Daguerreotype: The Mystery of Frédéric Chopin

by Lucyna Olejniczak

  Joking and laughing, we arrived at the Poissonnière Boulevard. On its southern side still stood the five-story building where the young composer had lived for some time, on the highest floor.

  “That would have been quite a climb…” I muttered, surprised. “And probably no elevator.”

  “Definitely no elevator,” Mark replied. “He would have had a great view across Paris, but the endless stairs quickly convinced him to move. Apparently his students complained about the stairs, too, so he had to find another place in a hurry. The apartment at Cité Bergère was only on the second floor, but it was dark and damp, which wasn’t good for his health.”

  “How do you know all this?” I asked, genuinely astonished by the depth of his knowledge. “Aren’t you American of Polish descent, several generations removed from Europe?”

  “On my father’s side,” he replied, “but my mother was French, and she brought me to Paris often. Do I need to mention the fact that she was a huge fan of Chopin?”

  “Well, now everything makes sense,” I said, nodding in understanding. “So that’s where you acquired your interest in music and the arts, and your excellent language skills.”

  “Excellent?” He made a noise and waved his hand dismissively. “Hardly. We spoke a combination of French and English at home. My mother never bothered to learn proper English. She… died, a year ago,” he said, suddenly looking sad. “Cancer.”

  I hugged him without a word. At that moment, the tall, handsome man looked like nothing so much as a little boy, which he probably still was deep inside.

  He took a deep breath and pulled himself back together, then resumed his previous discourse. “And then, his situation improved. He met plenty of so-called high society people, and it wasn’t proper for him to live in such conditions. So, he moved to the elegant Chaussée d’Antin.”

  “But he died somewhere else, right?”

  “Yes, his last apartment was at Place Vendôme.” He offered me his arm again. “So? Shall we go there to finish our Chopin Trail tour?”

  “Please, no,” I groaned. “Maybe tomorrow. I can’t feel my legs. Let’s sit for a few minutes.”

  “All right. In that case, I suggest Tuileries. I imagine Chopin relaxed there often, so I’m sure we’ll stay on the subject the whole time.” He winked knowingly. “This is his day, after all.”

  I grimaced. “Is it far from here?”

  “Yes,” he admitted. “But luckily, someone invented the Métro.”

  That evening, we had dinner at a little Greek restaurant in the Latin District, and then, exhausted, we returned to the apartment on Ferdinand Duval. A disheveled, dirty tramp, wrapped in an equally filthy blanket of indeterminate color, slept on the other side of a narrow street. At the sound of our footsteps, he shifted uneasily, muttered some curses, and turned his back on us.

  “So, see you tomorrow?” Mark kissed my cheek, and held my hand for just a moment longer than necessary. “I had a wonderful evening, thank you so much.”

  “I should really get back to Trigny.” I hesitated for a moment. “I had a wonderful time today, too, and I would gladly do it again. I’ll call you tomorrow, right after breakfast, and let you know what I’ve decided to do. Everything depends on Claude right now – I have some obligations to him.”

  Silently, I admitted to myself that the prospect of spending another day with Mark wasn’t unpleasant at all…

  But I didn’t change my plans because of Claude in the end. I filled the bathtub, and a moment before I climbed into the fragrant water I checked my phone: One missed call. Just one.

  I checked the time of the call. 11:45am. Where had I been then, and why didn’t I hear it ring? I remembered the ambulance on Rivoli Street, and suddenly everything became clear. I ran him back, and waited nervously until he picked up.

  “Hi honey,” I greeted him. “You called earlier, but I didn’t hear the phone. I’m so sorry!”

  There was a long moment of silence.

  “Yes, I called,” he said eventually, his voice hesitant. “I thought you didn’t want to talk to me, so I didn’t try again.”

  I felt a surge of anger, as I usually did in moments like this, but quickly forced myself to calm down again.

  “No, I just didn’t hear it. My phone was in my purse, and the streets were so noisy today…” I began to explain, but trailed off when I realized what it sounded like.

