Daguerreotype: The Mystery of Frédéric Chopin

by Lucyna Olejniczak

  “Yeah, right,” Tadeusz scoffed. “You just happened to accidentally meet Chopin’s biggest fan. Total coincidence? Really?”

  “Is that so strange?” I replied. “A lot of people love Chopin. He’s probably got more fans than all your folk rock singers put together.”

  “Very funny,” he said dryly. “Just because I have that CD in my car doesn’t mean I’m a fan of the whole genre, you know. Besides, what is your problem with folk rock?”

  “Nothing. Now, do you want to keep arguing, or do you want to hear what we talked about?”

  “If I know you, then you probably told him all about the letters.” The anger faded from his voice, but his tone was still dry and sarcastic.

  “Well, yes, what else was I supposed to say? He asked what brought me to Paris, so I mentioned the letters,” I said. “Unlike you, he doesn’t think it’s all that ridiculous. But, I did forget to turn my cell back on until I got home. I’m sorry if you got worried…”

  “‘If you got worried’? I’m going nuts over here after so many hours without a reply, and she says ‘if you got worried’” His voice was starting to climb in pitch again.

  “I already apologized. Please, stop. If you’d had as much happen today as I have, you’d probably be making dumb mistakes as well.”

  I told him briefly about the prayer book and the suspicious bulge inside the back cover, then the concert and Mark’s invitation to the jazz club.

  “Are you gonna go?” he asked, suspiciously calm and completely ignoring the other things I’d told him.

  “I’d like to,” I admitted. “I’ve never been to a jazz club before, and I imagine the Parisian ones are especially spectacular. Mark’s a great guide, and is showing me a side to the city I haven’t seen before.” I smiled to myself, then quickly changed the subject. “Never mind, it’s not important. I miss you. When are you coming back to Trigny?”

  “Do you really want that? Now that you’ve got this Mark fellow to keep you company?”

  “That’s all the more reason I want you here.” I laughed, but it was a little forced, since I was always a bit annoyed by his jealousy. “Mark is a very interesting guy. He might try something. I’m starting to suspect that he’s a real dog for older women.”

  “I see.” I could practically feel an arctic chill radiating from the phone. “If that’s the case, then I don’t know if there’s any point in me coming back. I just got another week’s vacation time, too.”

  “Really?!” I gasped. “And you’re just telling me about it now?”

  “I tried to tell you earlier, but your phone was off,” he reminded me with very pointed emphasis. “Maybe you didn’t want me to interfere with your little tete-a-tete? I think I’m starting to understand why you didn’t want to come back with me…”

  “Oh, just stop,” I snapped, really angry now. “I’ve already told you what I want, and I’m not going to beg. If you don’t want to come, then don’t. But I’m a grown woman and I’ll go do the damn club if I want to, whether you like it or not! And another thing—”

  “All right, all right!” He hurriedly backed off. “I was just joking about Mark. He’s an old guy, anyway.”

  Not much older than you, I thought, still angry. And now I’m not so sure that I really miss your company and those sour faces you pull!

  I kept that thought to myself, though. Out loud, I said, “Well, make up your mind and let me know what you decide to do. Oh, and please – no more jokes like that. I don’t like this new sense of humor of yours. Goodnight!”

  Chapter Nine

  The jazz club was a small, smoky place, filled nearly to the brim with people. It must have been one of the few places left in Europe where smoking was still allowed. A pity that Mark had chosen somewhere like that.

  Maybe it was the candles burning at every table, or perhaps just the club’s atmosphere, but after a while the cigarette smoke stopped burning my eyes. I didn’t feel it anymore, and just let the atmosphere take me over.

  A trio of not-so-young-anymore musicians were playing some of the jazz classics, and clearly having a bit of fun with it. They appeared unperturbed by the noise in the room. The pianist, drummer and bassist managed to communicate without words, just nods and meaningful smiles. I couldn’t take my eyes off them.

  Mark excused himself for a moment, and left the table. A moment later, I saw him greeting the musicians up on stage. They kissed each other on the cheeks – a greeting that I always found amusing amongst French men, since it was very much unique to them – patted one another’s backs, and gave each other playful punches on the shoulder.

