Past Perfect

by Karen Zelas

  ‘Let’s unpack and go for a walk,’ said Sue, turning away from the window.

  Jayne had already kicked off her shoes and was trying the beds for comfort. ‘I bags this one,’ she said, bouncing like a kid.

  ‘Let’s go while the sun’s still up.’

  ‘I’m not budging. Not until dinner time.’

  ‘Who’s the old one?’

  ‘Yeah, well, you’ve seen one old village, you’ve seen them all.’

  ‘I can’t afford to be so blasé.’ Sue collected her sunshades and map. ‘I’ll go on my own. The light is beautifully soft.’ She slung her new digital Nikon, a Singapore purchase, over her shoulder. ‘I’ll keep an eye out for somewhere to eat,’ she added.

  Sue retraced the taxi route. Crossing the Place du Marché, she photographed a plump elderly woman weighing oranges on a hanging balance, her fruit ranged before her in an outdoor stall. The old market building behind was closed for the day, but the smell of cheeses and cured meats still hung about its ornate façade. 1812 was inscribed above the main entrance. Sue wondered whether Brigitte’s mother had bought here. She made a mental note to return in the morning – for produce and more photos.

  The low sun threw sharp-edged blocks of shade across the shuttered buildings. Sue darted down narrow side streets, absorbing one intriguing vista after another, capturing cameos with her camera: three floral-skirted women, arms folded, engaged in conversation in a doorway; a blue door with flaking paint in a stone wall with a bicycle beside it; two young women walking, arms linked; a wizened man sweeping the gutter outside his home; a white embroidered organdie curtain gently billowing over a window box of red geraniums; children – two boys and a girl – kicking a ball in a lane, the sun lighting the concentration on their faces. Perhaps, as a child, Brigitte had played on the cobbles in this narrow lane. Maybe she had skipped along here to the market to buy bread or fish for her mother.

  By a circuitous route, Sue emerged at the Vieux Port, the Old Port, through a stone archway onto the cobbled promenade. It was like entering a new world, stepping from the shadow of the narrow streets. A gentle breeze came off the sea and the sun was low on the horizon. The bronze light that washed the wide promenade seemed to issue from within the stone. Sue doubted she could capture its radiance with her camera, but she tried.

  Still water licked the edge of the promenade encompassing the harbour, the entrance guarded by two medieval stone towers, a cluster of yachts moored in the centre. An avenue of trees shaded one side, while, on the other, African traders were packing up their brightly coloured leather bags, beads and trinkets. Sue wandered among them, snapping and snapping; if only a few succeeded in portraying the scene as she saw it that would be sufficient. She noted many of the buildings fronting the promenade had been converted into bars, hotels and restaurants, their tables spilling onto the cobbles. People milled around in holiday mode, or sat in shorts and shades under umbrellas and trees, adding vibrancy to a picturesque scene, adding a modern veneer.

  This was the view that had tantalised Sue from the taxi. It had such solidity. For a moment, Sue wondered how anyone could leave such a durable, unchanging place for the uncertainty of a new land where everything was fashioned from timber, impermanent. Perhaps they would not have, had they known in advance.

  ‘This is where we must eat tonight,’ Sue said aloud.

  When Sue and Jayne returned to the Old Port, dusk was gathering. Only a vestige of tension remained between them as they wandered along the promenade, absorbing the piquant aromas and craning their necks to see what people were eating. The restaurants and bars were strung with lights. Lights in the trees twinkled as their leaves trembled in the evening breeze and reflected in the silver-black of the harbour. The silhouettes of the two towers were jet against the pale aquamarine of the early evening sky.

  ‘We should follow the local trend. Spécialité de la region: moules frites – mussels and French fries.’ Jayne rubbed her hands in anticipation. She prided herself, Sue knew, on being au fait with regional cuisines.

  ‘Sounds a strange combination, but smells great. Hope they harvest the mussels from somewhere with a good sewage system.’

