The Book of Lost and Found

by Lucy Foley

  Do write soon. I am longing to hear your news.

  Much love,

  From the balcony of her bedroom, Alice can see the busy thoroughfare of the Grand Canal and beyond, out to the distant blue haze of the lagoon itself and the outlines of faraway boats. When she watches these shapes, moving incrementally closer or further away, embarking upon unknowable voyages to other lands, she feels something move and shift inside her, a feeling somewhere between excitement and despair.

  While she is here, staying in with her aunt, she can imagine that she is a person with a purpose to call her own, with options beyond those that usually appear available to her, with independence. In reality, she has none of these things.

  Coming to Venice, the thrill of this small voyage out of her usual sphere of existence, has shown her how much more she wants to do with her life than would be possible in that confining sphere her mother expects her to enter. She wants to live courageously.

  Later, Alice and Lady Margaret attend a party thrown by one of Margaret’s illustrious friends. Alice is again out of her depth in this smoke- and talk-filled room, surrounded by the great and important. She feels talentless and uninteresting. That woman over there is, apparently, a famous novelist; and this man here, with the round glasses, is a pre-eminent psychoanalyst whose recent paper has challenged much of the common thinking surrounding the Freudian concept of the hysteric. What does Alice do, they ask? Nothing? Really? How on earth does she spend her time, in that case?

  Alice seeks refuge in the ruby-coloured drinks that are being passed round. A ‘Negroni’, the waiter tells her, and after the first sip, she decides she hates it; it is bitter, almost medicinal, and eye-wateringly strong. Yet she perseveres, for it is the only thing available, and everyone else seems to be drinking them without complaint. She is determined not to be shown up further by her immature palate.

  By the bottom of the third glass, Negronis are Alice’s favourite drink in the world. She could bathe in them. She is also rather drunk, though still in that strange interim stage whereby she is not so inebriated that she is unaware of the fact, and conscious of the need to do something about it. She slips from the room, letting herself out through the glass doors at the side of the room that lead on to the balcony, intent on getting a breath of air inside her lungs, clearing her head of the alcohol and the fug of cigarette smoke.

  It is perfect: cool and quiet, save for the secret sound of the gently moving water. On the opposite bank several lanterns hang reflected in the water as glowing orbs of light. In Alice’s stupefied state, the subtle movements of these reflections are mesmerizing. She sits down on a stone bench amid the shrubbery and plant pots, then half lies down and presses her hot face against the cold seat. The sensation is deliciously soothing. At some point she must have fallen asleep, because a sudden disturbance has her returning groggily to herself. Alice is at a loss as to what it is that has woken her, until she hears a voice: ‘Rather cool for sleeping under the stars,’ he says. He walks towards her, picking his way through the greenery.

  She sits up, and his face swims into focus. Not a conventionally handsome man, perhaps, though he is rather romantic looking, if such a distinction can be made. His nose is too large for his face, with an odd flatness across the bridge, suggesting that it has once been broken. His lips are too thin – though there is something attractive, purposeful, about the set of them.

  He regards Alice inquisitively, as if an answer is expected of her, and she realizes that she must have been staring. ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘I came out here to clear my head.’ Her words stick to her tongue, run together thickly. She feels how she must look to him: a dishevelled, drunken child. Yet he smiles and nods. ‘Me too. Too much hot air in there, most of it provided by the occupants.’

  Alice laughs, pleasantly scandalized, feeling the fog of alcohol begin to lift. He takes a couple of steps closer.

  ‘I confess I followed you out here – it looked as though you had found the perfect escape route. I don’t want to intrude, though.’ His accent is good, but not perfect: there is the tell-tale guttural sound of the ‘r’, the dropping of the ‘h’ – a Frenchman, she thinks.

  She shakes her head. ‘Not at all. It’s nice to have company.’

  ‘Was it very bad in there?’

