We were just taking the deck chairs out into the garden, when my cell rang. At first I didn’t pay any attention to it, thinking it was a bird, and by the time I realized my mistake the phone had gone silent.
“Honey,” Tadeusz began carefully, wrestling with the folding chair. “I don’t want to intrude on your… method, but do you think you could change that ‘birdy’ ringtone? That isn’t the first time you’ve ignored it or not heard it. Have you noticed I usually called you late at night?”
“I noticed. Was that the only time you had free?”
“No, honey. I was calling you late at night because all the birds would be asleep, so I thought you wouldn’t make the same mistake at night!”
“Ha-ha, very funny.”
I checked the phone, and saw that the missed call was from my friend Vladislav, someone I kept in touch with occasionally, though we didn’t speak all that often. Vladislav was a man who kept himself busy with all kinds of mysterious things. He organized séances in locations were spirits were apparently running rampant, checked everything he bought with a pendulum – much to the annoyance of the shopkeepers – and liked to build all kinds of strange devices, some of which even he didn’t know how to use. In short, a strange but interesting person. I pushed ‘dial’, and a moment later I was greeted by Vladislav.
“Hello! Forgive me, my dear, for bothering you while you’re on vacation.” I could almost hear him bowing as he said the words. “I heard from your son that you’re on the trail of a mystery. Is that true? Is there anything I can do to help?”
“It’s very kind of you to offer, but I don’t see how you could help. You’re so far away.”
“Ah, don’t forget!” In my mind’s eye, I saw him holding up one bony finger. “I’ve helped before, in the search for your great-grandfather!”
Really? I wanted to act surprised, but it wasn’t appropriate.
“Yes, if it hadn’t been for my pendulum, you never would have recognized him in that photograph,” he reminded me with what was probably his unique form of modesty.
I smiled to myself. If I remembered correctly, that pendulum had said it ‘wasn’t certain’ whether it was pointing to the right person or not, but I let him have his moment.
“Of course, and I’m very grateful, but this time you’re too far away, and—”
“Oh, that’s not a problem for me! Just tell me what the matter is, and I’ll determine whether I’ll be able to help or not.” He lowered his voice all of a sudden. “Is it true that it’s about a… Monsieur Chopin?” His pronunciation of the word sounded very French, as if he were trying to prove that he knew the language and wasn’t afraid to use it if the need arose.
“Yes, in general, I could say it’s about him,” I admitted, amused. “I’m extremely grateful for your willingness to help, but—”
“I already did some research,” he interrupted, sounding smug. “I won’t say anything yet. I’ll keep researching, and once I’m certain I’ll let you know and you can call me back.”
“Uh… sure,” I said, since he didn’t really leave me any other choice. “If you could, I’d prefer if you emailed it to me. Foreign phone calls are quite expensive.”
“Money isn’t of any concern in matter like this,” he said, sounding slightly offended. “I can talk for hours on such important matters!”
Right. Especially since I’m the one who’s supposed to call him.
“Actually, I do have access to a computer now,” he admitted grudgingly. “My nephew tried to explain the basics to me, but he is horrible at explaining. I pushed the wrong key, and deleted everything I wrote. If he’d explained it to me more clearly—”
“I’m sure he’ll he happy to show you again,” I said, happy to hear Vladislav has access to a computer after all. “Besides, you don’t have to rush. Even if you can’t find anything before I get back, we can always meet up when I’m back in Krakow and talk everything over in person.”
“Great!” he exclaimed, sounding thrilled. “That might be better. I’ll have more time, because… Oh, well, I’ll just tell you. I’m planning a séance with Monsieur Chopin.”
We talked for a little while longer on ordinary matters, about the weather in France and Krakow and such, then we said our goodbyes. I promised to relay his greetings to Tadeusz, and hung up.
“A séance?” Tadeusz had stretched out on his deck chair by that stage, wearing sunglasses. “So we don’t have to read these letters after all? You’re just going to talk to Freddie and ask him yourself?”
I rolled my eyes, then settled in my chair and unpacked the letters. We arranged the letters chronologically, so we wouldn’t miss anything along the way. The last one was dated December 16th 1833. After that, the correspondence ended, or at least there were no more letters in our stash.
Even though we were out in the open air, I could still smell the distinctive scent of old paper, and a fleeting whiff of something else. Perfume, perhaps? No, that was impossible. After so many years?
I sat in silence for a moment, pondering the scent, then I focused on translating the first letter.
“How much longer are you going to sit like that, just frowning and muttering under your breath?” Tadeusz asked, finally losing his patience. “Winter’s going to arrive before we’re done at this rate.”
“Do you want an accurate translation or not? If I just eyeball it, it won’t be accurate.”
“I’d prefer accurate and quick.”
“Well, in that case, would you please go fetch the French-English dictionary from the library? Your English knowledge will come in handy here, too.”
“Your wish is my command,” he said, hopping up to head into the house.
“It should be on a shelf just to the right of the door,” I called after him.
