The Road from Midnight

by Wendyl Nissen

  By then I had also been diagnosed with depression. For months I had walked around with a cloud over my head which not even Marco could lift with his devotion. But he never gave up on me, even though I struggled to face the day with a smile for a while, and returned to my old habit of sitting in the bath crying for hours on end. My church visits increased and sometimes I would just sit there all day only coming home when Marco found me and gently led me up and away from the Madonna.

  Today I rarely feel that cloud descending again. The drugs help and as I’ve got older I have put away the triggers that cause me pain. I have looked at the life I have with Marco and realised that few people are lucky enough to find a partner who is so perfect in every way.

  26

  Marco and I had been to Paris many times and it was a typically Marco thing to do, surprising me one Friday morning as I was getting ready to go to the school where I was teaching.

  “Darling, before you go could you just see if I hung my coat in the cupboard by the front door last night, I can’t find it anywhere,” he asked.

  Slightly annoyed at being used as a maid when I was already late, I quickly grabbed the door and threw it open. Inside the cupboard was an installation. Marco had taken one of our ornate, full-size, 16th-century brass candelabra and hung from it various birthday treats. A jar of Marmite, the only food I dearly missed from New Zealand, a bottle of champagne, a reproduction of my favourite big Tintoretto, “St Mark Freeing the Slave”, a handbag I had been lusting after at the markets, a first edition of Henry James’ The Aspern Papers, and an old leather wallet, which revealed air tickets to Paris.

  “Marco, what are you doing? It’s not even my birthday until Sunday,” I laughed, pleased with the surprise.

  “And we’ll be in Paris dining at Le Grand Vefour on Sunday,” he laughed, delighted that his surprise had come off without a hitch.

  “But I have to go to work,” I protested.

  “No you don’t. I talked to Bianca, they’ve all been in on it for weeks!” he giggled, like a little boy.

  “Oh my God, we leave in two hours,” I said, reading the tickets more closely. “I have to pack!”

  That night we ambled slowly from the gorgeous L’Hôtel in the rue Beaux Arts, across the Pont du Carrousel. This was the first walk we did together when we first came to Paris and we always repeat the experience on the way to Le Grand Vefour. From there we make our way to the Palais Royal where we find our restaurant. We first found the restaurant as tourists, attracted by its long history of feeding people since 1784. Everyone from Napoleon and Josephine to Collette, Jean-Paul Satre and Simone de Beauvoir, Balzac, Collette and Chopin had dined there. It was one of the most exclusive and expensive restaurants in Paris. We made reservations months in advance and we rarely got out of there without spending the equivalent of a month of my salary, but it is our special place. I love the old-world French elegance with all that gold and the mirror-clad dining room with the red-velvet banquette seating and gorgeous painted wall panels. And part of me loves how the woman is seated with the best view and presented with a menu without prices. And of course the food. I’ll never forget the first time the black-suited and bow-tied waiter wheeled out the cheese trolley groaning with cheeses so exotic and so ripe they appeared to be moving.

  So every time we plan to visit Paris, Marco books ahead so that our first night is spent there. It is our treat, our luxury.

  Marco had become such a well-known and highly respected restorer that he was in high demand all over Europe for his work so money wasn’t a problem. His work was booked ahead for the next five years, and he would be spending more time working in other areas of Europe. With that in mind I was beginning to think about a return to writing and perhaps sending travel stories back to New Zealand so that I could be with Marco as much as possible. It seems there was a growing market for someone who actually knew what she was talking about rather than a journalist flown over for a few days to a city in Europe to have a quick look around and write a piece about the great sights. And an Australian publisher friend of Daisy’s had asked me to put together a book which was part autobiography, about my life since Charlotte disappeared to now, incorporating my love affair with Europe. I was thinking seriously about accepting the deal for the freedom it gave me to be with Marco.

