“Of course he’ll find her,” said Solène, twirling a lock of hair that had freed itself. Then she put her hand on my arm. “Don’t worry, Alain. He’ll find her. After all, we all want the tragedy to end up as a comedy, n’est-ce pas?”
“All?” I asked. “Who else knows about this?” Solène fiddled with her pearls. “Oh, just Carl—I had to tell him, of course; after all, we were once very close—and Liz. She’s really into complicated love stories and finds it all extremely romantic.” She smiled. “And so do I.” She looked at me for just a little too long, and I decided to change the subject.
“What was going on with Carl just now?” I asked.
Carl Sussman was an excellent cameraman who had won several Academy Awards. And he was also, if you were to believe Solène, the biggest idiot that the French sun had ever shone on. I already knew from Allan Wood that the bearded colossus simply refused to accept that the flighty actress had ended her affair with him and had turned to a big Texas landowner. But since the team had been reunited in Paris to start work on filming Tender Thoughts of Paris, the hot-blooded Carl had stuck to Solène like glue. He stole her cell phone, read all the messages Ted Parker had written to her, deleted them, and then wrote to the Texan, “Keep your hands off Solène, cowboy. She’s my girl.”
Of course the actress had explained everything to her outraged lover on his ranch in Texas and given Carl the tongue-lashing he deserved. She’d even threatened that she would insist on a change of cameraman if he didn’t control himself. But Carl refused to be impressed by her anger. He just kept saying, “We’re made for each other, corazón,” and threw everything into winning Solène back with red roses and passionate declarations of love. Carl was not a man to accept a refusal. He followed her when she went to buy shoes in the rue de Faubourg; he went to the Ritz and hammered on the door of her room in the middle of the night. And when she tried to get rid of him, saying, “Alors, va-t’en, Carl. Je ne veux pas!” he’d gasped a determined “Ta gueule, femme! Tu fais ce que je dis!” and kissed her. And Solène had shut up and let herself go one more time—one single, final time.
“Yes, well … Carl is a very attractive man, and we’d been drinking margaritas,” she explained with some embarrassment. “But did the idiot have to pick up my phone that night?”
When, instead of Solène’s sweet voice on the line, there was the deep bass of a man with Brazilian roots who had no problem with identifying himself and growled “This is Carl” into the handset, the result had been a transatlantic catastrophe of major proportions. It was the perfect storm. Carl was very pleased with himself, Solène was beside herself with rage, and the jealous rancher, who, far away in Texas, studied the French yellow press exhaustively to get some idea of what was going on during the filming in Paris, was deeply disturbed. Even when Solène assured him that it had only been the room-service waiter, who’d brought a club sandwich to her suite at four in the morning, she was understandably unable to convince her rather stolid but by no means stupid lover.
“I can only hope that Ted will calm down. He’s always so impulsive, you know,” Solène explained with a dreamy smile. She leaned forward and looked at me. Sitting there with her big blue eyes and her sky blue silk dress with its tulle-lined skirt billowing around her slim legs, she looked like an innocent Ophelia who had been deeply wronged. Finally, she gave a little sigh. “Oh, all these jealous men around me! It’s really too stressful, Alain, believe you me.”
Solène sank gracefully back in her chair and crossed her legs. Then she fluttered her eyelashes at me and gave me a challenging poke in the knee with her pointy blue fifties shoe. “In my next life, it might be better to try a sweet French intellectual. What do you think?”
Twenty
It was like a fairy tale. Three is a magic number there, too. The miller’s lovely daughter has three chances to guess Rumpelstiltskin’s name. The enchanted princess appears to the king in the night three times. Cinderella shakes the tree over her mother’s grave three times to get a gown for the ball.
Three days after Solène Avril said to me, “Don’t worry, Alain. He will find her,” my dearest wish seemed to be fulfilled. In a fairy tale, it would probably have been a mounted courier who brought the glad tidings. In my reality, firmly fixed in the twenty-first century, it was simply the ringtone of my cell phone.