  “Do you still want me to come?” he interrupted my rambling.

  “What do you think?” I answered flatly.

  For a moment, there was silence again, then finally I heard that characteristic snort of his.

  “I think you do,” he said finally, laughing. “I think you want it as much as I do. Am I right?”

  “As usual, you’re right,” I replied, using our favorite phrase. “You are, you bastard. Get here as fast as you can.”

  “You got it. I’ll get there as soon as I can. Love you.”

  As soon as I got off the phone with Tadeusz, I called Mark to tell him the news. He was a little disappointed, but he understood and even seemed to be happy for me.

  “Maybe it’s a good omen for me, too,” he said. “I hope we’ll all be able to meet up before you go back to Poland? Please give it a thought, both of you.”

  We chatted a moment longer, then said our goodbyes and I went to go enjoy my bath.

  Later, feeling warm and relaxed, I sat on the couch with a silly grin in my face and my phone in my hand, just in case Tadeusz wanted to call again. It was way too late for him to call again, but if he did, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.

  He’d said, “I love you.” We hadn’t said that to each other in so long. A few simple words, and they could change so much. Suddenly, the world seemed like a brighter and more beautiful place than it had just one day before. Mark’s company certainly made me feel good, but Mark wasn’t Tadeusz. I missed his warmth, his closeness and his scent. How could I even think I’d had enough of him?

  The living room was swathed in semi-darkness. The lamp standing next to the couch only cast a warm, yellow circle across my knees and the carpet around my feet, while the rest of the room was all shadows and the blurry contours of old furniture. The moon’s eerie glow peeked through the windows and the doorway to the dining room, illuminating Marie’s portrait. Something rustled softly in the depths of the apartment, then thumped and scratched. Probably a mouse, the true bane of old buildings like this one.

  That’s how these old buildings ‘speak’, I thought, idly breathing in the delicate scent of lily-of-the-valley. The living room was filled with pearl-gray light.

  “Looks like she’s returning to the search again,” a young woman in an old-fashioned gown said to the man sitting by the fireplace.

  He rubbed his prominent nose and laughed. “I’m curious to see what she’ll find…”

  My phone dropped from my limp hand, and hit the arch of my foot hard enough to hurt. I jumped, startled and suddenly cold. The shadows in the living room suddenly seemed deeper, and now I could hear the sound of dishes and silverware being washed in the restaurant below. It had gotten much later. I dragged myself off to bed, feeling stiff all over.

  “I’ll find something, if you help me with it, Marie,” I said softly to her portrait as I passed it, then I went upstairs to bed.

  Chapter Ten

  Once I arrived back at Trigny, I could barely stop myself from rushing right up to the attic above Claude’s office, but I had promised that I’d wait for him to get home from work. Besides, I wanted Tadeusz to be present as well, and I was expecting him to arrive later that afternoon.

  Plus, I didn’t have a ladder.

  If it hadn’t been for the ladder thing, I probably would have snuck in there quietly to take a peek, without telling anyone or touching anything, just so I could know if there was any basis to my suspicions. Unfortunately, to do that I’d have to ask Mr. Singh to fetch me the ladder, and that would mean my secret was no longer a secret. There was nothing to do but w
ait.

  I sat on the terrace again, holding Marie’s letters. It was still early, around noon, and the sun radiated the lingering warmth of the last days of summer. From the other side of the tall stone wall, I could hear the muffled sound of passing cars, and the drone of the combine-harvesters coming back from the vineyards. Lost in my own thoughts, I barely noticed a bee hanging around me until it made a splash landing in my teacup. I quickly rescued it with a spoon, and set the drenched insect safely on the wooden tabletop.

  “Silly thing,” I murmured, gently blowing on the creature to try and help it dry its wings. “There wasn’t even any sugar in there. What were you looking for?”

  A breeze scented with the pleasant savory odor of herbs drifted over from the corner of the garden. I caught a whiff of the distinctive smell of thyme, which Sophie loved to add to her egg-based dishes.

