But they did not disappear. I lowered my hands to listen. Whoever was crying, they were in the house, the sound of their tears echoing up from the floor below me. Hesitantly, I crept out on to the landing. I heard it again, above the muffled snores that came from Clémence’s room.
The floorboards groaned as I made my way down, one careful foot at a time. Light was flickering from beneath the door of a room I had never been into. Slowly, I pushed it open.
Aaró was sitting on the edge of his bed. Light from an oil lamp wavered across the bare skin of his chest and arms, across his face, wet with the tears. His mouth was open, the noise of sobs coming ragged from his throat. Of course, I realized, he cannot hear himself.
There was something in his hand, a rectangle of card that looked like a photograph. He was staring at it, face contorted with sorrow. Sympathy washed over me and I forgot myself, stepped into the room.
His head snapped up, like an animal that does not know whether to fight or flee. I thought he might be angry, thought he might rush to close the door in my face, but I was wrong. He only looked at me and turned his head away, ashamed.
‘Are you …?’ I said, before cursing myself for stupidity. I took a step closer, and another, until he was forced to meet my gaze.
You, I pointed, trying to remember the sign they had taught me for ‘good’. I bunched my fingers near my mouth and spread them like a starfish.
You, good?
Had I made a mistake? He was looking at me so strangely. But then he sagged down and shook his head. He held up the photograph for me to see. It showed a group of young men, perhaps twenty of them in all. Most of them wore fishing gear, and were posing in and around a boat. A few stood seriously, arms crossed, but others were larking about. I peered closer. Aaró was in the middle of the picture, a devious look on his face as he held something with tentacles over the head of a dour-faced man. It was a joyful scene, and made me smile.
Aaró stood and came to my side. Slowly, he raised a finger to the photograph and drew a cross over the youngest-looking man.
Gone, that movement said. Gone, gone. His hand moved across the paper, crossing out one after another, until only four men remained untouched. He was one of them. In that moment, I saw what he saw: not a group of boisterous young men, but a company of the dead, faces that existed now only in memory, in ink on paper. I saw the weight of their lives upon his shoulders, saw the pain that came with trying to remember them all.
I feel it too, I wanted to tell him, and I couldn’t bear it. It nearly destroyed me, so I ran.
But I didn’t know how, except to touch his arm, the lightest brush of my fingertips. He looked into my face, and I tried to show him that I understood. Slowly, slowly, the sorrow ebbed away from us, until something else remained, trembling and tacit. The warmth of his skin lingered, and I felt as though my whole body was thrumming, living furiously because so many had died. My heart pounded against the thin cotton of my borrowed nightdress, as he raised a hand towards my face. I do not know what might have happened then if there hadn’t been a creak from the room next door, the sound of an iron bedstead shifting as someone stood up.
He followed the direction of my gaze and his eyes widened, realizing, as I did, how this would look to Clémence, finding us half-clothed and breathless in the middle of the night. And what of his sweetheart, Mariona? Swiftly, silently, I fled the room, my fingertips burning and a feeling like wings in my chest.
June 1969
Late afternoon and Paris is sizzling, and not in a glamorous, open-shirted way. Dust clings to my skin as I toil up the Rue de Belleville. A fishmonger is hosing down the pavement in front of his shop, a group of children in shorts and sandals dashing in and out of the water to stay cool. Wish I could do the same.
Away from the tower blocks, Belleville is old, the buildings leaning and bodged so many times over the years that it’s hard to tell where the bricks start and where the repairs begin. On the ground floor there are shops, so many and so varied I can’t help slowing to stare at everything. Most are daubed with strange languages. Chinese? Arabic? I have no idea.
People crowd the streets, women in headscarves leaning and chatting in the shade, young men with sunglasses and tight T-shirts, girls in mini-dresses, workmen in dungarees drinking at cafés that spill out on to the road. Everyone seems to have forgotten about work, in the torpor of late afternoon.
It’s all I can do to drag myself along. I’m bone weary, would give anything to lie down on a cool bed and sleep and wake up again, untroubled. But the memory of Timothy Vane returns, struggling to write those two vital words: find her. I pull myself up. Two more names to check. Then I’ll know if this whole absurd gamble has been for nothing.
