by Marc Levy
“What?” Anthony asked.
“The resemblance is uncanny. You two make quite the pair. I think you would have gotten along very well.”
She led her father in the direction of Rue Notre-Dame. Anthony made her stop at the facade of number 130, explaining that it was the oldest building in the city. He told her it still housed a few of the priests who were once the island’s city leaders.
Julia let out another yawn and pushed onward in the direction of the Notre-Dame Basilica of Montreal. Fearing what would come next, she begged her father to spare her more of the guided tour.
“You have no idea what you’re missing,” he called after her as she tried to speed past the monument. “The ceiling is painted like a starry night sky . . . It’s incredible!”
“Well, now I know,” she answered from a distance.
“Your mother and I baptized you in there!” Anthony had to shout after her.
Julia stopped short, did an about-face, and returned to her father’s side.
“Fine, we’ll go in and have a look at your starry ceiling,” she said, capitulating.
The painted ceiling was a sight of staggering beauty. Framed by sumptuously carved wooden ornaments, the ceiling seemed to be covered in lapis lazuli. Enthralled, Julia walked toward the altar.
“I never imagined anything could be so beautiful,” she murmured.
“Glad to hear it,” Anthony replied triumphantly.
He led her over to the side chapel of the Sacred Heart.
“You really had me baptized right here?” she asked.
“Of course not. Your mother was an atheist; she never would have allowed it!”
“What? Then why the hell did you say that?”
“Because I didn’t want you to miss out on all this beauty,” Anthony responded as they retraced their steps back toward the massive wooden doors at the front of the church.
As they crossed Rue Saint-Jacques, Julia almost felt like she was back in downtown Manhattan, with tall buildings like those of Wall Street on either side. The sky began to grow dim, and the streetlights of Rue Sainte-Hélène flickered to life. A little farther on, they arrived at a small square with tree-lined paths bordered by green grass. All of a sudden, Anthony lunged for a bench to steady himself, nearly collapsing in the process. Julia hurried to his side.
“It’s nothing,” he said. “Just a glitch, something wrong with my knee.”
Julia helped him sit down.
“Does it hurt?”
“Oh, no. Pain is a thing of the past,” he said with a grimace. “Dying must have a couple of perks, after all.”
“Well, then why are you making that face? You certainly look like you’re in pain.”
“It must be part of my programming. If a person got hurt and showed no outward signs of pain, it would seem suspicious, don’t you think?”
“Okay, okay. I don’t need all the details. Is there . . . anything I can do?”
Anthony took a little black notebook and pencil from his pocket and handed them to Julia.
“Can you note that on the second full day the right leg suffered a malfunction? And be sure to give them this notebook on Sunday. Our observations could help improve future models.”
Julia said nothing. Her hand shook as she struggled to write down her father’s words. Anthony noticed and gently took the pencil back.
“On second thought, it’s really not that important. I can walk fine now, I’m sure of it.” He got up and took a couple of steps. “A minor anomaly that seems to have corrected itself.”
At the sight of a horse-drawn carriage rolling into the Place d’Youville, Julia declared that she had always dreamed of taking a carriage ride. She had watched them trot by a thousand times in Central Park without ever having dared, and now was the time. She caught the coachman’s eye and gave a little wave. Her father gave the carriage a horrified look, but Julia made her way straight toward it, the issue clearly not up for discussion. Anthony rolled his eyes and grunted as he hoisted himself up onto the seat.
“Ridiculous. We look absolutely ridiculous,” he muttered under his breath.
“Whatever happened to not caring what other people think?”
“There are limits.”
“You wanted to travel together, didn’t you? Well, this is traveling.”
Clearly uncomfortable, Anthony peered back toward the horse’s rear end, watching it swing with each step.
“I’m warning you, if the tail of that pachyderm makes even the slightest upward movement, I’m getting out.”
“It’s a horse. Not an elephant or a rhino,” Julia replied, correcting him.
“With an ass like that, you could’ve fooled me!”
The carriage pulled up in front of Café des Éclusiers on the Old Port. Julia and Anthony climbed down for a look, but enormous grain silos blocked the view of the opposite shore. Their colossal curving forms thrust upward out of the water as though climbing into pure darkness.
“Let’s go this way,” said Anthony gloomily, turning away from the river. “I’ve never much cared for those ugly concrete monsters. I can’t believe they’ve never gotten around to knocking them down.”
“Maybe they’re under some kind of protection,” Julia responded. “Who knows? They could take on a certain charm as they age.”
“Well, I certainly won’t be around to see it. And, frankly, I doubt you will be either.”
He led his daughter down the Old Port promenade. As they wandered along the green stretches that bordered the Saint Lawrence River, Julia started walking a few paces ahead of her father. A flock of seagulls took flight and caught her eye. As Julia turned her gaze skyward, the evening breeze blew a lock of her hair loose. She tucked it back behind her ear, catching sight of her father out of the corner of her eye.
“What are you looking at?” she asked.
“Only you.”
“And why is that?”
“I was watching and thinking how beautiful you are. How much you look like your mother,” he replied with a faint smile.
Julia looked at him flatly. “I’m hungry” was her only response.
