One Evening in Paris

by Nicolas Barreau

  “But, but…” I stuttered. “You … do live in the back of the building on the rue de Bourgogne, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” said the other Mélanie. “That’s right. But we’ve never had a date. And we’ve never kissed under the old chestnut tree. I don’t know you, Alain, and I knew right away that the letter wasn’t intended for me. I just wanted to let you know.”

  “Oh,” I murmured. “That’s … that’s … very unfortunate.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I think so, too. It’s been a long time since I’ve had such a lovely letter. Even if it wasn’t meant for me.”

  I took a few seconds to pull myself together. Thoughts were crowding into my head and I tried to bring some degree of logic into all this confusion.

  “But…” I said, “but there must be a Mélanie. I walked her home myself—into the courtyard. We said good night. She went into the rear of the building, I saw it with my own eyes. I saw the light going on and going off again. I mean, I’m not crazy,” I said a bit lamely.

  The other Mélanie was silent. She probably thought I was getting hysterical. I even thought I was a bit hysterical myself.

  “That is really curious,” she said finally.

  “Do you know if there’s another Mélanie in the building?”

  “No,” she said. “I’m really sorry.”

  I nodded a couple of times, pursing my lips in disappointment. “Well…” I said, “well, then please excuse the mix-up, Madame Dupont. And thanks anyway for calling so soon.”

  “No problem, Alain,” said the other Mélanie. “Just call me Mélanie.”

  * * *

  All I remember of the days that followed is that I felt as if I were being wrapped in cotton wool. The sounds of the world retreated, and I felt my way, strangely insecure, through my own little film, whose ending was getting lost in uncertainty. I didn’t know what I had done to make fate play such a trick on me. I went to the rue de Bourgogne three more times to try to find signs of Mélanie. I went at all times of day to increase my chances, but it was all in vain. I met Madame Bonnet again, I saw grumpy Monsieur Pennec with his irascible wife, a superannuated, extremely well-groomed blonde with combed-back hair, hung from tip to toe with gold jewelry and looking like the Christmas decorations in Printemps. On one of these fruitless afternoons, I even encountered Madame Dupont, the other Mélanie—a charming woman in her late thirties with ash-blond hair and a melancholy look—at the mailboxes and introduced myself to her. She greeted me like an old acquaintance and took her leave with a promise to come to the Cinéma Paradis very soon.

  Mademoiselle Leblanc, the night owl who broke men’s hearts, was, as usual, away. Her neighbor, Monsieur Nakamura, had set off laden with gifts for a family occasion in Tokyo—I heard this from Madame Bonnet, of course. The genteel Monsieur Montabon obviously left his apartment very seldom—at least I never saw him. By this time, I had rung at the doors of all the other neighbors, even those in the front of the building, but no one had been able to help me. And then I had crossed off all the names on my list.

  I stepped out onto the street and felt like I was going crazy, just as the old man who slouched up to me in his slippers on this last visit to the rue de Bourgogne obviously already was. He was hunching along, then stopped as he saw me and gave a wicked little smile. “Dilettantes. All dilettantes,” he said, and spat. There was no way of knowing whom his anger was directed at. As far as I was concerned, he was right. I’d never felt so useless. My thoughts were bitter as I returned home.

  It was about noon as I walked back along the rue de Grenelle, my head bowed low. Most of the stores close for lunch around then, and the street was quiet. I querulously kicked a Coke can out of my way, and it rolled across the sidewalk and came to rest in front of a shop with closed shutters. The white enamel sign said A LA RECHERCHE DU TEMPS PERDU, and it seemed to me like a mocking sign from the heavens. With a curt, bitter laugh, I left the can lying there. I was indeed in search of a few happy hours that now seemed to be irrevocably lost.

  The following week, I even ran after any red coat or mane of dark blond hair that appeared on the street. On one occasion, I saw a woman with a red coat and caramel blond hair getting on the bus outside Bon Marché, and I was sure it was Mélanie. I ran panting beside the bus as it left, shouting and making signs until I got a stitch and grabbed my chest like Yuri Zhivago in that deeply tragic scene where he sees his Lara behind the window of a bus and collapses in the open street when she doesn’t notice him. Unlike the unfortunate Zhivago, I even succeeded in attracting Mélanie’s attention. With a final surge of strength, I jumped up and hammered on the window, but when the woman in the red coat turned toward me, all I saw was an expression of surprise.

