Daguerreotype: The Mystery of Frédéric Chopin

by Lucyna Olejniczak

  Chapter Twelve

  The bulge was so small that you wouldn’t even notice it at a glance. The only thing that betrayed it was a nearly-imperceptible bump beneath the fingers. The perfect hiding spot for a note.

  The paper glued to the back cover was so old that it was more brown than yellow, and nearly crumbling with age. There were a few small stains here and there, which indicated spots where the glue had been applied too thickly and seeped through the paper.

  “What… what now?” I whispered. My throat was so dry with emotion that I could barely get the sound out.

  “We’re opening it,” Claud replied. “Let me get a sharp knife.” He started towards the kitchen, but Tadeusz called out to stop him.

  “Wait!” he said. “This paper is too brittle, we could damage it if we use a knife. Let’s try to steam it loose first.” He paused, seeing Claude’s surprised expression. “What? Haven’t you ever steamed the stamps off envelopes?”

  “Genial!” Claude cried, throwing his hands up in the air. “Absolutely genial!”

  “You hear that?” Tadeusz gave me a look of playful smugness. “I’m a genius. At least someone noticed.”

  “Darling, the French think everything is genial. It’s a cultural thing, like how they get super-excited over every gift they receive or purchase they make. Everything that makes them happy at any given moment is genial.” I saw his expression start to darken, and hurried to amend my statement. “Don’t worry, I think you’re a genius, not just genial.”

  We took the prayer book and headed for the kitchen. Behind me, I heard Tadeusz muttering under his breath, though his words were deliberately loud enough for me to hear. “Evil woman. Always tearing me down…”

  A few minutes later, Claude and my little genius were standing huddled over a pot of boiling water, looking for all the world like a couple of alchemists trying to turn lead into gold. They could barely contain their excitement, and kept checking every few moments whether the page had come unglued yet – and of course, scalding their fingers in the process. I watched them with amusement, though I was equally impatient. The curiosity was killing me, but I was also terrified that the bulge might turn out to be nothing. It could be the secret hiding spot for a letter that would finally reveal the truth of our mystery, or it could just be a manufacturing defect.

  Eventually, the glue softened enough and the paper began to peel up slowly. Claude set the book on the kitchen table and used the blunt side of a knife to ever-so-gently pry the page up. The corner of a folded slip of paper, set in exactly the middle of its hiding spot, appeared before our eyes.

  “Oh my God!” I moaned. “It is a letter. It is. I feel like we’re on the verge of finally finding the answers we’ve been hunting for. I’m terrified!”

  “What are you afraid of?” Claude whispered. I had no idea why we felt the need to whisper, but we did.

  “I don’t know!” I replied. “Maybe I’m just afraid of being disappointed? There might be something else in there, something completely ordinary.”

  The glued page came away completely, revealing a yellowed piece of paper that had been folded with meticulous care and hidden beneath.

  My hand was trembling as I reached out to take it, but I hesitated with my fingers just as moment away from grasping it. Did I have the right to do this? The prayer book belonged to Sophie’s family, and in her absence maybe the privilege should go to Claude. I looked up and met his eye, and he seemed to instantly understand my hesitation.

  “Open it,” he said, nodding his permission. “You found it, after all.”

  The paper was stiff and brittle. I unfolded it carefully and smoothed it out on the table, then leaned over to study the writing. I didn’t need any dictionaries this time; the text was short and easy to read, though the handwriting was unsteady, as if the writer had been in a hurry or using his knee to write on instead of a desk or table.

  Marie, my dearest,

  I am dying with my inability to see you. I feel as if I am melting into the air, my soul floating to you while my body cannot. My beloved, I beg for a word, a moment alone. Do you remember our garden?

  Forever yours,

  F.

  I sat down in one of the chairs around the table, feeling completely overwhelmed. A ray of sunlight burst through the wild vines that grew across the windows, sparkling off a copper pan hanging above the hearth.