“We should be able to find a place you’ll like, a bit farther ahead. The area is swarming with little restaurants, each more revolting than the last . . .”
“Ah, and in your humble opinion, which is the most horrible?”
“Don’t worry, I’ve got faith in us as a team. If we put our heads together, I’m sure we’ll find the worst one, you’ll see!”
Along the way, Julia and Anthony loitered in front of the shop windows where the promenade crossed the Quai des Evénements, with the former dock extending out into the Saint Lawrence River.
Julia suddenly caught sight of a familiar figure bobbing about in the crowd, a silhouette that was unmistakable. “Look! Look over there. It’s him!” she exclaimed, pointing.
“Who? Where?” Anthony’s gaze followed her finger.
“Right there! Black sports jacket, by the ice cream stand.”
“I don’t see him.”
She dragged her father ahead, forcing him to walk faster.
Anthony wrenched himself free of her grip. “What’s gotten into you?”
“Hurry up, we’re losing him!”
Julia dived straight into the flow of tourists walking out onto the jetty.
“Who on earth are we following?” complained Anthony as he struggled to keep up with her.
“Trust me! Come on!” she called back over her shoulder, leaving her father behind.
Anthony plopped straight down on a bench, refusing to take another step. Julia broke into a near full-on sprint after the mysterious man who had caught her attention. A few moments later, she returned to her father’s side, disappointed.
“I lost him,” she panted, dropping down next to him on the bench.
“Will you tell me what the hell you’re going on about?”
“Over there, near those stands . . . I could have sworn I saw Wallace! Your assista
nt.”
“Wallace is completely ordinary looking. He looks like everyone, and everyone looks like him. Your eyes were playing tricks on you.”
“Well, the least you could do was keep up so I would’ve known for sure.”
“Yes, well . . . my knee,” Anthony responded plaintively.
“I thought you said it didn’t hurt.”
“It’s the damned programming again. Cut me some slack; I can’t control everything. I’m a very complicated machine. Anyway, let’s imagine Wallace is here. Why not? He’s a free man now. He has every right. He’s retired.”
“I suppose so, but . . . you’ve got to admit it would be a strange coincidence.”
“It’s a small world. Anyway, I’d be willing to bet the man you saw wasn’t Wallace. Didn’t you say you were hungry?”
Julia helped her father to his feet.
“All better now,” he said, giving his leg a shake. “Right as rain. Let’s stroll around a bit longer and get something to eat.”
With the warm early-summer weather, the Old Port promenade was overflowing with vendors selling souvenirs and trinkets.
“Come on, let’s go over there,” said Anthony, leading his daughter out onto the jetty.
“I thought we were going to have dinner.”
Anthony noticed a ravishing young woman sketching ten-dollar portraits.
“Quite the talent,” Anthony said, observing her work.
A few sketches clipped to the fence served as proof, further confirmed by the portrait of a tourist to which she was applying the finishing touches. Julia dismissed the entire scene. When she was hungry, she had little patience for anything else. For her, hunger was an urgent matter. Her appetite had always astounded the men around her, coworkers and ex-boyfriends alike. Once, Adam had made the mistake of challenging her to a pancake-eating contest. As Julia eagerly attacked her seventh, Adam, who had tapped out after five, was already grappling with the early stages of an unforgettable case of indigestion. And to make matters worse, Julia never gained a pound.
“Can we go already?” she insisted.
“Hold on,” Anthony responded, slipping down into the seat and taking the place of the tourist who had just left.
Julia rolled her eyes.
“What are you doing now?” she asked impatiently.
“What’s it look like? I’m getting my portrait done,” Anthony retorted with an uncharacteristically playful lilt. He turned to the artist, who was already sharpening her charcoal pencil. “Full or profile?”
“How about three-quarter profile?” suggested the young woman.
“Left or right?” he asked, shifting in the folding chair to show both views. “People always say I’m more distinguished from this angle. What do you think? Julia? What’s the verdict?”
“Nothing. No opinion,” she said, turning away.
“Come now. With all the gummy bears you just devoured, there’s no way you’re still hungry!”
The portrait artist gave Julia a sympathetic smile.
“My father,” Julia said, gesturing down at Anthony. “We haven’t seen each other for years. He was always too busy. Last time we took a walk together, it was around a petting zoo, and he’s elected to pick up right where we left off. Whatever you do, don’t let him know I’m an adult in my thirties. He’d die of shock.”
The young woman chuckled and set down her pencil. “It’ll ruin his portrait if you keep making me laugh.”
“See?” Anthony interjected. “You’re distracting this young lady from doing her job. Why don’t you quit hovering about and go have a look at her other portraits? It won’t take long.”
“He couldn’t care less about what you draw, you know. Just an excuse to get close to a pretty young girl!” declared Julia.
Anthony beckoned his daughter to lean in closer. Skeptical as she was, she abided, and he whispered in her ear, “How many daughters get to see their father have his portrait done three days after his death?”
At a loss for a clever reply, Julia walked away. Anthony held his pose like a statue, eyes following his daughter as she looked over the older sketches the artist had hung up to attract customers.