  ‘Mm. Pretty awful. A bit tired of all those … writers.’ Alice gestures with her hands, vaguely. There is much more that she wants to say on the subject, but she cannot articulate it. She shuffles along the bench to give him space and he sits, letting out a grateful sigh, as though he has travelled far, through the night, to rest here beside her. Aware anew of the chill of the October air, Alice wonders whether it is because it has been thrown into relief by the warmth of his form beside her. She notices too, now that he is so close, that he has beautiful hair – as dark as her own, growing in tight curls. She feels a sudden, almost irresistible urge to place her palm against it, to test the spring of it. She is still trying to make up her mind whether or not to do so, her hand hovering dangerously at her side, when he speaks again.

  ‘So, you must be Alice.’

  She stares at him as though he has performed a magic trick. ‘How did you guess?’

  ‘Lady Margaret surely does not have more than one beautiful young niece here in Venice?’ It could sound caddish, this line, but he pulls it off – something, perhaps, to do with the way he delivers it, the ironic quirk of his mouth. ‘I heard that you were visiting from England.’

  ‘Well,’ she says, with bravado, ‘since you’re so well informed about me, may I ask who you are?’

  ‘I’m Julien.’

  ‘How do you know my aunt?’

  ‘One of my friends is an artist who has sold her a couple of pieces,’ Julien explains. ‘And some of your aunt’s acquaintances have sympathies with my own work – including our host, the novelist.’ He quirks an eyebrow. ‘I confess that I am a writer, too, of sorts – don’t crucify me!’ he says, holding up his hands as Alice rolls her eyes at him. ‘I promise I’m not going to bore you with a long lecture on the Modern style. I don’t write novels. My work as a writer is secondary to my work as a man of action. I write about what I believe in, that which I would prefer to act upon than write about, should the opportunity present itself.’

  At her blank look he explains: he is a member of Le Parti Communiste Français. ‘Several of us have come over to meet with our Italian brothers. To find out how they’re faring, with all that’s been happening here. Life has become rather complicated for them of late.’ He smiles down at her. ‘So, tell me. Who is Alice? What does she do?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she says, with a shrug. ‘At least, nothing worth mentioning. I’m not talented, you see. I was good at lessons when I was at school, but—’

  ‘Alice,’ he says, cutting her off, ‘how old are you?’

  ‘Twenty-two.’

  ‘Exactly. So tell me, please, how on earth are you supposed to know what your talents are at twenty-two? When I was your age I wasn’t half as interesting a person as you are now.’

  She looks up at him, and wonders how old he is. She sees, too, in the light thrown from one of the lanterns, that his eyes aren’t black as she’d first thought but a dark almost navy blue, fringed with thick lashes. These eyes give him a roguish, slightly piratical look.

  ‘You mustn’t let that crowd in there crush you,’ he says. ‘They may be talented – a few of them, at least – they may be celebrated, but they aren’t necessarily interesting in their own right. Most of them are phoneys, through and through. Your Aunt Margaret – she’s a good sort, though. Knows the wheat from the chaff.’

  His knowledge of this expression emphasizes his fluency. ‘Where did you learn to speak English so well?’ she asks.

  ‘I do? I’m flattered. I studied at Cambridge, for three years. A long time ago now, but it’s stuck with me – it’s a beautiful language, not as celebrated as it should be. People talk about the elegance of French, but it’s a dusty tongue, antique … unevo
lved.’

  He asks her what she has seen of Venice. She lists the sights and he shakes his head, apparently appalled. ‘So you haven’t ventured out of San Marco?’

  ‘The square?’

  ‘The sestiere. The district of the city that we’re in now.’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘In that case you’ve seen barely a sixth of this city.’

  ‘Oh,’ she says, stung. ‘Well, Aunt Margaret can’t go far at the moment, because her hip has got worse. I’m sure if she could she’d take me.’

  ‘I think you need a guide,’ Julien says thoughtfully. ‘Would your aunt consider me a suitable chaperone? I’ve been here several times before, you see – I know my way about rather well.’

  ‘I don’t think she’d have any objection. In fact, I’m fairly sure she would have let me go off on my own, if I’d asked her. She’d probably think it an excellent idea.’

