O

by Steven Carroll

  * * *

  She has little memory of how she came to this part of the city, nor does she care. Perhaps because it was always their part of the city, and the car, like a horse of habits, found its way here naturally. Down the street, in the distance, the café called Hope is open for business. And as she stares at it she knows with absolute certainty that she will never go there again; never again gaze upon the portly, accommodating host, asking herself if there was ever anything more behind the accommodating face he showed the world. Just as the notebook in her satchel containing the story of the girl in love will be the last thing she will ever write.

  Her audience of one has gone. And if she can’t show him what she has written any more, if he can’t be the first reader of what she has done, what is the point? He was the only audience she ever wanted. One was enough; one was all. This, too, she knows with absolute certainty as she surveys the rubble of the street. The riot police are standing about in front of her, eyeing her car, almost at a loose end. For while the riot police are here, ready and waiting, the rioters are not. Perhaps the revolution is over. Perhaps, she’d like to imagine, the revolution has taken a holiday because something immense and irreplaceable has gone from the world, whereas revolution, wars and coups will come and go, just so much passing show.

  She eyes a policeman drawing on his cigarette, master of what’s left around him. How can you know, she asks herself, how could I tell you? The fact that Jean is gone is incomprehensible enough. But the fact that she will now have to live, if that is the word, without him being in the world, being at the other end of a telephone call, at their table, in their room . . . the cold fact that she will have to live somehow without the mere possibility of him, a secret society of one, creeps into her bones and leaves her numb. This is it, she tells herself, this is when May flowers turn black.

  Part Seven

  Key Words

  Boissise-la-Bertrand, 1970

  26.

  No wonder she’d never heard of it. It’s not a town, nor is it even a village. More a hamlet. Boissise-la-Bertrand. Jean’s last words, or the last words he ever spoke to her. And while they puzzled her at the time, she didn’t dwell on them too much. Just some little game of his; a small mystery wrapped up in the larger mystery of death. A drive they planned that was never taken, a picnic that was never eaten. It was not until weeks after that she learnt from his lawyer that Jean had bought a house for her here. A house! Hers. That was what the drive was for: a final gift, an inspection. Why here, she has no idea. Nor did the lawyer.

  Ever since she took possession, she’s felt the shadow of his presence. Dominique doesn’t believe in God, but she just might believe in ghosts. Every house has a ghost, and Jean is hers. Perhaps he thought of it as a retreat they could both come to, an hour south of the city, or one, when he was gone, that she could escape to. But from the start she chose to move her things here. And although she can’t live here all the time, for she is still a publisher and publishing stops for no one because writing stops for no one, she is here on weekends and extended weekends when she brings her work back with her, which she does more and more now. Her parents’ apartment, which she shares with her mother (her son has long since gone out into the world on his own), is a convenience. This is home: his, hers, theirs. Her precious things are here now. And even though he may have only been here once or twice, she is apt to bump into him in the hallway most days.

  But as much as she felt she was dead to the world after Jean’s death – dead to love – she wasn’t. Of course not. She was born to love. Life is inconceivable without it. The thing that makes us stand strong when the world would beat us down. Her most recent lover, whom she sees rarely now, is a woman Jean introduced her to, suggesting they should work together. And they did. An unconscious parting gift? Who knows?

  Shadow V is slipping into the kitchen through the window and Dominique is gazing over the lush green lawn at the front of the house when the phone rings. Work, probably. She leaves her coffee and goes to the phone in the hallway.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Is this Dominique Aury?’ It is a voice she has never heard before.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Dominique Aury, the author?’ the voice inquires further.

  ‘Yes,’ she says, now wary.

  At this point there is a long pause, and for a moment she wonders if the caller is still there or has hung up. Then the caller continues.

  ‘Dominique Aury, the resistant?’

  The question is asked in hushed, conspiratorial tones, and Dominique is not sure she has heard correctly.

  ‘What? Who is this?’

  Again there is a elongated silence and she’s beginning to feel that somebody is playing with her. Some journalist, some journalistic game she’s not the slightest bit interested in indulging.

