The Disappearance at Père-Lachaise

by Claude Izner

  ‘Well, in that case…a truce may be possible. Does this poor little homeless girl want to move into my palace this evening?’

  He almost kissed her, but already she was moving away to put her hat on in front of the mirror at the end of the studio. Maurice Laumier approached him.

  ‘What do you think of this canvas? Our friend is getting better all the time, don’t you agree? Exhibiting her work at the Soleil d’Or will be a real opportunity for her. Gauguin has decorated the basement, and two Saturdays a month he gets all the artists who contribute to the magazine La Plume to gather there. You’re always going on about literature; you should come along to listen to the poets – they’re the real thing.’

  Victor had no desire to get into an argument with Maurice Laumier. He studied Tasha’s composition, in the centre of which the carnations flared like a flame, throwing the languid silhouette of the woman into shadow.

  ‘I’m surprised that you encourage the study of such conventional subjects,’ he murmured.

  ‘My dear chap, you pretend to know about photography, so surely I don’t have to explain to you that the subject is unimportant, it’s the style that distinguishes the artist.’

  ‘You’re absolutely right. And I like Tasha’s style enormously. I hope you don’t object to that?’

  ‘Don’t start that again! See you tomorrow, Maurice, we’ve got to go.’

  They went out, leaving Maurice fuming. Enraged, he knocked over Tasha’s stool as he sat back down on his own.

  ‘To hear them, you’d think I was a rum baba, and they were silly schoolboys fighting over me in a pâtisserie,’ she murmured, walking quickly up Rue Durantin.

  ‘What did you say?’ asked Victor, who was struggling to keep up with her.

  ‘Nothing, I was talking to myself!’

  Worried, he hurried to catch up with her. What if she changed her mind? She had calmed down by the time they reached Rue Berthe and he was able to walk next to her.

  ‘I’m sorry about earlier. I didn’t mean to be unpleasant to Laumier.’

  ‘When will you stop being jealous?’ she cried, turning to face him.

  ‘Me? Jealous?’

  ‘Listen to me, Victor Legris, we have to sort this out now, once and for all! I had a life before I met you and I will not put up with you interfering in my friendships. You’re suspicious, vindictive and you have no self-control!’

  ‘I’m sorry, I swear that–’

  ‘No vows!’ she exclaimed, laughing, in spite of herself. ‘You won’t be able to keep them.’

  They reached Rue des Martyrs. Above them towered the scaffolding of the Sacré-Coeur construction site whilst, lower down, the sails of the Moulin de la Galette hung over the tiered houses that sat cheek by jowl.

  ‘What about your exhibition? Are you ready for it?’ he asked sheepishly.

  ‘I’m only exhibiting two or three canvases. Framing is so expensive…’

  She slowed down. Now he would think she was asking him for money. Of course, he reacted immediately.

  ‘Tasha, I can pay for it.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Don’t be stubborn! I can afford it and it would give me pleasure…’

  ‘Liar. You told me you disapproved of the venue, too vulgar for your taste.’

  ‘I was being stupid, yet again. I take it all back. I believe in you, in your talent. It would be ridiculous to give up now! Let me do this for you. It’s not as if it’s jewels I want to buy for you, just some bits of wood, for heaven’s sake!’

  She walked along in silence nibbling her thumbnail through her glove. He edged closer to her and pulled her to him. She let herself be drawn into his embrace, indifferent to the clatter of the hansom cabs passing each other on the road.

  ‘That ringing noise is deafening! Oh no, young man, you’ll never convince me!’

  An elegant lady with greying hair was staring at Joseph over a lorgnette. Nearby, a thin young girl whose nose was slightly too long gazed at him adoringly. Hunched over on her stool, Denise was doing her best to escape the notice of the ladies.

  Joseph was showing off an apparatus resting on the desk.

  ‘It’s child’s play, Madame la Comtesse. I’ll show you how it works. And you too, Mademoiselle Valentine. Imagine that you want to talk to your aunt. First you press the bell hard, two or three times, then you lift the receiver and bring it to your ear. You say “allô” – that’s an English word, you don’t say bonjour. The telephonist replies “allô” and you give her the name and address of the person you want to speak to. I’ll demonstrate.’

  He put the receiver to his ear, pausing to observe the effect on his audience.

