The Lovers

by Catherine Rey

  She was in such a state that I told her, alright then, and I made the decision to stay. Go and see your friend Eric, while I go to the Louvre, I told her. We don’t have to be in each other’s pocket all of the time. I’ll manage with a map. If I get lost, I’ll ask a tourist, they are everywhere. But she got annoyed, it wasn’t quite what she had in mind. That day, she had planned a few things for us, like a walk around the Palais Royal, where apparently Diderot and the Encyclopaedists used to hang out. She had booked a table at some trendy place in the Marais for lunch. We can be together for a change, she said, in Longland you spend so much time stuck in your tower, painting your life away. There are so many things I’d like to share with you… Then I snapped, shouting, painting my life away! Thank you very much! A nice way to put it! I told her I had more important matters to attend to than meeting up with the Encyclopaedists’ ghosts. I have a rendezvous in the Louvre, I said, someone is waiting for me. She pressed me. Have you met someone? Who is she? She begged me not to leave her, then fell into one of her usual fits. But I’d had enough, in all honesty, it was excruciating.

  Off I went. Finally alone. The day was radiant. I walked to the nearest metro station, alighted at Louvre Rivoli. I felt free at last. The terraces of the cafés were full of couples, who laughed, kissed and seemed to delight in some form of uninhibited sexual freedom that is typically French. Every time I smiled at one of those dolled-up women, I received a smile back. I strolled up the street and across the large esplanade of the Louvre. Yes, someone was waiting for me. It’s a long story…

  I fell in love with him many years ago. Ha, ha! Am I talking about a man? You sound surprised, Officer Lawson, and no, it’s not a man. It’s Gilles, the Pierrot painted by Watteau in 1719. I came upon the painting in an art book when I was thirteen. I spent hours contemplating this sad clown, with his shapeless body, and his vacant, moonstruck look, cramped in his silly attire, like me in my dreadful green school uniform. I had memorised each brushstroke of Watteau’s work: the hat, the collar, the jacket with its row of big white buttons, the ruffles of the sleeves, the folds of the ankle-length white trousers, right down to the pinkish-red ribbons of his shoes. Gilles reminded me of the boy I was, a gigantic clown who didn’t enjoy life while everyone around me was having a good time. A lonely lad and a figure of fun. I have gotten used to my giant frame over time, but I wasn’t at peace with it in childhood. How could it be that my mother had given birth to such an odd colossus?

  When my parents had gone to Watooga for an errand, I would slip into their bedroom to stand in front of the oblong mirror in the middle door of their oak wardrobe. Arms dangling to the side, I would hunch my back, let my body go slack, my shoulders, my stomach, my chin, imitating the village idiot. I’d become Gilles, the sad clown… Once, I even tried to dress up as Gilles. From my mother’s chest of drawers, I borrowed one of her white nightgowns… I put on one of her petticoats, found an old straw hat from the garden rack and folded up the edges. I was Gilles!

  That day, after the argument with Lucie, when I saw him on the wall of the Louvre, I broke down… It took me back to that time, in front of the mirror in my parents’ bedroom. Gilles, my twin, in his golden frame, in this faraway city, was looking at me with pity. I sat on the red bench and lost myself in rumination. Night had fallen. A museum guard tapped me on the shoulder. The Louvre was about to close.

  I stood up mechanically and walked through the night, across the Seine, along the boulevards, down beside the quays… That was one of the most extraordinary nights of my life… The breeze was warm and smelt of sulphur, of damp soil, of the muddy scent of the Seine. I walked past grotty bars and brasseries, while the Eiffel Tower kept twinkling on. I was curious about the anonymous lives of these Parisians. I would have liked to follow someone, anyone, to their clandestine rendezvous. Where was the boat that would carry me away to Cythera? I was ready to embark. I felt so elated.