  ‘It’s Pauline.’

  It must be a journalist. ‘Pauline?’ she says, her voice genuinely puzzled. ‘Pauline who?’

  There is a slight giggle on the other end of the line. ‘You don’t remember?’

  ‘Who is this?’ Dominique demands.

  The woman waits, then continues in the same hushed, conspiratorial tone. ‘We grew up together. Went to school together. In Avranches. We’re old friends. Dear old friends—’

  ‘Pauline!’ Dominique gasps. The voice, the country field, the drone of a small disappearing plane – all coming back to her with astonishing clarity.

  ‘Yes, Pauline.’

  ‘Good heavens . . .’

  ‘Thought I was dead, did you?’

  ‘No . . .’

  ‘As good as dead?’

  ‘No, no. Just imagined you’d got on with life. Picked up the bits.’

  ‘As we all did. Well, most of us. I’m in Paris,’ she suddenly announces.

  ‘Why?’ Dominique asks without even thinking.

  ‘Why?’ She laughs. ‘Does anybody need a reason to visit Paris?’

  ‘Of course not . . .’

  ‘I came to see you.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘You don’t seem pleased.’

  ‘But I am. Honestly. It’s kind of you.’

  The woman laughs again. ‘Oh, kindness doesn’t come into it.’

  Dominique wonders where on earth the conversation will go from here, for it carries every hint of going just about anywhere, while also thinking how amazing it is that her voice, the voice she didn’t recognise at first, hasn’t changed at all.

  ‘I saw our book in a shop window earlier this year,’ the woman eventually announces. ‘Odd, how I’d never noticed it before. But maybe not odd. I’m a mother. I’ve brought up two children. Not much time for much else. Certainly not books.’

  Dominique listens, both taking in the synoptic tale of Pauline’s last twenty-five years and also dwelling on the our. Our book.

  ‘I thought we could meet.’

  ‘Yes, yes. Of course. When?’

  ‘Today.’

  ‘Today?’

  ‘Unless that’s difficult. You’re busy?’

  ‘No, no I’m not. Today is fine.’

  ‘I’m not being pushy?’

  ‘No, you’re not being pushy.’

  ‘Good,’ she says, a playful tone creeping into her voice.

  ‘I’d love to see you,’ Dominique says, and although feeling thrown she means it – that sense of connection, of having formed a bond, however fragile, in that brief, intense time together, still there.

  ‘We could have lunch.’

  ‘We could.’

  ‘I’ll bring the wine.’

  ‘I have it.’

  ‘I’ll bring something special,’ Pauline says. ‘It’s a special occasion, after all. Pauline and Dominique, together again. Yes?’

  ‘Well . . . yes . . .’

  ‘You don’t sound so sure.’

  ‘No, no, it’s not that. It’s—’

  ‘All a bit sudden. I know. I’ve dropped on you like a bomb.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t say a bom
b.’

  ‘You’re sure today is fine?’

  ‘Yes, yes. Bear with me. Five minutes ago I didn’t know if you were alive or dead. Now . . .’

  ‘Here we are.’

  ‘Yes, here we are.’ Dominique says, attempting to take in the sudden, sweeping change to her morning and her day. ‘Pauline,’ she says.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You are still Pauline? Is this your name?’

  ‘For you, I am Pauline.’

  ‘But what shall I call you? What is your name? Your real name?’

  ‘Ah!’ Pauline says in a murmured giggle. ‘You promise not to be disappointed?’

  ‘Promise.’

  ‘Diedre.’

  There is a silence.

  ‘You did ask.’

  ‘Shall I call you Diedre?’

  ‘Let’s just stay with Pauline. And your name? Your real name?’

  ‘Anne. Although I haven’t been Anne for years.’

  ‘Anne is nice,’ she says, ‘but you’ll always be Dominique, I’m afraid.’

  ‘And you Pauline.’

  ‘So be it.’

