Daguerreotype: The Mystery of Frédéric Chopin

by Lucyna Olejniczak

  Daguerreotype

  The Mystery Of Frédéric Chopin

  By LUCYNA OLEJNICZAK

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  All material contained herein is Copyright © Lucyna Olejniczak 2017. All rights reserved.

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  Originally published in Polish by Aurum as Dagerotyp.Tajemnica Chopina. Translated and published in English with permission.

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  Paperback ISBN: 978-0-473-41580-8

  eBook ISBN: 978-0-473-41581-5

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  Written by Lucyna Olejniczak

  Published by Cheeky Kea Printworks

  Cover art by Cheeky Kea Printworks

  Translated by Monika Wiklik

  Edited & Localized by Cheeky Kea Printworks

  For more works by this author, please visit:

  www.ckprintworks.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system without prior written permission of the Author. Your support of Author’s rights is appreciated.

  The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental, or used in the form of parody.

  Second Edition

  For my children, Magda and Tomek.

  Chapter One

  “You sure set me up nicely.” Tadeusz finally gave voice to his frustration. He hadn’t said a word to me all the way from Pompidou Centre to the nearest Métro station. “Did you see those Japanese tourists with the video cameras? They filmed everything.”

  “Oh no! You might be recognized in Tokyo now, or – horror of horrors – all of Honshu!”

  Tadeusz’ answer was drowned out by the clatter of a train entering the station on its way to Chatelet. A violent gust of air made us instinctively move away from the white line which marked the platform’s edge. The train’s door hissed open and group of tourists spilled out, followed by a young man pushing an enormous instrument case on wheels. While the instrument was covered, one could easily tell from its shape that it was a harp. Moments later, the young man was lost in the colorful crowd, and we were probably the only ones who noticed. Rest of the passengers didn’t seem to see anything unusual about him or his luggage.

  Maybe if he had been dragging a concert piano behind him, they would have stopped to stare. But a harp? No, a harp was clearly nothing unusual here. After all, we were in the city of lovers and artists.

  “Are you really worried about those tourists?” I asked once we took our seats by the window.

  “Maybe it was funny for you, but not so much for me,” he said grouchily. “I made a fool of myself. Great entertainment for you, of course.”

  “Honey,” I said gently, as if speaking to a child. “It was just some harmless fun. Yes, it amused me. My only regret is that neither of us bought a camera along, because nobody will believe we starred in a street play. Opportunities like that don’t come around very often.”

  Tadeusz sighed, still a little annoyed, but it was obvious his irritation was already abating. Finally, he couldn’t hold it in any longer and laughed.

  “Some actress you are. Victor Hugo would be rolling in his grave. That was a bit from Les Miserables, right?”

  “Yes, from Les Miserables.” I breathed a sigh of relief and stretched my tired legs. Through the windows, the lights of the tunnel flashed by, and the train carriage rocked gently over its tracks. “I always wanted to have a go, but I’ve never had enough courage to do it before. I had to. Who knows if I’ll have the opportunity again.”

  “Do they put on those plays often? It seemed pretty spontaneous.”

  “Yes, he does them quite regularly.” I laughed “It’s supposed to give you the impression that it’s spontaneous, but it’s actually a carefully orchestrated scene. I’ve seen those performances a few times, and they always look that way.”

  It did still puzzle me how the man always managed to gather so many volunteers, every time, for his plays in the square at Pompidou Center.

  First, he walked around alone, casually, hands deep in the pockets of his long, black coat. Then he’d stop a person or two, supposedly to ask about something or other, and a moment later he was handing out parts for his play. Their laughter drew more onlookers, and a large crowd always gathered quickly around the group of “actors” playing their parts with varying degrees of success.

  “I wonder why he suggested you played the part of the horrible innkeeper’s wife?” Tadeusz wondered with vindictive smirk.

