessa, that’s a name you don’t forget. But of the road itself, she remembered nothing at all.

  10

  Sanders’s Bookcase

  THE FOLLOWING SATURDAY AFTERNOON, they went to have tea with Daniel. Before they set off, Guillaume had paced around and around Hélène’s room like a little kid. The door to Daniel’s apartment was ajar, come on, you can come on in, they found him in the living room playing chess, I’d like to introduce my great friend Sadi Alfa Maneh, known as Prosper. The man’s gray hair formed a sort of cloud in the light from the window. Hélène apologized for interrupting their game, they’d come back later, but Daniel and his friend insisted they stay, Prosper had to go anyway, they were used to interrupted games of chess. Prosper took two visiting cards from his jacket pocket and handed them one each: Monsieur Maneh, great African marabout, solves all your problems in love, friendship, and work, facilitates the return of a loved one, as well success in exams and driving tests. Peerless specialist in love letters. Satisfaction or your money back. By appointment. Now, young man, I really am an expert with love letters, I have a wonderful way with words, if you’d like to write one to this young lady, then I could give you a special rate, and for you, Hélène, as a relation of Daniel’s, the consultation would be free, you’d be welcome to come and see me whenever you like at 36 rue de la Goutte d’Or. Remember that address, Daniel added with a laugh, it may come in handy, you never know.

  When Prosper had left, Daniel explained that he’d first met him as a garbageman, clinging to the handle of a garbage truck, a real king of the blacktop who called himself Prosper like in that old song by Maurice Chevalier, and Daniel started singing it, beating out the time with his hand. Hélène felt herself blushing for her great-uncle. He and Prosper had had so many early-morning encounters they’d eventually got to know each other, and Prosper had slipped off his encrusted glove to shake hands. Daniel had offered to comb through the litter with him, and they’d made some wonderful finds together, what sort of finds, Guillaume asked, but Daniel didn’t seem to hear the question. They’d gradually become friends and had told each other their childhood memories, between them they’d done every sort of job, courier, soldier, dockworker, typesetter, driver, cook. Prosper ended up as a marabout, in other words a sort of African psychoanalyst, if you see what I mean, the answer is always in the patient’s question.

  Guillaume was walking around the room like someone visiting a museum, and recognizing things from the Black Insignia books, the African masks reminded him of All the Honey in Casamance, the Inca statuettes and the shrunken head of The Curse of Machu Picchu, and the stuffed alligator of Terror on the Orinoco. There were only two brief mentions in the whole series of Peter’s home, his refuge, readers didn’t even know which country it was in, but Guillaume had pictured it exactly like this, a stopping-off point, a nomad’s brief resting place, transient, with nothing really settled.

  Before he drank his coffee, he wanted to read Daniel’s dedications, To Guillaume, the enthusiastic reader, To Guillaume, the perceptive reader, he found a different adjective in each book and was quite overwhelmed. Then he ferreted through the bookcase, Daniel showed him a few of the many translations of his books, Pe drumul spre Transilvania, Aunt Lucy’s Cabin, L’America o la muerte. He took out various rarities such as editions of the popular children’s magazine Spirou featuring The Forsaken of Myanmar in cartoon form. There were also live-action and animated film adaptations of The Black Insignia, Guillaume knew them, but in his view, nothing measured up to the books. Daniel conceded that they were disappointing, that’s what a lot of readers think. For fun, he put a video on to show Guillaume the beginning of a Japanese animation of For a Handful of Pearls, as yet unseen in Europe, but Guillaume refused to recognize Peter in the blond-locked, martial-arts-performing teenager, what a betrayal. Hélène had moved over to the window, enjoying all the goings-on in the street that she couldn’t see from her room because it overlooked the courtyard.

  While they had their coffee, with sugar this time, Guillaume asked when the next Black Insignia book would be published. Daniel spread his hands, he was working on it, it would be finished in the spring, he’d kept his readers waiting longer than usual but this book would be special, unlike any of the others, it would be about the hero’s younger days. It was set in several countries, in fact he was planning another trip, before Christmas he was off to Mauritania for six weeks, a magnificent country, he was going to see the famous decorative entrances in Oualata, and meet some Haratines, descended from slaves; he showed Guillaume his itinerary on the map. He wanted to speak out about children killed or injured along the route of the Paris–Dakar rally, kids whose parents were compensated with a only few dollars. This was the first time Hélène had heard him talk in such a serious, level-headed way, not putting on his usual performance, it was as if, for Guillaume’s sake, he wanted to be on a par with Ashley-Mill, the dispenser of justice, the savior of the downtrodden. She noticed that when Guillaume listened to Daniel he sometimes peered at her great uncle’s left forearm, as if hoping to see a tattoo peeping out from his shirtsleeve.

  Just before they left, Daniel did manage to play the fool with the sneakers he’d recently bought for walking through the Sahara, on the box were the words Just do it, I could make that my motto. Guillaume congratulated him, these were the latest style with air bubbles in the soles, and Daniel put them on and flitted around the room, this is great, now I’m like the poet Rimbaud, the man with soles of wind.