  For a brief moment, I thought I saw something in the corner by the window, a blurry silhouette of a young woman reading something with her fist pressed against her lips, as if to keep herself from weeping. The mirage disappeared as quickly as it had formed.

  “This was her last contact with her lover,” I said, running my fingers over the page. “The note was delivered here, at this house.”

  Tadeusz and Claude both looked at me, confused.

  “Don’t ask me how I know,” I admitted with a shrug. “Call it intuition. Why else would she have hidden this one particular note so cleverly, but no others? It must have been the last one, which she decided she had to keep as a memento. Aside from the other permanent reminder she was left with …”

  “You mean the child?” Claude said. “You think Marie found out she was pregnant and returned home without saying goodbye to him?” Claude picked up the paper and studied it, as if he could deduce something more from it.

  “You did say that her father dragged her back here from Paris by force, and married her off to a much older man in a great hurry. That kind of urgency almost certainly points towards an unplanned pregnancy.”

  “Which would mean,” Tadeusz spoke up, “that Freddie didn’t abandon the girl, but was separated from her against his will. That he may have really loved her. “

  “Oh, so now you believe it was him after all?” I said, smiling with satisfaction.

  “Well, that’s definitely an ‘F.’ at the bottom of a love letter. It’s definitely seeming more and more likely. Oh, that…” He shook his head in disbelief. “That’s going to cause quite a stir.”

  “What I wonder,” I said to Claude, “is why her father didn’t push her to marry the child’s father when he found out about the affair, and the possible pregnancy. Why would he marry her off to a stranger instead?”

  Claude frowned thoughtfully. “Hmm… Well, he was a poor foreigner, and an artist on top of that. Maybe he didn’t think he was proper husband material for his daughter?”

  “And the old butcher was?”

  “The old butcher was rich, while the poor artist probably didn’t have a penny to his name.”

  Suddenly, we heard a terrible popping and cracking sound from the stove. Claude leapt up and hurried over to it. Overwhelmed by the thrill of our discovery, we’d forgotten to take the pot off the stove.

  “Merde!” he swore, and a moment later there was a terrible crash as the red-hot pot landed on the floor. “Ah, merde! Ow! I burned myself!”

  “Run it under cold water,” I ordered, rushing over to turn the tap on for him.

  The chateau’s enormous kitchen was an elegant hybrid of modern and traditional. There was a giant fireplace with an iron cauldron still hanging over the hearth, a set of copper pots, and an ancient oak cupboard that smelled like jam on one side of the room. On the other? Modern appliances: an electric stove, oven, dishwasher, toaster, and coffeemaker. There was no microwave, because Sophie had it in her head that those were bad for one’s health. Once Claude had decided he’d had enough of running his burn under water, he returned to the table, still blowing on the burn to cool it.

  “What if Marie’s father did try to talk to the musician?” Tadeusz suggested

  “Are you suggesting that maybe he didn’t want to marry her?” I said, astonished. “I hadn’t thought of that possibility…”

  “Well, we can’t rule it out.”

  “But in this letter he’s asking for a meeting, saying that he missed her…”

  “Yes, but we don’t know the timeline of events. Maybe Marie’s father dragged her back h
ome after he found out about the relationship, but it could have been months before he found out that she was pregnant. That letter could have been written in the interim.”

  “Yes, that seems quite probable,” I agreed, nodding thoughtfully. “Of course, we’re only guessing. We don’t even know for sure if Marie really was pregnant at the time.”

  “All the – clues – point – towards – that,” Claude said between blowing on his finger.

  “Exactly,” Tadeusz agreed. “Marie’s sudden return to Trigny, her quick marriage to a much older man, and then the ‘premature’ birth of her son? The real question is: why didn’t Frederic want to marry the rich, pretty French girl?”

  “Who says he didn’t want to?” I snapped, feeling a little annoyed for reasons I couldn’t quite put my finger on. “We literally just made that theory up a moment ago, and now we’re throwing accusations at the poor man? We have no information that says Marie’s father spoke to him and he refused, just a vague theory. Come on, guys! This is how rumors get started.”