I find the list that the bartender gave me. He insisted on going through the telephone directory, looking up the name ‘Gosse’ and copying out the addresses, telling me to start with the ones in Belleville. All the retired railwaymen shook my hand when I left, and wished me luck, and for a while I wondered what it would be like to stay in Paris, to go down to the park every afternoon and drink with them there.
I squint up at the intersecting alleyways, trying to find a name, get my bearings. The bartender underlined four likely candidates within a few miles’ radius. So far, I’ve tried two, with no success. The group of children from the fish shop run past me, their shoes going slap, slap on the street.
‘Hey!’ I yell after them, and one turns around, a girl in a faded dress that looks about two sizes too big for her. I brandish the piece of paper, point to the address and wave my arms to signal that I’m lost, saying, ‘Rue Piat? Rue Piat?’, over and over. She stares at me like I’m insane, before calling one of the other children back. A boy, older, who takes a look at the piece of paper and nods. He beckons me on and I follow, as they rejoin their gaggle of friends.
Eventually they point to a quiet side street, where tall buildings offer blissful shade. I don’t know how to thank them, other than by digging out a handful of centimes. They grab them and grin and race off once more, their damp footprints drying instantly on the road.
Number forty Rue Piat is a tall, discreet, shuttered building with decorative bars on the bottom windows. It must be flats, but I can’t see a concierge or any numbered bells. Instead there’s only one, shiny brass, plain and unmarked. I ring it and try to comb my sweat-matted hair into place with my fingers.
The door swings open. Inside, it’s dark and cool and smells of flowers. A woman is looking out at me. She must be in her thirties, wearing horn-rimmed glasses and a linen trouser suit. She looks like something out of a magazine.
‘Oui?’ she says.
‘Bonjour,’ I start, again, already knowing that in twenty seconds, I’ll be walking away. ‘I’m looking for a Monsieur Gosse, Jean-Baptiste Gosse.’
The woman narrows her eyes.
‘Why?’
It’s not the response I’m expecting, not least because it’s in English. I stare at her for a while.
‘It’s about a letter he wrote, I think he can help me find someone.’
‘Who?’
‘A woman, who disappeared,’ I say. ‘Sorry, but is there a Jean-Baptiste Gosse here or not?’
‘Are you from Interpol?’ she says, renewing her grip on the door.
‘Eh? No, I’m looking for a … a private client.’ It isn’t a complete lie.
‘You’re a detective?’ She’s growing frostier by the second.
‘I’m a solicitor.’ I open my briefcase to find Gosse’s letter. ‘I spoke to some people from the railway, and they suggested that I try here.’
‘My father is a busy man.’ She steps back into the house. ‘You’re a solicitor? Write him a letter.’
‘Please,’ I call after her. ‘It will only take a minute. I just need to ask him about this woman, Emeline Vane. Please, I’m—’
I’m talking to a closed door. I hear footsteps recede on the other side. Damn it. Why couldn’t he have answered the door himself? A m
inute would’ve been enough to find out if he’s the man I want.
A letter, she said. Fine. I sit down on the edge of the pavement and rummage in the briefcase. At the bottom I find a crumpled piece of letter paper. I’ve already started to scrawl, ‘Dear Mr Gosse’, when the door opens behind me.
An old man is standing on the step. He looks like he’s been lounging in the sun, with his straw fedora and rolled-up sleeves. I can make out the lines of a faded tattoo upon his arm. He’s staring at me, but only with one eye. Beneath the shadow of the hat’s brim, the other socket is a mass of flesh.
I jump to my feet, the letter forgotten. His mouth is open in astonishment.
‘Did you say Emeline Vane?’
April 1919
One morning in mid-April, Clémence woke me before dawn. Without speaking, she shoved the window open to let in a blast of chill sea air. I sat bolt upright in bed, looked at her blearily. She was already dressed for work, sleeves rolled up, a scarf tied tightly around her head.
‘Get dressed,’ she told me, walking out. ‘We have a lot of work to do.’
‘Why?’ I croaked, as the breeze brushed across my neck.
‘La calçotada!’
