Daguerreotype: The Mystery of Frédéric Chopin

by Lucyna Olejniczak

  Hari closed the gate and locked it, then slid the key into his pocket. I smiled to myself, remembering another car ride years earlier. My younger sister had come to visit me. We’d run out of something in the kitchen, and I’d decided to drive to the neighboring town, since there were no shops besides a bakery and post office in Trigny. I’d never driven a jeep before – and never would again! The car handled like an untamed horse. I’d struggled to change the gears, the engine had cut out at the least opportune moments, and the screeching had been seriously worrying. When we got back to the chateau, Wanda had realized she was still clutching the letter she’d planned to send while we were in town. Apparently, she’d spent the entire drive praying for her life. From then on, I’d cycled to the store when I need to go.

  As we pulled out onto the road leading towards Reims, I glanced back again. The tower’s windows flashed in the sunlight.

  “The roof!” I cried, suddenly excited.

  Hari nearly jumped out of his skin, and shot a worried look at me. “What?”

  “The tower roof,” I clarified. “Is there any space above the room?”

  “Well yes, there is a small loft up there, but nobody uses it,” he replied, sounding very confused. “I had a look up there during the renovation of Mr. Claude’s office space, hoping to find a use for it, but he decided it wasn’t worth it. It’s a tiny space, completely useless what with all the attic space we already have. So, we just took down the stairs to add more space to the office instead. Why do you ask?”

  “I’m looking for a place where one could hide paintings and things. You didn’t see any old paintings in there, did you?”

  “Who would hide paintings in place like that? No, there weren’t any paintings in there, just some broken, dusty old junk.”

  I almost wanted to hurry back and look in that attic, but that would have meant changing my immediate plans. No, I didn’t want to do that. I decided I’d do it the moment I got back instead. Besides, he had said there was nothing of interest up there. We spent the rest of the trip chatting about Mr. Singh’s wife, Nisha, who had gone home to India with the kids to visit her parents. He’d just received word that they’d landed safely after long hours on the plane.

  I smiled, remembering Mr. Singh’s wife. She was a beautiful, sweet, doe-eyed young woman with long black hair that she wore in a thick braid. Every time we’d met, she’d been dressed in traditional saris that shimmered in a rainbow of bright colors, and had enthusiastically struggled to communicate with me using gestures since we didn’t have a common language. I wondered if she’d learned French yet, but didn’t think it would be polite to ask.

  “Please give me a call when you’re on your way back,” Hari said when we arrived at the train station. “I’ll pick you up.”

  “Thank you!” I replied, then I hurried off to catch my train back to Paris.

  After a forty-five minute train ride, I got off at Gare de l’Est station and looked around for the transition to the Métro. I really liked the scent of the Parisian Métro, for some strange reason. There was something unique about it, a mixture of different scents, both good and bad. You could smell a variety of perfumes, soaps, and the regular old stink of humanity, yet it was regularly cleansed away by the continuous underground drafts.

  Chopin couldn’t have ridden the Métro, since the first line only opened in 1900, I thought to myself, then realized the thought was completely pointless. My search for his trail was starting to turn into an obsession. Maybe Tadeusz was right, and I really was overdoing it with the Chopin stuff? If he’d had an affair with Marie, surely the biographers would have written about it already. I was being ridiculous. She’d probably had her affair with someone completely different.

  But who’s going to stop me from finding out? I thought rebelliously. Nobody, that’s who!

  My thoughts went back to Frédéric Chopin. He couldn’t have ridden on the Métro, but he would definitely have ridden the rail at some point. History had made it clear that he had travelled by train. Apparently, during his twelve-hour journey to Edinburgh, he brought himself two seats facing one another, so that he wouldn’t have to suffer the embarrassment of staring at a strange throughout the trip.

  The train heading toward Place d’Italie stopped and the doors hissed open. I remembered without needing to check that I had to change trains at Bastille Station. I sighed with relief and satisfaction.

  I was back in Paris again.

  Chapter Eight

  “So, have you found find anything interesting?”