  That afternoon, Sophie called from New York, curious to hear what we’d uncovered so far. Her conference had been extended by a few days, but she was supposed to be getting back after that. We only spoke briefly, because it was early morning in New York and she had to rush out to an appointment. Claude barely had time to fill her in on our progress uncovering the mystery, and to reassure her that we were waiting impatiently for her to come home.

  “She asked me to tell you that she wishes she could be here with us now, but if all goes well…” Claude rubbed his hands together, then yelped in pain. “Ouch! I must remember not to do that! Ow… anyway, if all goes well, we’ll be able to serve her with a solution to the mystery on a silver platter when she gets home on Saturday.”

  “And just how are you planning to do that?” I asked curiously.

  “I think the answer can be found in those letters,” he said, pointing at the little wooden casket.

  After dinner, I went and had a good look around the library, and came away with a French-Polish idiomatic dictionary. I’d almost forgotten that Sophie had been learning Polish for a while. Even with the dictionary, it didn’t seem like Claude was going to let me at the letters again, but I didn’t mind. Quite the contrary, in fact. His French was far better than mine, as was his English.

  The next two letters didn’t contain anything of interest to us. In one of them, Marie described a visit to a family friend she simply referred to as ‘The Baroness’. Apparently, she was quite bored by the whole affair.

  The Baroness is a horrible old hag with a huge wart on her nose, and the rankest breath I’ve ever smelt. She kept leaning over me while she was gossiping about the other guests.

  The letter continued in that vein for a while, with Marie commenting on everything this Baroness did wrong, from the amount she ate to the quality of her seamstress.

  After half an hour I’d had more than enough, but our dear Auntie was having a merry old time and didn’t want to leave. We stayed so long I was unable to see my beloved at all. I was so unhappy that when we got home, I excused myself with a headache and went straight to bed.

  The tone of the next letter was completely different, as bright and cheerful as a lark as she mused over her plans for the future.

  My beloved is so terribly shy. I imagine he’s afraid that he’s too poor for my family to accept him, which must be why he hasn’t proposed yet. I just know that Papa will love him as much as I do, though. It’s impossible not to love such a man, who is so unbearably talented, clever, and sweet.

  I already know exactly where we can make room for him, so that he can compose in peace. It wouldn’t do to have our children bothering him while he’s working, you know – and we’re going to have many, many children. I know how much he adores them.

  Eventually, we reached the final letter, which was dated December 16th, 1833.

  My dear,

  Yesterday evening, I attended Monsieur Hiller’s concert at the conservatory. He is a fellow composer, you see, and he invited my beloved and another musician to participate in the event alongside him. Oh, it was delightful, dear sister! Such a pity you were not there to see it! All three of them played in harmony on three different pianos. My beloved tells me it was the work of the famous German composer, Bach, created a hundred years ago and lost until just recently. The composition was quaint but I didn’t much care for it, so I just focused on my beloved’s playing. After the concert, he apologized that he wouldn’t be able to devote much attention to me, as he had to fulfil his duties as a host. We have made a date to see one another tomorrow. A pity, because I have a gift for him, a gift so wonderful I doubt he’s ever dreamed it could be possible! I can hardly wait for tomorrow! I am so happy I could kiss the whole world to death!

  The letter ended abruptly, without the greetings to the family that she usually signed her letters off with, as if another page was missing. There probably wouldn’t be anything revealing there, though – the most important news would probably appear in a letter from the next day, after her conversation with her lover. Unfortunately, that was all the correspondence we had between Marie and her sister.

  “Now what?” Claude said, completely forgetting his burned finger. “I’m afraid that wasn’t much of an answer. We still have our suspicions, a bit better founded now, but we don’t even have any certainty that it was Chopin.” He paused for a moment to think, then nodded slowly. “I’ll take his note to a handwriting analysist. That should at least be able to dispel our doubts about his identity, if nothing else.”