  “Probably for the same reason he gave you the role of the innkeeper,” I replied with playful sarcasm. “The equally horrible innkeeper, for the record.”

  “Well, at least if I had to look like a fool, I wasn’t doing it alone,” he replied. “You know I don’t speak French, but you didn’t even bat an eyelid when he pulled me out into center stage.”

  “Don’t be a baby. You could have said no.”

  “And how was I supposed to tell him? I don’t know the language.”

  “You just shake your head back and forth, like this!” I demonstrated the gesture vigorously, like a silly child. “That means ‘no’ in nearly every language in the world. Though, knowing your luck, it’d turn out that he’s Bulgarian or Indian – apparently, that means ‘yes’ to them.”

  “But…” Tadeusz looked confused for a moment. “But I didn’t know I was expected to speak lines. I thought I’d just have to stand there and make faces.”

  “Well, you sure did that, dear,” I replied. “And with great success. Everyone enjoyed themselves. You were very funny. Besides, nobody could tell what language you were speaking when you were muttering under your breath, anyway. It worked pretty well: the innkeeper’s wife was loud and cheeky, and the innkeeper just grunted and waved his hands a lot! If only you hadn’t looked so offended all the way through…”

  The train stopped at the Hôtel de Ville station.

  “Let’s go.” I stood up, reluctant to move my tired legs. “We either have to get off here and walk a short way home, or we switch to another line and ride to the next station.”

  “I’m too tired for another walk, but we’d probably have to pay for another ticket… Eh, let’s just walk.”

  “Nah, so long as you don’t leave the Métro station, you can take as many trains as you want on one ticket. You don’t have to buy another one.”

  “Really? Well, in that case, no! Let’s stay on the train. Smart move, my clever little innkeeper.”

  We switched to another train, and soon we were riding up the escalator at St. Paul’s station.

  Rue Ferdinand Duval was a tiny street just off the crowded, noisy Rue de Rivoli, and it was nearly empty at this time of day. A handful of people were wandering along, stopping to look at the displays in the windows of the shops, which looked like small works of art. It was sometimes hard to determine purpose of the objects on display, but they were certainly unique and interesting.

  Tadeusz stopped in front of one and tilted his head.

  “See, that’s just ridiculous. It looks like a combination of an iron, a mirror, and a trumpet. What could it be?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it’s so someone can iron their trousers while driving, and use the mirror to watch the road. Is it a rearview mirror or a side mirror?”

  “I can’t tell. But why is it such a hideous shade of green? And it has an eye. There, in the back.” We both burst out laughing at that.

  “May I help you?” The gallery owner’s cool tone brought us back to our senses. We hadn’t even noticed when he’d appeared on the
narrow stairs, and now he was looking at us with an expression of open disapproval.

  “Uh… No, thank you…” I stammered, embarrassed. “We were just looking.”

  I grabbed Tadeusz’ sleeve, and we hurried off towards the gate of our friend’s house. By the time we got there, my hands were trembling so badly it took me several tries to input the entry code correctly.

  “We looked like such simpletons,” I complained. “How could we have known that he was watching us from behind the glass?”

  “Ugh, I know.” Tadeusz stopped on the landing half way up the steep wooden stairs to catch his breath. “Besides, he should be used to that kind of reaction to his ‘art’ by now. Surely we’re not the only ones who think it’s weird. He was probably just messing with us, trying to be funny. Don’t you think?”

  I couldn’t help but agree.

  Tadeusz and I had arrived in Paris the previous evening, at the invitation of our French friends, Sophie and Claude. They’d each greeted us warmly, but the most enthusiastic greeting had to be the one given to us by Chutney, their chocolate-haired German pointer. The dog had pranced around me, obviously delighted, her long ears flapping as she tried to lick my face.

  “She recognizes me, look!” I happily submitted to doggie kisses, petting her velvet-soft muzzle.

  “Dogs have great memories.” Claude laughed. “What’s the bet she’s going to lead you to the kitchen soon? We all know that’s what she loved you for the most!”