Contrary to his usual practice, Allan Wood came straight to the point. “I know where she lives!” he said, and I whooped with joy, thrust my fist in the air like a footballer who’s just scored the deciding goal, and gave a delighted leap in the air on the corner of Vieux-Colombier and the rue de Rennes.
A lady who was just leaving a jeweler’s shop with an elegant carrier bag and a satisfied smile gave me a curious look, and I felt I had to share my happiness with someone right away. “He’s found her!” I called to the astonished lady. She raised her eyebrows in amusement and in a sudden rush of humor said, “Well, that’s terrific!”
“He’s found her!” I said barely five minutes later to my friend Robert, who was just on his way to give a lecture.
“Great,” said my friend. “We’ll talk about it later.”
It was Thursday, early in the afternoon, and the world was the best of all worlds. Allan Wood, director, master detective, and my new friend and ally, had done it. He’d found his daughter, the woman I had given my heart to.
It had been quite difficult at first, but after a few tense phone calls with members of Hélène’s family on the Loire, mainly characterized by the fact that the receiver was slammed down as soon as Allan gave his name, there was a nephew twice removed who took pity on the agitated ex-lover of his deceased aunt Hélène and was ready to reveal the address of their daughter to him.
It turned out that Méla had moved back to Paris from Arles only about a year before, after the dramatic breakdown of her marriage to a southern Frenchman (the nephew was unable to give any more exact details). She was now living under her maiden name in the Bastille quarter, not far from the place des Vosges; the nephew was not exactly sure of the street name, but he was at least able to give Allan Wood her telephone number.
“I’ve already done a search,” Allan said proudly. “She lives in the rue des Tournelles. There is actually someone living there called Bécassart.”
“Wow, that’s sensational!” I shouted down the line, and the Japanese man with the big camera who was walking past me at that very moment flinched, flashing me an embarrassed smile. I was in seventh heaven, but then I thought back to my experiences in the building on the rue de Bourgogne.
I sighed. “My goodness, Allan, that’s really too good to be true. Let’s hope it’s really her this time.”
“It is her—I’ve already called.”
“What? And what did she say?”
“Nothing. I mean, just her name.” Allan Wood sounded a bit embarrassed. “I didn’t dare say anything, so I just hung up straightaway. But it is her—that was definitely Méla’s voice.”
Excitement shot through me like an electric shock. I would really have liked to take the Métro immediately and go to see her. But Allan Wood advised caution.
“Let’s not get too hasty, my friend. This is not just a one-day affair, and we need a good plan,” he said with panic in his voice, and asked me to wait till he’d finished filming in the Cinéma Paradis, because that was taking all his emotional energy. With any luck, it would be the next day. Until then, Allan Wood didn’t think he’d be up to a confrontation—the result of which was so uncertain—with his daughter.
“I understand your impatience, Al-lang, but I’d like to have a clear head. After all, it’s not just about your girlfriend, but about my daughter, too. We need to pull together in this affair, okay?”
Although disappointed, I agreed. As far as I was concerned, we could have set off immediately. But Allan implored me to remain calm and trust him. He made it clear to me that this highly sensitive situation would require a very delicate touch. There were definite reasons wh
y Mélanie Bécassart had refused all contact with her father for years and had also stopped coming to the cinema. Strong emotions were in play, and it was reasonable to assume that the woman we were seeking wouldn’t be overcome with joy to see her father and me suddenly standing at her door.
Even though my heart was already rushing to the rue des Tournelles, my head told me that Allan Wood was right. And so we agreed to meet at my place that Friday evening to calmly discuss the best way to proceed.
*
On Saturday morning at half past seven, the Marais was deserted. The sidewalks were wet, a light drizzle was falling on Paris, and the sky over the city was leaden. It was the perfect morning to sleep in after partying through the night.
Two men in raincoats were sitting behind the misty window of a little café not far from the Bastille Métro station, discussing something over an espresso. Then they fell silent and exchanged conspiratorial glances. Beside them on a black wooden bench lay two gigantic bouquets of flowers. It was not hard to guess that these two men were up to something. They obviously had a plan. Nor is it hard to guess who those two men were—but for the sake of completeness, let us mention at this point that the two men were Allan Wood and I.