  He was looking particularly gorgeous that night. He had aged well, with a touch of grey at his temples, his hair still rebelliously curly and his eyes and smile still capable of the cheek of a five-year-old boy. We ordered a bottle of Veuve Clicquot 1988, surrounded by Parisian madames whose faces had long ago been rearranged to take years off them but still looked as though they had taken up an offer of a little pre-mortem embalming. I felt so proud of Marco, in one of those moments when you look at the man you see everyday and suddenly realise how special he is. Here was a man who had taken his craft and perfected it into something which was much in demand. At that moment, as if sensing my love, he reached across the table and took my hand.

  “I never get over these Parisian creatures with all that plastic surgery and their little Chanel suits,” he whispered. “Look at their husbands, they look 20 years older than their wives but they must be the same age.”

  “Probably younger, at least half of them,” I replied. “The restaurant is full of them tonight. Must be the equivalent of pension day for the rich of Paris,” I giggled nervously. I still wasn’t comfortable in the dining salons of the European rich. I always felt like the hopelessly un-cultured Kiwi I was.

  “You should see the couple behind you,” said Marco. “He’s Russian or something but she is quite simply exquisite,” he said, unable to take his eyes off them.

  “Can I look?” I asked, intrigued.

  “Yes, now, quick,” he urged.

  I turned around casually and looked at the couple.

  I couldn’t turn back because at that moment everything stood still. As if the pause button had been pressed on my life. The young woman huddled in the booth sipping her champagne was indeed the most stunning woman I had ever seen. Her blonde hair hung luxuriously around her shoulders, her blue eyes gazed at the man as he talked. She was Charlotte, my daughter.

  I turned back to Marco quickly.

  “What’s wrong, you’ve gone as pale as a ghost, are you okay?” he asked urgently.

  “Marco, it’s her. It’s Charlotte.”

  “What do you mean. That beautiful young woman? How do you know? How can you be sure?” he asked not for one minute doubting me, but keen to check the facts.

  “Call it instinct, call it motherly intuition I have no idea. What I do know is that is her!” I whispered fighting to cope with the emotion that was welling up inside of me. My chest had tightened and there was a big wad of something climbing its way up my throat and threatening to release itself out of my mouth. A wad of grief determined to have its day.

  “It can’t be,” said Marco. “After all these years. Could it?”

  “Have I ever seen her before anywhere we’ve been?” I asked barely keeping myself together. “In 15 years have I ever looked at you and said this?” I pleaded.

  “No, Jane, you haven’t, and I believe you. I’ve known you too long and Charlotte has been such a big part of our lives for so long, you must know,” he said.

  We both stared at each other for a moment, unable to talk and then Marco broke the silence cautiously.

  “What are we going to do?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t just walk up to her and say, ‘Hello, I believe you’re my long lost daughter’ can I?’”

  “No, you can’t. Especially not in here.”

  “Who is she with? What does he look like?” I was beginning to get some control over the situation. Old Jane was taking over.

  “Old, definitely Russian, he has those broad features. He seems very refined, very moneyed. He likes her. When they talk there is a fondness between them. Otherwise, I would have thought she was one of those high-class prostitutes they hire when they come to town. B
ut they are having a good conversation and engaging. Maybe they are father and daughter?” Marco continued in his role as the eagle-eyed commentator. Then he realised what he had said.

  “I mean maybe the man who adopted her,” he corrected himself.

  I took a moment to attempt to restore my breathing to a normal level and sipped my champagne absently while taking in the information Marco was giving me. Several possible scenarios were playing in my head.

  “I’ve got it. I’ll wait until she goes to the toilet and then I’ll go and talk to her in there.”

  “What are you going to say?” asked Marco, suddenly realising the enormity of what I was planning.

  “Um, I don’t know. I’ll just talk to her, be polite, and if I still feel there is something there I’ll just come out and say it.”

  “But what if she doesn’t speak English? It sounds to me as if they are talking Russian. What if she’s not Charlotte and she freaks out?” said Marco attempting to pour some caution into the situation. “That man she is with looks like you wouldn’t want to mess with him.”