  Like old buddies, I thought, which they apparently were.

  Mark gave me a wave and a smile, then he sat down at the drums. They chatted for a moment longer, then he launched into an enthusiastic drum solo. The bassist soon joined in, followed by the pianist. To my astonishment, I realized that the men were improvising something based on Chopin’s work. Prelude in E minor, with its measured, chromatically-descending accompaniment, just begged for a jazz twist. All it took was a slight modification to the rhythm and melody to turn the piece into a lovely, swinging, almost erotic samba, as if it had been written by a Brazilian composer instead of a Polish one.

  Suddenly, the mood changed dramatically as the musicians launched into a cheerful, very rhythmic version of Etude in G Major, Op. 25. They managed to modify it into a cheeky ragtime tune, and once that finished they launched into the first of Chopin’s Mazurkas, embellished with a lovely double bass solo and finished with a dramatic crash of the cymbals.

  “How did you like that?” he asked, as he returned to our table.

  “Well!” I pretended to be mortally offended. “I may not be a musicologist, but I’m not deaf either! Was that Chopin you were mangling up there?”

  He nodded. “Not exactly an original idea, but we each added our own twists.”

  “I noticed.”

  “It might seem sacrilegious…” He paused, looking at me with an uncertain smile.

  “Why? I think jazz would have suited Frederic quite well,” I replied. His smile relaxed.

  “My thoughts exactly. It was his ideas on harmony, along with a few others, that gave birth to the genre as a whole. But there are some twists that are… hm, how would you say it?”

  “Risky?” I suggested.

  “Veritably freakish.” Mark laughed. “Imagine this: The Revolutionary Etude, played on an organ, where the left hand’s part is played by the organ’s foot pedals. That part is very complicated, even in the original version, unending passages through two, three octaves. The organist looked like he was dancing, or really, really needed to pee, with the way his legs were flopping about. Points for creativity, but that did weaken the piece’s dramatic effect.”

  “I don’t believe it,” I said. “That sounds like a Monty Python sketch!”

  “And yet, he actually tried it,” Mark replied, obviously amused. “You had to see it to believe it.”

  I reached home late that night, or rather in the very early morning. I felt so good in Mark’s company that I didn’t even notice the hours flying by. When he escorted me to the door on Ferdinand Duval, the birds were already starting to wake up.

  “Do you really need to get back to Trigny already?” he asked, while I was inputting the gate’s entry code. “We could have many more evenings like this one. There are still so many interesting places to see in Paris. What do you say?”

  I thought back to my conversation with Tadeusz, remembering how offended he’d sounded and the ambiguous answer he’d given as to whether he was coming or not. I had the time. Claude was busy, and I couldn’t continue the quest until he was free.

  Oh, what the hell? I thought. It wasn’t every day you got that kind of invitation from such an interesting – and I had to admit, rather handsome – man. You only live once.

  “Actually, no. I don’t have to get back urgently.” I turned to him with a smile. “Nobody out there is waiting for me. What do
you suggest?”

  We decided to meet the next day at the St. Paul Métro station, near the apartment. Early that morning, I called Trigny to warn Claude that I was going to stay in Paris a few more days.

  “All right,” he said with his mouth full; apparently I’d caught him having breakfast. “I’m really busy at work right now, so I wouldn’t have been able to spend much time with you anyway. Enjoy your stay – and if you find anything interesting, call me!”

  Mark was standing by the exit when I arrived, looking as stylish as a catalog model. At first, I wanted to rush back home and change into something more fashionable, but I didn’t have anything to pick from. I’d only brought a few things with me, mainly underwear and t-shirts, and I wouldn’t dare to dig through Sophie’s closets.

  “May I invite you to lunch?” he asked, quickly folding the newspaper he’d been reading. “The choice of restaurant is yours.”

  Maybe I was feeling a little sensitive, but I could have sworn I saw a flicker of disdain when he glanced at my jeans and blue t-shirt – a brand name t-shirt, but still just a t-shirt.

