Past Perfect

by Karen Zelas

  ‘Gérard. Delighted to meet you.’ He held out his hand to Sue and took hers warmly in both of his. ‘It is the custom here … Do you mind?’ He kissed her on both cheeks. ‘And you must be the sister.’ He took Jayne by the shoulders and kissed her also. Jayne allowed the gesture but did not reciprocate.

  ‘Jayne,’ said Sue.

  ‘Jayne.’ Gérard quickly arranged that they have a table to the rear, beyond an archway. As Sue followed the waiter to the table, she saw herself multiplied infinitely in mirrors that clad both walls, converting a narrow passage into a wide dining hall. She felt strangely gauche in cargo-pants and thick-soled sandals, carrying her backpack.

  ‘You had no trouble finding the café?’ Gérard asked, holding the back of Sue’s chair and pushing it in as she sat down.

  ‘Not at all. It is just around the corner from our hotel of the same name.’ Sue smiled at the tall, greying, expensively dressed man opposite her. Was he a distant cousin? she wondered.

  ‘You speak French very well, Suzanne.’

  ‘Please call me Sue.’

  ‘Sue. And you, Jayne? Do you speak French also?’

  ‘I do.’ She put her bag under the table and pulled in her chair as Gérard reached for it.

  ‘Ah. Well educated women,’ he said, seating himself. ‘Then we can all understand each other. Now, let’s order, and then we can talk. I have limited time. Some wine?’

  Over a grilled flat fish with sauce Hollandaise, asparagus, pommes frites, salad and a glass of chardonnay, Sue recounted what she knew of the French emigration and her forebears. Gérard explained that he was aware of relatives who had emigrated to New Zealand, and also to other colonies. ‘Claude and Robert are names that crop up from generation to generation in my family,’ said Gérard. ‘My middle name is Robert, after my grandfather.’

  Sue could barely contain her excitement. She had not expected things to fall into place so readily. ‘So Robert Dujardin could be Claude’s father. A gardener at the château.’ She felt the flush in her cheeks as she leaned forward eagerly and fixed his eyes, one blue, one almost hazel, with her own – she wondered which eye she should be looking at. ‘My great-great-great-grandmother, who came to New Zealand, was born Clémence. I haven’t – how do you say? – tried to ring any of the Clémences in the phonebook. There were too many. Do you know any people named Clémence?’

  Gérard nodded and dabbed his mouth with his serviette. ‘I have distant cousins, Clémence. I don’t know if they are related to Brigitte. It is possible.’ He shrugged. ‘People in this part of the world do not move about very much from one generation to the next. One hundred and fifty years is not very long by our standards. I shall try to find out. But not today. I have no time. What do you plan to do next?’

  ‘This afternoon I shall go to the archives and see what they hold.’ Jayne groaned. ‘What a waste of a fine day.’

  ‘You don’t have to come. We can meet later at the hotel.’

  Gérard looked from one sister to the other. Sue wondered what he was thinking. ‘And tomorrow?’ he asked. ‘Tomorrow I have time.’ Sue could see Jayne wriggle in her chair.

  ‘I want to take the bus to Rochefort, where the Comte de Paris sailed from.’

  ‘I could take you,’ Gérard said, twisting the gold band on the fourth finger of his right hand. ‘It’s Saturday.’

  ‘Really?’ Sue’s smile expressed her gratitude. ‘I want to go to the Marine Archives.’

  ‘They should be open in the morning. You might miss them if you go by bus.’

  ‘What about,’ Sue looked at the ring Gérard continued to worry, ‘your wife – will she join us?’

  ‘I should take this off, but I can’t.’ He tugged the ring to prove the point. ‘It has been on so long.’

  Sue silently rebuked herself for delighting that he was no longer married. She presumed she could believe him; she thought she would believe anything he said. She felt unsettled and a vision of Ben between Aroha’s thighs flashed into her mind.

  ‘It might be rather – how do you say – boring for you,’ she heard herself say, and tossed her head to banish the image. Her mind was making things up; it was not to be trusted. But what if it had been more than a pass; what if Alisha had been more than a flirtation?

