by Karen Zelas
Soon they swept into Rochefort, the medieval naval town from which the settlers to Akaroa had departed. Claude and Brigitte would have come from La Rochelle to Rochefort to board the converted whaler, Comte de Paris, in the river here. Even though it had been no more than a half-hour journey by car on modern roads, it would have been a major journey more than a century ago, perhaps one they had never made before. Sue wondered how Brigitte might have felt – anxious, sad, excited, all three? – disembarking from a carriage or cart and standing as she was now, wondering what might be in store for her.
Gérard parked to the north of the old town, overlooked by a column commemorating the Martyrs of the Resistance. The weather was pleasant, the intense heat dulled by high cloud. Discarding her rain jacket, Sue stuffed a light cardigan in her backpack. Gérard had forsaken his suit for well-cut, cream trousers and a linen, open-necked shirt. Blue-grey. Like one of his eyes, Sue thought. Over one shoulder he slung a small leather bag. Sue rescued her shades from the top of her head and settled them on her nose.
‘Is that a tourist office?’ she asked.
Gérard nodded. ‘They will tell us where the Marine Archives are held.’ He took each woman by the elbow and ushered them across the parking area. The heat of his fingers imprinted on the soft skin inside Sue’s elbow. Sue wondered what Ben was doing at that moment. She wondered what he would feel if he could see Gérard holding her arm.
‘I’ll get a map and some brochures,’ she said.
‘You think I’ll get you lost?’ Gérard asked.
Sue shook her head, excessive in her denial. She would like to get lost with Gérard, but she could not let him know that. And, even more, she could not let Jayne know that.
‘If you two are off to the archives, I’m going exploring,’ said Jayne. Sue was relieved that Jayne was interested in sightseeing after her disparaging remarks about small towns.
‘Shall we meet for lunch?’ asked Sue.
‘I don’t know where I’ll be.’
‘The Place Colbert is good for sitting and watching people,’ said Gérard. ‘One o’clock, by the carousel?’
Jayne looked doubtful for a moment. ‘All right. One o’clock.’ She waved them away. ‘I’m going to sit here for a bit and plan a route.’
Sue hesitated. ‘Sure you’ll be all right?’ she asked in English. Here she was feeling responsible for her little sister again. How ridiculous. A little sister who could go tripping off to Moscow on her own.
‘Go,’ said Jayne, and they went.
The Archives de la Marine stood on Rue Emile Zola. Sue and Gérard walked briskly through the narrow streets, along cobbled pavements, anxious to get there before it closed. They arrived outside a very military-looking building, with high mesh fences and cannons mounted in the forecourt. Sue was uncertain whether they should enter.
‘It’s open to the public,’ Gérard assured her.
They mounted the steps. A brass plaque announced: Service Historique de la Marine. Bibliotèque et Archives. Inside was a small foyer with a marble staircase; signs encouraged them to the first floor. Here, double doors opened into a reference library. Two women moved between computers and shelves. One stopped in front of them and smiled. ‘Can I help you?’
‘My friend has a request,’ said Gérard, gesturing Sue to step forward. She was already fumbling in her backpack for her passport. Gérard gave her a nod of encouragement. Once more, Sue explained what she was researching and was pleasantly surprised when the woman bobbed her head.
‘Yes. The Comte de Paris,’ she said. Her long, silver earrings swayed. ‘We have some articles about the settlement. If you have interest in a particular family, there is more.’
‘Claude Dujardin and his wife, Brigitte, née Clémence.’
Sue and Gérard browsed the shelves while the librarian left the room. There were all manner of fascinating books about naval explorers. D’Urville. Lafayette. But Sue was finding it hard to concentrate. She could smell Gérard’s cologne. His hand brushed hers leaving a hot tingle on her skin as they reached for the same volume.
The woman returned with a small pile of documents. ‘Not very much, I’m afraid.’
Gérard and Sue sat side by side and thumbed through the papers. The articles were new to Gérard but Sue had seen all but one in the Akaroa Museum. ‘French historians seem to have been remarkably quiet about the venture,’ Sue whispered. ‘Perhaps not surprising – it was hardly the pinnacle of French colonial history.’ Gérard pulled down the corners of his mouth and shrugged. Sue was not sure whether this indicated agreement or disagreement.
