Stolen Time

by Chloé Duval

  That was how I found myself, one Wednesday afternoon after my classes were done, entering the office of the local branch of the Breton newspaper. Disregarding the many test papers I still had to grade, I started digging through the microfilm of newspapers printed between 1970 and 1971.

  In my bright-eyed enthusiasm, I launched a keyword search, confident that the files had been indexed. I soon discovered I was totally wrong. It was impossible to search through the files by keyword. Only one solution remained—go through all the microfilm for the period from May 1970, when the church had burned down, to September 1971, when the letter had been sent. Which meant skimming through 547 issues, which in turn meant 8,207 pages printed in Times New Roman 8. At least the titles were in size 18 font—if I had to read everything, I’d be in here for the next few weeks.

  I had to go over to the archives six times, spending many hours of my Wednesday and Saturday afternoons the following weeks, before I discovered the information I was looking for. Though the time I spent poring over the newspapers allowed me to uncover a hoard of interesting facts that would probably be very useful when I wrote my novel, it was also fuel for much false joy and many wasted hours.

  But I instantly forgot my disappointment and my frustration at the time I’d spent boxed in the narrow room when I finally discovered something useful. It was an article reporting progress on the church repairs. I’d already found a few, as reporters tended to feel obligated to detail each step of the restoration. But this was a more general article, and it had a picture accompanying it, featuring the skilled workers to whom Karouac owed a functional, beautiful, almost as good as new church. There was a caption below the photograph listing the names of the workers, from left to right: Denis Breton, François Delaporte, Gérard Beaulieu and Benoît Arnoux, all qualified builders and stonemasons, and young aspiring Compagnon Erwan Kermarrec. All five worked under the supervision of Daniel Bourgeois, the general contractor and head of the masonry company hired by the town, top right on the photograph, himself a Compagnon.

  I stilled.

  Erwan Kermarrec, aspiring Compagnon. It fit perfectly. The initial E, the near-Compagnon status . . . I had found Amélie’s mysterious lover. It had to be him.

  Erwan Kermarrec.

  With a K. Was it the same K as in Lili K? If it was, why had Amélie added Erwan Kermarrec’s initial to her creation if she’d married another man? Questions and conjectures whirled through my mind, and I was dangerously close to throwing caution to the winds and pressing Chantale to give me Amélie’s address, manners be damned.

  Instead, I printed the article and studied the picture. It was small and grainy, but I thought Chantale had been right. Erwan was handsome. Early twenties, square jaw, charming smile . . . And unruly hair. If he hadn’t looked a little shy, he would have been the perfect bad boy.

  I smiled. I could understand why Amélie had fallen in love with him. He was terribly cute, in his own way.

  I slipped the article into my notebook and continued to look, galvanized by my success, hoping there would be other articles about Erwan.

  There was just one, dated September 1, 1971, entitled “A New Virgin Mary for the Karouac Church.” The reporter, one Solenn Perrec, explained that the Karouac parish had received a foot-and-a-half-tall stone Virgin Mary as a gift from a promising young sculptor, Erwan Kermarrec. After a year working under the direction of Daniel Bourgeois during his Tour de France, she went on, young Erwan had offered the church an art piece he had sculpted during the time he’d spent in Karouac. She concluded by informing readers that Erwan had left the town that same morning to head out to his next post, and wishing him luck. A picture of Erwan’s statue accompanied the article. Unfortunately, it was in black and white and very little could be seen.

  At the end of the day, I had found nothing more to help me re-create Amélie and Erwan’s story. I leaned back in my chair, gazing at the two articles I’d unearthed and printed, wondering if the statue was still there—and in that case, if I could have a look at it.

  * * *

  The next day, after school, I decided to go and see the statue Erwan had sculpted. Now that I knew his name, I had stopped using his initial. Holding the article I’d printed, I stepped through the door, crossed myself—a remnant of a Catholic education I cannot seem to let go, despite my best efforts—and stopped in my tracks, dazzled by the beauty around me.

  It may seem strange, but though I’d been living in Karouac for five years, I had never set foot in the church. Not even to visit it, which was unusual enough for someone who calls herself a historian and should, by definition, live in the past. I’d visited all the surrounding castles, as well as all the historical monuments, but I’d never come here. Better late than never, my father always says, and I was finally mending my ways.

  The church was magnificent. Romanesque architecture, probably dating back to the sixteenth or seventeenth century, it was simple and modest, but wide, bright, and comfortable. Tall stone pillars separated the central nave from lower side-aisles. Light streamed through an incredible array of colored glass, and the inside of the church positively glowed.

  I hugged the leather satchel, which held both articles as well as all my notes, to my chest. I slowly walked between the pews, feeling as though I needed more eyes to take everything in. I reached the transept and looked around for Erwan’s Virgin Mary. Finding nothing, I went over to the priest who had just entered.

  “Hello, Father. Can I ask you something?”

  “Of course. How can I help you? I am Father François,” he added with a smile.

  I opened my leather satchel and showed him the article. “I’m looking for this statue.”