The delay wasn’t the result of laziness, but rather the difficulty I had translating the letters. Nineteenth century French was supposed to be quite similar to modern French, but it was different enough to cause me trouble. All of the dictionaries available we could find went to work, including the French-English one, and a French-Russian one.
Luckily, most of the letters were reasonably legible. I only stopped to check the words I hadn’t seen before, and as it turned out later they didn’t change the context at all. The first letter was dated May 27th, 1833.
My Heart,
We spent the whole summer in the countryside, at Auntie’s estate. I had a delightful time! I’ve spent a great deal of time painting, as our beloved Auntie has allowed me the use of a greenhouse in the garden, which was otherwise going unused. I can’t wait to show you my works when I return! […]
[…] So many artists have visited us over the summer, you simply wouldn’t believe it! He was among them, too. My love. He’s so gorgeous! Like an angel straight from heaven! Oh, how beautifully he plays, my dear. My heart sings with joy!
“What a dramatic young lady,” Tadeusz commented, grimacing as he looked over my shoulder at Marie’s elegant handwriting. “How can you read it without laughing?”
“That was the fashion back then,” I replied. “Did you ever read the letters Chopin wrote to his sister or his friends, especially that one fellow named Titus? If someone wrote like that today it would sound sarcastic and over-the-top, but back then… that was just how they wrote.”
“I didn’t read Chopin’s biography,” he admitted, “nor any of his correspondence.”
“Ah.” I nodded, then explained further. “He signed almost every letter to his friend Titus with something ridiculous, like “I kiss you, right on the mouth.” The letters are full of ridiculous things, like repeatedly telling him how much he adores him, how dear he is, how he thinks of him every hour, so on, so forth.”
“You’re joking.”
“Not at all. His letters are saturated with eroticism, but it’s seasoned with playful humor so they can’t be taken literally.”
“Forgive me, but I’d never write like that to a dude, not even as a joke.”
<
br /> “Some people still do today. Besides, this was two hundred years ago. Things were different. Plus, Chopin was something of a romantic. You, not so much.” It was supposed to be an un-subtle hint, but Tadeusz didn’t even seem to notice.
“Maybe he was gay?” he suggested.
“I don’t think so, but even if he was, why would that change anything?” I bridled a little, though had to admit that I’d wondered the same thing. “He could have been bisexual, but I don’t think so. There’s no mention of male lovers in the biographies, but his erotic adventures with women are quite well-known. Apparently he even picked up a rather nasty “souvenir” from a woman named Teresa in Vienna, which kept him from tasting the forbidden fruits of Paris for a while.”
“How do you know that?” Tadeusz asked, looking bewildered.
“From books, darling. From books. Anyway, let’s get back to Marie’s letter.” I gently shuffled the brittle paper and quickly flicked through a dictionary. “Hm. What have we here?”
I’ll be seeing him again in Paris, because he loves me, too. I can feel it! He praised my painting, and promised he would play for me!
Oh, my most beloved sister, I am so happy! I would gladly crush the world to my heart! I kiss you a million times, and ask you to please give my love to everyone at home. Especially to Papa,
with all tenderness. But do not tell him about my love just yet! I’ll do it myself, when my angel proposes. It cannot be far away now!
I kiss your lovely face. Goodbye, my heart.
Your Marie.
“Wow, looks like she’s fallen hard,” I said, setting the letter aside with a sigh. “Now we just have to wait for the trouble to start.”
“Silly, naïve little goose.” Tadeusz stood up and began to pace beneath a tree, impatiently pushing away a low-hanging branch. “I feel sorry for her, but she’s asking for it. But for Chopin to be such a womanizer? Well, I never would have suspected that.” He shook his head in disbelief. “I still think this must be about someone else. Weren’t there plenty of composers in Paris at that time?”
“Here we go again. Where does it say that he was a womanizer? The girl fell for him because he was interesting and talented – and besides, we don’t know who initiated the relationship. Notice that she wrote that she felt like he returned her affections, not that he’d actually said so. You know how presumptuous teenagers can be. Didn’t your daughter go through that phase?”
“Oh, yes.” He laughed at the very memory of it. “I know all about that!”
“See? This is just what Marie thought about him. It doesn’t prove he was a womanizer, just that a woman found him attractive. That he had something that appealed to her. Of course, if he got her pregnant and abandoned her, I’m not sure if I’ll be able to forgive him…”
“Maybe we can find some more information?” Tadeusz said, peeking into the box. “We still have more letters. Shall we start the next one?”
“I don’t think we have time,” I said, glancing at my watch. “Claude will be back soon. But…” I hesitated for a moment, then reached for the box. “Maybe we can take a peek. Time’s running out, and we can’t sit here forever. We haven’t been able to work out much so far.”
“Do you think we’ll be any closer to the truth after sifting through all this correspondence?”
“Only one way to find out,” I said, picking up the next letter, dated September 8th 1833. The tone of the next letter was much sadder, and it was impossible not to see the anxiety behind the writer’s hand.
My Dearest,
We’ve been back in Paris for a week now, and he hasn’t shown up yet. Juliette told me he’s been seen at a café in the company of his artist friends, whom I wrote you about before.
“What? Where?” I said, glancing at the date. “When did she write about that?”