  They sat at an empty table and gestured to the waiter, who swept by depositing menus and a wine list. Another came past, lighting the candle on their table before moving on to the next.

  ‘Sauce for the moules – Provençale, curry, white wine, garlic?’ Sue read the list aloud then glanced at the other diners. ‘Look how that woman is eating her mussels, using one shell like pincers to pull the flesh out of the next.’ The moules proved to be succulent and the frites crisp and salty. Two glasses of a light, fruity red wine and the remaining tension disappeared.

  ‘This is so nice,’ said Jayne when they eventually rose to leave, and Sue believed she spoke not only of the food and wine, or of the location.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, and gave her sister a hug.

  They strolled back to the hotel, past the large and elaborate carousel in Place de Verdun, still lit up and tinkling, its ribboned horses pole-dancing without riders. In some buildings, windows were lit and shutters open, letting in the late summer evening. The air was scented with wafts of garlic and herbs, swelled with twining strands of music. The two women moved through these drifts as they stepped through light and shadow.

  Sue could not restrain herself from taking in the interiors as they passed: remnants of food on tables, couples slumped in deep sofas, TV sets flickering. Small rooms. A sense of intimacy. The languor of the evening conjured thoughts of Ben, intimacies they had shared in the past and more recently, seeking new depths, in Singapore and London. Sue tried to banish the memories. They were too painful and would inevitably lead to anger. She succeeded in diverting her mind, but not without an edginess developing which left her tense and tingling.

  When they reached the hotel, they found their elderly magician replaced by a young man, a student, judging by the pile of books on the desk.

  ‘Excusez-moi, Mesdames. Anglaises?’

  ‘Oui,’ replied Sue.

  The young man handed them a note, which he took from a wooden pigeonhole behind him.

  ‘Ben again,’ said Sue.

  ‘I hate to think how he must be feeling by now.’

  ‘Are you on his side or mine?’ she asked, the pitch of her voice rising.

  ‘You’re being pretty tough on him.’

  ‘Tough? I’m just learning to do tough.’ Sue stomped up the stairs.

  ‘He’ll be worried,’ Jayne said, as they reached their landing. Sue was surprised and annoyed by the expression on Jayne’s face; her concern was supposed to be for Sue not Ben. ‘At least let him know we’ve arrived here safely.’

  Sue sighed, relenting. ‘That I can do.’ She found the paper on which Ben had written the name and number of his hotel in Kensington. The phone rang only once before Ben picked up; he must have been sitting there, waiting, Sue thought with satisfaction. His anxious “Hello?” confirmed it.

  ‘Hello, Ben,’ said Sue, feeling not a soupçon of guilt.

  ‘You haven’t been returning my calls.’ His voice was tremulous.

  ‘I’m calling now.’

  ‘It’s about time.’ She could hear the wounded little boy in him.

  ‘You can’t afford to take that tone,’ she said.

  ‘I … I’m sorry. I’m sorry … for everything.’ He fell quiet. ‘Sue?’

  ‘I’m here.’

  Silence hung brittle. Let him break it, Sue thought.

  ‘I hate it when you’re angry,’ Ben said in a soft, hoarse whisper.

  You’d better get used to it, Sue wanted to say. She was discovering steel she hadn’t known existed; the challenge was not to become too punitive.

  ‘I’ve missed you. Are you there? Sue? I need you to be there.’ Sue sighed. ‘Say you’ll always be there for me.’

  ‘I don’t know that yet,’ Sue replied. She could hear the shock of her words zing down the telephone line. But she was no
t going to commit herself until she was sure. She had been sure when she married Ben, and she had honoured her promise without question. But Ben had changed the rules.

  Eventually, Ben squeezed out a response. ‘Ring me tomorrow evening. Please?’

  ‘It might not be convenient.’

  ‘I’ve sent you something. To the hotel. I … I hope it arrives before you leave.’

  ‘Goodbye, Ben.’

  ‘Don’t say that. It sounds so final.’