  ‘Allô…Yes, Mademoiselle, I would like to speak to Madame la Comtesse de Salignac, 22 Rue du Bac, Paris.’

  He smiled at Valentine.

  ‘Here you are, Mademoiselle. You keep the receiver next to your ear until you hear your aunt. Never fiddle with the bell while you’re in the middle of a conversation, because you’ll cut the connection. Speak clearly, without raising your voice, holding the mouthpiece an inch or two from your mouth.’

  He turned to the Comtesse.

  ‘When the conversation is finished, you hang up and press the bell to let the telephonist know that the line is free.’

  The Comtesses de Salignac sniffed disdainfully.

  ‘I don’t see the advantage of owning such an instrument. If you want conversation, there’s nothing better than a tearoom! I’m sure that no sensible person will want to be encumbered with such a device. Tell me, young man, have you received my Georges Ohnet?’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Spirit of Stone and this time I have the name of the publisher: it’s Ollendorff.’

  ‘No, Madame, not yet, it’s only just come out, although we do expect to receive it soon. In the meantime I can recommend the latest Zola.’

  ‘You can’t mean Beast in Man! You must have taken leave of your senses, young man! I counted the deaths: six, you hear me, six! President Grandmorin, assassinated, that makes one. Madame Misard, slowly poisoned, that makes two. Flore, committed suicide, three. Séverine: assassinated. And finally, Jacques and Pecqueux, run over by a locomotive. That Monsieur Zola soaks his pen in blood. He’s not a writer, he’s a butcher!’

  Joseph caught Valentine’s eye. She was trying to stifle a laugh. The Comtesse tapped her on the shoulder with her lorgnette.

  ‘Valentine, we’ll come back when Monsieur Legris does us the honour of being here.’

  As they were leaving, a schoolboy stood aside to let them pass. From outside the shop window, Valentine risked an amorous glance at Joseph, who was then in seventh heaven.

  Meanwhile, the schoolboy, a slender lad whose voice was breaking, was asking for the poetry section. Joseph distractedly pointed out a shelf at right angles to the counter, behind which Denise was still patiently waiting.

  Victor looked in cautiously.

  ‘Has the battleaxe gone?’

  Three heads turned in unison and Joseph exclaimed, ‘You might warn me when you’re about to appear like that from the apartment, I almost jumped out of my skin! You can come in, the coast is clear.’

  Tasha appeared behind Victor.

  ‘Mademoiselle Tasha! How lovely to see you!’

  ‘I’m happy to see you too, Jojo. I’ve been missing your moujik features.’

  She went up to Denise, who got to her feet, blushing.

  ‘Hello, Mademoiselle, you must be Denise? Monsieur Legris told me about your troubles. I can help out for a few days if that would suit you. I have a little room in Rue Notre-Dame-de-Lorette. It’s not luxurious, but you no one will disturb you there and you will have a superb view of the rooftops of Paris.’

  ‘Thank you, Madame, it’s too good of you!’

  ‘Call me Tasha. And it’s a pleasure – I know what it’s like to be homeless. Here’s the key. Joseph will take you; he knows where it is. I hope you don’t mind, Joseph?’

  ‘You can take a cab,’
put in Victor.

  ‘A cab? No, I don’t mind at all! Shall we go straight away?’

  ‘If you like,’ replied Tasha. ‘I’ve left some provisions; don’t hesitate to help yourself. And…please excuse the mess. Oh, one other thing. The roof leaks, and the owner keeps putting off calling the tiler, so don’t move the buckets.’

  Not knowing how to show her gratitude, Denise nervously crumpled her dress between her fingers. She looked anxiously from Victor to Tasha. ‘Monsieur Legris, would it be too much to ask you to get me a reference if you see Madame de Valois, because it will be very difficult for me to find a position if I don’t have a reference and…’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll write you one since your mistress is not here.’

  The schoolboy made his way towards the door, murmuring, ‘I’ll think about it.’

  No one paid much attention to him. Uneasy, Victor tried to appear nonchalant by tapping the bust of Molière. Tasha gave him a stern look and murmured in his ear: ‘Well, what a coincidence – the girl just happens to be employed by Madame de Valois? Suppose we discuss your dear friend Madame Froufrou?’

  ‘Women, they’re all devils, they would lead a saint astray! That Josephine, for example…Hey, are you listening to me?’