  THE FOLLOWING TUESDAY when he arrived home from his walk, Jonas stopped at the Peyrelevades’ apartment as usual. Colette had gone out to do some shopping, so it was her husband, Jim, who opened the door. Jonas ran off to find the toy cars and drove them in and out under the fringe on the armchair. Jim managed to walk through the apartment without the help of a walking stick and turned to Hélène to ask whether she’d seen the photo of her great-uncle. She didn’t know what he meant, you’ll like this, Colette
wanted to show it to you but she must have forgotten, she’s losing her memory a bit. He went off to the bedroom to get a large envelope with a photograph inside it. It was the same picture of their wedding, only not so faded by sunlight, my word, we were young in ’41, Colette was twenty-two, look, there he is, in the front row. He put his finger on the fourth child, sitting cross-legged and wearing a dark cardigan. It was definitely the boy with the long eyelashes from the Saint-Ferréol class photo, just with a slightly fuller face, slightly longer hair, and a smile. Jim showed her a stamp in the bottom right-hand corner, which didn’t appear on the other copy, Studio Ascher, photography, 16 rue d’Odessa, Paris XIVe. Against the advice of their parents, especially Colette’s, he and Colette had particularly wanted Mr. Ascher to photograph them, and to put his stamp on the picture, even though he’d been forced to remove his name from his sign. He’d brought his son along with him, Daniel was nine at the time and so small he had to climb on a stool to hold the flash.

  Hélène understood why she hadn’t recognized Daniel right away when Colette had shown her the picture. He was the schoolboy from Saint-Ferréol and yet he was another child, not just because of his plump cheeks and curls, but also there was something different about the look in his eyes. Jim was still talking, it was Colette who wanted him to join in the photo, my father-in-law sulked, look, but you can’t refuse the bride anything. We had to supply the paper for the prints, Mr. Ascher couldn’t get hold of it anymore, he chose to believe things wouldn’t go on like that, a brave sort. His wife was from Poland, too, she had a strong accent, stronger than his, she used to touch up the photos, had a gift for it, I watched her working with a perfectly sharpened pencil, sharp as a scalpel, she could shape an oval face better than a plastic surgeon, her husband used to joke that she’d have made a great counterfeiter. The Aschers were good friends with Chaim Soutine, and he also used to touch up photos, when he was a young man in Vilna. Mr. Ascher used to go to his studio at Villa Seurat to photograph his paintings.

  Jim Peyrelevade explained that they’d had Daniel to stay in the summer of 1942, you must have heard about that, he was here for nearly three weeks, hiding in this apartment, reading masses of books and children’s magazines, Treasure Island, Bayard boys’ magazines, while he waited for them to find a way to evacuate him to the free zone. The old man put the photo back into the envelope, and the envelope in its file. Daniel looks so like his father, every time I see him I can’t help thinking about Mr. Ascher, what a story that was, oh my Lord, what a story, still, I don’t know why I’m telling you all this, you know more about it than I do.

  11

  Under the Pirate’s Watchful Eye

  HÉLÈNE ASKED GUILLAUME if he would come to rue d’Odessa with her to see the house where H. R. Sanders had spent his childhood, she rather dreaded the idea of going on her own and felt that, if need be, Guillaume’s enthusiasm would save her from becoming too maudlin. It was an ordinary, fairly short street, the kind you get near railroad stations, with hotels, restaurants, and people in a hurry. They set off from Place du 18-juin-1940 and tried to find where the Ascher Studio would have been. But number 16 had disappeared. There was a gap in the sequence of houses between 14 and 20. A new apartment building stretched across this gap, a little way back from the sidewalk, wide with balconies in smoked glass. They stood there, the two of them, in front of that building, looking to left and right, hoping they’d got the address wrong. This structure clearly occupied the space of the old numbers 16 and 18. Is this some kind of joke or something? Guillaume wailed, they’ve stolen H. R. Sanders’s house, but when he saw Hélène’s face he quieted down and put an arm around her shoulder, like a rescuer wrapping a blanket around the numbed body of a survivor.

  They walked along rue d’Odessa to boulevard Edgar Quinet, Daniel’s house was the only one that had been knocked down. Hélène wondered whether some of the shops had already been there at the time, the baker, or the furrier, perhaps. Yes, this street was definitely dreary, its window displays joyless despite the Christmas decorations hanging here and there. It was a far cry from Odessa, the splendor of old Russia and the sun glittering on the Black Sea.

  Boulevard Edgar Quinet was bustling with life and noise, it was market day, Guillaume bought some caramelized peanuts, tossing them in the air and catching them in his mouth to make Hélène laugh. He showed her that if you kept looking at the top of the Montparnasse tower as you walked, you felt like it was falling toward you. She tried for a few seconds, grabbing hold of Guillaume to keep her balance, jostling a few passersby, it really was a childish game and she was a little ashamed of making a spectacle of herself.

