Daguerreotype: The Mystery of Frédéric Chopin

by Lucyna Olejniczak

  “No!” he interrupted me, far too quickly for someone who hadn’t had the same thought. “It couldn’t have been. I can distinguish the tapping of the other side from the sound of my door being knocked upon, my dear.”

  His voice lacked force. Apparently, he wasn’t nearly as confident as he was trying to sound. He hastily changed the subject.

  “Let’s leave it for now,” he suggested. “I’ll tell you the moment we manage to decipher the message. But for now, if you’ll allow me, I’d like to read you a poem I composed for this occasion. It’s about Chopin.”

  “Sure, but my cell is going to die at any second…”

  “Maybe I’ll have enough time.” Apparently, he really wanted to share his masterpiece. In addition to his many other talents and interests, Vladislav had a gift for poetry. His favorite form was the sonnet, usually full of lofty sentiment and all sorts of Atlases, Hephaistoses, thunder-wielding Zeuses, and as many other mythological characters as he could cram in there. He loved to be called a renaissance man, someone who dabbled in a little bit of everything. Poems seemed to be one of the things he considered most important, though. He’d often read them to me over the phone, reciting them with beautiful diction and artistic flair.

  I moved the phone to my other ear, and waited while he prepared.

  Eventually, he cleared his throat and exclaimed with great feeling: “Oh! Frederic! You, who—”

  Then, three quick beeps and sudden silence, as the battery in my phone kicked the bucket.

  The others were still in the library, sitting amongst our finds. From the snippets of conversation I heard as I was walking over, I gathered they were talking about the prayer book. Stanislas was holding the little book in his hands, and carefully flipping through the brittle pages.

  “You never noticed it?” he asked Sophie in surprise. “It was on your bookshelf for so many years.”

  “No, we didn’t.” Sophie spread her hands helplessly. “But you’re welcome to visit the Paris apartment, so you can see how many shelves there are, and how many books, many of them very old. It’s easy to overlook something amongst that many books.”

  “It’s true,” I said as I joined them. “And that particular one was a on a shelf right up near the ceiling, where it’s impossible to see or reach without a ladder.”

  “And if you don’t know what you’re looking for, it can be even harder,” Claude added. “The prayer book wasn’t signed, it didn’t have any dedications, just those initials on the cover. They didn’t tell us much back then.”

  Stanislas and Paul leaned over curiously, to get a better look at the monograms. Two raised letters, M. P., placed symmetrically on either side of the cross, were well-preserved and still stood out clearly.

  “’M’ for ‘Marie’,” Stanislas said, glancing at us quizzically. “What’s the ‘P’ for? What was her last name? I don’t know anything about her, to be honest – Grandfather was the only person who really cared about our family’s history, but I was little when he died and never had a chance to discuss it with him. Papa, on the other hand…” He glanced at Paul and smiled. “Wasn’t really interested in the subject.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Paul grumbled, looking a little embarrassed. “It’s true, though. I don’t even know what her last name was. My father probably told me, but I don’t remember.”

  “Perrault,” Sophie supplied. “Marie Perrault.”

  “Perrault…” Paul rubbed his forehead, his brow furrowing thoughtfully. “Perrault, you say?”

  We all looked at him. In the silence that followed, we could hear the sound of little Cyril’s laughter, the happy yaps of his puppy, and the sound of Chutney enjoying the playtime in the garden as well. The old dog was clearly having flashbacks to her puppyhood. One of the sticks thrown to the dogs smacked into a window. Stanislas leapt up and raced over to scold his son.

  “Listen, this is going to sound incredible,” Paul said, with a look of bewilderment on his face. “But I think Marie did have a diary…”

  “What? Where?” I exclaimed, and we all stared at him in disbelief. I found myself up on my feet before I realized what I was doing. Unfortunately, I missed the past tense he used.