The lack of new information was disappointing.
As they were gathering up the papers in preparation for leaving, the woman came bustling up to them again with a thin folder in her hand.
‘I’ve just come across these,’ she said. ‘They might be of interest.’
Sue spread the folder on the table. It contained correspondence, some official-looking, other letters less formal, all in beautiful copperplate hand. The correspondence was about Claude.
‘It seems like our Claude was not such a good boy,’ said Gérard. The idea seemed to please him. He chuckled. ‘Arrested three times for being drunk and disorderly.’
‘For protesting,’ said Sue, feeling a need to defend him. ‘About the conditions of workers in the shipyards. He can’t have been a gardener like his father, at least not at that time.’
‘True.’
‘How old would he have been?’ Sue calculated, tapping her fingers one by one on the table edge. ‘Eighteen, nineteen. Long before he would have been with Brigitte.’ The documents they had reviewed recorded the birth dates of Claude and Brigitte as being 3 April 1808 and 17 July 1823 respectively.
‘It looks as if he narrowly escaped imprisonment,’ said Gérard, ‘and was bailed out by the Count.’
‘He must have been quite a man, the Count.’ Sue felt grateful. ‘Maybe Claude worked on the estate after that. I wonder if he got into any more trouble. Probably not,’ she concluded, ‘or Brigitte’s family would not have allowed them to marry.’
‘Or maybe that’s why they left the country,’ Gérard suggested. But Sue did not want to believe that.
‘Look at this,’ she said, ‘a letter from Alfonse Clémence, Brigitte’s father, asking that Claude be denied the right to emigrate. I wonder why.’
‘And their very polite response declining the authority to prevent him.’
‘Perhaps he didn’t want to lose his daughter. I can understand that.’ Sue imagined having Charlie sail away to the other side of the world in 1840. ‘Brigitte was his oldest.’ She flopped the folder closed. ‘Damn! Everything I learn raises more questions, questions to which I will probably never find answers. It’s hard to be satisfied.’
They sat in silence for a minute, mulling over the new information, a large clock noisily ticking away the seconds.
Sue whispered into the silence, ‘In 1840, Claude was thirty-two and Brigitte only seventeen. She was just a child. Younger than my Charlie. What were her parents thinking of, marrying her off to someone almost twice her age? And with the life expectancy of men as it was in those days.’
‘There is something alluring about an older man, isn’t there?’ Again Gérard’s hand grazed Sue’s and it was as if the two surfaces had fused; Sue was unable to pull them apart.
‘But he could die and leave her there, still a young woman, on the other side of the globe from her family.’
‘She might like an older man, experienced in the ways of the world.’
Sue tore her hand from Gérard’s. ‘Why can’t a woman be experienced in the ways of the world? A man can’t have a love affair by himself.’
‘Are we still talking about Brigitte?’
Sue could feel the buffer of warm air between herself and Gérard; it had substance, a malleable substance, like an under-inflated balloon. She would have to lean only a little to the left, pressing into it, to feel on her face the slub of linen wa
rmed from within. Restraining herself, she leaned back to scrutinise Gérard: high forehead, straight nose supporting rimless spectacles, full mouth with its slanting grin, firm chin, thick, wavy hair flecked with grey. His grin saying … what? Her breath caught in her throat and she broke eye contact. Was this how Ben felt in the presence of Alisha?
‘I’ll get a copy of these,’ she said, waving the file. ‘Are there any you want?’
Gérard shrugged. ‘This one, perhaps.’
‘There is a book published just a few years ago by a local woman, Muriel Proust de la Gironière. You might be lucky enough to find a copy in a bookshop,’ said the librarian, as Sue accepted the photocopies.
One o’clock found them in the Place Colbert by the carousel, waiting for Jayne, watching the passers-by: parents with young children, dressed like dolls; clusters of teenagers, bare mid-riffs, trousers almost sliding off their hips; and couples, everywhere couples. Sue sighed. Would she and Ben ever be a couple again? She glanced at Gérard and wondered what it would be like to be single.
