The Lost Carousel of Provence

by Juliet Blackwell

  Maybe Olivia was right—maybe there truly was such a thing as a geographical cure. For whatever reason, it felt easier to open her heart and mind and to move forward in this foreign place.

  “Enough about Saint Maxine,” Cady said, realizing that Johnny had finished sweeping up the area where the carousel figures had been. “For now, let’s clean those windows so we can see better in here, and then line those panels up against that wall. Then we can clean them assembly line–style, once we have the right solvents. And let’s put any other carved figures we find in this area,” she said, gesturing to the alcove on the other side of the room. “That way we can see what we have.”

  “So this thing used to be a carousel that, like, worked?”

  “It was, yes. But there were many more figures than these; I’m not sure how many, but we can count the holes in the floor and figure it out.”

  They worked companionably for a while; then Johnny asked, “How do you speak French so well?”

  “I took classes. And I used to do the school photography for a French-American school near where I live in the States, so I met some French people there, and they helped me practice. But it all started out with a rabbit named Gus.”

  He stared at her.

  “Gus is a carousel figure. I used to think he might have been from this group here, but now . . .” She shrugged.

  “I speak a little English,” he said. His accent was atrocious, so it came out more like “Ah spick a leetle Unglish.”

  “That’s great!” Cady replied. “It’s much more relaxing for me to speak English. Want to practice?”

  “A leetle.” Then he switched back to French. “But not now. I can’t clean and speak English at the same time.”

  She chuckled. “You know, Johnny, you need to apologize to Fabrice.”

  “He needs to apologize to me.”

  “Okay, maybe there needs to be a generalized détente between the two of you.”

  He shrugged.

  “I know he’s a grumpy old man, but he’s done a lot in his life and he’s seen a lot. You could learn from him. He’s a famous author. And did you know he worked with the Résistance during World War II?”

  He nodded. “Everyone says he was a hero.”

  “They do?”

  “Yeah. He arrested a traitor here, when he came back to Château Clement after the war. A Nazi collaborateur.”

  “Really? What happened?”

  “I don’t know the details. That’s just what people say.”

  They worked together for another couple of hours and made some headway. The air quality was already improving, and with a little organization it was easier to see what they had to work with. Once they got everything off of the carousel floor, Cady studied the holes for the poles and bolts and figured the carousel had originally had twenty-four animal figures, and maybe two spinning tubs as well as the carriage. They found three chickens, a horse, and another rabbit, which brought their total to twelve. If her calculations were correct, only half the original figures remained, and several of them were badly damaged. If they couldn’t find the others, was it even worth trying to save the Clement carousel?

  “Enough for today,” Cady announced. “I’ll need to go to Avignon for the specialty cleaning supplies. Now that Fabrice has finally let me in here, I don’t want to screw anything up. Want to come with me, maybe visit the university?”

  “Um . . . no, I have to go.”

  “Okay. See you tomorrow?”

  He grunted his assent and slouched off.

  Cady lingered, feeling itchy and in need of a shower. The place was a shambles. Even with the fresh air, it still carried the stench of soot and mold, the funky smell of a long-vacant building.

  Could Cady help Josephine and Yves Clement fulfill their dreams by restoring the carousel, so it could again be ridden by delighted children? Was she even capable of taking on such a job, with only the dubious assistance of a recalcitrant teen and (if she could talk him into it) a disillusioned Parisian architect—a man who already seemed put off by her level of involvement in his family business?

  It was ridiculous.

  But when she closed her eyes, Cady could hear the tinny notes of the band organ, feel the whirling of the carousel, and see the lady of the manor, Josephine Clement, riding her custom carousel for eternity.

  * * *

  • • •

  While Cady stood under the surprisingly strong and hot spray of the shower, an idea occurred to her: Could she add a chapter to the carousel book that would feature photos of a lost carousel at a virtually abandoned château?