  I walked for hours through Paris then returned to the musty smelling flat. Behind the door, what did I find? Lucie, on the floor, bawling her eyes out, a half-empty bottle of gin next to her. Where have you been, she screamed. I thought you’d run away, I was ready to call the police! That’s always what she thinks I will do: leave her on her own. But I said, as delicately as I could, there is nothing to worry about, I’ve been to my rendezvous. She mumbled, what rendezvous are you talking about? I answered the one with the boy, yes, a boy you have no reason to be jealous of. He will never leave his frame to interfere in your life, darling. His name is Gilles and Watteau painted him. Gilles, she said. Are you talking about a painting? Then she laughed like a lunatic and realised how foolish she’d been. I laughed uneasily in response.

  I wish I could have held Lucie in my arms, but I couldn’t. She was drunk, dishevelled, disfigured. I found her appalling. These three weeks in Paris were an eye-opener. I discovered a selfish and self-centred woman who required constant attention. I lack empathy for these people, I must confess. Sometimes I wish them a good deal of pain, yes, I wish them an illness, cancer. Lucie knew how important it was for me to visit the Louvre, an inspiring place, not that crummy Bordeaux museum with its pauper’s art…

  I hadn’t been back to the Louvre in twenty years, and I realised how thirsty I had been for ideas, light, energy, colours, inspiration.

  Our trip had been mapped out for Lucie’s pleasure. Everything had to be done for her, in her own way, with no room for my interests. I have come to realise that Lucie is actually very different from the woman she presents to the world. Behind her assertive façade she’s a vulnerable creature. If she’s not looked after, she behaves like an insecure, whining little girl. One minute she’s a kitten purring in your lap, the next, a vengeful harpy. What I wish to stress is that she’s the sort of woman to take her own life. Yes, Officer Lawson, she is that depressive type… A lost soul. Believe me, no one really knows what’s going on inside that pretty little head.

  Jean Lucien

  Faubourg Saint-Honoré

  Paris

  France

  Thank you for coming to see me, gentlemen. It’s very nice of you to spare some of your precious time. As I told Inspecteur Agnelli, I am not as mobile as I used to be.

  Ahem… I beg your pardon? Mon Dieu! Twenty-four days already, that is concerning. I must admit I am distressed to hear you have no news on Mademoiselle Bruyère. I wish I could do something.

  After Inspecteur Agnelli’s last call, I decided to go through my diaries. At ninety-two, my memory is not always so reliable. Please take a look at what I’ve written here – that was when Mademoiselle Bruyère stayed in Beaux-de-Provence with her partner. Now remind me of his name, sorry, yes, that’s it, Ernest Renfield…

  There, under Saturday 17 and Sunday 18, that weekend, when they both came to my country house. As you can see I write everything down: what I eat, what I read, how much I’ve spent, and the people I meet and our conversations.

  You might have heard that Monsieur Fargue commissioned Mademoiselle Bruyère to write a book about my life… She interviewed me here, in this apartment, last year. We met each other ten times or so over three weeks. I got to know her a little bit better each week, and I was impressed by her musical insights and her appreciation of the composer Olivier Messiaen.

  She sat there… in that chair. We talked with such ease that when the subject of the Stalag and my friendship with Messiaen came up, I had no qualms in discussing it. I was a notable violinist, but Olivier Messiaen, you see, was a genius…

  We were incarcerated in Stalag VIII-A in Görlitz, in Silesian Germany… Ahem… Olivier was captured in Nancy in May 1940. I was caught a month later, in June, 20 June. I was transported to Silesia in a cattle truck… Stalag VIII-A was where Olivier wrote his capital piece, Quartet for the End of Time.

  I see you are looking at my violin over there. I can’t play it anymore; I have arthritis. Look at my left hand, these three fingers are as hard as steel. Old age robs you of everything… Anyway, you don’t want to hear
about my arthritis, but about Mademoiselle Bruyère.