  ‘Goodnight, then.’ It was not until Sue replaced the receiver that she started to tremble, more and more violently. She wrapped her arms across her chest, tucking her hands under her armpits, as if to stop herself disintegrating. Jayne put an arm round her shoulders and squeezed. Between them they would stop her falling apart, surely.

  ‘When are you going to make up?’ Jayne sounded worried.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Sue murmured.

  ‘You don’t intend to leave him, do you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Sue struggled to her feet and paced the short distance between the beds and the window. She looked out into the street. The voices of young people talking and laughing drifted up to her on the still night air. They were coming from the entrance to a small bar across the road. A soft glow seeped from it, accompanied by the attenuated strains of a guitar. ‘I need time to think. It won’t hurt Ben to wait. In the past I’ve rushed to his aid so fast … This time …’

  17.

  The open stalls in the Place du Marché displayed a colourful array of fruit and vegetables, while, in the rear, in the covered market, were laid out an incredible selection of shellfish, sausages, cheeses, preserves, olives, breads, pastries and much more. Sue and Jayne took turns to restrain one another, but in spite of this, accumulated a mouth-watering collection of foods for breakfast. With two coffees-to-go, they settled on a bench under a tree.

  ‘What could be nicer?’ said Sue. ‘Better than a Full English any day.’ A similar breakfast with Ben at Hydra sprang to mind: sitting leaning against their backpacks on the stony ground beside a dry-stone wall with bread, olives, cheese, watching the sun climb higher and higher creating a white path across blue water and knowing it was going to be another scorching but memorable day. They had shared so many good times. Sue did not want them to be over.

  ‘Personally, I’d rather be sitting in a street-side Parisian café watching the world go by, but …’ Jayne paused. ‘So, what’s on the programme today?’ she asked as they wrapped up the remains of the food. ‘It’s your show.’

  Well, that’s a shift, thought Sue. ‘First, I’d like to go back to the hotel and search the phonebook for any people by the name of Dujardin.’

  ‘Bit of a long shot.’ Jayne might be trying, but she could not keep the lack of enthusiasm out of her voice.

  ‘Maybe,’ said Sue, rising to her feet, ‘but I’ll do it anyway.’

  Sue sat on her bed, phonebook in hand. Jayne had gone exploring and they had arranged to meet at the Old Port at eleven. It was only a small phonebook, La Rochelle and the surrounding area. Sue turned to ‘D’ and scanned the names. No Dujardin. Disappointing. A deadend so quickly. She had hoped that the population would be relatively stable in a long-established place like this and that there would still be descendents living in the area. Brigitte’s maiden name was Clémence. There was a long list of people of that name; should she start there instead? she wondered. Or perhaps she should look under ‘J’ rather than ‘D’. ‘Jardine, Jardin,’ she read, moving her finger up a column. ‘du Jardin. Only three of them. Worth a try,’ she said aloud.

  Sue spent a minute working out what she wanted to say, in French. Then she dialled the first number. No reply. The second was answered after six rings. Sue started to speak then realised it was an answerphone. The third number was for a du Jardin GR, Expert Comptable. A chartered accountant. At least there should be someone to answer the phone.

  ‘Bonjour. du Jardin et Perot, Experts Comptables,’ said a bright, female voice.

  ‘I would like to speak to M’sieur du Jardin,’ Sue said, in French.

  ‘I’m afraid he is not available just now,’ the woman replied.

  ‘It is a personal matter, not business.’ Sue paused, deciding to exert a little pressure. ‘It is possible that he is a distant relative.’

  ‘O là là. He is on the telephone, but if you would like to wait, I am sure he would take your call.’ Sue wondered why she had been sure enough to make such a positive claim. Still, it was giving her the chance to ask. He might know something or someone to help in her quest. ‘Putting you through now.’

  ‘du Jardin,’ said a firm male voice.

  Sue quailed, but took a deep breath and launched forth with her prepared speech, ending lamely: ‘I started with the telephone book and, well, I saw your name.’