  There is silence, a brief moment in which Dominique once again dwells on the sudden turn of events, and at the same time properly registers that air of unreality that has been there throughout the whole conversation. Finally she asks, ‘How did you find me?’

  ‘Not difficult. You’re in the directory.’

  ‘Ah, of course.’

  ‘Besides, I’m good at finding people. I found Stefan.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘My German.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘It took a bit of work. Believe me, it took a lot of work.’ She says this with a touch of tiredness in her voice. ‘But more later. Shall we say midday?’

  ‘Yes. Do you need directions?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Just don’t blink.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Boissise-la-Bertrand. Blink and you’ll miss it.’

  Pauline laughs. ‘I’ll make sure I don’t.’

  With that they both hang up and Dominique returns to the kitchen chair she was sitting in when the phone rang – the coffee cold, the cat gone, the morning transformed.

  There was a time when Dominique thought of her often, where she was and what she was doing. She wonders if she is still as beautiful. And fragile. And while Dominique is sitting in her chair, autumn leaves from the tree outside twirling in the breeze like Christmas decorations in the autumn sun, she’s wondering what Pauline is up to.

  She supposes she used her name because she thought she would never see Pauline Réage again. Besides, it looked good on the cover. But that’s the problem with the past. It never stays past.

  * * *

  Dominique’s old Peugeot, the same car she’s had for years, in which she drove Jean everywhere as he didn’t drive, sits in the driveway where she parked it the previous afternoon after liberating herself from work early. She bought it just after the war and has often wondered if it was ever a Gestapo staff car and long concluded it probably was. It’s got that look; besides, weren’t they all? It’s a thought that catches her at odd times, driving here or there, and leaves her wondering just what stories that back seat could tell.

  It’s while she is contemplating this that she sees a sleek modern sedan pull into the drive behind the Peugeot. Dominique rises from the kitchen chair and steps out into her front yard in time to see a tall, elegant woman emerge from the car. Odd, she doesn’t remember her being tall. She is wearing blue jeans, walking boots and a thick polo-neck sweater: youthful clothes she wears with poise, and confidence. Her hair is long, dark. Dyed, surely. Dominique takes in the spectacle, trying to remember what colour it was.

  Pauline greets her, holding a bottle of champagne in one hand and a bag of shopping in the other.

  ‘I’ve brought a few things.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Dominique is not sure what she expected, but she suddenly feels like a relic from another age; their cars, it occurs to her, apt symbols. Beauty, she tells herself as she steps forward, natural beauty, doesn’t age. It goes through phases – youth and varying degrees of maturity – but the beauty itself remains constant. And so it is with Pauline; changed, but unchanged. Skin remarkably smooth. And that presence, for she steps onto the lawn as if claiming it.

  They embrace, stay close long enough to acknowledge the years that have passed since they last met, then step back, taking each other in: Pauline in the blue jeans that define the age; Dominique in the matching skirt and top of another.

  Pauline looks around, surveying the house and grounds, then looks at Dominique, a question in her eyes.

  ‘Where’s the plane?’

  Dominique grins, looking down at Pauline’s boots. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to walk to England this time.’

  ‘Not till after lunch.’

  And it is only now that Dominique properly notices the tanned skin and just how fit she looks, like a former athlete who still keeps in trim. And confident. Which she is relieved and pleased to see, for the Pauline she knew in that torrid twenty-four hours they spent together was anything but.

  ‘Come,’ Dominique says, gesturing to the front door.

  Inside, Pauline pulls terrines and cheese from her bag, Dominique takes a pot from the stove, slices the bread already on the table, and a lunch suddenly appears. A cork pops, they fill their glasses and raise them.

  ‘Well,’ says Pauline, ‘here’s to . . . what shall we say? Old times?’

  ‘Old times.’

  Pauline eyes Dominique, nodding. They drink. ‘Now, where were we?’

  ‘There was a field.’

  ‘There was a plane.’

  ‘I was on the ground.’

  ‘I was between the pilot and the gunner.’ Pauline lifts her eyebrows, looking up. ‘Huh, imagine that.’ She stares at Dominique. ‘I thought you were shouting something, but the noise . . .’