I was just saying, “Perhaps it would be better if you went first, Allan.” In a very few minutes we’d be ringing the doorbell of Mélanie Bécassart’s apartment in the rue des Tournelles, and I was feeling sick with excitement.
“No, no. No way—if she sees me, she’ll slam the door in our faces straightaway. You have to go first.” Allan Wood rattled his empty espresso cup nervously on its saucer. “Don’t lose it now, Al-lang, we’ll do it exactly as we discussed yesterday.”
Our plan was brilliant, as only the plan of two men who are trying to win back the love of a woman can be. We had done what men always think of doing first. We’d bought flowers. Smiling indulgently, the lady in the flower shop had tied masses of roses, lilac, baby’s breath, and hydrangeas into two gigantic bouquets. “Who’s the bouquet for?” she had asked, and Allan and I had answered simultaneously, “For my daughter” and “For my girlfriend.” The flower seller then asked if it was for a birthday. We had both shaken our heads but had given her to understand that we were totally determined to spend the price of a small car on the two bouquets. “They need to be overwhelming,” Allan had said.
And so they were—overwhelming. We could hardly lift the bouquets, but the flowers in their pink-and-blue paper wrapping nevertheless drew benevolent glances from all the female passersby we met. And that was a good sign to begin with.
We’d discussed the matter thoroughly that Friday evening when Allan—somewhat exhausted but happy—returned from the Cinéma Paradis, where the last scene had been shot that afternoon. We’d considered a large number of factors and come to the conclusion that early Saturday morning offered the best-possible chance of finding Mélanie Bécassart in her apartment. When she opened her door, I was to be standing in front to offer her the flowers and say something like “Please forgive me, and give me just a minute. I have to talk to you.” Then Allan Wood would appear from behind his bouquet. Allan had said that it was always good to ask a woman for forgiveness.
At nine o’clock, hearts thumping, we were standing at Mélanie’s door. We might have found another way of getting in, but fortunately there was a concierge in the grand building on the rue des Tournelles. That extremely friendly lady had readily let us into the building when she saw our flowers and we ingenuously explained that it was Mademoiselle Bécassart’s birthday that day and that we wanted to surprise her. Obviously, no one suspects men with flowers of evil intentions.
In the hall, it was peaceful and quiet. The whole building seemed to be still asleep as we climbed the softly creaking wooden stairs. We stopped on the third floor.
I looked at my bouquet, thinking that I’d never bought a woman so many roses before. Then I reached for the bell. Three melodious notes rang out. I listened as they faded away, hardly daring to breathe. Behind me, Allan’s flowers were rustling. We waited in a state of high tension. How often in recent weeks had I stood at strange doors and rung the bell. This was going to be the last time.
Nothing moved behind the heavy, dark wooden door.
“Oh, shoot! She’s not there!” I hissed.
“Shhh!” said Allan. “I think I hear something.”
We listened. And then I heard it, too: footsteps and the creak of floorboards. A key turned in the lock, and then the door opened a crack, revealing a petite shape with disheveled hair, standing there in a blue-and-white-striped nightdress and bare feet, rubbing her eyes.
“Good grief, what’s this?” she said as her astonished gaze fell on the sea of flowers at her door and the two men behind them.
The script dictated that I should say my line at this point. But I said nothing. Instead, I just looked at her, and felt the ground giving way beneath my feet. Then, as if from a great distance, I heard Allan Wood’s voice. From behind his blue hydrangeas, he could only blurt a single word: “Méla!”
“Papa!” said the woman in the nightdress, too surprised to be angry. “What are you doing here?”
Twenty–one
Life is a soap bubble, says Chekhov. And mine had just burst. While Allan Wood emotionally clasped his prodigal daughter in his arms and she—perhaps more grown-up as a result of her mother’s death and unexpectedly mild-tempered—invited him into her apartment, I laid my bunch of roses on the threshold as if on a grave and tumbled down the stairs.