  “It was in my father’s collection, I remember it now. Marie’s son must have kept it after his mother passed away, which explains why it isn’t here.” His voice grew more animated and excited as he spoke. “It was a bit damaged, but otherwise well-preserved. Just a thick notebook. I remember that it was signed ‘M. Perrault’ on the first page, so I took it from my father’s room once, thinking it was a book of Charles Perrault’s fairy tales. You know them, right? Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, Puss in Boots…”

  We nodded. I plopped back on the couch. I had a distinct feeling that this story didn’t have a happy ending.

  “When it turned out that it wasn’t fairy tales,” he continued, “I used the free pages to draw on. When my father caught me, he took away the book and I got a right whooping. I remember him yelling that I was destroying part of our history, but I was too little to understand it then. I haven’t seen the diary again since.”

  “So maybe it’s still somewhere in the house?” Stanislas suggested, glancing hopefully at his father.

  “I doubt it. He would have hidden it from me in that big oak chest of drawers he had, which was unfortunately destroyed in the fire.”

  We sat in silence for a long while. Hope and disappointment yet again. That crushed us all.

  “Listen.” Tadeusz stood up, stretching. “I don’t know about you, but I need to have a smoke. Too much tension. I’m going out to the garden, who’s coming with me?”

  “I could use a smoke, too.” Stanislas got up and followed him out.

  “Go on, then.” Sophie made a playful gesture, shooing them out of the library. “Go poison yourselves as much as you want. I’ll get a bottle of wine ready, and we’ll go out into the garden, too. Come sit with us once you’re done smoking.”

  I was happy to go out onto the sunny terrace. Despite the warm weather, it did get a bit chilly within those old walls, especially the library. I wandered outside, and stopped at the stairs that led down to the outside table. In a corner of the terrace, the Labrador puppy was curled up fast asleep beside a camellia bush. Chutney was nowhere in sight. She’d probably gotten tired of playing and gone inside to sleep on “her” couch in the living room.

  Suddenly, Stanislas appeared, cigarette in hand and a worried look on his face. “Has anyone seen Cyril?”

  “He’ll be fine,” Sophie assured him. “The front gate is closed, and the pool is fenced off, so—”

  “Pool?!” Stanislas tossed his cigarette to the ground, an expression of pure panic crossing his face. “Mother Mary! That boy is a young Houdini, he can get through any fence that has a gap in it!”

  “Let’s split up!” Tadeusz said, immediately taking the lead. He pointed at Stanislas and Paul. “You two, search the garden. Claude and I will check the pool.”

  “I’ll check the house,” I called, racing back in through the open door to the living room.

  I dashed through all the rooms, which were spaced out in a row along the first floor. Nothing. I hurried back to the lobby and climbed up the wide, marble stairs, lined with thick red carpet. When I stopped to catch my breath, I heard the others crying the boy’s name from the garden.

  Then, I realized I could hear something else. Beautiful music was coming from somewhere deep in the house.

  It was Chopin, I had no doubts about it. Played with an untrained hand, but definitely his music. The individual sounds strung together into a beautiful melody, and sophisticated harmonic phrases.

  Carefully, trying to avoid the squeaking floorboards, I crept up to the door of Nikolas’ bedroom. The door was ajar. I pushed it open a little, and that’s when I saw him.

  The little boy, no more than five years old, was sitting at the keyboard, completely absorbed in playing. The sound of exquisite music filled the whole room, and I already knew that
—

  Okay, okay, I was just fantasizing again.

  A scene like that really would have finished the romance I’d dreamed up beautifully, but reality was very different. The keyboard Cyril sat at was the one attached to Nikolas’ computer, and what he was playing was some video game. Squeaks, crackles, and the sound of gunfire filled the room, not music. It didn’t resemble Chopin at all, not even in its crazy jazz form.

  I went over and opened the window to call off the alarm. Our lost child had been found.

  Farewells are always sad. Our adventure in France was coming to an end, and it was time to get back to reality. I have to admit, we all did so with heavy hearts. Sophie and Claude had started getting used to uncovering astonishing new details about the lives of their ancestors, buried within their own homes, and Paul and Stanislas had only just had a taste of their family’s history.

