Tadeusz focused all of his attention on the dense weekend traffic. We were both still a little tired, though our revels hadn’t lasted until morning despite my rebellious declaration the night before. We’d returned to the attic room a little after midnight, but the noise from the restaurant had kept us awake a good while longer.
We drove into the tunnel. The brake lights of the cars ahead us looked like glowing embers.
“Look, how pretty.” I nudged Tadeusz’ side gently.
“Mmm…” He sighed dreamily. “Such fancy cars.”
The tunnel ended. To our right, the Seine glimmered in the setting sun. The voice of a guide on a tour boat, distorted by the distance and a cheap sound system, reached us for a moment. It disappeared quickly, replaced by the steady hum of the engine and the intermittent hiss of opposing traffic
Just one more hour, and we’ll be there, I thought excitedly. I hadn’t been to Trigny in ages. Once again, I felt a stab of regret that I would be able to see the boys.
We drove in silence for some time, each occupied with our own thoughts. I recalled moments spent with Nicolas and Alexander, their childhood, their first words and clumsy sentences, their first steps.
Tadeusz’s words pulled me back to reality.
“Why are you so quiet? I’m going to fall asleep at the wheel.”
“I was just thinking about the boys,” I replied. “I really regret that we won’t be able to see them.”
“Me too. You’ve told me so much about them.”
“It’s a pity we couldn’t take our vacation earlier.”
“You know, it’s not like I had a choice.” Resentment rang in Tadeusz’ voice. “That’s how they planned my vacation time, and my boss still nearly revoked it at the last minute.”
“I know.” I put my hand soothingly on his knee. “I wasn’t blaming you, just complaining about the way it worked out. It’s not your fault.”
He’d been a bit touchy as of late, so I decided not to provoke him. After all, this vacation had been intended to mend our strained relationship. I sighed internally. Suddenly, our first meeting at the reading room appeared before my eyes. I’d gone looking for a particular issue of the Czas, Kraków’s daily newspaper from around the turn of the century, and found Tadeusz reading it. I’d been looking for material for my book, of course, while Tadeusz had been searching for information about Kraków’s 19th century firefighters.
I lost my mind the first time I looked into those amazing blue eyes. I was enchanted by the impatient little gesture he used to shove his dark hair off his forehead. As he often bragged to friends later, I’d stared at him so intently that for a long time afterwards, his face had been burned into my memory, like the spots left in your vision from staring at a bright light for too long.
A flood of memories struck me: our dates, our hot and heavy nights, and our wonderful conversations that lasted until morning. And now? We were arguing about every little thing, like a bored, old married couple, which we weren’t.
I watched him from the corner of my eye, not saying a word. He had that focused expression on his face, the one I loved so much.
“What is it?” he asked suddenly. He glanced at me, puzzled. “What were you thinking about?”
“I was just recalling our first meeting.”
“In the archive reading room?” He laughed. “One second, you wanted to kill me because I’d swiped that copy of the Czas you wanted, and the next you were trying to trying to devour me with your eyes. Talk about distracting!”
“And who was it that searched for me so desperately later?”
“Pshhh, I was young and stupid,” he teased, looking amused. “That was like two whole years ago. Who even remembers that far back?”
“Oh yes, practically a lifetime ago, youngster.”
A measured, even rumbling under the car’s tired signaled the approach of the first toll gate on the highway. The car slowed. Tadeusz reached into the glove compartment to get the money, rolled the side window down, and handed exact change to the smiling girl in the booth. The barrier went up, and we continued on.
The crack in the window let in a gust of fresh, fragrant air. The sky turned red in the west, with dark, horizontal clouds heralding the approach of evening. On the horizon to our left, I saw the silhouette of Disneyland Paris in Marne la Vallée for a moment, but it disappeared behind other buildings before I could point it out to Tadeusz.