  After every setback, I would defiantly take out Mélanie’s little letter and read it. But that was all a sham. The woman in the red coat had disappeared without a trace.

  Finally, I called Robert. “She doesn’t live in the building,” I said sheepishly, and told him about my investigations. “Nobody there knows a woman named Mélanie.”

  My friend whistled through his teeth. “The case is beginning to get interesting,” he said, to my surprise. “Perhaps your Mélanie is a secret agent. Perhaps she was involved in some dubious affair and had to go undercover. Or she’s in a witness protection program, hee hee hee.” He cackled at his own joke, and I said nothing, upset because he wasn’t taking my troubles seriously.

  “Jo-hoke!” he said when he calmed down. “But let’s be serious, Alain. Perhaps she just gave you a false name. Women do that sometimes. Perhaps you’re looking for the wrong name and it is actually the little witch from the second floor that the Japanese guy hates so much. She seems interesting to me.”

  “Oh my God, Robert, can it, will you? Why would anyone do a thing like that? After all, no one forced her to spend an evening with me. And she came to the cinema every week before that wearing a wig, or what? Mademoiselle Leblanc has black hair, you dope! That’s what Monsieur Nakamura said, and he should know. He lives in the apartment opposite and he hates the woman. And apart from that, she obviously doesn’t work in an antiques store!”

  “Yes, well … That could have been something she made up, as well,” said Robert, and I heard him lighting a cigarette. “This Mélanie has somehow pulled the wool over your eyes, that’s definite. I only believe what I see; no one gets the better of me.” My friend obviously liked seeing himself as Daniel Craig. Hard as nails and impossible to influence.

  “That’s absurd, Robert. You’re absurd. Can’t you see that none of this makes sense?” I sighed. “It’s enough to drive you mad. For once, I meet the right woman, and then she disappears—just like that. What should I do now? What can I do?”

  Robert sighed, too. “Oh, Alain,” he said. “Just drop it. Accept it once and for all. The whole thing is doomed. I said so from the very start. And your mood is getting worse and worse. Let’s go to the jazz club this evening with Melissa and her friend and drink a few whiskey sours. Let’s have some fun.”

  “I don’t like whiskey sour. Don’t you have any better suggestions? I’ve got to find that woman again. I’ve just got to find out what has happened. Do you have any other ideas or not?”

  “‘I’ve got to find that woman again. I’ve got to find that woman again.’ Jeez, you really get on my nerves sometimes,” said Robert. But then he did have an idea.

  * * *

  When I set off that evening to see my friend in the rue Huyghens in the fourteenth arrondissement, I’d done my homework.

  We were sitting in the roomy kitchen of Robert’s bachelor pad on the fourth floor, bent over what my friend called the “schedule of all the facts.” In front of us were two water tumblers full of red wine, a big crystal ashtray with a number of stubbed-out butts, and a dish of wasabi nuts, which stung my nose every time I inadvertently allowed one of the green-coated spheres to explode in my mouth.

  The door to the bedroom was ajar. Behind it, on a bed with an incredible
number of pillows, Melissa was lolling in a pale green kimono, listlessly studying a pamphlet with the impenetrable title: Interstellar Regularities in Connection with Black Holes and the Gravitation of Celestial Bodies.

  “Don’t mind me,” she’d called as I hung up my jacket in the hall. “I’m studying.” Nevertheless, she listened in on our conversation, shouting her comments through from the bedroom.

  “Well then, let’s see,” murmured Robert, scrutinizing the list. “We need to look for clues.”

  I nodded thankfully. Robert was a good guy at heart—I’d always known that.

  “Make a list. Write down everything that comes into your head,” he’d said at the end of our phone call. “What she was wearing, what she said, what she talked about. Try to remember. Take your time. Concentrate. Any little detail might turn out to be vital.”

  He was Sherlock Holmes and I was Dr. Watson, a hanger-on who was allowed to share in the great genius of the master detective.