  We sat in the garden once again, drinking in the scent of autumn on the breeze. The sun peeked through the leaves, painting a colorful mosaic upon the wooden tabletop. Near the empty wine bottle, it flickered green. The wine still in our glasses cast a shimmering cascade of ruby sparkles.

  Or perhaps, I thought, watching a butterfly sunning itself on the tables edge, this is Marie’s handiwork, as she paints our last afternoon at Trigny.

  Frightened by someone’s movement, the butterfly took off and soared upwards with graceful, delicate flaps of its wings. In the distance, we could hear the sound of the last harvesting work in progress.

  I returned my mind to the table, where a conversation about our discoveries was in full swing.

  “I’m disappointed I only found out about this at the end,” Stanislas said, sounding quite unhappy. “I would have loved to have been present for the opening of the trunk. It’s like a treasure hunt.”

  “That really is exactly what it felt like.” Claude’s face lit up with a boyish grin. “I felt like a child again, hunting for Easter eggs hidden all over the garden.”

  “Stop it, will you?” Sophie complained, slapping her hand against the tabletop. “This is awful for us, you know. While you were here having such fun, I was stuck in boring meetings in New York with our Japanese contacts, who spend the whole time bowing to me.”

  “Relax,” I said soothingly. “I bet this chateau still holds a great many secrets, just waiting to be found. I’m sure there are still nooks and crannies you haven’t explored yet, right?”

  “I don’t think so,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s been remodeled so many times. Maybe the odd pantry, that’s all.”

  “Pity.” Paul sighed, clearly eager for more adventures. “What about the cellars? Do you know them well?”

  “Only the part where the wine is stored,” she replied. “I send Claude down there, unless there’s no other choice. I’m afraid of the dark, and there’s only electric lighting in a few spots. The rest looks like a dungeon.” Sophie shuddered. “There’s no way I’m going down there, no matter what interesting secrets there might be!”

  “I think I’ll have a look,” Claude said, the familiar sparks of curiosity illuminating his eyes. “When the boys come home for winter break, we’ll make a joint expedition to the basement. It’ll give them something to talk about in their old age. I wish I’d had that kind of excitement as a child.”

  “It’s unfortunate we have to go home already,” Tadeusz complained, with obvious regret. “I didn’t have any adventures like that as a child, either.”

  Sophie and Claude exchanged a look, then gave us a mischievous smile.

  “Perhaps you should stay a little longer?” Claude suggested.

  “No, no,” Tadeusz protested, laughing. “I was just joking. I have to get back to work. My vacation is definitely over this time.”

  “Time for me, too,” I answered their question before they could ask. “Besides, I’m not sure if I want to go down and explore some cold, damp, dark dungeons. Besides…” I paused and smiled mysteriously. “Tadeusz and I already have certain… plans…”

  It was time to reveal the secret. When I told them our news, everyone gasped, squealed, and congratulated us.

  “That’s wonderful!” Sophie gushed, looking thrilled to bits. “We’ll be waiting for our invitation to the wedding. I’ll have to refresh my special hat for the occasion. How exciting!”

  We talked for a little while longer about our adventures in the past few weeks, but eventually the time came to say goodbye.

  “So when are you leaving?” Paul asked, placing his empty glass on the table and rising to his feet.

  “Tomorrow, early in the morning,” Tadeusz said, heaving a deep sigh. “It’s a long drive home.”

  “That means you’ll probably be gone before the winery opens for the day.” He nodded slowly, thoughtfully. “Well, in that case, let’s say our goodbyes now. Thank you for everything.” He bowed to our hosts, then to the two of us. “And thank you, for all those revelations about my great-grandmother. We’ll be waiting for the handwriting analysis on that note. You’ll call us right away, I hope?”

  “Oh, Claude will be taking care of that,” I advised him with an apologetic shrug. “So you’ll probably find out who the author is before we do.”

  “Right. I forgot.” He slapped his forehead with an open palm. “Getting old. Either way, we’ll be waiting to finally hear the answer!”