  She hadn’t been able to see the photos she had taken yet, of course, but she knew from experience that they were good. The contrast of the sweet faces of the figures with their dilapidated state; the once-bright colors of the painted carvings declining into decrepitude. As Fabrice had said, a dream that had devolved into a nightmare.

  She would do her best to transform that nightmare into something enchanting and lovable again, of course, but in the meantime a photo-essay documenting every step along the way could be fascinating. Wouldn’t it be?

  Cady wanted to run the idea past Olivia, and ask her to approach the editor at Addison Avenue Books. Cady knew she should write the publisher directly, and she would if the editor was open to her idea, but Olivia was so much better with people than Cady was. Olivia could make the pitch, and if they were interested, Cady would send a detailed proposal. She could just imagine the village rallying around the idea; it would be the perfect vehicle for them to show Fabrice their support.

  Or . . . was she getting ahead of herself, as she was prone to do?

  One thing that gave her pause was how Fabrice might react to such an idea. Of course she wouldn’t do anything without his explicit permission, but he was so protective of his privacy. She hoped that simply asking him wouldn’t set him off.

  Most likely it was a moot point, anyway. Cady wasn’t good at anticipating what might be of interest to other people; probably she was the only one who would be fascinated by a decrepit carousel.

  She would run it by Olivia first.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  1945

  PROVENCE

  Fabrice

  After the Allies and the Free French Forces arrived to expel the Nazis from Paris once and for all, the collaborateurs horizontales had their heads shaven and were forced to parade seminaked through the streets of Paris, admitting their sins.

  It was a macabre spectacle. Fabrice remembered seeing these women before, feeling sympathy for their plight and their attempts at survival. Now, at the sight of their pale, blank countenances, their shorn heads, he felt nothing but shame and rage. He searched their faces fruitlessly for the one he wanted. For Paulette.

  Had she truly betrayed their cell? The doctor and his wife, the maid, everyone who had worked together? They had all disappeared. Had Paulette been the one to take his family from him? Even little Capucine?

  Unceasing doubts and fears spun around in his head, a tornado of thoughts he could not control.

  While the war still raged he had tried to go to Provence to search for Paulette, but he couldn’t pass into Vichy France without special documents. Now that the occupiers were gone, he traveled to the town she had talked about: Fontaine-de-Vaucluse. He asked for Paulette in the boulangerie and the grocery, their shelves still bare from wartime shortages that had outlasted the fighting. But of course that must not have been her real name. She must have lied to him about it; perhaps she had lied about the town as well. She had known of his connection to Château Clement, and so she had lied about it to get him to talk.

  Still, he tried going door-to-door. After the euphoria of liberation, grim realities had set in. People had the hollow eyes, the dull mien of survivors. The Germans had been expelled, but the farms had lain fallow or were studded with bombs, and
supplies were stolen long ago. Ports, train tracks, and roads had been destroyed, leaving the transportation system in shambles. Meat was still rationed; hunger and disease were rampant. Armistice was followed by a summer drought and a bitterly cold winter, as though the seasons themselves were conspiring against the survival of the French people.

  In Fontaine-de-Vaucluse, many people had been accused of being sympathizers. Several storefronts had been graffitied, their owners accused of collaborating with the enemy. Now was the time for repercussions, for revenge.

  Fabrice followed the Chemin de la Fontaine, along the banks of the river Sorgue.

  Huge dragonflies peppered the skies, shimmering iridescent greens and blues. He remembered his mother telling him that dragonflies were born of water, that this was why they were magical creatures. He never thought to wonder how she knew such things, but now he did. Now, he had a thousand questions for her. His father had carved her a wooden dragonfly; she asked Fabrice to hang it on a string for her, so it was suspended over their bed. Was it still there?

  Fabrice had taken nothing from the house on that awful day of discovery. He had simply fled, then survived as best he could. He hid in the catacombs under the streets of Paris; he fell into another cell of the Résistance. He stole. He killed. He survived.

  With every step, every breath, their faces haunted him: his mother, his father, his sister. And Paulette.