  SHE’D PROMISED JONAS she would take him to the puppet show in the Luxembourg Gardens that afternoon to watch The Wolf and the Seven Young Kids, and Guillaume went along with them. The puppets must have been around for the best part of a century, and the wolf’s dusty moth-eaten black fur made his huge bared red jaws look even more terrifying. When his violent hammering rattled the door to the cottage, the children gave their first screams of terror and delight. From where she was sitting in the back row with Guillaume, Hélène could see Jonas’s tousled head bobbing about right at the front, with the youngest children. The wolf came back and waggled one of his white paws, and the audience screamed louder, no, don’t open the door, it’s the wolf. And when he swallowed up six of the kids one by one, cackling with pleasure, some of the children started to cry and ran to their parents’ arms, but Jonas, fascinated, stayed where he was. Hélène took Guillaume’s hand. The floor of the little theater, reverberating to the children’s shouting and stamping, was shuddering beneath her feet.

  Inside the ransacked cottage, the goat was weeping for her kids, unaware that the last one was hiding inside the clock case. Hélène turned toward Guillaume and their lips touched briefly. The emergency exit was just behind them, they snuck outside, she hesitated for a moment, you must be crazy, what about Jonas. It was already dark and it was raining so they ran, skirting around the building to a green metal door that led to the theater store in the backstage area. The door was ajar and they went inside into a room as tall and narrow as a tower and filled with scenery flats, accessories, and dozens of puppets hung at various heights in the gloom. They were just behind the stage and, on the far side of the painted fabric backdrop, they could see the puppeteers’ feet and their shadows moving. The voices sounded louder than in the auditorium, mommy, his stomach’s moving, they’re alive, the scissors snapped horribly as they opened up the wolf’s stomach while the children clapped deliriously.

  Hélène and Guillaume leaned against a seascape with towering turquoise waves crashing onto rocks. Their mouths drew together, and the back of Guillaume’s neck felt as soft as a child’s against Hélène’s hand. Just above them, a pirate’s one good eye bulged at them, Guillaume took hold of the puppet’s beard and turned him to face the other way. Only yards away, the kid goats were coming back to life one by one, My little ones, let’s put rocks in his stomach and stitch him back up, then they sang and danced a triumphant dance, which Hélène and Guillaume would have liked to go on much longer. When they returned to the theater, the audience was already leaving and a panic-stricken Jonas was looking for them everywhere.

  GUILLAUME SAID HIS GOODBYES TO THEM outside their building, and Hélène stayed with Jonas until his mother came home. When she reached the top of the back staircase, she found Guillaume sitting outside her door with his arms around his knees, laughing to see her surprise. He was a stowaway asking for asylum in her cabin for the night. Once on board her bedroom, he started staggering, the sea was rough and the swell threw him into Hélène’s arms, help, be quiet, stop being so silly, she put her lips to his mouth. She’d already known a few boys, short-lived encounters that had mostly left an impression of haste and clumsiness. What she was now discovering was quite different. She agreed to go along with the game, for now.

  12

  Odessa Passage

  FROM THEN ON, Hélèn
e and Guillaume ended up alone together almost every evening, and he sometimes spent the night with her. It was always him coming to rue Vavin; he rented a room in an apartment in Montrouge and his landlady didn’t allow visitors. He left a few clothes in Hélène’s room and she liked having them there when he wasn’t around. Even so, he didn’t know that she’d gone back to rue d’Odessa a week after they went there together. There really had to be some vestige of the past, a trace of Daniel’s house, and she needed to be on her own to find it. Despite his passion for The Black Insignia and H. R. Sanders, Guillaume didn’t seem to get Daniel’s personal story.

  She left quite early on the Saturday morning, determined to spend as long as it took to dig up something, patiently, meticulously, just like an archaeologist. She walked the length of the street very steadily, looking at every level of the buildings from the ground to the roof, and she eventually found a detail on the stone façade of number 5, a blue-and-white sign bearing the strange inscription STEAM BATHS, and over the door were the words ODESSA BATHS. There was no code needed or entry phone, so she was able to cut across the hall to the inner courtyard. What confronted her was an oriental prince’s folly, transported here as if by magic. The bathhouse was entirely covered in tiles in every color of the sea, it was decorated with large mascarons over the windows, and the blue and green tiles on the dados mimicked streaming water. She could now see why the street bore the sumptuous faraway name of Odessa. She wondered whether the Ascher family had had their own bathroom, or had used these former public baths, but what little knowledge she had of their lives provided no answers.

  After those colorful tiles, the dirty, gray, brown-stained façade of the 16–18 building was sad enough to make her weep. What really upset her, she would come to realize much later, wasn’t the building itself, which was very ordinary, but the fact that it had been built on the ruins of Daniel’s house. In the center of the apartment building, a gate of closely spaced metal bars stood half open. A dark gallery, like a sort of subway corridor, led away behind it, and at the far end was a peep of light as if from a basement window. The ceiling was very low and covered in vertical strips of metal, the black paved floor sloped gently down to a large well open to the sky, and beside it a spiral staircase led down to the basement. All around it were shops, closed and abandoned, most of them with their metal shutters down. Here again she looked for some trace of the past, but everything obviously dated from the ’70s with its smoked glass, concrete, and stainless steel. The three small trees in the middle of the circle, raising their skinny branches toward the gray sky, looked artificial.