  Cyril’s wild screams after he was pulled away from the computer made it impossible for us to talk while we walked our guests to the gate. Children in France tended to be quite high-strung, so nobody really paid any attention to him – apart from the puppy, of course, who treated every movement his little master made as an invitation to play. Suddenly, Cyril decided to go into a full-blown tantrum and threw himself down on the ground. A second later, he leapt right back up again, with a look of shock on his flushed face. The gravel was sharp and pointy, he’d swiftly discovered. There was no need for any punishment that time, because he’d punished himself.

  We heard his high-pitched voice raised in anger again once the three of them had gotten beyond the gate, and out of our sight; either he’d decided to pick his tantrum up where he’d left off, or he’d finally gotten a spanking.

  Paul came back half an hour later, carrying a large wicker basket.

  “It’s a gift for the two of you,” he said, handing the basket to Tadeusz. “A few bottles of champagne, and our special ratafia. Claude said you really liked it.”

  We thanked him, touched by the gesture, and promised to raise our first toast to his health.

  We didn’t sit up long after dinner that evening. Tadeusz needed a good night’s sleep, because he insisted on driving the whole way by himself. His beloved car was the one thing he never shared with me, not even to give himself a break from driving. God forbid I ever ask to borrow it. According to him, there were two things you just didn’t share: your woman and your car. I was just a passenger, only to drive if he somehow managed to break his leg along the way. Though, he’d probably have to break both for him to let me take the wheel, since he could still drive with one leg in a cast.

  “Sleep well,” Sophie said as she walked us to the stairs. “Perhaps Marie’s ghost will come to see you tonight? Sometimes we hear tapping and shuffling…”

  “We’d be honored if she did,” I said loudly, looking around as if I were inviting her to visit. “Maybe she could answer some questions for us?”

  “Which room did she live in?” Tadeusz asked, frowning. “Ours?”

  “I don’t know, I’m afraid,” Sophie replied. “There is a passage to her studio near your room, though. Perhaps she’d like to paint something else?” She winked at us. “But, seriously thought. Have a good night, and get lots of sleep before tomorrow’s drive. There are no ghosts here, I promise. I was only joking, no need to be scared.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t scared,” Tadeusz replied. “Good night, Sophie.”

  The wind picked up overnight. I heard it howling down the chimney, spreading the smell of burning wood with every gu
st. The dry old boards creaked, and the branches outside our windows rapped against the glass. All the familiar, ordinary night sounds of an old chateau.

  Suddenly, I heard a noise deep in the house. I opened my eyes and listened, holding my breath.

  It’s probably just the wind. Calm down, I scolded myself, snuggling closer to Tadeusz. He shifted in his sleep, but didn’t awaken.

  That’s when I heard it, much more clearly this time: someone was creeping towards our room. The soft footfalls were accompanied by a light, rhythmic tapping. The mysterious guest reached our door and stopped, then I heard the soft footsteps and light tapping again.

  “Wake up!” I hissed in Tadeusz’ ear, shaking his arm. “There’s someone at our door!”

  “What? Where?!” He jerked awake and sat up, blinking blearily.

  “Shhh!” I put my hand on his lips. “Someone’s at the door…”

  We both sat motionless in bed, staring at the dark rectangle that was the door. In the hall, something stirred again.

  “What’s that tapping sound?” Tadeusz whispered. “It reminds me of something…”

  “Me too…”

  I turned on the bedside lamp, eased myself out of bed, and tiptoed to the door. Tadeusz grabbed the flashlight he’d acquired to light his way during evening trips to the garden for a smoke, and positioned himself on the other side.

  I slowly pushed the massive door handle. The door creaked pathetically, and an ice-cold wind blew through the crack in the door. I shivered with cold, and no small amount of fear. In the dark hallway outside, we could just barely see the outline of someone – or something – sitting on the floor.

  “W-who…” Tadeusz cleared his throat nervously. “Who’s there?”

  The answer was a low groan, almost like a whine.

  I pushed the door open the rest of the way and the light poured out into the hall, illuminating the figure sitting on the floor.

  It was Chutney.

  She tilted her head and looked up at us uncertainly, her tail thwapping apologetically on the floorboards.