  ‘Not at all,’ said Gérard, smiling. He had a charming, quizzical smile, slightly lopsided, as though he did not take the world entirely seriously. The smile together with the eyes of different hues intrigued Sue and she struggled not to stare. ‘In truth, I would be interested in exploring the archives.’

  Sue and Jayne exchanged glances, the warning in Jayne’s expression plain. Beware of rapists disguised as gentlemen, it said.

  ‘Very well,’ said Sue, ignoring the warning. ‘That would be most kind.’ She would enjoy having his company. A day of flattery and charm would go down well, the way she was feeling at the moment. Ben was not the only one who could be drawn by an attractive member of the opposite sex.

  ‘And there is much to talk about,’ said Gérard, gazing at Sue.

  Sue wondered what there would be to talk about now they had discussed the few known facts about Brigitte and Claude. She would be happy enough to listen to Gérard, but she wondered what he – or any man – could possibly want to know about her. But the idea was beguiling. She could see Jayne becoming increasingly restless.

  Gérard insisted on picking up the bill. Sue at first protested, then, looking again at his suit, she acquiesced.

  ‘Probably thought we were destitute colonists,’ Jayne said, after he bade them farewell and kissed them again on both cheeks. They stood watching his retreating figure. ‘Did you see the way he looked at you?’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Sue, blushing. She was relieved Jayne was not waxing about the way she had gazed at him. Perhaps she was not as transparent as she felt. ‘He was very gentlemanly. I guess he could tell you weren’t very interested in the conversation.’

  ‘He could be a conman, for all we know.’

  Sue laughed. That was inconceivable. But at least Jayne apparently no longer feared for Sue’s virtue.

  Sue stepped into the welcome cool of a small office in the archives building. Once again, she spouted her speech of self-explication, this time to a small, grey-haired, grey-clothed woman who looked as dusty as the volumes surrounding her.

  ‘May I see your passport? Good. I will see what we have that may interest you.’ She turned to her computer and tapped the keys, pausing from time to time and pursing her lips. Then she smiled, jotted down some numbers and pushed her chair away from the desk. ‘I will be some minutes.’

  Sue sat on a straight-backed chair and gazed out into the tiny square, watching a lone tree cast its slowly dancing shadows on the cobbles. It reminded Sue of a pohutukawa near Cape Reinga, watching the play of its leaf-shadows on brown rocks at the edge of the sea, Ben beside her. They had been students still, on a camping trip – pup tent, Lilos, swimming togs, billy and pan: all they needed. Every evening, they would sit together, holding hands, and watch the sun drop into the ocean …

  The woman returned sooner than expected.

  ‘There’s not a lot here, I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘Some information about the families, letters of an official nature. You are welcome to bring them through and study them. I can make copies, if you wish.’

  Sue followed her into a side room. The walls were clad with old books, some leather-bound and in varying states of disrepair. Small squares of light chequered the table beneath the window. Sue pulled out a chair, the drag of its wooden legs loud on the stone floor. She sat and drew the papers toward her with anticipation.

  There was information about both the Dujardin and the Clémence families. Sue’s hands trembled as she opened the pages.

  She discovered that Brigitte’s father had been a bookkeeper or accountant and the Clémence house at 87 Rue du Brave Rondeau, near the Place du Marché, where she and Jayne had breakfasted that morning, had been freehold. He had four children, Br
igitte the oldest. A younger sister, Madeleine, had also married a Dujardin, but Sue could not determine from the documents whether he had been a brother of Claude’s or even a close relative. Interesting, though, in the light of what Gérard had said, that there may be a second connection between the two families, one that remained in France.

  There was less information about the Dujardin family. Claude was a gardener, as was his father, Robert. They were in the employ of one Comte de Vergny, the owner of a large house, a château, on Rue Réaumur, near the city ramparts in the west. So there was one piece of information confirmed. Maybe gardening ran back through generations of the family, hence their name. Maybe Claude wanted to go to New Zealand so that he could have a garden of his own.

  It was amazing to read of these people, her ancestors, somehow unreal. As the woman had said, it was not a lot of information, but more than Sue had expected.

  On her way back to the hotel, Sue walked along Rue du Brave Rondeau, the street in which Brigitte’s family had lived.

  Brave Rondeau – Gallant Poem. What a charming name.