‘You sighed.’ Gérard was very observant, more observant than Ben, more observant than she would have expected of a man who spent all day with figures.
‘Does every French town have a carousel?’ she asked.
‘Of course.’ Gérard smiled proudly.
‘A carousel gives a carnival atmosphere. Magical. Child-like.’
‘Of course.’
‘As if anything could happen and … and it would be all right, because it wouldn’t be quite real.’
‘You are an extraordinary woman.’
‘Me?’ She wondered what he meant. Ben had never called her extraordinary. Sue bowed her head and smoothed imaginary wrinkles from her skirt. As she lifted her gaze, Jayne emerged from behind a tall bed of greenery and flowers, hurrying in their direction. ‘There’s Jayne,’ she said, relieved.
‘Good. Then we can eat.’
They followed Gérard to the eastern side of the square to a busy café, tables spread before it on the pavement. Soon they were seated under a green umbrella.
‘What’s that?’ she heard Jayne ask, pointing to a large stone arch with two reclining figures atop.
‘A fountain. Commemorating … oh, something.’ Gérard gesticulated vaguely. He summoned the waiter with a magisterial nod; not condescending, but quietly confident. She could live with a man like that, she thought. She could love a man like that.
Conversation lapsed as they ate. Sue had not noticed how hungry she was.
‘I can’t stay long,’ Jayne said, dabbing her lips. ‘I’ve booked a tour of Pierre Loti’s House at 2:15.’
‘Who’s Pierre Loti?’ asked Sue.
‘He was a Naval Officer and novelist,’ said Gérard.
‘Romance novels,’ said Jayne, not to be upstaged. ‘Apparently he furnished each room of his house sumptuously in the style of a different culture. Should be worth seeing, judging by its popularity – and the price.’
‘I will show Sue the Arsenal and the Corderie Royale. Have you been there yet?’ Jayne indicated she had. ‘Then we shall meet at the carpark. 4:30.’ He indicated “round about” with a pout of his bottom lip and an oscillating movement of his right hand. ‘Off you go, Jayne, or you will be late.’
Jayne cast a suspicious glance at Gérard as she gathered her things, then walked briskly in the direction of Pierre Loti’s House, pausing on the far side of the square to turn and wave. Sue and Gérard sat a little longer.
‘There’s something about being away from home …’ Sue leant forward and rested her chin on her hand. ‘Don’t you think?’ Why was this man so easy to talk to?
‘I’m sure there is.’
Sue felt herself floating in an unreal world. ‘I must ring the children tonight. Charlie and Jason.’
‘Does Charlotte look like you?’
‘I suppose so, a bit. My colouring. But much prettier.’
‘I find that hard to believe.’
A slow smile spread across Sue’s features. He was a flatterer; she could see that; she was not a blind adolescent. But it was alluring, inviting. She wondered why his wife left him. ‘You are wicked,’ she said.
‘Madame!’ Gérard feigned shock.
‘Monsieur.’
Sue gazed at the sky. Grey clouds were rolling in. ‘We should go. Before it rains.’
19.
They strolled through the old town towards the Charente River, passing through the Porte du Soleil, the Sun Gate, to the Arsenal and the landscaped parkland that Gérard explained had been naval docks and boatyards from the Middle Ages until the early 1900s. This was where the Comte de Paris had embarked, Sue realised, sailing west, down the river to the Atlantic Ocean. The river must have been a more substantial waterway then than now, she thought, appraising its shallow, weed-filled waters. She remembered reading that the ship had become stuck on a mud-bank a few miles downstream and that before they were properly underway a woman had thrown herself overboard and drowned – presumably that had seemed a better choice than following her husband into the unknown.
In a nearby floating dock, they found a replica was being constructed of the square-rigger Hermione, in which Layfayette sailed to America in 1780. Scaling the scaffold around it, Sue was amazed by the small dimensions of the craft. It brought home the realities of the conditions Brigitte and others must have endured in a similar ship on their long passage to New Zealand. She imagined the ship being tossed like a small gull on unforgiving seas. The distress of its passengers hit her like a fist, taking her breath away.