Méla was not Mélanie. That was the bitter truth. How I had hoped to look into her heart-shaped face and her big brown eyes as the apartment door opened. How sure I had been that I was only a short moment away from happiness.
Then this strange young woman was looking questioningly at me, and I fell into the abyss. This could not be happening, not after all we thought we had found out. I stood there as if turned to stone and dumbly watched the reunion between Méla and her father.
Allan Wood, himself overcome by emotion, had, after a few words of explanation stammered on the landing, briefly remembered my presence and asked me if I’d like to come in for a coffee anyway. I had shaken my head—that would have been too much.
And while the little man in the horn-rimmed glasses and his pretty daughter clearly had a great deal to tell each other, I ran numbly down the street in the Marais, seeming unreal even to myself. It was still raining, but I couldn’t be bothered even to turn up the collar of my raincoat. It was right and proper that it was raining down my collar and that I was getting wet. Or it simply didn’t matter. Together with the rain, all the sadness of the city broke over me, and yet rain is only rain, and not something that is passing comment on your life. I wasn’t interested in the weather. Who needs a blue sky when he’s unhappy? Robert was right. The sky, whether gray or blue, is cold and unemotional, and ultimately even the sun is only a fireball that, unaffected by everything going on here below on earth, simply spews its masses of magma into space.
Heavyhearted, I ran aimlessly through the streets, I can’t even say that I was thinking very much, or if I was, I can’t remember what. I put my feet forward one after the other like an automaton; I was unaware of anything, not even the damp that was creeping into my bones, not even the hunger that my stomach was trying to make me aware of.
I had been conquered in battle and was beating a retreat just like Napoléon’s Grande Armée after the defeat in Russia two hundred years before. To say that I was demoralized would have been a gross understatement. This final attempt had cost me the last of my strength, and my spirit had vanished without trace. I didn’t know what else I could have done. I could do no more. It was all over—irrevocably.
I had been fooling myself the whole time. How naïve had I actually been to take seriously the idea that Allan Wood’s daughter and the woman in the red coat were one and the same person? How naïve did you have to be to believe that a woman who hadn’t been in touch for weeks was in any way interested in you? It
was laughable. I was laughable. A fantasist, as Papa had always said.
This all dawned on me as I was marching over the pont Neuf and a passing taxi driver splashed a cascade of water over my clothes. Welcome to reality, Alain! I thought.
With a certain degree of self-destructive cynicism that gave me a strange satisfaction, I remembered Dr. Destouche from The Lovers of Pont Neuf, who pasted posters of the heroine—herself going blind—in the tunnels of the Paris Métro in an attempt to find her. A joke! And I hadn’t even had a photo. I had nothing. Nothing but a letter and a few fine words. I decided to get the girl in the red coat out of my head once and for all.
Tired, wet, disappointed, and angry with myself, I pushed open the door of La Palette hours later. This was where it had begun, and this was where I would end it. Like a man. I sat down at a table in the rear of the bistro and ordered a Pernod and a bottle of red wine. That would probably be enough to begin with.
It’s not actually like me to get drunk in the afternoon. But after the milky anise liquor and four glasses of heavy Bordeaux, which I drank down in steady gulps, I discovered that alcohol in the afternoon can have an extremely stabilizing effect.
Outside, it was still raining, but my wet things were gradually drying out and I’d been taken over by a dull calm that felt quite pleasant. I waved to the waiter and ordered another bottle.
He looked suspiciously at me. “Would you maybe like something to eat as well, monsieur? A sandwich, perhaps?”
I shook my head energetically and uttered an involuntary grunt. What sort of nonsense was this idiot talking? No one had ever gotten drunk by eating. “Je veux quelque chose à boire!” I explained with emphasis.
The waiter returned and, without being asked, put a basket with a baguette down in front of me. Then he fussily took the cork out of the new bottle. “Are you expecting someone, monsieur?” he asked.
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