  Would the house still be there? She quickened her step. The houses all appeared to be of the right vintage – two-storeyed stone houses, cheek by jowl, fronts flush with the pavement. Dormer windows in tiled roofs, pale grey shutters, all houses similar yet slightly different in detail.

  Then she was there. Number 87. Embroidered, sheer pennants, typical of the region, hung in each window in lieu of net curtains. A shadow moved behind one. Sue took a step forward, then pulled herself back. Could she knock on the door and ask to go inside?

  18.

  Sue slept restlessly, waking early with a tight feeling in her chest and realising she had been dreaming about Ben, though she could not remember the content. She was no clearer in her mind as to what course to take regarding her marriage. In fact, she was avoiding thinking about it as much as she could. The betrayal burned as a physical pain behind her ribs. Until it lessened, she could not move towards a sensible decision. Creeping to the window, she quietly opened the shutters. Above the tiled roofs opposite, she could see a ribbon of sky; enough to tell her this was going to be another beautiful day. Already there were the sounds of a town coming to life. Shutters were opening. The smell of fresh bread wafted in and stirred her appetite.

  Leaning against the iron railing, Sue wondered at her own boldness and smiled; something inexplicable was happening to her. She had plucked up courage the previous afternoon and knocked on the door of 87 Rue du Brave Rondeau. A woman of about her own age had come to the door. Hesitantly, apologetically, Sue had enunciated her request and the reason behind it. She asked whether the woman knew of anyone called Clémence living there, but the woman shook her head and said, regretfully, no. She had shown her through the house, two rooms downstairs, two upstairs and attic rooms. A more recent addition at the rear housed a substantial kitchen and bathroom. As she wandered through, Sue mentally stripped back the modern fittings and furniture and peopled the house with Brigitte’s family. She peered out of an attic window across at the market square, and wondered if Brigitte, as the oldest child, might have had this attic bedroom all to herself, or whether this floor may have been servants’ quarters, with the family on the floor below. The family must have been financially comfortable, middle-class, to own a house like this, her father more likely an accountant and partner in the firm than an employee book-keeper. Sue wondered where in the town he had worked, and what had become of Brigitte’s siblings, other than Madeleine, who had married a Dujardin, too.

  Sue checked her watch: 7am. Jayne would not thank her for being woken so early on holiday. She tip-toed to the bathroom and had gently closed the door when the telephone rang. Her first impulse was to let it ring; it was probably Ben, or maybe Nigel. But its shrill, persistent tone was difficult to ignore. And, anyway, she couldn’t keep on avoiding her husband.

  She lifted the receiver. ‘Allô?’

  The voice that greeted her was not Ben’s, nor Nigel’s.

  ‘Hello, Sue. I trust you slept well.’ Was the warmth in Gérard’s voice or Sue’s ear?

  ‘Gérard.’

  ‘You sound surprised. Did I wake you?’

  Sue looked at Jayne’s grumpy face screwed up on the pillow. ‘No, not at all,’ she said. She did not say she expected the caller to be her husband. ‘We were awake.’

  Jayne grunted and pulled the covers higher.

  ‘I thought it would be nice to breakfast together before setting off. There is a little café by the Old Port that serves excellent coffee and pain au chocolat. Do you like chocolate?’

  ‘Not usually for breakfast. But when in France …’ Sue laughed, a throaty, sexy laugh.

  ‘I will collect you at eight o’clock. That is not too soon?’

  ‘Half past?’

  There was lightness in Sue’s step, anticipation pressing in her throat, as she showered and dressed. She forsook her cargo pants for her one skirt; she wanted to look her best. Not so deep inside she felt herself to be a cat on the prowl. It was a new feeling. A dangerous feeling. A feeling that said, ‘What’s good for the gander …’

  Gérard parked in a narrow side street, squeezing into a space Sue would have thought impossible, two wheels on the footpath like everyone else. It was still a little chill as they arrived at the café. The sun had not yet penetrated this side of the promenade, but in the middle of the harbour, it turned the water to sparkling amethysts in the wake of a small fishing boat. The vessel, returning with its catch, was escorted by a convoy of gulls, the put-put of its engine drifting clearly to the group as they entered the old stone building which housed the café. Gérard’s hand on Sue’s shoulder burned through her light jacket.