  “Vous avez choisi?” interrupted the waiter, amiable and polite.

  “Oh gosh, sorry, a bit distracted … Marco why don’t you order for me, you know what I like,” I said relieved to hand over the necessary details to him.

  While Marco swiftly ordered for us both I pulled out my makeup mirror and used it to look at the young woman some more. She was so beautiful, and so my daughter. There was absolutely no mistaking it. I couldn’t work out if it was the eyes, the cheekbones or the lips, but something was so familiar and so part of me, that I became convinced I was right. And then she got up. Tall, long legged, slender and outrageously poised. Not a hint of Kiwi about her.

  “She’s going!” I whispered to Marco urgently as the waiter strutted off with the order.

  “Go, go!” he urged, grabbing my hand and giving it a reassuring squeeze.

  When I arrived in the powder room the girl was standing at the mirror applying some lipstick. I suddenly felt frumpy and old next to this gorgeous creature and for a moment wondered if I was losing my sanity. What was I thinking standing there about to tell a woman I had never met before, who possibly didn’t even speak English, that she was my daughter? How ludicrous, how totally fucking nut bar, I thought and was about to turn and leave when I instinctively reached for my locket as I do many times a day for reassurance and comfort. The one Marco had given me all those years ago in the Hong Kong hotel. The one I never went out without. And then suddenly I knew what I had to do. I kept holding onto it with one hand, took a deep breath and opened my mouth.

  “Hello, I am terribly sorry to bother you, do you speak English?” I asked politely.

  “Yes I do,” smiled the girl. “But not often, I am from Russia so I don’t get much chance to use my English. Is there something you need?” she asked.

  The accent. It was a New Zealand accent. The way she said “yes” like “yus”. Admittedly her accent was a little swerved in places but definitely from the colonies. I felt myself swoon slightly.

  “Are you alright? Should I call your husband?” she asked putting her hand on my shoulder. I summoned the old Jane and looked directly into the girl’s eyes. My daughter, as it turned out, was the same height as me. Her elegant carriage had merely made her look taller before.

  “Look, I know this sounds totally ridiculous, but I think you are my daughter,” I blurted out.

  The girl’s hand recoiled from my shoulder as she readjusted her thinking from middle-aged tourist needing some assistance to barking madwoman from hell.

  “Please, just hear me out. Fifteen years ago I was on holiday from New Zealand and on the night train from Paris to Venice my five-year-old daughter Charlotte disappeared. I have never given up hope that she is still alive and when I saw you in the restaurant tonight I felt you were her. I can’t explain why, but I have never felt that before.”

  I studied her face as I was launching into what I hoped was a brief but believable explanation and I saw her flinch, ever so slightly. But enough for me to hope I was right.

  “Look, look at this,” I reached for my locket and opened it to show her the picture of Charlotte that Marco had lovingly placed in it all those years ago.

  “This is you, at the age you were taken from me. I can see a similarity, can’t you?”

  The girl leant over and looked at it. Then she looked at me. Something in her eyes told me there was some sort of understanding. A glint of recognition, a hint of comprehension. But then it was gone.

  “I am so sorry for your loss, Madame,” she said regaining her composure. “I’m afraid I was born in Russia and I am definitely a Russian.”

  No, no, no. My head started spinning again.

  “Are you sure?” I said feeling the enormity of what I had just done. Feeling ridiculous, antipodean, old and stupid.

  “Oh, Madame, I am sure, please excuse me,” she said hurriedly putting her lipstick in her purse.

  “Look, there may be many reasons you do not remember,” I reasoned, hauling out my old reporting instincts of getting the truth out of people determined not to release it. Rule number one: don’t let them get away.

  “Wait, please. Just one moment, I beg you,” I was playing for time as I quickly scribbled my name on the L’Hôtel business card I had in my purse.