Suddenly something she saw stopped Julia’s heart dead in her chest. She froze in place, eyes widening and throat constricting. One particular drawing had cracked the floodgates of her memory wide open. Clipped to the fence . . . a face with a shaded cleft in the chin, slightly exaggerated lines tracing the cheekbones, a noble, almost insolent brow . . . and a gaze that seemed to lock eyes with her, transcending the limits of the paper. The mere sight of it sent Julia spiraling years into the past, awakening a torrent of forgotten feelings . . .
“Thomas?” she stammered.
9.
Julia had turned eighteen on September 1, 1989. To celebrate her coming of age and her newfound independence, she decided to drop out of the college Anthony had forced her to attend. Her rebellion would be to study abroad in an international exchange program, with a drastic change of majors. Over the years, she had saved up money from tutoring jobs, which she combined with winnings from late-night card games and a generous scholarship. Getting the scholarship, considering her father’s fortune, required the help of her father’s personal assistant. Despite Wallace’s misgivings (“Miss, if your father had any idea what I was doing . . .”), he ultimately signed the paperwork that certified it had been years since Julia had received support from Anthony Walsh. When that paperwork was presented in combination with her pay stubs, the exchange program had been convinced, and her scholarship approved.
She was able to get her passport on the sly from her father’s Park Avenue town house during a brief and stormy visit. Slamming the door behind her, she hopped on a bus straight to JFK.
Early morning, October 6, 1989: Julia landed in Paris.
In her mind’s eye, she could still picture her old student apartment. Beside a window with a view of the sagging rooftops of the Left Bank stood a rickety table, a metal folding chair, and a lamp—a holdover from another century. She remembered the sweet-smelling but scratchy sheets of the bed, but she couldn’t recall the names of the two girls who had lived across the landing. She could picture each step of the walk from Boulevard Saint-Michel to her classes at the École des Beaux-Arts with perfect clarity. She could see the facade of the dingy bar on the corner of Boulevard Arago, with its clients smoking and drinking café-cognac, even in the morning. She had been so happy with her newfound independence that her studies flowed by smoothly, uninterrupted by anything, even romance. Julia drew continuously through the days and nights that followed. She sat sketching on nearly every bench in the Jardin du Luxembourg, walked down all of the tree-lined paths, and stretched out on all of the “Keep Off the Grass” lawns to observe the clumsy gait of the birds, the only ones authorized to be there. October flew past, as the last days of her first autumn in Paris evaporated into the gray of early November.
She thought back to what started as an ordinary evening at Café Arago, with students from the Sorbonne fervently discussing the latest news from Germany. Since the beginning of September, thousands of East Germans had crossed the border into Hungary in a desperate attempt to reach the West. Just that week, a million citizens had been out protesting in the streets of East Berlin.
“It’s the end of the world as we know it! History’s being made!” one of the students cried out.
His name was Antoine.
The memories flooded back.
“We have to go! Go to the wall!” another declared.
And that one was Mathias. I remember . . . a chain-smoker. He would fly off the handle at the drop of a dime. He never stopped talking, and on the rare occasion he had nothing to say, he would hum. I’ve never met anybody so afraid of silence.
A group of interested students had gathered at the café and were debating taking a trip straight into the heart of the revolution. They decided to leave for Germany by car that very night. If they drove in shifts, they could reach Ber
lin by noon. Show of hands?
Julia couldn’t say what had pushed her to raise her hand in Café Arago that evening. It felt as though some mighty wind was pushing at her, bringing her straight to that table of students from the Sorbonne.
“Can I come along?” she asked as she approached the group.
I remember every word.
“I know how to drive, and I’m well rested. I just slept most of the day.”
That was a total lie.
“I could take the first shift and drive for hours.”
Antoine checked with the others. Was it Antoine or Mathias? The group was swept up in the drama of the epic journey ahead, the whole thing becoming more and more concrete with each passing moment. They took a quick vote on Julia coming along for the trip.
“We should have an American representative along with us,” Mathias suggested, seeing Antoine’s reservations.
He was finally swayed and raised his hand, along with the others.
“When she returns home, she can testify to France’s sympathy for contemporary revolutions.”
They pushed back their chairs to make room, and Julia was suddenly surrounded by new friends. A while later they stood on Boulevard Arago and said their goodbyes to the others staying behind. She planted farewell kisses on the cheeks of countless faces—she didn’t recognize half of them, but as part of the group, she now had to pay her respects to those not coming along for the journey. Those heading to Berlin were divided into different cars, each taking a different route. Julia would join Mathias and Antoine. There was no time to lose; a six-hundred-mile drive lay ahead of them. The night of November 7, as they drove along the Seine, Julia never imagined she was saying goodbye to Paris forever and that she would never again see that view of the Left Bank rooftops from her studio.
Senlis, Compiègne, Amiens, Cambrai . . . One after another, signs with names of mysterious towns she had never heard of appeared as the road stretched onward.
Julia took the wheel around midnight, in Valenciennes, just before crossing the border into Belgium. Her American passport aroused curiosity from the border guard, but her student ID from the École des Beaux-Arts allowed the group to continue their road trip without incident.