  Claude couldn’t contain himself, and called me the very moment I was leaving their Parisian apartment again after dropping off my baggage.

  “Not yet!” I replied, laughing. “I haven’t even begun looking yet, I only just got here. I’m heading back to town to walk around a bit and get some food. I’ll check the shelves this evening.” Holding the phone under my chin, I did up all the locks on the massive, fitted door, then I dropped the keys into my purse. “I’ll let you know as soon as I find anything, I promise. Oh, Claude… do you think there might be some things hidden in the attic above your office? Marie’s paintings for example?”

  There was silence on the other end of the phone for a moment.

  “You know, I never thought of that,” he said finally. “I don’t really remember what was in there but I don’t recall anything special. We had a quick look, but if the paintings were lying flat… who knows? Maybe there is something in there. We’ll have to look again.”

  “Wait until I get back, will you?”

  “Sure. I won’t have time today or tomorrow, anyway. It’s shaping up to be a busy week. We’ll take a look together, after you get back.”

  We said our goodbyes, and I dialed Tadeusz as I walked out of the gate onto a street bathed in September sunshine. It had only been a few days, and I already missed him. I still felt guilty for not returning to Kraków with him, and I still wasn’t quite sure if I’d made the right decision.

  “Hi honey!” I greeted him when he picked up. “You won’t believe what I thought of today—“

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t talk right now. I’ll call you back,” he said quickly, then he hung up without giving me a chance to even tell him that I missed him. My good mood vanished in an instant. I angrily tossed the cell into my purse, and headed for the city.

  You don’t want to talk to me, fine. I thought bitterly. So be it. I’ll live.

  By that evening, I’d decided to change my plans and stay in Paris an extra day. The hours I’d spent walking around had sapped the strength right out of me, so much so that I couldn’t even think about hauling myself up that ladder to search the shelves. I resolved to check them in the morning, by daylight – it made more sense to do it that way, anyway. There were lots of lamps and fixtures around the apartment, but none up near the ceiling in that room, so the highest shelves were swathed in near-total darkness at night. I checked the ladder would reach, just for peace of mind, then left it there for the morning.

  Besides, I wanted to attend a free concert at the Church of Saint Merri the next day. Their concerts usually took place on Saturdays and Sundays, and tomorrow just so happened to be Saturday. Their program included compositions by Schumann, de Falla and Chopin. I admit, that had played a part in my final decision.

  The next morning, feeling relaxed and well-rested, I sat in the kitchen with a cup of coffee enjoying the view out the window. The upper stories of the building across the street were lit up by the sun, while the lower stories were still bathed in semi-darkness. A street-cleaner noisily rumbled by below, spraying the street with water and sweeping away the accumulated debris. The scent of freshness and moisture filled the air, like the one that lingered after rain.

  I noticed that the windows on the opposite side of the street now had curtains across them. Pity. Those windows used to lack curtains, and the rather handsome young man who lived there had a habit of walking around his apartment naked. He must have moved on, or noticed that he
was being peeped at by the neighbors and decided to put curtains up. Oh well.

  Unfortunately, a quick search of the bookshelves had yielded nothing of interest so far, apart from me nearly falling off the ladder when I’d leaned too far to one side. Luckily, the only injury I’d come away with was a couple of splinters.. Still, the old books with their gold-embossed spines and dark leather bindings left me in awe. I turned the yellowed pages with reverence, and struggled to read the faded text. Many of them were in Latin, which I couldn’t decipher despite the good grades I’d gotten when studying the language in school. It was a bibliophile’s paradise, but there were no diaries or letters or anything else that might relate to Marie’s case.

  Claude was equally disappointed when I called him to tell him the bad news.

  “Did you find an old prayer book?” he asked, suddenly perking up. “I’m not sure, but I think it belonged to either Marie or her sister. It’s a small one, with metal fittings and a leather holder.”

  “I didn’t notice one,” I admitted. “I was looking for something bigger.”

  “If I remember correctly, it’s on the shelf above the fireplace. Might be worth checking out.”