  “A restaurant?” I pretended to think about it. “It’s a little early for a restaurant. Maybe something less fancy. How about McDonalds?” Mark’s shocked look answered that question. “Okay, maybe not. Chinese food? Do you like it? There’s a lovely little Chinese place not far from here, with great service and a really friendly vibe.”

  The cozy little restaurant with the red lanterns in the window and ever-smiling owner was just two blocks away. The interior was pleasantly dim, despite the bright autumn sunshine outside. The food was delicious and Mark was entertaining as always. I chased away the last of my doubts about whether staying in Paris had been the right thing to do, and just enjoyed myself.

  “We can go take a walk along the Chopin Trail, if you like – unless you’d prefer to go to the Louvre?” Mark glanced at me questioningly while reaching for a fortune cookie. “I heard they’ve just opened a new exhibit.”

  “I’d prefer the Chopin Trail, given its current relevance,” I admitted, crushing my own cookie between my fingers. “What prophetic maxim did you get?”

  “’Happiness is usually within reach,’” he read, “’but is sometimes as skittish as a butterfly.’ What about you?” He leaned towards me, and I caught a whiff of expensive cologne.

  “’Happiness…’” I began, then stopped and laughed. “Mine says the same thing.”

  “Well, well…” He nodded with mock seriousness. “How very deep and meaningful. Let us ponder on that happiness of ours. Perhaps it means we shouldn’t make any rash decisions?” This time, the seriousness was genuine.

  I felt a rush of awkward uncertainty. Had he guessed that there was a breakdown in the relationship between Tadeusz and myself? But all couples went through a crisis from time to time, and that was normal. This was just a temporary crisis, right?

  I suddenly realized how much I missed Tadeusz, his peculiar sense of humor, his warmth, even that irritating way he turned every discussion into a lecture as if he’d swallowed an entire library. Damn know-it-all!

  “What’s wrong?”

  I glanced up, and found myself hypnotized for a moment by those dark brown eyes flecked with gold. Oddly enough, it was not a seductive gaze, but warm and friendly. I suddenly realized that I felt safe and comfortable around Mark, the same way I did around Tadeusz. Or the way I had, in the early days of our relationship.

  “You got sad all of a sudden.” Mark didn’t take his eyes off me. “I don’t want to overstep my boundaries, but is it about your husband?”

  “Yes, about him,” I admitted with a shrug. “We’re not married, though. We’ve been together for two years. I thought we were perfect for one another, but lately we’ve been fighting all the time. I thought this trip would bring us back close together, but now it’s even worse. Tadeusz had to go back to Poland, and of course now he’s angry with me for not going with him. Plus, he suddenly started getting all… jealous. He wasn’t like that before.”

  I felt guilty for spilling my guts like that to a near-stranger, but it hurt too much to keep it bottled up inside. I thought back to our last conversation, and it made me sad. What happened to us? Was my fault?

  “Hello, Earth to Lucy! Earth to Lucy!” Mark waved a hand in front of my face.

  I glanced at him absentmindedly.

  “I’m sorry, I was just thinking.”

  “Try not to worry about it too much,” he said. “I suspect it’s one of those so-called mid-life crises. Nearly every man of a certain age starts to feel less attractive, less masculine, and starts to fear being cast aside – replaced with the younger model, so to speak. Maybe you’ve been going through one, too. Maybe you’ve been acting differently, and he needs more attention from you. So, he starts being a bit belligerent, to push you into breaking the relationship off if that’s what you really want.” He paused, then added bitterly, “That’s something I know quite well.”

  Well, that’s good, I thought. It looked like we’d met while we were both at a crossroads in our lives. I didn’t say anything, just waited. Mark was silent for a while, drumming his fingers on the tabletop.

  “I don’t know why I’m telling you all of this,” he said with a faint smile, “but it feels like we’ve known each other for years, rather than days. I guess I just needed a friendly soul like yours today. Even strong men…” He puffed up his chest with mock-seriousness for a moment, then promptly deflated again. “…have their moments of weakness.”

  “So then your…” I began carefully.