  Père Moscou’s neighbour nodded, slowly pouring some water on to a slotted spoon with sugar in it. The liquid dripped into a glass half full of clear alcohol that bubbled and thickened like a magic potion and turned a yellowish colour, verging on emerald green.

  ‘Ferdinand, you shouldn’t touch the green fairy; it eats you from the inside and you’ll become addicted to it – it’ll drive you crazy. Do as I do: stick to the juice of the grape, or beer, even though all they serve in this dive is cat’s piss!’

  While the other man mumbled and groaned, Old Moscou looked around in disgust at the tavern, where he had wasted the last hour. It was next to the undertaker’s at 104 Rue d’Aubervilliers and the room, with its black wall hangings, was full of undertakers’ men, who had come to relax after a trip to one of the many Parisian cemeteries. Whether they had been to officiate at Charonne, Montparnasse or Vaugirard or whether they had gone as far as Ivry or Bagneux, the coffin bearers only wanted one thing: to cheer themselves up with a glass of rough red wine whilst exchanging bawdy anecdotes. That is, if they didn’t prefer to abuse themselves with absinthe.

  ‘I buried her, that treacherous Josephine Bonaparte. She sold the secrets Napoleon told her in bed to Fouché3 and I swear, Ferdinand, that no one will ever discover her body!’

  There were guffaws and a man with three chins shouted: ‘Hey, Moscou! You’re pickled, you’re seeing bodies everywhere! If I were you, Féfé, I’d change tables – he might mistake you for a stiff and dig you a hole!’

  Père Moscou swung round furiously in his chair. ‘You’d better belt up! That’s just like you, Grouchy!’

  ‘Grouchy? Who on earth’s that?’ asked the fat man, guffawing.

  ‘Someone who didn’t dare face the cannons!’ thundered Père Moscou.

  ‘You and your cannons! You’ve been knocking them back, haven’t you, old man?’

  The undertakers laughed even louder. The old man rose in a dignified manner and, hand on heart, launched into a tirade.

  ‘I’ve also had my time with the dead. The rich ones we called salmon, the poor ones herrings. I dug graves at Père-Lachaise for thirty-seven years, while you were all still wet behind the ears! Then one day they said to me, “Your time is up; make way for the young uns!” If my mate Barnabé hadn’t looked out for me, if he hadn’t let me collect things and show people around on the quiet, I might as well have curled up and died. That’s what you can look forward to! When your paws are covered with callouses from burying folk, it’s you who will be balancing on the edge of the abyss. So, a bit of respect, please!’

  Shifting his weight from his right leg to his left, he tore off his hat and angrily scratched his head.

  ‘You mark my words, you’ll see!’

  In the silence that followed, he sat down again. Hunched over his wine, he mumbled to himself, but the names ‘Grouchy’ and ‘Josephine’ could be heard. When he was certain that no one was paying attention to him any more, he felt around in the recesses of his trousers and pulled out some gloves rolled in a ball, some nails, three five-sou pieces, a handkerchief, and then let out an oath. Still cursing through his teeth, he began to rummage feverishly in his other clothes.

  Confound it, hell and damnation, where have they got to? I’ve lost them!…No, here they are!

  He pulled out the jewels that he had removed that morning from the dead woman and rolled them in the palm of his hand, considering them, confusedly persuading himself that they belonged to ‘Chausette Fine Deux Boyards Ney’.4 He opened the cover of the locket. Bewildered, he looked at a portrait of a smiling young man with a moustache. Narrowing his eyes, he leant over to examine the face more closely and he thought he saw it move.

  ‘Who are you? Fouché? Grouchy? You’re certainly not the little corporal, that you’re not! You want to make a fool of me, eh? You’re wrong, Hector! I might be a bit fuddled, but if ever I crossed you in the street, I would remember you as if I’d always known you. Your mug is engraved on my memory.’

  He drained his glass, stowed away all his odds and ends and, holding the jewels tight in his hand, went out into the street, where rows of hearses were parked.

  Just as Joseph was helping Denise out of the cab that had taken them to Rue Notre-Dame-de-Lorette, a cyclist came screeching to a halt. She was wearing culottes, revealing plump calves, made more so by her tightly laced ankle boots. Her plaited grey hair was tied up on the top of her head, making her look like a little girl dressed up as a middle-aged woman. She was tangled in the pedals and was about to fall off when Joseph rushed over to catch her. The bicycle fell to the ground with a metallic thud.