  “Yes, good idea,” I said. “It seems like all the other evidence points towards him, but… damn, I felt so sure there would be more in here.” I glanced at the empty box, and sighed.

  “What about the boy’s family?” Tadeusz asked, drumming his fingers on the table – a nervous habit of his that never ceased to annoy me. “Did he leave any descendants?”

  “Yes!” Claude said, his expression brightening. “We don’t really keep in touch with them, since our familial relationship is quite distant, but it’s hard not to know your neighbors in a town as small as Trigny.”

  “Neighbors?” I stared at him in surprise. “So they live nearby?”

  “Yes.” Claude looked very pleased with himself, as he always did when he managed to genuinely surprise us with something. “One of Phillippe’s descendants owns the winery near the fountain – you know, the one in the town center?”

  “The one we drove by on the way here?” Tadeusz asked.

  “That’s the one,” Claude said, grinning. “You have to pass it to get here. There’s no other way.”

  I sat back in surprise, remembering the silhouette of the man in the white apron standing in the doorway when we’d first arrived in Trigny. Could he have been Chopin’s descendant? His great-grandson, however many times removed?

  Clause called him immediately, and after a short chat set up a time for us to meet with him the next morning at the winery.

  “Tomorrow?” I said, disappointed.

  “Yes,” Claude replied. “He says there is too much noise in the evenings, and it would be hard for us to hear one another. Tomorrow isn’t far away. In the meantime, let’s move to the garden and I’ll make something to cheer you up.” Suddenly, his smile turned mysterious. I couldn’t help but laugh.

  Our lazy, sunny afternoon was interrupted by the deafening roar of jet planes flying overhead in neat formations. The roar frightened a small gray cat out of the bushes, and sent her running for the kitchen’s open door. A moment later, the noise disappeared as quickly as it had started. Tadeusz jumped in surprise and looked skywards.

  “What was that?” he asked. “An air show?”

  “Military exercises,” I replied, removing my hands from my ears. “There’s a military base and an airport nearby. The first time I heard the jets, I nearly had a heart attack! I thought it was an air raid!”

  The cat ran straight between Claude’s legs as he was coming out
with a tray holding plates, spoons, small yellow melons, and a bottle of wine. Somehow, in a rather impressive display of athleticism, he managed to avoid dropping them all on the ground. Chutney was close behind him, her ears down and tail tucked between her legs; she’d never gotten used to the noise of the jets. For as long as I could remember, she’d always fled into the safety of the house whenever they appeared overhead.

  “Here we are,” Claude said. He set everything down on the table, then handed out plates and spoons.

  “Should I go get glasses?” Tadeusz asked, rising to his feet. Clearly, he thought our host had forgotten the most important part.

  “No need,” Claude replied, smiling mysteriously. “We’ll manage without glasses.”

  “Are we supposed bum drink it?” Tadeusz asked in Polish, looking at me in surprise.

  Claude looked at me, but I couldn’t figure out a way to translate the expression directly.

  “Um… he’s asking if we’re supposed to drink the wine straight from the bottle?”

  “It’s not wine,” he said, raising the dark green bottle up so that the sun sparkled through it. “And we’re going to drink from the melons.”

  I glanced at the tray, and saw that each of the little melons had been halved and the seeds scooped out. The recess left behind was just the right size to serve a drink in.

  “If it’s not wine, what is it?” I asked, curious.

  “That’s ratafia de champagne, one of Trigny’s great specialties. This particular blend, you can only buy directly from the producers,” Claude explained, looking very pleased with himself.

  “Ratafia de champagne?” I asked, staring at the unlabeled bottle. “What kind of concoction is that?”

  “Try it and find out.” Claude picked the bottle up and poured a serve of the ratafia into each of the melons, then carefully handed each of us a plate. “Now, what you need to do is scoop the fruit out of the rind with your spoon and eat it, along with the alcohol.”