  “Yes,” he replied. “My current relationship is probably in a bit of danger. At least, that’s how I feel, and I have to admit that it’s hurting me greatly. I have several failed relationships behind me, including a marriage that fell apart because of me.”

  “At least now you know what mistakes to avoid. If you really love each other, then you can fix it.”

  “No, I will definitely not make the same mistake again,” he said, shaking his head sadly. “It’s not even possible…”

  For a while it seemed like he wanted to add something, but then suddenly, he changed the topic.

  “Okay!” He slapped a hand down on the table. “We shouldn’t waste this beautiful day. Let’s go for a walk.” He stood up, then paused for a second. Suddenly, I found myself being embraced. “I’m so glad I met you. For the first time in quite a while, I feel… happy.”

  I felt a pleasant thrill at his touch, one that gave me goose bumps. Somehow, Mark had managed to simultaneously draw me in and push me away at the same time. It was an unknown feeling to me. Odd, but not unpleasant.

  Rivoli Street was crowded and busy, as usual at this time of day. The roar of passing cars made conversation difficult, and the gaggles of colorful, noisy tourists only added to the din. We set off in the direction of the Hôtel de Ville, which was the seat of the Parisian municipality.

  “Do you see that parking lot there?” Mark asked, directing my attention towards a large square near the town hall, packed with cars. “It looks very modern, doesn’t it? They built it just a few years ago, and during construction they discovered an ancient cemetery – either Celtic or Roman, I don’t remember which.”

  “Really?” My interest was piqued; I loved stories like that.

  “Yes,” he replied, looking pleased that I was interested. “Construction had to be paused, of course. I came here nearly every day to watch the archeologists working. I even have some photos somewhere that I took. They had to dig way down, and uncovered some gravestones with crosses worked into a circle – it must have been Celtic, now that I think about it. Oh, and bones. I remember quite clearly seeing a handful of thigh bones.”

  “Incredible,” I whispered, staring at the parking lot as if I could see through the concrete if I focused hard enough. “Do you think there are still some graves down there?”

  “I don’t think so,” he replied. “The whole area was thoroughly searched before they resumed c
onstruction. The bones must have been reburied somewhere else or moved to the catacombs, wherever it is that such bones usually go. I don’t really know, to be honest.”

  A SAMU ambulance zipped past us, deafening us with its siren. The ambulance slowed down in front of us, waiting for the cars in front to make way. A group of Japanese tourists nearby clapped their hands over their ears in near-perfect unison. Some dainty old grandmothers glowered at the thing, for what little good that did.

  “I think I prefer evening walks,” I admitted, once the ambulance and its shriek had passed, leaving near-silence behind it. The noise of the traffic seemed much quieter than before.

  “We’ll take a walk in the evening too,” Mark said, offering me his arm in a gentlemanly fashion. “I’m kidnapping you for a whole day. Now, let me show you Chopin’s first Parisian apartment, or, to be exact, the townhouse where he stayed when he first arrived here.”

  We passed the buildings of the Louvre, then turned onto the small Rue de Valois, which ran along the Royal Palace and its gardens.

  “It’s safe to walk down here these days,” Mark said, always happy to play guide, “but in Chopin’s days, you would have been likely to have a chamber pot emptied on your head, especially at night. Apparently, even the sons of Louis Philippe emptied them straight onto the streets from the windows of the Palais Royal.”

  “Just like in medieval Kraków,” I said, to show off a little of my own expertise.

  “Good thing we live in the twenty-first century,” Mark said with an amused expression, flicking some invisible lint off his sports coat, which was probably from Armani or some other famous designer. “Isn’t history lovely?”

  I felt a little like Cinderella next to this elegant man, who smelled of expensive cologne. I couldn’t help but notice the stares of women passing us. What did they see? A tall, athletic man with some gray in his dark hair, and an inconspicuous middle-aged blonde, slightly out of breath as she struggled to keep up, dressed in an unfashionable combination of jeans, t-shirt, and worn-out sneakers. At least I’d made sure my roots were freshly-dyed before I left Poland.