  “Yes,” Sophie agreed with him. “After you left last time, we had to put her on a diet.”

  After dinner, our hosts had taken us up to the attic room, the same one I’d occupied when I was their children’s nanny. It was a small, cozy room with a fireplace, and a balcony overlooking the courtyard of the art studio next door. The walls had been constructed in the seventeenth century, and were so thick that they blocked any noise from the outside, except when I left the windows open. With the windows open, I could hear the hustle and bustle of the Jewish restaurant the building below, and occasionally the wistful sound of Oczi Cziornye being played on the fiddle for the guests.

  In the early afternoon when we arrived home from our day of fun in the city, all we could hear was the rattling of plates and cutlery in the kitchen as the owners prepared to open up for the evening.

  “I’ll take a shower and have a little nap before dinner,” Tadeusz said, sitting heavily on the bed. “You’ve been dragging me around Paris since morning, and I’m not as fit as I once was.”

  “You’re getting old, honey. You’re getting old.”

  “Let’s blame the fitness, it sounds better. Whatever we call it, I’m exhausted and we have to have that fancy dinner tonight. It’d be a pretty awful social faux pas if I fell asleep at the table.”

  Yesterday, we’d just had a quick bite to eat on arrival, then our hosts had sent us upstairs to rest with an invitation to a more formal dinner tonight. They’d been busy with their own affairs all morning, so we had plenty of time for sight-seeing around Paris.

  Sophie and Claude normally lived in a chateau in Trigny, and they only visited their apartment in Le Marais when they had business in Paris - like now. They were heading back to Trigny in another day or so, and leaving us the run of the apartment.

  A warm afternoon breeze blew in through the balcony’s open door. I went outside and leaned my elbows on the intricately-wrought iron railing, gazing thoughtfully at the cobbled courtyard below. Through the studio’s windows, I could see young people in brightly-colored smocks milling around and setting up easels.

  Once, I’d dreamed of signing up for figure-drawing lessons there, but they’d been too expensive for me at the time. Pity. I had plenty of time for drawing then, when Nicolas was still tiny, and Alexander hadn’t even been born yet. Instead, I’d chosen to spend my meager wage on French lessons, which I decided would be more useful than art. They were, but I still had some regrets.

  I wish we could see the boys, I thought, my mind switching to a different subject. September had already started, and they’d left for school. Sophie and I were in constant contact via the internet, and she kept me well-informed about their academic progress. Both boys had gone to an elite English boarding school this year. Nicolas was thrilled to be allowed to play on a rugby team, while Alexander was just worried about whether there would be lessons available for his favorite instrument: the piano.

  “Penny for your thoughts?” Tadeusz asked, as he emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in a large, fluffy towel. I stepped away from the railing and returned to the room.

  “Just thinking about the boys,” I replied. “I haven’t seen them in so long. How long’s it been now?” I thought back and counted on my fingers. “I guess about three years? That’s quite a long time for children their age. It’s too bad they won’t be here.”

  Tadeusz only knew the boys from my stories. I had been their full-time nanny for a year and a half, from shortly after Sophie had brought the babies back to France from Poland. After that, I only came occasionally in the summer, to substitute for the other nanny.

  “Too bad,” he agreed. “I had hoped to finally get to meet them in person.”

  “Oh well.” I sighed heavily, pulling myself away from my memories. “Go have your nap. I’m going to take a shower now.”

  Chapter Two

  The small, blue-paneled dining room of Sophie’s Parisian apartment was perfect for an elegant, formal dinner. Candles in decorative sconces cast a soft glow over the paintings decorating the walls, including my favorite: a portrait of a woman with sad, thoughtful look on her face. The flickering light of the candles made it almost seem as if the woman was giving me a conspiratorial wink.