The monotonous hum of the tires on the smooth tarmac and the falling dusk began to lull us to sleep. Tadeusz turned on the radio, trying to find something nice to keep us awake, but all we could find was loud, pulsating dance music. Everything sounded like ‘UNF! UNF! UNF!’ Suddenly, we found a station with a young artist shouting in a very distinctive sort of rhythm.
“Oh no, not that!” He turned the radio off in a hurry. “The only thing worse than regular rap is French rap.”
We drove in complete silence for some time, before I suddenly remembered that there was a Leonard Cohen CD in the glove compartment. That solved the problem.
A sign appeared telling us that the exit was coming up for Reims. It was well marked, and in few minutes we were on the road to Trigny, which was a small town in northern Champagne. The areas we passed through seemed to be almost abandoned, and only a few lights in the windows of the low houses we were passing indicated anyone might be living there at all. In the gathering gloom, we could just make out the neat rows of vineyards on the hillsides.
“It’s not far now,” I said, gazing out the window at the familiar, pleasant landscape. “We just need to cross the train tracks, and we’re there.”
This was the point when Chutney always started whining excitedly. She would stick her head out the window and sniff the air, impatient to be home. She recognized the scents of the area, even if there was still some way to go. I loved to watch her excitement, tongue lolling, ears flapping in the wind.
The car juddered over the railroad tracks. A passing cyclist threw us a curious glance; cars with Polish plates weren’t very common in this area.
“You’ll like it here; you’ll see,” I said. “Everything looks different during the day. I used to love coming here, even when Sophie and Claude were still living in Paris and just spending their weekends at Trigny.”
“Why did they stop living in Paris?”
“Well, Sophie got sick of living in city, with the eternal traffic jams, constant hustle and bustle, and all the noise. She has some high-up job in politics now, so she travels a lot. It’s better for her to come back here to recuperate between trips rather than try and recharge her batteries some place noisy like Paris.”
“How could anyone want to leave Paris?” Tadeusz asked, looking puzzled.
“You’re seeing it through the rose-tinted lenses of a tourist. If you lived there all the time, you’d probably get sick of it eventually, too.”
“What about Claude? Didn’t you say he’s a lawyer? Doesn’t he have his practice there? All his contacts?”
“Contacts, yes, but his practice is in Reims. There was too much competition in Paris, while out here he’s one of the most respected attorneys in town,” I explained absently, but my thoughts were once again drifting to another time and place. “Maybe we’ll be able to come back and see the boys later on.”
“The story of those kids really is amazing,” Tadeusz said, shaking his head. “It’s like something out of a movie, isn’t it? They couldn’t be luckier.”
He wasn’t kidding, it really did sound like something out of a movie: Two Polish orphans, adopted by a wealthy French family. Here, they had loving parents, a wonderful home, and all the best schools, while if they’d stayed in Poland they would have been doomed to a childhood spent in a cold, unloving orphanage, and a dim future.
Their luck didn’t end there, either. Nicolas had some kind of gastrointestinal tract defect, and wouldn’t have survived without a series of complicated – and expensive – surgeries, while poor little Alexander needed long-term tre
atment for a skin disease. Who in Poland would have wanted to take in not one, but two seriously ill children, and create a loving family for them? Who would have wanted to spend that much money on their medical treatments? There were so many orphans and abandoned children in Poland, and only the healthiest, prettiest, and smartest children generally found homes. Sometimes, all it came down to was which child most closely resembled their adoptive parents.
“You right,” I agreed after a moment’s contemplation. “They really couldn’t have been luckier.”
The first buildings at the edge of town appeared before us, followed a moment later by the large stone wall surrounding the estate. Amongst the trees, I caught sight of parts of the roof, the tall windows with white shutters, and the round towers of the western wing. We pulled into a small plaza with a fountain in the center, and heard the musical tinkle of falling water through the window. The owner of a local winery stood in the a doorway, still wearing his white apron, and watched the car with the foreign plates pass with open curiosity.