‘Come. I have something to show you.’ Gérard took Sue into the Corderie Royale. ‘Three hundred and seventy-four metres long,’ said Gérard. ‘For making rope for the French Navy.’ Now it was a museum.
One of the displays captivated Sue: a large model under a dome of glass.
She gasped. ‘This is Rochefort in 1830. As Brigitte saw it. Amazing.’ Sue circled the model slowly, drinking in the detail. Every building was there. She could see that, basically, the old city was unchanged to this very day, except for the dockyard area beside the river. She could recognise many of the buildings they had passed or visited.
Gérard stood back and smiled.
‘You knew this was here, didn’t you? And you didn’t say. You wanted to surprise me.’
‘And I succeeded. Come. I want to show you something else.’ He extended his hand and crooked his fingers. ‘Come.’ Sue would have followed him anywhere. He led her through a doorway into another section of the long building. It was dark, save for round booths shielded with gossamer veils and lit from within, each a different colour. ‘Come,’ Gérard repeated, taking Sue by the hand. He drew her into the first of the booths, and music swelled. ‘Sit here.’
Bathed in soft turquoise light, they sat side by side in a small private sound shell, listening to French sea shanties. The light reflected back at them off the gauze hangings. Mesmerising.
‘What would you like to listen to next? Vaudeville? Chanteuses? Popular songs from different eras?’
‘Chanteuses,’ said Sue, without hesitation.
They navigated between the rainbow rows of gossamer veils until they found the right booth. As they entered the glowing sound shell, the gravelly voice of Edith Piaf engulfed them. Sue sat on the bench and closed her eyes. The whole world was lost to her, except for the music. She reached out her hand and found Gérard’s. A physical sensation of peace swept through her, washing away the tension that had gripped her since Ben’s fateful phone call. She could remain like this forever.
Eventually, Gérard’s voice intruded. ‘We should be going,’ he said, and withdrew his hand.
‘Must we? Yes, of course we must.’ Sue rubbed her hands over her face and shook her head, as if ridding it of cobwebs. She screwed her eyes shut and slipped her sunglasses onto her nose as they stepped out into the glare of the late summer afternoon. The cloud cover was now complete, light overhead but glowering to the west, from where a fresh wind blew.
Sue pulled her cardigan from her pack.
‘Looks like rain,’ said Gérard. Sue shivered. He put his arm around her shoulders and they leant into the wind. They were barely out of the Arsenal enclave when the first drops fell. ‘Quick,’ Gérard said. ‘There’s our ride.’ Along the street, at walking pace, came a horse-drawn covered cart.
To Sue’s eyes, the horse plodding towards them, wearing a ridiculous straw hat, looked mournful and bored. In other weather, she might have thought it picturesque. Gérard signalled the driver and she drew the horse to a halt. Squeezed together and sheltered from the rain, Sue settled back to enjoy the ride, a musky smell rising from her clothes as they dried. She must look a wreck, she thought.
‘This interest of yours has sparked my curiosity,’ said Gérard.
‘Good,’ said Sue. ‘How far back do you have information about your family?’
‘No further than my grandparents, I’m afraid. But your enthusiasm moves me to seek more, both for my sake and yours.’ He grinned and Sue’s insides lurched. With difficulty, she focussed on their conversation.
‘Perhaps you could explore the Dujardin-Clémence connection. Fill in some of the gaps. I would love to be able to make –’ she muttered to herself in English, ‘How do you say ‘contact’?’
‘Contact,’ Gérard offered, in French.
‘You … you speak English?’ Sue asked in her native tongue.
‘Of course,’ Gérard replied in the same language.
‘You didn’t say.’
‘You did not ask.’
‘You’ve let me struggle on, making mistakes, fumbling for words.’ Sue was ready to believe Gérard had been having a joke at her expense and humiliation flared. But not for long.
‘I like to ’ear you. Your accent. It is si charmant.’ He kissed her cheek. Reverting to French, he said: ‘Now, you were saying? You would love to make contact … ’