That was enough to send me scrambling from the bed. Clémence had been dropping hints about this ‘calçotada’ for weeks. All I knew was that it was a special event of some kind; one that had necessitated a very large delivery of wine from along the coast. I’d heard the word bouncing from lip to lip across the town, and if the excitement of the local people was anything to go by, it was going to be an occasion to remember.
I clattered down to the kitchen, twisting my hair into a plait as I went. Aaró was sitting at the table, nursing a cup of coffee. Ever since the night in his room, there had been a strange awkwardness between us. We caught eyes, and I felt myself blush as I nodded good morning. He did the same, but I could feel him watching me as I cut bread, drizzled honey on to it.
‘What will we be doing today?’ I asked Clémence.
‘Everything,’ she said with a smile. ‘I hope you are ready to work, girl.’
I was always ready to work, and I told her so, trying to eat the sticky bread and tie a handkerchief over my hair at the same time. She laughed, and took the cloth from me, tying it tightly at the nape of my neck.
The first knock at the back door came a few minutes later. Aaró stood up to leave. He kissed his mother on the cheek, took half a step towards me too, before raising his hand instead. I watched his retreating back, wondering what it all meant, wishing I was brave enough to ask.
Clémence did not notice. She was busy haggling with the man at the door. He wore a long, stained leather coat, heavy trousers and hobnail boots. A tall dog sat beside him on the step, working at a bone. A smell of decay and fresh blood hung about him, but this didn’t seem to bother Clémence. She was exclaiming delightedly in Catalan over a crate at her feet. I peered closer. Soft, furry brown creatures lay in lines.
‘Who was that?’ I asked when he took his leave, the dog loping off behind him.
‘Oriol. He is the best hunter for miles.’
She was a little flustered, I noticed, but I kept it to myself, knelt down with a smile to pick up one of the creatures. It was a rabbit, so fresh that I thought it might leap out of my hands and flee into the early morning.
‘What are we making?’ I asked, placing it carefully back into the box.
‘Conill aux herbes et vi negre,’ she said, fetching the heavy wooden board she used for meat. ‘Rabbit with herbs and wine. People come for the calçots, but they expect a decent meal.’
‘I suppose you aren’t going to explain,’ I said, rolling up my sleeves.
‘You will see later. Now, I presume you have never butchered rabbit?’
It was bloody work, but it came with a sort of thrill, to be handling something so recently living, so raw and vital. My hands were soon red to the wrist, but I didn’t care; I followed Clémence as she sought out the treasures of the bodies, the hearts and livers and kidneys and set them aside, gleaming in an earthen bowl. She added dried, soaked chillies, toasted almonds, garlic, herbs, and then set me to pounding the whole mixture into one heady, earthy substance that had my head spinning and made me almost fearful of its potency.
When the sofregit was gently frying, wine was poured over the rabbit carcasses, and brandy, filling the kitchen with musty sweetness. I had to step outside for a breath of air, overwhelmed.
Breathing the clean, salt air, I let my feet take me the short distance to the water’s edge. Although it was still spring, and cold in the evenings, at noon the sun blazed in the sky, hot enough to turn my skin pink. I knelt at the surf and washed the blood and spices from my hands, watched the sea swallow them into its cavernous belly. It was a warm day, la Tramontana keeping to the mountains. I unwound my shawl, wiped wet hands over my face and neck and let the sun fall on my skin to dry it.
Once, the cold wind over the North Sea had done the same. For a moment I feared that when I looked down, I would find myself back there, crouching at the edge of the salt marshes. But the sun was too warm for that and when I opened my eyes, it was to the Mediterranean, sparkling blue.
A motorized van had pulled up in front of the Café Fi del Món. It was piled high with bundles of what looked like leeks, green and white and muddy. I hurried towards it. Men were unloading, piling them on to a trestle table.
‘What are they?’ I asked, like a child at a museum.
One of the men glanced towards me. He was a friend of Aaró’s.
‘The last of the calçots,’ he said as he worked. ‘From Valls.’
‘For the calçotada?’ I couldn’t keep the excitement out of my voice.
He laughed at that. ‘Of course.’