  That Sunday, I had not gone to the cinema. Madame Clément and François were understanding about it. “We can cope on our own, Monsieur Bonnard, don’t worry,” Madame Clément had said. And so I’d sat in my apartment the whole afternoon, talking occasionally to Orphée, who jumped up on my desk and butted me with her head every time I stopped writing and began chewing pensively on my pen. I was hungry but decided to ignore my rumbling stomach. I could eat later.

  After an hour and a half, I had written down everything that I could recall about that Wednesday evening, especially about Mélanie. I made an effort to be exact, which was not very difficult. I could remember some of the things she’d said almost word for word. Not to mention her delightful face. My chair creaked as I leaned back and read through the list with its heading “What I Know about Mélanie” once again.

  What I Know about Mélanie

  1. Appearance: medium height, slim, upright walk, big brown eyes, dark blond hair—a particular blond, reminiscent of shiny caramel candy, or brittle.

  2. Often (always?) wears a scarlet knee-length coat. Old-fashioned cut.

  3. Wears a gold ring with carved roses on her ring finger.

  4. Always comes to the late show on Wednesdays.

  5. Always sits in row seventeen.

  6. Favorite film: Cyrano de Bergerac.

  7. Has an aunt Lucille (Lucie? Luce?), who lives in Le Pouldu.

  8. Was there for a week on vacation before she disappeared.

  9. Obviously does not live on rue de Bourgogne (or does she?). Lives in Paris, in any case. (Also comes from Paris? Brittany?)

  10. No family in Paris, has never been married (at least, that’s what she says), lives alone (completely alone!).

  11. No pets, but likes cats.

  12. Her last boyfriend cheated on her (jade earring). Always meets the wrong men. (“I have a talent for falling in love with the wrong men.”)

  13. Mother dead (the rose ring was hers); sad memories. Family? Men?

  14. Her friend works in a hotel bar.

  15. She works in an antiques store. Her boss is in the hospital with pneumonia (heavy smoker); there is one other colleague.

  16. She works until 7:00 P.M., even later on Thursdays.

  17. Shy at first sight, but also smart.

  18. Likes old things.

  19. Favorite bridge: the pont Alexandre. (“Do you know how lovely it is to walk over the pont Alexandre when the reflection of the city lights starts sparkling in the water and the sky turns lavender? I sometimes stop under those old lamps for a moment…”) Suggests: Lives/works near the bridge? If she doesn’t live in the rue de Bourgogne.

  20. Goes to the cinema when she’s looking for love.

  I smiled with satisfaction. “That’s not at all bad for a beginning,” I murmured. Orphée looked at me with her inscrutable little cat’s face and I stroked her tiger-striped fur. I took her purring for agreement, but a certain professor of astrophysics, whom I then went to see, was not so easily convinced.

  “Hmm,” said Robert, glancing over my list with narrowed eyes. “Is that all?”

  “Well, there are twenty points,” I said.

  Robert clicked his tongue, unpersuaded. “‘Goes to the cinema when she’s looking for love,’” he read out. “How’s that sort of thing going to help us along? He shook his head with a sigh. “I’m afraid that the fact that the color of her hair is reminiscent of brittle is not a real clue.” He read on. “‘Always comes to the late show on Wednesdays.’” He looked at me. “Came is what you mean. Tut, tut, tut. ‘Always sits in row seventeen.’ Should we go and search under the seats there, do you think?”

  “You said I should write down everything that came into my head,” I said, defending myself. “Everything. And that’s just what I’ve done. If you want to make fun of it, go ahead, but that’s the last thing that will help us get anywhere.”

  “Okay, okay,” said Robert. “No need to go off the deep end. I’m doing what I can.” He wrinkled his forehead and stared at the paper, concentrating deeply. “Le Pouldu? Where is that?”

  “In Brittany. She has an aunt there. Do you think we should try there? The way it looks at the moment, it’s not even certain that Mélanie’s even come back from Brittany.” I pulled the kitchen chair nearer to the table.