  ‘Well then, how about the day after next? Tomorrow I have plans, but Thursday can be yours alone.’

  Alice finds herself agreeing. Beneath the mist of alcohol that has dulled her senses she feels a bolt of anticipation shoot through her.

  ‘Have you a Baedeker?’

  She nods. ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Throw it away. You won’t need it for my tour. I like the parts of a city that are more … mixed. You can’t find my version of Venice in your tourist manual.’

  When Alice asks her aunt over supper, Lady Margaret is as sanguine about the plan as Alice had anticipated. ‘How wonderful that you should have the chance to explore the city with someone closer to your age. How old is he, exactly?’

  Alice shrugs. ‘I didn’t ask. He talks as though he’s ancient.’

  ‘Excellent,’ says Lady Margaret. ‘A man of the world is by far the most interesting sort. Well, you will get much more from the experience, I should think, than you get from travelling about with me.’ Alice tries to demur, but Lady Margaret holds up a hand. ‘You are kind to protest, but I am certain that it is the case.’ She takes a thoughtful sip of her wine, which, incidentally, is an almost perfect match for the pigment she has applied to her hooded eyelids.

  It is her third, or perhaps fourth, glass to Alice’s one, and Alice would be unable to think by this stage had she consumed the same. Yet the alcohol appears to have no effect whatsoever on her relative. Aunt M. is as lucid and eloquent – if anything slightly more so – than ever.

  ‘Julien Arnaud,’ she says, thoughtfully. ‘I have read some of his work, and he writes well, though I must admit I do not agree with all of his theories, or the sentiment with which they are expressed. That is not to say they don’t intrigue me, but there is too much violence in them, when the world is violent enough already.’ Then, in the mercurial way that is her wont, she changes topic. ‘Have you heard from that friend of yours? The artist … the one who adores you?’

  Alice feels her face grow hot. How is it that her aunt is always able to get right to the heart of things? ‘He doesn’t adore me, Aunt M.’

  Lady Margaret gives her a look. Alice braces herself for more, but her aunt takes pity on her. ‘I was impressed with his work. I know that I was probably on the harsh side, when I critiqued it.’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘In a few years’ time I would be extremely interested to see how he has progressed.’ She shrugs. ‘But then it may all come to nothing. Especially if he gives in and goes into … what was it?’

  ‘Law.’

  ‘Yes, I remember now.’

  ‘That’s what his parents want.’

  ‘Then we must hope that he has the strength to resist. For all our sakes.’

  Why was it, Alice thinks, as she makes her way back to her room, that when Aunt M. was talking of Tom she was aware of an odd, unpleasant sensation within her, almost as though something had lodged in her chest? It is there still, in fact. A feeling curiously like guilt. She reminds herself that she has not done anything to harm him, nothing of which she should be ashamed. Not yet, says an inner voice. You haven’t yet.

  29 October 1929

  Dearest T,

  I hope you are well – though I am sure I need not ask as it sounds as if things are better than ever. Your letter arrived yesterday with your news about the exhibition. I know you say it’s only a few pieces, but I think it’s so exciting. I have no doubt that they will far outshine any of the others. Not particularly sportsmanlike of me, perhaps. I only wish I could be there to sing your praises to visitors … and to boast about having ‘discovered you’. Please don’t sell everything – you must have something saved for me to buy when I come home. And especially not that drawing you made by the lake: I think you know the one.

  I, too, have exciting news: I have found a partner in crime. He is no Tom Stafford, but still, he is someone to explore the city with. I met him at a party given by a friend of Aunt M. It was rather a dull affair, for me, anyway, as I am getting somewhat tired of being made to feel gauche, untalented and uninteresting. You, as an artist, would have been celebrated no end. I, though, am barely more than a poorly educated schoolgirl to them. And then I met Julien, or perhaps a better way of phrasing it is to say he rescued me.