  “Ah, young Erwan’s Virgin Mary. Follow me.”

  The priest led me to a hidden corner on the left end of the transept and pointed. “Here it is.”

  I drew closer to examine it. It was indeed the statue from the photograph. I lingered over the face, a pure, exquisite shape, though different from the usual representations. Instead of the round cheeks of an angel, Erwan’s Virgin Mary had high, defined cheekbones and large, half-lidded eyes. There was a barely there smile on its lips, and its downturned face expressed quiet happiness, almost bliss.

  “It’s beautiful.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the priest nod. “It is. The sculptor was a very talented young man.”

  I turned to him. “Did you know him?”

  “I did, and rather well, I think.”

  “Oh, Father, would you tell me about him? What you know of him?”

  “Can I ask you why?”

  I looked down, then raised my gaze to meet his. “It’s a long and slightly crazy story, Father . . . In short, I happened upon a letter bearing his initial and the name of another person, a woman. I managed to trace the letter back to him, and—”

  “And you’d like to know more about him?”

  I nodded. “I’d like to try to find him.”

  “I see.”

  “Can you help me?”

  “It was such a long time ago . . .”

  “Forty-five years.”

  “Forty-five years . . . I was a young priest then. I still remember the day he came with this gift. He was . . . unsettled. Sad.”

  “How so?”

  He looked embarrassed, as though he’d already said too much. “It’s not my place to tell.”

  I felt my shoulders slump along with my hopes. My smile dropped off my face. “Of course not.” I tried to hide my disappointment. “Do you know where he is now?”

  “No. I haven’t heard from him since he left Karouac.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Have you tried asking the Brittany Compagnons office?”

  “Not yet. That’s my next step.”

  “They might be able to help you. I think he told me he wanted to go back to his birthplace once he’d finished his training.”

  “Where would that be?”

  “In the Finistère”

  H
is answer brought back memories of trips I had taken there with my father. The Finistère is the region at the very tip of Brittany, where it extends into the Atlantic Ocean, just east of Lannion and Karouac. It was incredibly beautiful there, raw and almost untouched by the human hand. There, you could find all the landscapes of Brittany gather into one place: agricultural fields and forests bordering rocky cliffs that dropped down to the stormy sea—and many typical Breton villages, wearing proudly their Celtic origins and influences.

  I always thought that it was the most Breton area in all of Brittany.

  Needless to say, I loved it there.

  “Thank you very much,” I said to Father François. “At least now I have a place to start looking.”

  “I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful. That’s all I can tell you. The rest . . . is under the seal of confession.”

  “I understand, Father. Thank you for your help. Have a nice day.”

  I was already walking away when he called me back.

  “Miss?”

  “Yes?” I turned back to him.

  “If you do find him . . . Please ask him to let me know how he’s doing, if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course, Father, I will.”

  As I walked away, I wondered why Erwan had been unsettled on the day he’d given Father François the statue of the Virgin Mary.

  Karouac, Brittany

  August 1, 1971

  Erwan pushed the heavy church door open and sat on one of the pews, setting his precious burden down beside him. He breathed in the scent of the church, that mixture of incense and the polish used on the wooden pews. This would probably be the last time he’d visit here, this place where he had spent so much time. From the very first days, he had loved the silence, the peace and serenity he had found here. He wasn’t a true believer, and barely a churchgoer, but he had been raised in the Catholic faith, and some of that had stayed with him. In his eyes, a church was a place of contemplation, the perfect place to gather his thoughts.

  Father François silently came up and sat next to him, as he had so often done in the past year, and waited for Erwan to speak.

  “It’s my last day, Father.”

  “You don’t look happy about that. Weren’t you looking forward to exploring new horizons?”

  “I was. I am.”

  “What changed?”

  “Nothing. Everything. I met the woman of my dreams. The love of my life.”

  “You sound very sure for someone who is still quite young.”

  “I’m sorry, Father, but my feelings have nothing to do with my age.”

  “How can you know?”

  Erwan kept silent for a few moments. “How old were you when you decided to become a priest, Father?”

  “Around your age, I think.”

  “And how did you know that was the right decision? That it was what you were meant to do?”

  “I just knew.”

  “And I know Amélie is the love of my life.”

  “That’s not the same thing.”

  “With all due respect, Father,” Erwan said, “it’s exactly the same thing.”

  Father François thought about it for a moment. “You’re right, it is. What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t want to lose her.”

  “If she’s meant to be with you, you won’t lose her. The Lord will reunite you, whatever may happen.”

  Erwan let out a skeptical laugh. “Maybe. But I’d rather rely on myself.”

  Father François sighed. “Ah, faithlessness . . . The plague of the younger generation!”

  Erwan smiled grimly. “I came to say goodbye, Father. And leave you a gift.”

  “A gift?”

  Wordlessly, Erwan handed over his burden.

  “You shouldn’t have.”

  “It’s not much.”

  The priest unwrapped the cloth, revealing a statue of the Virgin Mary carved out of stone.

  “Did you do this?”