  “Okay, let me take a look.” Wedging the phone between my chin and shoulder, I moved the ladder over to the wall near the fireplace. I shot a nervous glance at the utensils for the fire, hung on a very fancy metal stand which looked rather dangerous when I considered the possibility of falling on them. “Um… will it be on the highest shelf, too?”

  “I don’t remember,” he admitted. “Check all of them, and call me if you find anything. Good luck!”

  We hung up and I turned my attention back to the search. The two shelves at eye-level were occupied by a collection of Agatha Christie detective novels, all in English. Claude was a great fan of her work. Further along were a collection of law books and some self-help guides. How To Deal With Stress – oh, there’s something I should read! The Perfect Man? Interesting. I pulled it out and took a vicarious peek at the back, only to discover with some disappointment that it was a guide for male self-improvement. Well, not for me, then.

  On the third shelf from the top, I noticed a small book. Yes! I almost fell off the ladder with excitement, which would have seen me land right on those vicious-looking fire pokers. Thankfully, I didn’t fall and I came away with the prayer book in hand.

  It was a small thing, bound in dark red leather with decorative embossing and a gold cross on the front. The pages were gilt-edged, and the initials M. P. had been emblazoned on either side of the cross. It was in good condition overall, and only the metal clasps and two of the decorative buckles showed signs of their age.

  M.P. – Marie Perrault?

  There was no doubt about it, this had to be Marie’s prayer book in my hands.

  I felt a surge of joy, even though I knew that the prayer book probably wouldn’t add anything new to my investigation. Just the fact that I was holding something that had once belonged to Marie gave me chills. I leafed through it carefully. A dried four-leaf clover fluttered out from between the pages. On the last page were several short notes written in that beautiful handwriting that had already become quite familiar to me.

  I flushed and plopped down on the carpet to more closely examine my find. The notes were probably regarding masses that Marie wanted to – or was supposed to – attend. A date, time, and a simple “non” or “oui”, that was all. Nothing mysterious or unusual. I ran my fingers gently over the old paper. Suddenly, I froze.

  The inside of the back cover was clearly thicker and more convex than the front.

  I could barely contain my excitement. There was obviously something between the glued pages. A love letter? A photograph? No, it couldn’t be a photograph. It would have been the early 1830’s. Photographic technology had only just begun to develop, and was still at the early daguerreotyping phase. So what was it?

  I had to tell someone. I was still grumpy with Tadeusz, so I called Claude.

  As soon as he picked up, the words came tumbling out of me. “I think you’re right about this prayer book! You won’t believe it, but…”

  “Oh, I’ll believe it. What did you find?”

  I told him what I’d discovered, and we decided we wanted to look under that cover together. Claude definitely wanted to be present for the un-gluing, and I understood completely. Though, if not for that promise I would have peeked right away.

  It would be hard, but I would wait. Oh, it would be very hard indeed.

  Evening in Paris was my favorite time of day. The pedestrian traffic seemed less burdensome even though there were no less people about, and the colorful cafés and pubs were just beginning to teem with life. The conversations and laughter of patrons sitting outside blended together with the muffled sounds of life from the brightly-lit apartments, and the music here and there.

  The concert was due to start at nine, so I still had some time to kill and nothing in particular to do. I wandered the streets aimlessly, watching the happy couples with a tiny hint of jealousy, and occasionally checking the time on my watch.

  “Good evening!”

  I was nearly at the church when I heard a male voice behind me. I spun around, fully prepared to bash a potential attacker over the head with my heavy handbag if I had to. I’d heard all kinds of stories about the filthy, aggressive drug addicts who begged around the city and refused to take ‘no’ for an answer. I’d even heard that one of them had jabbed an innocent person with a needle.

  The man behind me wasn’t one of them. He was familiar, even ducking to protect himself from the blow I’d nearly unleashed on him. Handsome, well-dressed, and definitely familiar.

  “Hang on!” he cried. “It’s me, Mark Kozlovsky! We met at the Louvre? At the Georges de La Tour painting?”