The car rolled over the cobblestones of the narrow street that ran between the high walls of the adjacent property. The headlights illuminated bits of the wall, overgrown with ivy, as well as the wet branches of the trees growing on the other side, then finally stopped at a pair of high gate painted bright blue. One screeched open first, then the other, revealing a white gravel driveway beyond. On either side of the gate, Sophie and Claude stood bundled up against the evening chill.
The car crunched down the driveway into the courtyard, with a very excited Chutney bouncing around us. We parked by the old coach house, inside of which stood an antique carriage, glossy black with a tall body and large wheels on metal rims.
“Did you have a good trip?” Sophie asked in typical French fashion, and kissed my cheeks four times. Claude greeted me the same way, and exchanged a firm handshake with Tadeusz.
“Let’s get inside, it’s chilly out here,” Sophie suggested once we’d exchanged brief pleasantries. The dog nearly bowled us off out feet with her exuberant greeting, prompting a frustrated cry of, “Chutney, enough!”
They led us inside and allowed us a few moments to freshen up after the long drive, then we convened in the dining room. It looked almost exactly as I remembered it from my last visit, with just a few changes. The long, rectangular table was now covered with a green tablecloth, matching linen napkins at each place. The heavy, high-backed velvet chairs remained unchanged. I felt a stab of emotion when I noticed the familiar china and other porcelain trinkets behind an aged credenza’s glass. The curtains on the window were lighter and brighter than the previous ones, which had been heavy green velvet and created a rather gloomy atmosphere. Beneath the window overlooking the garden was a decorative flower pot, with a vibrant blooming hibiscus bush in it.
“More wine?” Claude picked up the bottle and looked at us questioningly. We had just finished an appetizer, and were waiting for the main course.
“This is…” He struggled to read the label without success, because it was water-damaged, blackened, and crumbling. “…I don’t know exactly what this is. We recently found a shelf in the cellar with a few bottles like this. I was afraid they would have gone sour, but apparently not! They probably belonged to Sophie’s grandparents.” He smiled at her.
“Quite possibly,” she agreed.
I watched Tadeusz with some pleasure, since it was obvious he was enchanted by our hosts. He especially seemed to enjoy the way they pronounced our names: Lusina and Tadeus.
“My grandfather was great wine-lover, and something of a connoisseur.” Sophie raised her glass to the light, twirled it gently, then shrugged. “It could very well be some forgotten part of his wine cellar. But, I’m much more interested to hear about how you spent your time in Paris. And, of course, I want to know what you’ve decided about our little family mystery?”
I didn’t have a chance to answer, because the cook entered the dining room at just that moment. She brought in dishes laden with roast beef, and vegetables drizzled in butter.
“Hold that thought,” I said. “We’ll get back to that in a few minutes. Judging by the way the men are drooling, I don’t think they’ll be able to focus right now!”
Sophie lifted the silver lid, and breathed deep of the savory aroma that wafted out.
“Mmm… wonderful.” She smiled at the cook, who looked pleased at the praise and fled back to her kingdom.
Sophie picked up the carving knife and began to slice the roast expertly. I saw a flash of alarm in Tadeusz’ eyes when he saw the red, nearly raw interior. In Poland, people rarely if ever ate beef that wasn’t thoroughly well-cooked, so this was all new to him. I leaned towards him and whispered to him in Polish, almost without moving my lips, “Don’t complain about the meat being underdone. That’s how it’s supposed to be. It’s called ‘bleu’.”
“Never in my life,” he whispered back, watching Sophie’s movements with obvious dread, “have I eaten raw meat.”
Luckily, our hosts didn’t notice our quiet exchange. Claude busied himself with refilling glasses, while Sophie carved the roast.
“Now, who prefers their meat more cooked, and who likes the rare bits?” she asked us, setting the carving knife down.
“We’d prefer the more thoroughly cooked bits, please,” I said quickly, for both of us.
All the slices looked a bit too rare to me, but we still seemed to get the less bloody ones. From experience, I knew that the rare beef was very tender in taste and quite edible, but I still had to force myself to swallow the first bite. Poor Tadeusz was going through something of a baptism by fire, since this was the first time in his life that he’d eaten rare meat. I watched discreetly as he cut tiny pieces off, and chewed them with unreadable expression on his face.