  ‘I think we should sit inside. Yes? Shall I order?’

  As they sat, Sue allowed her knee to graze briefly against Gérard’s, though she avoided his gaze, very conscious of Jayne sitting opposite. She was bursting: bursting to tell him what she had learnt in the archives; bursting to tell him about the Clémence house; bursting to be alone with him. ‘I must tell you what I have discovered,’ she said.

  ‘No, no. First you must tell me about yourselves. Just yourselves, for now.’

  ‘And you, Gérard. I want to know about you,’ said Jayne.

  I bet you do, thought Sue, and so do I, but for different reasons. They learnt Gérard was recently divorced after thirty years of marriage, his wife leaving La Rochelle to work in Marseille. He had three children, only one in the vicinity, and one grandchild. He found the evenings long and the weekends even longer. Sue saw the sadness dull his eyes – no sign of his cynical smile now, the droop of his shoulders less than elegant – and she felt sorry for him. Was this how life would be for her if she rejected Ben? Gérard’s loneliness was contagious; Sue wanted to reach out and grasp his hand. Instead she finished her pain au chocolat; it was delicious, as promised, decadent and not to be repeated.

  ‘Our – how do you say – our treat,’ Sue said, reaching for the bill. Gérard put his hand over hers and held it. ‘It was my invitation,’ he said. His eyes were alive again. Sue conceded defeat with a bob of her head and reluctantly withdrew her hand. She saw Jayne watching closely and felt she had been discovered in something illicit by her sister. She covered her embarrassment with over-effusive thanks; Gérard would think she was ditzy.

  Akaroa,

  1st June, 1847.

  Ma chère Maman,

  June. So much for good intentions. Still, they say no news is good news.

  I was comforted by your last letter, Maman. Sophie and Pierre seem to be taking good care of you and you of them. The best arrangement. Fancy young Albert wanting to be a sailor when he grows up. Perhaps he will be a whaler and come sailing into Akaroa Harbour one day. How splendid that would be! François Malmanche, Rose’s brother-in-law, recently returned from Australia, having gone there to seek his fortune. He tells some terrible tales of the hardships of the gold fields. He said, being away, he realised what it is
to have friends, and is content to remain here now, farming his land. His father is getting older (and his beard longer) and needs his help.

  We had a good summer and a good harvest. Claude is employed building a new wharf, so Tama and a friend came to help me lift the potatoes, store the pumpkins, burn off the cornstalks. What strong young men! I could not have done it alone, especially with the children to supervise. Jules has taken a shine to Tama and was not to be seen far from his side at any time.

  In his spare time, Claude has added a lean-to to the back of the house for a proper kitchen and scullery. I don’t know how I ever managed without. It gives us more space inside for the children when the weather is bad, as it is today – and there is much more to come.

  I do not look forward to the winter. The weather and Jules’ chest. There will be a few parties to liven things up and I am putting on a little play with my adult reading class. It is a trifle risqué!

  Love to all the family, and give our best wishes to Mme. Dujardin, if you see her. As you may know, I write to her occasionally on Claude’s behalf, since her husband’s death. Claude has proved a reluctant student – to my chagrin, one of my few failures!

  Much love,

  Bibi

  ‘Adjust the seat for your comfort,’ Gérard had said when Sue got into his car. She had never seen so many buttons to press: up, down, tilt, rake. She giggled as the contoured leather seat tried to adjust her to its shape, rather than vice versa. Eventually, she came out on top and nestled in for a luxurious ride. The day was developing bright and warm, Sue with it, and although the shape of the seat held her well apart from Gérard, she was determined to get closer before the day was over.

  They exited La Rochelle on a motorway that could have been anywhere and were soon passing fields and cows, vineyards and stone cottages that could have been only in France.

  Gérard was easy to talk to and Sue found herself speaking about her life and about life in New Zealand generally. She told him about Akaroa and about Brigitte and Claude’s house. She told him about her father. In fact, she realised she was telling him all the things she had not told Jayne. After some kilometres, Jayne’s silence intruded. Sue turned in her seat to see her sister gazing out the window, apparently ignoring the conversation. She supposed the drone of tyres on tarmac made it easy to shut out their voices.