  I found myself wondering if Marie had enjoyed working in these gardens. Had she walked down these paths, amongst the vibrant, multicolored flower beds, or sat on the stone benches in the shade of the trees?

  The mystery of the attic, the impending return of Tadeusz, and my weekend in Paris combined left me unable to concentrate on her letters. I gently returned the yellowed sheets to the box that had kept them safe all those years.

  “Will you wait a little longer, Marie?” I whispered, feeling some kind of irrational hope that her ghost lingered nearby and might have heard me. “I’ll get back to your letters soon. I just wish I knew whether you’d want me to uncover your secret at all…”

  “Did you say something, ma’am?” Hari was suddenly in front of me, with a pair of secateurs in his hand and an odd expression on his face. I haven’t even realized he was nearby.

  “Oh! No, no, sorry,” I apologized, shaking my head. “I was just talking to myself.”

  “Ah.” He nodded and returned to his work, trimming some bushes with flowers that resembled marshmallows. They were so overgrown that they completely hid the stone steps from the terrace to the garden, not to mention the other plants nearby. Camellias, in full bloom at this time of year, grew against the terrace’s sides. I’d always loved those flowers, with their petals that looked like cool porcelain.

  The bee unfolded its wet wings and dried them in the sunshine for a few minutes, before launching itself back into the air. In the meantime, Mr. Singh finished trimming the bushes, revealing steps covered in leaf mold. The air smelled like a freshly-mown lawn.

  Feeling comfortably lazy from the warmth and the scents of the garden, I reached for Marie’s letters again, trying to focus on their form, rather than their content. The margins were filled with doodles and sketches, revealing the artistic hand of the writer. One was an old woman with a wart on her face. It took no great amount of imagination to guess her personality: her eyes were narrowed vindictively, her smile dishonest. Marie was a great observer of the human form.

  On another page was a sketch of a living room filled with guests. It didn’t look like a party, more like a gathering of old friends to reminisce. Later on was a stage coach, clearly titled to one side. Apparently Marie was talking about an accident in the woods, because the background was illustrated with the faint outlines of trees. Interesting, but I put the letter aside to read later, with my ever-so-demanding masters. Better to wait and share the fun of discovery together.

  Yet another page held a sketch of an elegant gown, with arrows pointing to different parts. I held the drawing up and squinted at it, but the tiny letters were barely visible and written in some kind of shorthand that only a person up to date on contemporary fashion would have understood.

  I rubbed my tired eyes and returned the letters to their box again. Unfortunately, the results of a sleepless night were starting to make themselves felt. When I’d moved into the bedroom after my unexpected nap on the couch the night before, all trace of sleepiness had vanished and I’d found myself tossing and turning until almost morning. Just when I’d finally fallen asleep, the birds had begun to sing outside. This wasn’t one of those days when you popped awake after a couple of hours feeling as refreshed as if you’d slept a full eight hours. I decided to head up to my room to take a short nap, so that I’d at least be semi-conscious that evening.

  Tadeusz arrived in the afternoon as expected, just in time to enjoy a dinner prepared by the household’s invaluable cook, Mrs. Leclerc. I flung my arms around him, and we hugged one another in silence for a good long while.

  Eventually, he kissed the top of my head and whispered in a shaky voice, “God, I missed you. I thought I was going to go crazy, wondering what you were doing with that Mark person. That—”

  “I missed you, too,” I interrupted, squeezing him even tighter. “And Mark—”

  “I don’t want to know. Don’t say anything!”

  “But— ”

  “No, let’s just close that chapter and start from the beginning. The most important thing right now is that we’re together again. Please, let’s not fight anymore.”

  I gave up on attempting to explain that nothing had happened with Mark, or at least nothing worth being jealous about, even if I had stayed in Paris a little longer than I’d planned. Maybe Tadeusz could use a little uncertainty. For once, his jealousy made me feel flattered. I felt more… feminine. Desired.