Clearly there were at least a couple of letters missing – missing, or destroyed. Did they contain some details of the affair, which someone had decided would compromise the family honor if they were found. No other explanation came to mind. Suddenly excited, we began to look through the box’s contents with renewed vigor.
“Good afternoon!” Claude appeared in the living room doorway, shielding his eyes from the sun. We hadn’t even heard his car. “What interesting stuff do you have there? Not the prayer book, I hope?”
We hurriedly reassured him that we’d kept our promise, and he joined us to look through the letters in the box. So far, the search had yielded no results. Whatever letter, or letters, Marie had written about the artists or perhaps even the romance, had simply disappeared. Claude had no doubts about what could have happened to them.
“Marie’s sister must have destroyed them,” he said, “so they wouldn’t fall into their father’s hands. Which means there was something potentially incriminating in them.”
It was difficult to deny the logic of his statement.
“Or they simply disappeared,” Tadeusz suggested. As usual, his suggestion was the simplest.
“Well…” Claude heaved a sigh. “It could have been that, too. All right, let’s see what else we’ve got there. Shall I take a turn translating? I’m curious, too.”
“Sure.” I handed the letter to him. “I admit, sometimes I struggle with her French, especially all those flowery similes and expressions.” I smiled, embarrassed. “I can get the general meaning, but the devil’s in the details. Maybe I missed something? I couldn’t find everything in these dictionaries. I need idiomatic dictionaries.”
“I don’t think we have one of those, but I’m not sure,” he replied. “I’ll check later, but for now, since you don’t seem to mind, I’m happy to read.”
He took the letter and began to read. I felt a tiny pinch of satisfaction watching him struggle translating the French into English, just as I had.
[…] Perhaps he’s too busy for me now? Surely he couldn’t just forget about me, and what we promised each other?
There was a short gap, and a second date several days after the first, then the letter continued:
Just as well I didn’t have time to send that letter! My love came to see me yesterday! He apologized for keeping me waiting, and told me that he had so much to attend to. He swore that he thought about me the whole time, that I am constantly present in his dreams and he missed me terribly.
“Riiight,” I grunted, annoyed. “And he was dragging himself around Paris to drown all that longing and sadness in wine? Come on, Freddie! What’s wrong with you?”
He asked me to meet him at his apartment, just like last week. Don’t worry, dear sister! There is always someone to chaperone us.
Oh sister, you don’t even know how much I’ve missed him. To be able to speak to him, to gaze into those wonderful eyes […]
“This is making me feel sick. How stupid can you be?” Tadeusz waved his hand impatiently. “It’s so obvious how this is going to end. This time, chit-chat. Next time, they won’t have their chaperone and whoops! That’s the end of their lovely little romance, no more staring into those ‘wonderful’ eyes. That’ll be the end of that!”
I had to translate for Claude, because Tadeusz had slipped back into Polish in his annoyance.
“Well, we do know how this ended, so I can’t say you’re overstating it,” I admitted. “By the way, I seem to recall someone making fun of my mother-hen attitude over Marie. Seems like someone has a case of the daddy-hens now!”
The sound of the dinner bell almost completely drowned out our gales of laughter. Across the terrace, I saw Mrs. Leclerc pulling the string on the antiquated unit, half-hidden amongst the leaves of a climbing rose vine.
“Is there anything else in there?” I asked Claude with interest as we all stood up.
“No, she’s just sending her love for her sister and whole family, as usual.”
To me, old objects have certain magic about them, especially books. I’d always dreamed of having the ability to read the story of the people who’d held those books. It felt like every person w
ho touched a book left a trace of some kind. And I don’t just mean the physical ones, like a tea stain, a note in the margin, or a dog-eared corner. I mean an echo of thoughts and feelings.
What if someone had gotten emotional while reading a novel, if the character’s adventures had given rise to feelings that made the reader’s hand shake? What if that emotion seeped into the page? Could paper absorb those feelings, and record them like a tape? What if someone were able to read that – would we have a book within a book? Would we find, between the lines, the thoughts and memories and dreams of every person who had touched the book before us? Or would it just be boring, regular thoughts like, ‘I better get started on dinner. My husband’s going to be home soon, and he always gets angry if I spend all day reading’ or ‘if only I could transport myself into that jungle, Daddy wouldn’t yell at me anymore.’
I wondered if for very old books, that message would turn into one huge, incomprehensible noise, because too many people had held the book. It would be a different story for something personal, though, like a diary or a prayer book, which were mostly touched by their owners.
Now, I held Marie’s prayer book in my hand and tried to read the emotions contained within those yellowed pages. Alas, I was not possessed of such a gift, and the only thing I sensed from the book was the scent of old paper, leather, and rusted metal. Even the brief notes at the end didn’t say much more than what was written there. As I’d thought the last time I’d looked, they were probably the dates and times of masses, or a note of psalms or songs. All perfectly normal for a prayer book.
And then, there was that mysterious bulge inside the back cover. Time to find out what it was, at long last.
Daguerreotype: The Mystery of Frédéric Chopin Page 16