  “Oh, it’s you!” I exclaimed, surprised and pleased to see the man who had explained the symbolism of that painting with such eloquence. “I’m sorry, you startled me.”

  “No, I apologize,” he replied, laughing and shaking his head. “I should have known better than to race up behind a woman in the street. You have quite a set of reflexes there!”

  We chatted amiably for a few minutes. When I told him about the concert, he decided to invite himself along.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” he said. “I’m alone this evening. My other half is off visiting the folks. A concert with pleasant company sounds like the perfect way to spend the evening.”

  He bowed gracefully, and I smiled. We resumed walking towards the church.

  “Forgive me if my memory is wrong, but didn’t you say you were going out to the country, then heading back to Poland?” he asked, after we’d exchanged the usual pleasantries about the lovely September weather.

  I smiled mysteriously. “Yes, but something came up, and it changed our plans.”

  “Nothing bad, I hope?” he said, studying my face. “Judging by your expression, I’d say it was something nice. Would it be indiscreet if I asked?”

  I told him, briefly, about the letters, Marie, and my suspicions regarding her lover.

  “So you think it could have been Chopin?” Mark stopped walking and stood there for a moment, thoughtfully rubbing his nose. “That’s a bit of a surprising theory. Hm. Even more surprising if true.”

  “It’s a long story, and I find it hard to explain properly right now. I just… have a feeling it was him, if that makes sense. Call it intuition.”

  The conversation halted as we approached the church, where the concert was about to start. A sizeable crowd of music-lovers had already gathered on Rue la Verrerie, at the church’s side entrance.

  Inside, a shiny black piano stood on a crimson carpet adorned with yellow circles, surrounded by wicker chairs, most of which were already full. With some difficulty, we managed to find two free seats half-hidden behind a sandstone pillar. All the light in the area had been directed towards the instrument, and the rest of the church was swathed in shadows. Above the alter, colorful stained-g
lass windows flickered occasionally with light from the other side.

  “You have me intrigued, young lady.” Mark had to raise his voice slightly to be heard above the hubbub of the audience around us and the shuffling of chairs on the stone floor. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to invite you to have a glass of wine with me after the concert. I’m curious to hear more of the details.” He paused when I shot a suspicious glance at him, then hastily amended his offer. “At one of the local establishments, I mean. Somewhere public and safe.”

  I nodded my agreement and turned my attention back to the illuminated center of the church. The buzz of conversation died out as a petite young Japanese woman approached the piano. She bowed and smiled shyly, her tiny hands clenched in her lap, then she carefully adjusted the stool’s height and seated herself. For a moment, she sat motionless, her hands poised over the keys and eyes closed. Silence fell. The door squeaked, granting entrance to one last late music-lover. Someone coughed, a chair rustled – then suddenly, the sound of Robert Schumann’s Kinderszenen began.

  Kinderszenen, known as Scenes From Childhood in English, was rarely performed by professional pianists, because it was hard to impress the audience with one’s skills while performing it. The movements were short and easy, often played by music students just learning the piano. Dreaming could be played by any semi-talented child. The only true talent required was the one needed to draw the audience’s attention and keep it through to the end. The Japanese pianist managed to do just that. She played very simply, unpretentiously, yet with a strong sense of style. The last movement, Child Falling Asleep, sounded particularly beautiful. The artist conjured up an intimate mood with a skill that impressed me.

  The applause was only moderate, because many of the music-lovers in the audience considered the Schumann cycle a warmup exercise. The next piece was Chopin’s Sonata No. 2 in B Minor, a much more dramatic and demanding piece. As I listened, I thought that it would have been hard to find two pieces that contrasted more than those two, even though both came from the same era. The lyrical, muted, and almost sleepy mood of Scenes From Childhood burst like a bubble when the pianist struck the opening chords of Grave, which began the sonata. The deep bass octaves sounded mysterious and ominous, like the drone of a church bell. It was a very suggestive introduction to the musical drama about to take place.