  “This is me. This is my hotel — room 408 — or you can just ask at reception. I’m sorry if I have frightened you or seemed like a mad woman but I honestly feel you are my daughter and where else would you have learned to speak English like a New Zealander?” I asked.

  The girl just stared at me blankly. I had obviously imagined any hint of a connection. She stared at the card in my hand but didn’t reach out to take it, so I placed it carefully on the washstand.

  “I’m sorry. I must go,” she said. “Good night,” and she glided out of the powder room. Out of my life forever.

  I stumbled into one of the cubicles and sat on the toilet, burying my head in my hands. This was the moment I had waited for so many years to happen. The moment that had kept me going, been the subject of so many church visits and candle lightings and bloody long conversations with the Madonna. And it was over. As I sat there fiddling with the locket around my neck, I wrestled with my conviction that the girl who had just left the powder room was my daughter. I was either finally descending completely into the pit of madness, as had been predicted by my ex-husband 15 years ago, or I was right, and surely that glint in her eye, that faint flicker of interest gave me enough hope. I had been trained all those years ago to hunt out the truth which lies behind people’s eyes.

  I knew what I saw. Then another shot of adrenalin coursed through me. What was I doing sitting here feeling sorry for myself? Charlotte was out there, in the restaurant, the least I could do was sit and watch her for whatever precious moments we had left in the same room. I might never see her again.

  I hurried out of the cubicle, quickly checking my pale and distraught reflection in the mirror. And then I noticed it. The hotel card with my name and contact details had gone. As soon as I was back in the dining room I looked over at the girl’s table expectantly, looking for another precious moment’s eye contact, or at least another little sign that I might indeed be right, but the booth was empty.

  “What happened?” said Marco barely able to contain himself as I slipped back into my seat. “I was just about to come in and check if you were alright.”

  “She spoke English, Marco. With a Kiwi accent,” I muttered.

  “No! Then it must be her surely? But I heard her speak Russian when they left,” he said.

  “I know, but in there she spoke English and I did my best to not sound like a raving lunatic, but, Marco, when I showed her this picture in my locket I’m sure she gave me a look. I’m sure something clicked but she denied being Charlotte. She says she was born in Russia.”

  “Well I felt sure something had happened because she gave me a really long look as they wer
e leaving. And they left in one awful hurry, which is quite hard to do in an establishment like this. Oh God, she probably thinks I’m Lawrence,” he chuckled. “How disappointing for her.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, she denies it, she was very polite and so I guess I just have to leave it at that, for now. I did leave my name on one of the hotel cards though, and I think she took it,” I said, looking at Marco hopefully for some sign that I wasn’t mad. “Oh, what if that was Charlotte? What if all my instincts are right, and those few moments in the powder room are the only ones I will ever have with her?” I was weeping now.

  “The foie gras for Monseiur and the langoustine for Madame,” interrupted the waiter, not batting an eyelid at my obvious distress. He’d probably had worse from the post-op plastic surgery chorus line.

  “Okay, time to get real, Jane. You have done too much work and come too far to fall to pieces over this. You must be strong, be patient, and if she did take your number, then I’m sure she’ll call. If she is Charlotte. The accent and the feeling you had that she recognised something are all good signs, but think about it. If that is Charlotte then she was only five when she disappeared. You have no idea what emotional scars may be there, what demons are lurking for her around what happened,” he said reasonably. “She may have no memory of her previous life at all.

  “You must allow her to do what is right for her. And I’m sorry to say, that may be nothing. It may be just too painful for her to scrape away those layers. And look at her, she is obviously very rich, very well looked after and she seemed perfectly happy when we first saw her talking to that man.”

  “Yes, she did, didn’t she?” I pondered, feeling reassured and making an attempt to eat the food, even though my stomach was doing somersaults.

  “If that is the only thing you remember about this night, then isn’t that a good memory? One of your beautiful daughter grown up and happy?”

  “Yes, but Marco, what about me? What about my pain? I want her back so badly.”