“So, what did you decide?” Sophie asked, wiping her mouth with a napkin.
“Come on, not now,” Claude protested. “Tomorrow is another day. Anyway, we have the whole rest of the week – you are staying after the weekend, right?” He glanced at us, his eyebrows raised questioningly.
Tadeusz and I exchanged an amused glance; we’d expected that particular turn of events.
“Sure, of course,” I said. “We can stay for the rest of the week, if it’s no trouble for you.”
“Quite the contrary. You can stay as long as you want. The boys have already left, so it should be ideal conditions for you to rest and study the contents of the letters.”
“Perfect. Hopefully we’ll be able to finish them within a week, because we do have to get back after that. Tadeusz only has two weeks of vacation time, and we already spent a week in Paris.”
“But you don’t have to rush, do you?” Sophie asked, watching me attentively. “You said that after the release of the book, you’d been able to leave work?”
“It’s not exactly like that,” I replied, laughing. “I don’t make that much money off of it, unfortunately. If it wasn’t for the money I earn doing freelance translation, magazine articles and offering French lessons, I wouldn’t be able to afford to live.”
“It seems like you’re busier now than before, when you worked a regular job.”
“I am, but I enjoy it – and more importantly I can do it without leaving my house.”
“Then you can stay longer,” Sophie summed up.
“Well… technically yes, I suppose,” I admitted hesitantly. “But I really can’t allow Tadeusz to go home alone. It’s such a long drive…”
“Well, we can discuss the options later. Maybe you’ll change your mind.” Sophie reached for the carving knife. “Would anyone care for some more meat?”
Tadeusz looked like he wanted to say something about the prospect of having to drive home alone, but seemed to forget all about it when the danger of another slice of bloody meat appeared.
“No, no, no thank you!” he protested quickly. “I couldn’t possibly fit any more in.” He paused for a second, then added to soften the blow, “it was delicious, though!”
A little later, a salad with vinaigrette and platter of cheeses took their places on the table. I busied myself with tasting each of them, while the conversation at the table rolled lazily around neutral subjects.
After dinner, we decided to move to the library. Claude carried the unfinished wine bottle, and Tadeusz brought our glasses.
“Come on, my friends, come on,” Claude said, hurrying us on impatiently when we paused to admire the chateau’s interior. “Don’t waste your time sightseeing. We have so many things to talk about! We’ll give you a good tour of the house tomorrow, in daylight.”
The estate was an old chateau, inherited from Sophie’s paternal ancestors. The thick walls probably concealed many a mystery. There was a huge entrance hall with a wide staircase, which divided the house into two wings: the western wing, and the eastern.
The rooms on the ground floor were arranged along a straight hall, which ended in a large, circular room with tall windows around the circumference. The first floor contained only bedrooms, bathrooms and guest rooms. Above that, in a round tower, was a room that had apparently once been an artist’s studio. Even now it still housed easels, which had become part of Claude’s office décor ever since he’d taken over the room.
The kitchen and dining room were in the house’s eastern wing. We had to walk across the hall and through the music room, where a piano sat in front of large windows overlooking the garden. A revolving, black velvet seat sat askew, and sheet music still rested on the stand, suggesting that someone had been playing the instrument recently. An aged mirror above the fireplace reflected a view of the beautiful antique furniture that decorated the room.
We left the music room and continued on to the library. In the back, next to the side stairs leading to the second floor, hung a huge portrait of a young woman wearing a blue gown and pearl necklace.
“It’s Sophie’s great-grandmother, Marie’s sister,” I whispered to Tadeusz, nudging him gently in the side.
The evening was cool despite the fact that it was still late summer, so our host lit a fire in the fireplace. The room, usually huge and dark, became almost cozy in the soft light of a few green-shaded lamps, and the flickering light of the burning logs.
Daguerreotype: The Mystery of Frédéric Chopin Page 5