  I changed the subject, and told him in detail about the prayer book I’d found in Paris, and my suspicions about the attic above Marie’s old studio. Tadeusz was eager to search right away, but we agreed to wait until Claude could join us, as I’d promised.

  Our host was very excited at dinner, so excited that he kept forgetting his manners and speaking with his mouth full, which almost never happened.

  “My friends, let’s hurry and finish dinner so we can go search the attic while it’s still light outside. The longer I think about it, the more I’m convinced that we’re going to find something there. Unless you’re too tired after your long drive?” He glanced uncertainly at Tadeusz. “We can always postpone it until tomorrow, if you wa—”

  “Out of the question!” Tadeusz interrupted, shaking his head decisively. “I feel fine. But, I was under the impression that you’d already looked up there. Did you only discover the room recently?”

  “No, of course not,” Claude said, waved his fork. “I just didn’t think about it then. There was some broken junk and dusty boards in there, but they didn’t seem interesting at the time. I thought they were just leftovers from the last time the attic was remodeled, which someone had forgotten to throw out.”

  “And now?”

  “And now I wonder if those dusty old boards may have actually been Marie’s paintings…”

  Half hour later, Claude fetched the ladder and we followed him up the narrow staircase into the tower.

  The little rectangular trap door resisted at first, but finally it opened with a crash, showering us with white dust – probably paint residue, left in crevices after the ceiling had been painted during the remodeling.

  Claude climbed a little higher, then cried, “Oh, merde!”

  “What?!” I cried. Tadeusz and I both hurried closer and found ourselves trying to climb the ladder simultaneously. A bit of plaster fell in my eye, and I rubbed it impatiently. “What happened?”

  “Oh, it’s just pitch black up here,” he replied. “I forgot to bring the flashlight. Tadeusz, would you be so kind?”

  “Of course.” His voice wasn’t exactly full of enthusiasm, but someone had to go get it.

  “It’s in the hall, on the windowsill, next to the umbrella stand.”

  “What’s it look like?”

  Claude pulled his head back out of the opening, and stared at him.

  “What do you mean, ‘what’s it look like’? It’s an umbrella stand. It looks like an umbrella stand.”

  “Oh.” Tadeusz shrugged, and headed down the stairs without another word. He had plenty of time to remember what an umbrella stand looked like.

  Several minutes later, he returned with a huge flashlight in his h
and. We climbed up into the attic, where Claude was waiting for us. Sure enough, the attic was pitch black except for a weak glow coming from a small, round window, so encrusted with dust it was basically useless. All attempts to open the window were futile. It looked like it had been nailed shut, or glued with dried paint, remnants of which flaked off its frame. Claude took the flashlight and swung it in an arc around the room.

  The first thing we noticed was all the dust motes swirling through the air. Once our eyes adjusted, we began to notice other elements: the slanted walls covered in cobwebs, the rotten floorboards, a broken chair, and a handful of boards. After a quick examination, it turned out that the boards were the last remnants of an old easel.

  I felt a thrill of emotion. No doubt, that had been Marie’s easel.

  “And the paintings?” I asked impatiently, struggling to control my excitement.

  There was a large object in one corner, covered by a thick cloth. We removed the cover and found an old wooden chest underneath, with metal fittings in the corners and several heavy locks on the front. There were two study handles, one on each side, which indicated that this was a travel trunk rather than just some regular old storage chest. The dust of a hundred years rose in a cloud as we moved the cloth away.

  Tadeusz sneezed loudly, then he pointed to the trunk.

  “This thing was here the whole time, and you didn’t see it before now? How is that possible?”

  Claude walked up to the chest, looking incredulous.

  “No! Oh, mon Dieu. I truly had no idea…” He just stood there for a moment looking confused, glancing back and forth between us and the trunk. “I just took Mr. Singh at his word that there wasn’t anything interesting up here. I only took a quick glance from the stairs, and all I saw was old junk and garbage, not worth any attention. Oh—!” He fumbled in his pocket for a handkerchief, and got it out just in time for a powerful sneeze to double him over, then he shook his head, half to clear it and half from disbelief.