  ‘And you wondered if I might be a relative, Madame.’

  ‘Well, yes. Rather a … a long shoot.’

  ‘Rather a long shoot, as you say, Madame.’ His laugh was warm and engaging. ‘But perhaps you have hit your mark.’

  Sue gasped. Had she truly found a relative so easily?

  ‘Can I suggest we meet and talk over lunch? I am a little busy right now.’

  ‘That would be perfect.’ Even if it turned out to be a dead end, it could be interesting.

  ‘Do you know the Café de la Paix? In Place de Verdun?’

  ‘I’ll find it.’

  ‘One o’clock?’

  ‘That will be fine. Er, my sister is here with me. May I bring her, too?’

  ‘Of course. A bientôt.’

  ‘A bientôt.’ Sue launched into a dance of triumph. ‘Yes! Yes!’ she cried, punching the air. Hard as she tried, she could not stop herself believing this was a positive lead. Her mind was racing ahead; perhaps she could change her return flight, stay here longer, play historical detective.

  It was too early to meet Jayne, so Sue decided to follow the suggestion of the nice man in the Archives Nationales. Her map gave no indication where the La Rochelle archives might be housed, so she headed for the Hôtel de Ville. Built like a small castle, flags flying on the ramparts, the city office stood in a square of its own name. After taking several photographs, Sue entered the cobbled courtyard through an archway and found the information bureau. Without interrupting her conversation with another attendant, a smart woman in black behind the counter took a map and, with her bejewelled hands sparking in the fluorescent light, marked the route to the archives in orange highlighter – only a few blocks away in the Place Saint-Michel. Nowhere was far away in La Rochelle.

  Sue wound her way through narrow streets and emerged into a cobbled space enclosed by two-storeyed buildings of cream stone. The archives were housed in a plain building with multi-paned, unshuttered windows. Sue wondered what might be entombed there. Would there be treasures or a dead-end? She hesitated at the door as chimes reverberated around the little square. The half hour. She checked her watch. 10:30. Not enough time before eleven. She would come back after lunch. Besides, she felt too excited to concentrate on old papers right now. She was waiting to meet M. Gérard du Jardin, Expert Comptable and possible, no, probable distant relative. But first she had to sell the idea to Jayne.

  ‘You committed us to wasting our time with some old geezer we don’t even know?’ Jayne slapped her street map against her thigh – thwack! thwack! thwack! – and paced backwards and forwards on the cobbles.

  ‘You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.’ In fact Sue would rather Jayne were not there if she was going to be so grumpy.

  ‘I’m not letting you go on your own. He might be a rapist for all we know,’ Jayne pouted.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Sue wondered where the mature woman had gone; Jayne was like a slightly more grown up Charlie, about as changeable and unpredictable.

  ‘What did he tell you about himself?’ she persisted.

  ‘Well, nothing, I suppose.’

  ‘There you are, then,’ said Jayne,
triumphantly.

  Could Jayne be right? Was she being reckless? But it was only lunch in a reputable restaurant and Jayne was invited, too.

  ‘He was busy. It was good of him even to take my call.’ Sue had not come so far to back down at this point.

  It seemed dark as Sue and Jayne moved from the sunlit Place de Verdun under the stone arches and into the interior of the Café de la Paix. Even when Sue removed her sunglasses, the café retained a dim, intimate tone. It reminded her of pre-war cafés in Vienna and Budapest: high ceilings, dark wood, large mirrors; waiters in white shirts, black waistcoats and trousers. A restrained, sophisticated atmosphere. She peered into the long interior, seeking a middle-aged man seated alone and expectant. Jayne dragged her feet behind Sue. A waiter approached them.

  ‘A table for two?’

  ‘No, thank you. We are meeting someone.’

  ‘Me, perhaps?’

  Sue swivelled. She could not make out his features against the light, but she recognised the voice. ‘M’sieur du Jardin?’