  I do not know much about him, other than that he is French but knows Venice well – and he speaks excellent English, because he spent several years in England. At a guess, I would say he is around thirty. What’s more, he’s a Red. Imagine what the Wicked Stepfather would do if he knew! Anyway, Julien has offered to show me around the city tomorrow. He calls it ‘the alternative tour’, because he claims that it would never appear in the pages of a tourist manual, which is, naturally, a good thing. I shall tell you how it goes. One day, perhaps we shall come back to Venice together, you and I, and I will be able to give you the tour myself.

  All my love,

  18

  Corsica, August 1986

  The final letter was a surprise: a single sheet of paper only.

  Dearest Tom,

  I had to write and tell you about yesterday. I felt, for the first time, a real connection with this city. I saw the Venice I would want to paint, if I had your talent. I’m sorry this is a short note. I’m ever so tired from walking for a whole day yesterday, and perhaps suffering from some wonderful drinks Julien introduced me to. Tomorrow afternoon, we shall explore Santa Croce and San Polo: my Venetian education continues.

  I stared at the last letter, trying to discover some meaning that might be hidden behind the words. The carelessness of it astounded me. Could Alice not see how it would have looked to him? I needn’t have worried about discovering words of love that were not for my eyes – they were not to be found here. I did not know what I would say to Stafford when he asked me what had I made of them.

  I was so lost in my thoughts that it was several seconds before I realized that Oliver had appeared at the bottom of the stone steps.

  ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘hello.’

  He didn’t look exactly overjoyed to see me. Perhaps he too had come down here to be alone. Now that I knew his reasons for being at Maison du Vent, I was guiltily conscious that I might have intruded upon his place of sanctuary.

  ‘I had a good time, last night.’

  I looked at him, surprised. But it was impossible to tell whether he was sincere or merely being polite.

  ‘So did I,’ I said, because I had, despite my misgivings. ‘Thank you.’

  He gestured. ‘What have you got there?’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, as casually as I could, ‘some letters.’ My heartbeat quickened. I was certain that Stafford would not want me to share them.

  Something flashed into Oliver’s face then: irritation, or – conceivably – hurt. To my relief, he let it go. Instead, he sat down on the sand a few metres away, next to the water’s edge, and stared straight out to sea, resting on his forearms, his feet making lazy circles in the shallows. I was pleased that he had decided to stay, that he hadn’t seen fit to leave immediately upon finding me there.

  ‘It�
��s a great spot down here,’ I said.

  ‘What?’ He turned around, and I saw that he had been lost in thought. He looked at me for a few seconds as if he had forgotten I existed. Then, finally, he seemed to register what I had said. ‘Oh … yes. It’s the best beach I know on the whole island.’

  ‘Though of course you may be biased.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so. I used to come down at the end of the holidays – when I knew it was time to go back to Paris, I’d hide under there –’ he gestured to the blue-hulled fishing boat, which had been dragged up the beach and turned over. ‘For some reason it took Grand-père hours to find me.’

  ‘Ah,’ I said, ‘perhaps he didn’t want you to go either.’

  I gazed out at the scene before me: the colours of the sea and sky so vivid that they were scarcely credible. I admit that I forgot about the letters for a while, and simply sat and enjoyed the feeling of the heat pounding down on the bare skin of my shoulders and legs, pushing my feet into the sand until they met the cold, secret layers deep down that were untouched by the sun.

  Mum would have loved this, I thought, automatically. But then I stopped. No, I realized … she wouldn’t. She’d never been able to be still for long: to simply sit and look at something. That was me, what I liked. Mum, in contrast, needed to be active, constantly occupied. The scant couple of times we had been to the beach together she’d grown bored of sitting on her towel within minutes, and had exhorted me to play catch, or come swimming with her. How could I have forgotten that, if only for a second? It terrified me that I had done so. Because here was the awful feeling again: that she was slipping away from me, that I would lose her bit by bit until there was no more than a shadowy outline.

  I glanced up, and realized that Oliver was watching me. Instantly I felt panicky, exposed.