The men began building a bonfire at the edge of the beach, piling up driftwood and old crates. A rusted iron bed frame stood nearby, for a purpose I could only guess at. Women started to appear, dressed like Clémence in headscarves, their sleeves rolled back and ready. They began to separate out the calçots, rinsing off the mud in buckets of seawater, wrapping them in sheets of damp newspaper.
No one stopped me from joining in, and soon I was working with them: one woman even smiled at me. I asked them questions about the calçotada and a few of them switched to French to answer, describing how the calçots would be roasted on the fire and eaten with a romesco sauce.
‘Perhaps I should go back and help, then,’ I told them, as we neared the end of the pile. ‘Clémence promised to teach me how to make it.’
The women fell silent. A few of them muttered to each other in Catalan. One young woman in particular stared at me from across the table, her eyes like ice. She was small and pretty, with a heart-shaped face and a mass of sleek black hair, barely held back by her headscarf. I felt myself turning red.
‘Did I say something wrong?’
‘You are very honoured,’ one of the older women said at last, wiping her hands on a rag. ‘Maman’s never shared her romesco recipe with anyone, let alone a forastera.’
‘A what?’
‘It means “outsider”,’ the pretty young woman snapped, ‘someone not welcome.’ She dumped the contents of her bucket out on the ground near my feet. I jumped back but not before the sheet of muddy water had soaked my boots and hem.
‘It means “stranger”, that’s all,’ the older woman said softly, as the pretty girl hurried away down the beach. ‘Do not mind Mariona.’
‘Aaró’s sweetheart?’ I couldn’t stop myself from asking, though the words were awkward on my tongue.
‘She would say so,’ the woman laughed, ‘though I am not sure whether Aaró would agree.’
So that was Mariona, I thought as I retreated to the safety of the kitchen. Her hostility was entirely unjustified, I told myself, there was nothing between Aaró and me. But however much I repeated those words, I knew they weren’t entirely true. By the time Clémence summoned me to make the romesco, I was grateful for the distraction.
‘Romesco is a sauce for the tongue and the lips,’ she told me, as I measured out handfuls of nuts. ‘Why?’
‘Because of the spice?’ I tried, eyeing the chilli peppers that were soaking. ‘The sweetness?’
‘Yes, but more than that.’ She opened the door of the oven and my mouth began to water. Inside, whole heads of garlic and preserved tomatoes were roasting in oil. ‘We bake, we simmer, we toast, we bruise; we squeeze every morsel of flavour from these ingredients, until we have their souls. We do not only taste these pine nuts, but the trees where they grew, not only this bread, but the land that nourished the wheat, the herbs of the maquis, carried on the wind to ripen the grain.’
She turned to where I stood mesmerized, a handful of almonds suspended above a pan.
‘The only secret to a good romesco, Emilie,’ she smiled, ‘is that there is no secret. You have to feel it. That is all.’
As evening descended the kitchen became suffused with the scent of roasting meat, and the mood of the town began to change. From outside, I heard shouts and laughter and even snatches of music. Finally, unable to bear the curiosity, I stuck my head through the dividing curtain.
The folding doors of the café had been thrown open, the tables and benches and stools dragged outside. A huge bonfire blazed on the beach, the iron bedstead in the middle of it, acting as a makeshift grill. Smaller braziers stood at either end of the tables, for light and warmth. Jugs of wine lined the tables, people were gathered around the flames, simultaneously shouting advice and ignoring each other.
I felt a touch on my arm and turned to find Aaró behind me. He was freshly washed and clean-shaven, black hair pushed back from his forehead. He grinned and held out a dish for me to carry, filled with the soft red romesco that Clémence and I had made that afternoon.
There were cheers as we walked out into the evening, and applause, and I began to feel welcome at last. The older woman from earlier beckoned me over to her table.
‘We work together, we eat together,’ she said, her cheeks already rouged with wine. Her name was Agathe, and she introduced me to her family, her young daughter, her elderly mother, her father-in-law. She said nothing of her husband, and as I looked around, I saw what I had seen in Aaró’s photograph. People were closely packed together at the tables but between them I saw spaces, voices missing from the chatter, silhouettes missing from around the fire. Fathers, brothers, sons …
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