  ‘We were expecting the Germans any minute.’

  ‘Then I was up there, it was all so fast. When I looked down I could just make you out, all running back to the car. And that was it.’

  ‘We could see you. And hear you – the plane, I mean. It’s a miracle no one else did.’

  They drink and eat. And Dominique can’t help but notice that Pauline is not one for dainty sips. Then again, she remembers now that she wasn’t back when they spent the night together inventing their past. She watches as Pauline pours herself a fresh glass. Neither says anything for some time. Then Pauline picks things up as if there’s been no break.

  ‘It was the smoothest flight. No wind, no bumps,’ she says, raising her glass. ‘No Germans. Serene. An hour later I was parked on a Dorset airfield.’ She dwells on the memory. ‘All a bit strange.’ She drains her glass again. ‘They put me to work soon after that. Intercepting messages. Anything French.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Can’t say.’

  At first Dominique thinks she’s joking, but sees she’s not. Of course not. These wars, they never go away. Either tapping feet or official secrets or brooding silence, they’re always around.

  ‘It was a good way to see out the war. I liked the English . . . and,’ she adds with a wink, ‘the English liked me.’

  ‘I’m sure they did.’

  ‘The rest is boring,’ Pauline goes on, refilling her glass. ‘And then, one day, the war was over. Flags and singing everywhere.’ And here her tone shifts, and for the first time since she arrived the jovial, even jaunty, spirit fades, and her face darkens. ‘Cheers all round. For me, that’s when everything started. The real work.’

  Dominique looks at her, puzzled.

  ‘Stefan, I mean.’

  Pauline’s chest suddenly heaves. She gulps, then steadies herself. There was no hint of it: one moment, calm and chatty, poised and in control – the next, fragile again. And it is then that Dominique remembers her agonised confession decades before, the discovery that she could love two men at t
he same time: one dead, one as good as dead. Look at her now and you’d never know it: blue jeans, silky hair, tanned skin. A post-war miracle. But Dominique has no sooner thought this than she sees Pauline lifting her hands, impulsively rolling her soft, long hair into a bun, then letting it unfurl before rolling it into a bun again. Then, with a puff of the cheeks, blowing her fringe out, she lets it drop, her hair falling down her back.

  ‘I found him,’ she says, throwing back the champagne. ‘God, I still can’t believe I did.’ For the second time in her life, Dominique has the distinct feeling that this woman is sharing something with her that she has never told anyone. And that she, Dominique, is taking confession all over again.

  ‘Two years!’ she says, voice unsteady and raw, Dominique now sure she has never told any of this to anyone. ‘In a camp. The American sector, thank god. I don’t know why they kept him for so long. To this day, he doesn’t either.’

  ‘But you found him.’

  ‘Yes,’ she sniffs, looking down at the floor, then up at Dominique. ‘Tell me, what do you imagine happens when, after all that time, two people eventually find each other and come face to face again?’

  Dominique ponders this, slowly, cautiously. Unsure.

  ‘Come on, Dominique,’ she says, her voice louder, a mix of the nervy and the animated, ‘you’re a writer. What do you imagine happens?’

  ‘I don’t call myself a writer. I never have. I can’t imagine—’

  ‘Try.’

  Dominique frowns. ‘They . . . they cry . . . they hold each other . . . I don’t know, something.’

  ‘Exactly, something.’ Pauline eyes the champagne, then decides against it. ‘But I’ll tell you what happens. Nothing.’ She lets that sink in again. ‘We stood looking at each other in some anonymous government office or other. Not quite like strangers, but close enough. Oh, he knew who I was. I knew who he was. But between us was this bloody war.’ She stops, gathering herself. ‘I couldn’t feel anything,’ she eventually says. ‘Nothing. Didn’t have a tear in me. No flush of joy. Nothing. We just looked at each other and said hello.’ She puts her head in her hands, looking up after a moment, face blank. ‘The tears, the joy. That all came later.’