  Fabrice passed a monument to Pétrarque, the poet who had once penned poetry to his chaste love, Laura. Fabrice thought with bitterness of all the verses he had written to Paulette over the past year, none of which he had shown to her, thank goodness. At the time he hadn’t thought they were good enough; his words were inadequate to express the depths of his feelings, the complexity of his emotions with regard to her. But now he was happy to be spared that humiliation, at the very least.

  A young woman was selling handmade items at a stand—small tablecloths and napkins. Fabrice couldn’t help but wonder who would buy such things at a time when all were desperate for food, but perhaps setting a pretty table could take the edge off. He remembered how Paulette would recite her favorite recipes to pass the time while they worked or hid in passageways from Nazis.

  The woman was pretty and young, with flushed cheeks and a sweet smile. He stopped to ask her if she knew a woman named Paulette, and described her as best he could.

  She shook her head. “Désolée, monsieur. I’m sorry, I really don’t know. She doesn’t sound familiar.”

  He nodded, then lingered to look at her items out of politeness. He noticed a dragonfly motif on several items, and a few necklaces.

  “Pourquoi les libellules?” Why the dragonflies? he asked.

  “Most people sell the cicada; it is our Provençal symbol. But I prefer the dragonfly: They are descendants of the dragon that once lived here.”

  “What dragon?” Fabrice asked, amused.

  Her chocolate brown eyes still held a spark of interest, of youth, of hope. Fabrice had celebrated his sixteenth birthday a few weeks ago, but he felt as ancient and hard as the stone cobbles beneath his worn-out leather soles.

  “You have not heard the legend of Coulobres?” she asked, her eyes wide. “He was an enormous winged dragon who lived within the font where the river comes out of the mountain. He used to attack the people of Fontaine-de-Vaucluse until he was finally driven into the Alps and killed by Saint-Véran, Bishop of Cavaillon.”

  Fabrice released a slight chuckle at the thought of dragons living within springs. He knew too well that monsters were human. There was no need to invent any when the humans were ghastly enough.

  “They say there are ancient coins in that spring; the Romans used to throw them in to appease the dragon. No one knows how far down it goes.”

  “It’s this way?” he asked, gesturing toward the winding path that led up the limestone escarpments.

  She nodded; her shy smile held an invitation. “Not far.”

  A lifetime ago Fabrice would have been thrilled to have a pretty woman look at him as though he were worthy of interest. Now he felt toxic, polluted. He felt sure he would destroy anything beautiful in his path.

  He pulled a few coins from his pocket and bought a dragonfly necklace fashioned from tin and wire, then proceeded up the mountain.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  PRESENT DAY

  CHTEAU CLEMENT

  Cady

  As she drove into town, Cady spotted the florist shop on the main road. An old stone house sat behind a tall cobbled wall, and was connected to the florist shop by way of a greenhouse pass-through. The shop doors were open.

  Cady pulled into the small lot. Before getting out, she noticed her phone was getting service, so she sent a quick text to Olivia, outlining her idea of photographing the decrepit Château Clement carousel. California was nine hours behind, but Olivia was a night owl. After pressing SEND, Cady decided that her second thoughts were probably correct: Chances were good that no one would share her fascination for the saloperie of a once-beautiful carousel.

  It was just as well. At least she wouldn’t have to broach the idea with Fabrice.

  Cady got out of the car and walked toward the florist shop. Standing behind the main counter, arranging flowers, was a woman of delicate stature, probably in her late sixties. With her big eyes and upswept salt-and-pepper hair, she looked like an aging Sophia Loren.

  “Bonjour,” she said with a cool nod.

  “Bonjour,” Cady responded in kind. The air was heavy with the floral aroma of roses and carnations, lavender and daisies. What would it be like to work in such perfume every day? Did a person stop smelling it after a while? Was it like a beautiful view, treasured at first but then forgotten? Or was it fully re-appreciated every morning, upon first stepping in amongst the flowers?