  ‘Mademoiselle Becker, you’ll have to learn to control that animal!’

  ‘Monsieur Joseph! Danke schön, so kind, so kind. Without you I would have fallen flat on my face.’

  As she straightened her clothes, a second carriage slowed down on the other side of the street. The curtain was pulled back slightly. Mademoiselle Becker, Denise, Joseph and the bicycle disappeared into the carriage entrance of number 60. The curtain fell back in place and the second carriage moved slowly on.

  Out of breath, Joseph put the bicycle down on the mat outside an apartment on the first floor. ‘There, the beast is tethered! Don’t let it escape.’

  ‘Danke, Monsieur Joseph. Are you going to see Mademoiselle Tasha? I think she’s gone out.’

  ‘She’s entrusted her key to me; she’s putting up a cousin who’s come to visit Paris.’

  ‘Have you just arrived from the Ukraine?’ Mademoiselle Becker asked Denise.

  Joseph added, ‘One of my cousins. I’m going to act as her guide. See you soon, Mademoiselle Becker.’

  They hurried up the stairs, not pausing until they reached the fourth floor.

  ‘That was the owner,’ explained Joseph. ‘They call her Madame Vulture, because she’s constantly on the watch for tenants trying to scarper without paying their rent. So it’s better if we make her think that you’re my cousin. I hope you’re not too tired – there are still two more floors to go.’

  ‘I’m used to stairs.’

  ‘I’m not. I haven’t even been up the Eiffel Tower; heights give me vertigo. Have you been up it?’

  ‘I would love to,’ murmured Denise, ‘apparently it’s worth it for the view.’

  ‘It’s also worth coming here for the view!’ exclaimed Joseph who had just opened Tasha’s door.

  The garret was full of frames and paintings – views of rooftops and a few male nudes – perched on easels or lying on the floor. Several pairs of gloves were strewn over the hastily made bed. The chairs were covered with clothes and the table was barely visible under a heap of sketches, dirty plates, palettes and paintbrushes.

  ‘It doesn’t matter. I’
ll tidy up – I’m also used to doing that.’

  ‘Don’t tidy too much, otherwise Mademoiselle Tasha won’t be able to find anything,’ Joseph advised her, as he went into the tiny room that served both as kitchen and bathroom. He fetched a jug of water and two glasses that he wiped with his handkerchief. He went back to the bedroom to find that Denise had put her packages on the bed.

  ‘What are you hiding in there? Notebooks?’

  She opened the package and revealed the chromolithograph of a Madonna praying, her head wreathed in a halo.

  ‘It’s The Madonna in Blue, she watches over me. There’s a similar one on one of the windows in the Saint-Corentin Cathedral in Quimper. Every Sunday I prayed to her to make my wishes come true.’

  ‘And you lug it around everywhere with you? It’s a bit of an encumbrance. My mother gives me a rabbit’s foot as a lucky charm each time she cooks a…’

  Denise burst into tears.

  ‘Don’t cry, the rabbit is already dead, of course.’

  ‘Madame’s going to be furious, because that picture doesn’t belong to me. It’s the one she wanted to take to Monsieur’s funerary chapel, but I switched it for the Archangel Saint Michel. When I ran away, yesterday evening, I took it with me because I like it so much, but it’s not stealing, just borrowing. I’m going to give it back, I swear.’

  Not understanding what she was talking about, Joseph awkwardly offered her his handkerchief.

  ‘The Virgin Mary, Archangel Saint Michel, what’s the difference? Come on, dry your eyes or you’ll have a nose as large as a potato. You’ll like it in this room, you’ll see, everything will work out.’

  While he was comforting her, he discreetly turned the nudes to face the wall.

  ‘I imagine it’s not much fun being all alone in Paris without any family. Especially living with Madame Odette. That woman came several times to the shop acting like the Empress of India. She was not the right kind of woman for Monsieur Legris. Look, tomorrow’s Sunday, why don’t I show you around the neighbourhood? We could stroll as far as the Grands Boulevards where there’s a carnival on and a roller coaster. Afterwards we’ll go to my mother’s house for dinner – she’s the queen of frites! You do like frites, don’t you?’