  Erwan nodded. “I took an old stone block that had fallen off the church that we had no use for, and I carved this for you. To thank you for all you have done.”

  “I didn’t do anything, my son.”

  “You did. You were there for me. You listened to me, even when I said things you disagreed with. You never stopped me from expressing myself. And that is important to me.”

  “It’s a beautiful gift, Erwan. I’ll make sure it’s treated the way it deserves. And one day, when you come back, I’ll show you that I took good care of it.”

  Chapter 6

  In addition to delving into the newspaper archives, I had also spent considerable time browsing the internet, looking up any website or Wikipedia page I could find on the Compagnons du Devoir.

  I already knew a few things about the compagnonnage, as was called the fact of being a Compagnon. I remembered, for example, that it was a specific way of training young people—young male people, although in the last decades, the institution seemed to have opened itself to the twenty-first century and started to accept female students—in a specific trade, such as stonemasonry, baking, carpentry, painting, or even landscape architecture, to name but a few. It originated as a guild in the Middle Ages. But as I dug deeper into the secrets and mysteries of the centuries-old institution of the Compagnons du Devoir, I discovered that it was more, much more, than a vocational institution that offered professional training. By experiencing life in community and traveling all around the country—and sometimes even abroad—the aspiring Compagnons not only learned their trade directly on worksites, under the supervision of master craftsmen, but developed precious values like cooperation, generosity, and a thirst for knowledge, all the while developing their character and personality.

  The website of the Compagnons du Devoir made me realize that the journey to become a certified and acknowledged Compagnon, which is called a Tour de France—literally a journey around France—is a very long one, and requires patience and will. It starts after the student obtains a basic diploma in the trade he or she wants to specialize in, and lasts a few years—at least six to eight. During the first year of the Tour, the student is called a stagiaire (Compagnon guest) and has to live in the Compagnon house, where he takes lessons and shares his life with other Compagnons. It’s a kind of initiation into the Compagnon way of life. At the end of the year, the stagiaire may ask to officially become a member of the institution. This requires what is called a travail d’adoption, that is to say some kind of work demonstrating the candidate’s proficiency. If the work is accepted, he becomes an aspiring Compagnon, an aspirant. That’s when he starts working full-time, though he is still required to live in the community’s house and take lessons in the evening. He begins traveling to multiple cities or towns, working on a new job at each stop in his journey. At the end of the Tour de France, after three to five years learning his trade, he presents his travail d’réception, the masterpiece that determines whether he becomes a fully acknowledged Compagnon.

  After that, one would think that the student has earned his Compagnon title . . . but not yet! Once his masterpiece has been accepted, the student becomes a Compagnon itinérant (traveling Compagnon) and must tour for three more years, before he is finally allowed to live and work where he wants—provided that he volunteers to train and teach aspiring Compagnons in the house nearest to him.

  Well, that’s certainly a long journey, one that requires . . . well . . . motivation.

  Discovering all those details helped me understand what kind of man Erwan could have become, what his values were, and most of all . . . where I could find him. Surely, the house where Erwan volunteered would have his contact information—if he was still a Compagnon, obviously, which I was rather hoping he was. If not, maybe they could direct me to a place where they kept details about former Compagnons, where I might find details about the places he went to learn his trade, some of the cities where he lived during his Tour, or something, anything, that would help me find him.

&nbs
p; That was all I had to go on for now. Sometime during my research into the compagnonnage, I had called the inn where Erwan had said he would wait for Amélie, but to no avail. They hadn’t been able to help me—at all. They didn’t even recognize the name, the owners and staff having changed a few times during the four decades that had passed since Erwan wrote his letter. I tried the internet, but my research didn’t yield results that were specific enough for my taste. I couldn’t seem to find him, no matter how I looked for him.

  The Compagnon houses were thus the best alternative I had yet.

  Once I had learnt all about the Compagnons and their way of life, it took me only a few moments to track down the addresses and phone numbers of Compagnon houses in Brittany, making a note of the next opening hours.

  I was calling them the first chance I got, I decided—and this time, I wouldn’t let Erwan elude me again.

  * * *

  That’s how the next Monday after class, I spread my notes around me and called the three main organizations in charge of housing Compagnons. I hit the jackpot in Brest.

  “Of course I know Erwan Kermarrec!” the woman in charge replied once I’d explained why I was calling. “He’s a regular sponsor for our young aspirants and he often gives classes here.”

  I couldn’t stop the wide grin that spread across my face.

  “That’s great! Do you think you could give me his phone number?”

  I felt her hesitate. I bit at my nails while I waited anxiously for her to reply. I’d never been able to kick the habit.

  “I’m not sure I can do that.”

  I’d been afraid of that, and I sighed in disappointment. Everyone was so unhelpful! Had keeping secrets become a national hobby in the last few days? When I was a kid, everyone knew everybody’s business. Why couldn’t I find someone who was a bit of a busybody, who would tell me what I wanted to know with no compunctions? If every historian had to deal with this kind of informant, history books would look a lot more like Swiss cheese . . .