  “Est-ce que vous êtes Madame Goselin?” Cady asked the woman if she was Madame Goselin.

  “Oui. Et vous?”

  “I’m Cady Drake,” she continued in French. “I’m staying for a while with Fabrice Clement, at Château Clement.”

  The florist gasped and dropped everything, literally, roses tumbling from her hands as she came around the end of the counter. “I heard there was an American staying with him! Is he all right?”

  “Yes, he—”

  “His health?”

  “He hurt his ankle, but Dr. Miller says he just needs to stay off of it for a little while.”

  “I heard he went out there to examine him. Please call me Toinon.” She took Cady by both hands, squeezed lightly, and kissed her on both cheeks. Cady wouldn’t have imagined it possible for the air to smell even better, but a subtle perfume, beyond the aroma of flowers, enveloped her now.

  “Thank God you’re there with him,” Toinon continued. “Please, come, have an aperitif.”

  Before Cady could answer, Toinon closed the shop doors, flipped the sign to CLOSED, took Cady by the hand, and led her through the attached greenhouse. The glassed-in room was charming, but packed with so many tchotchkes and plants, antiques and pieces of garden furniture that they had to wind their way along a narrow pathway through the tumble.

  “Excuse the state of this place,” Toinon said. “My husband passed away last year, and running the shop by myself, I simply lose track of things. My daughter is here with me now, however, so I hope all that will change.”

  “I’m sorry to hear about your husband,” Cady said.

  “It was . . . a shock.” Toinon stepped into a bright, airy kitchen with a big farmhouse table at one end of the room.

  “I lost someone I cared for not long ago as well,” said Cady.

  Toinon turned around and took Cady’s hands in hers again. She had tears in her eyes. “I’m so sorry. Who?”

  “My . . . a friend, but she was almost like my mother.”

  Toinon simply nodded and held Cady’s gaze. Cady could feel her
own eyes well with tears at the evident sympathy in Toinon’s expression. The older woman simply held her hands in silence for a long moment.

  Finally, she said, “Bien, come into the salon and we will share a glass.”

  They passed through the large kitchen, and then into a minuscule office with a messy desk in front of a window and wall-to-wall bookcases, with a comfortable-looking love seat upholstered in sage green brocade.

  On the couch was the most adorable child Cady had ever seen. No more than four years old, she had chestnut brown hair cut in a bob, bright brown eyes, and pink cheeks—one of which was stained with a liberal smear of chocolate. In her lap she held an illustrated book, almost half her size. She was dressed in an old-fashioned-looking cream-colored dress with an ashes-of-roses sash, complete with crinolines, but her feet were bare, their soles dirty.

  “This is my granddaughter, Jacinthe. Jacinthe, please say hello to the lady.”

  With some reluctance, the girl scooted off the couch, butt first, and stood in front of Cady, lifting her face and scrunching her lips, as though waiting for a kiss. Cady leaned down toward her, and Jacinthe gave her a sticky, chocolate-scented kiss on each cheek, intoning, “Bonjour, madame.”

  “Bonjour, Jacinthe,” said Cady. “Enchantée.”

  “En-chan-tée,” Jacinthe echoed, then crawled back onto the sofa to read her book.

  The next room, which Toinon called “the salon,” was a living room with a massive stone fireplace at one end, similar to the one in Fabrice’s kitchen. A spiral stairway punctuated the middle of the space, and beyond that was a worktable, crowded with a palette and various jars and brushes. The faint smell of turpentine reached them, carried by a cool spring breeze from an open window.

  “Please. Make yourself comfortable, and I will tell my daughter, Élodie, that you are here.”

  Toinon slipped through a door on the other side of the room, leaving Cady free to explore. The huge rough-hewn wooden mantel held pictures of what she presumed were family members, and souvenirs of a lifetime: a soccer trophy, a lumpy handmade ceramic puppy, an African wood carving, a few postcards propped against the wall.