  “No, no,” said Robert with a dismissive gesture. “Needle in a haystack. Do you really seriously want to travel to Le Pouldu and ask people there if a girl called Mélanie has been staying with an aunt Lucille or Lucie or Luce, whose surname we unfortunately don’t know, either?”

  Disappointed, I said nothing. Somehow I’d hoped that my list would reveal new connections or that my friend would hit on a decisive clue.

  “Her friend works in the bar of a grand hotel,” I told him.

  “Yeah, if the friend had a name, that might be a hot tip,” said Robert.

  “Sorry. I don’t even know if Mélanie mentioned her name at all. I only know that she said that her friend’s cat always drinks out of a flower vase.”

  “Aha.” Robert raised an eyebrow. “Do you at least know the cat’s name?” He grinned. “That would be a new starting point.”

  “Yeah, yeah, Mr. Holmes, mock on.” I wondered for a moment if I should mention the black cat I’d seen in the courtyard of Mélanie’s building in the rue de Bourgogne. But I had no desire for further witticisms at my expense. So I let it go. The rue de Bourgogne had turned out to be a dead end anyway.

  “Hmm,” said Robert again. “The only useful clue I can see here is the business with the antiques store. We might be able to find something out about that.” He looked at me. “Did she mention the name of the store? Or where she works? Or at least what arrondissement it’s in?”

  I shook my head gloomily.

  “Perhaps she said something like ‘I work quite near here.’ Think, man!”

  “I would have written it down if she’s said it.”

  “And the boss? Did she mention his name? Most antiques stores are called after their owners.”

  I nodded in desperation. “Yes, she did. I can even remember that she was talking about her boss as we crossed the boulevard Raspail. But with the best will in the world, I can’t remember his name anymore.”

  “Come on, Alain, think about it.” Robert tried to coax me. “I’m sure you’ll remember it. You only have to want to. It’s possible to call up any memory.”

  I closed my eyes for a moment and tried to beam myself back to the boulevard Raspail. I wanted this; I wanted it so much.

  “I have a nice boss,” Mélanie had said. “But he smokes far too much. Now he’s in the hospital with pneumonia. When we visited him, the first thing he did was to joke that the thing he missed most was his cigars. “Monsieur”—this is where she’d said his name—“is so unreasonable.”

  Monsieur … Monsieur … I made so much of an effort that I felt I was going to make the kitchen table float in the air at any moment.

  I opened my eyes again. “Lapin,” I said. “His name is Lapin.”


  It was just a single letter that was keeping me from my happiness, but it was an important one.

  Robert really had the bit between his teeth. “Leave it to me, I’ll deal with this. Make sure you get some sleep; you look terrible,” he said.

  And then he set three of his research students to work looking for Monsieur Lapin and his little antiques store. The students were charming and, indubitably, highly motivated to do their favorite professor a special favor. But after several days of diligent Googling and telephoning, the ladies threw in the towel. There were hundreds of little antiques stores in Paris, but obviously none of them was called Lapin or registered under an owner of that name.

  “Either this cigar-smoking Lapin has since gone to the happy hunting grounds and his shop has been closed or we’re on the wrong track,” said my friend. “There must be something wrong there.” And Robert was absolutely right about that. The simple fact that I’d confused a P with an L doomed us to failure.

  I was restless, nervous. I just couldn’t understand it. My courage was failing, my mood was bad. During the following two weeks, I always woke up with a feeling that something was not right with my life. I smoked too much—far too much. I’d soon be following the unhappy Monsieur Lapin to the happy hunting grounds. I imagined Mélanie finding me too late and collapsing on my grave. First the boss, then the lover. Tragic.

  “Alain, you’re exaggerating wildly. Man, it’s just a woman; you’ll get over it,” said Robert in his friendly, direct way. I was aware that my pain was making me exaggerate, but what use was that to me? It was no consolation at all.

  Every afternoon, I went to the Cinéma Paradis, and when evening came, I stared out at the street. Madame Clément and François exchanged concerned looks. I ran into my office to get away from their questions.

  The more time passed, the more unlikely it became that I would ever see Mélanie again. Every Wednesday, my turmoil increased out of all proportion. Wednesday had been her day. Our day! And it was only five days till the filming, which I’d totally lost sight of in the interim.