  I looked away from the painting, and focused on the food. Sophie had outdone herself preparing this dinner, so I didn’t want to upset her by paying attention to anything other than her cooking. We spent most of the evening chatting in English, for Tadeusz’ sake, recalling old times and just enjoying one another’s company.

  “How are your book sales?” Claude asked, as he refilled our wine glasses.

  “Quite good,” I admitted. “It turns out that people are very interested in genealogy. There are a lot of interesting stories to be told.”

  “It was your great-grandfather’s story, right?”

  “Not so much his, as the events taking place around him. I have to admit, I had a lot of fun digging through all those old newspapers and yearbooks from the late nineteenth century. I learned a great deal.”

  “And you had no problems finding what you needed for your book?”

  “Not many problems, no. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much information about my grandfather himself, but I managed. I also found something else – or rather, someone else – amongst those old documents…” I shot a pointed glance at Tadeusz.

  “Really?” Sophie exclaimed. “You two met in the archives?”

  Of course, then I had to launch into a dramatic retelling of our first meeting. Sophie and Claude laughed merrily at the scenes I described, starring Tadeusz and I in the lead roles.

  “Like I said before, you’re a terrible actress,” Tadeusz joked, then he took a turn and described our stage performance at Pompidou Center, which caused even more laughter.

  Through the window came the sounds of a lively evening in the streets below, the conversations of people passing by, and the buzz of the restaurant. Claude fell silent for a moment, his expression thoughtful, then he set his cutlery down on the edge of his plate.

  “So you think people are interested in those kind of stories? Hmm…”

  I looked at him questioningly.

  “Well, sure. Lots of people are interested. History is fascinating,” I replied, shrugging.

  “We recently discovered an interesting story in our family’s history, too. Would you like to hear it? Oh, even if you don’t want to, I’ll tell it anyway.” Claude grinned, and reached for his glass to moisten his throat. “The story is about Marie, a distant ancest
or on Sophie’s mother’s side. Marie was her great-great-great-grandmother’s sister or something like that. It’s really complicated, and I’m no genealogist, not even an amateur one. I always get lost in all of those great-great-great’s. Anyway, Sophie’s however-many-greats-grandmother’s sister was not only a beautiful and talented woman, as we can see from her self-portrait,” he said, pointing to the painting hanging behind us, “but also something of a black sheep in the family. In her youth, she got involved with the Parisian bohemian community, and… Well, listen to what happened next. The story begins in the first half of the nineteenth century—”

  “Wait, that’s Marie’s self-portrait?” I interrupted, surprised. “But you always said you didn’t know who that painting was of!”

  “We found out last year,” Claude explained. “The old frame was getting worn out and damaged by time, so we decided to give her a new frame, and that was when we discovered Marie’s signature partially hidden under the old housing.”

  Sophie pushed a dish with roasted duck towards me. Golden droplets of fat ran down the crispy skin, moistening the neatly cut slices of meat. I was already uncomfortably full, but I couldn’t resist the sight and the smell of it. I helped myself to another slice and nodded for Claude to continue his story.

  “Yeah…?”

  “Well, in the attic of the Trigny house,” Claude began, slipping into that familiar tone people used when telling a story, “I found an old cherry wood desk. It was pretty banged up, but worth the effort of refurbishing. I have a friend who specializes in restoring antiques. He’s a miracle-worker.”

  Now I understood why all their antiques were in such perfect condition, nearly untouched by time. Plus, back in those days a carpenter considered himself an artist and took his job very seriously. That kind of quality showed. I tried not to think of my ratty old kitchen cabinets and the wardrobe door that wouldn’t close properly, and focused on my host’s story.

  “So, I took the desk to him to be restored, and he found a cleverly-hidden secret compartment in one of the drawers. Inside was a tiny wooden box, full of old letters addressed to Sophie’s great-great-great—ugh!” He broke off suddenly, shaking his head. “You already know who we’re talking about, so I’ll just call her ‘great-grandmother’, all right?”