  Towards the end of our last interview, we were interrupted. It could have been around eleven o’clock in the morning when the bell rang. I opened the door; a strange looking fellow stood on the landing. He introduced himself as Mademoiselle Bruyère’s partner. The man could not speak a word of French, though. As it happens, my English is not too bad. I had many opportunities to maintain my proficiency when touring America with the Orchestre de Paris after the war. We shook hands and exchanged greetings. Mademoiselle Bruyère immediately folded her notes, packed her tape-recorder and acknowledged him, though somewhat severely, I thought.

  I realised I may not have the opportunity to meet Mademoiselle Bruyère again and suggested they join me in my country house in Beaux-de-Provence on the weekend. Mr Renfield instantly accepted. Mademoiselle Bruyère seemed unsure. She is such a genteel young woman. After a few seconds of consideration, she thanked me and said they would be delighted to come as long as it was not too exhausting for me… I assured them that my housekeeper would look after us well.

  The following morning I packed a small bag and my niece Agnès drove me to Gare de Lyon. I caught the train to Marseille and later that afternoon was in Beaux, awaiting the arrival of my special guests. The weather was exceptional, we had refreshments by the swimming-pool. Mr Renfield told me he was a very well-known artist in Australia. I apologised for not having heard of him. I was sincerely embarrassed, but I must confess, I have little interest in contemporary art. He was certainly intelligent, and at that point I found him to be well mannered. After a time, his exuberance was wearying. I excused myself to have a rest before dinner…

  Madame Martinet had made her succulent tomates farcies and a bouillabaisse. I opened two bottles of Saint-Emilion 1987. Mr Renfield seemed to enjoy the Saint-Emilion as he filled his own glass, to the brim…

  Ahem… Madame Martinet waited at the table. She would normally have stayed the night in the room next to mine, but on this occasion she had to go home, as her children were visiting from Arles. This was badly timed. She has been a wonderful support to me since my wife died fifteen years ago. I like to have someone close-by at night time, especially since my heart problems started. Anyway, at the end of dinner I went upstairs to my bedroom. I lay in bed perplexed by Mr Renfield’s behaviour, for while he had been chatty with me, he had not said one word to Mademoiselle Bruyère since their arrival at Beaux.

  At around one o’clock a terrible commotion woke me. Mademoiselle Bruyère let out a scream. That was her voice, without any doubt. I got up as quickly as I could, tottered up the corridor and stood quietly at their door. Not knowing if I should knock, I deemed it prudent to keep vigil. I sat down on one of the chairs on the landing and from there tried to hear what was going on. I heard Mademoiselle Bruyère sob, it went on for a while, then I heard her speak. They were having an argument about the rental car they had picked up at Marseille. It seemed that on the way out of the underground carpark, Mademoiselle Bruyère had scraped the passenger door against a pillar. Apparently Mr Renfield had refused to pay the excess on the insurance and they would be charged for the full cost of the repair.

  Then in a low voice, she reproached Mr Renfield for constantly criticising her and watching her every move. Whatever she did was never right; he made her live in a state of constant anxiety, she said. Then her voice rose. You’re not even talking to me, she shouted, but you had no problem chatting up that waitress. How long before you dare utter a word to me? There was no answer from Mr Renfield, no reaction. I could make out his heavy steps pacing the room.

  After a while Mademoiselle Bruyère’s voice broke the silence again… You are never happy! We rent a car, it’s not comfortable enough for you. We travel by train, it’s too noisy for you. We had the use of a flat in Paris, but it was too dirty for you. Your trip to the Louvre, coming back home at the crack of dawn when the museum closes at six. I was worried sick about you! And then I end up scraping the door of the car because I’m a mess. I live under the sword of Damocles. I never know when it’s going to fall.

  Then I heard a muffled noise, like someone slumping onto the floor. Look at me, Mademoiselle Bruyère said in a pathetic voice. Look what you’ve done to me. Mr Renfield was still pacing the room. Another long silence, before she continued… I had in mind that you would like this trip, I could show you my country. But I should have come by myself. You’re only happy in Longland, in your tower, with your painting.

  Then came a cold, superior voice, hissing, you are a weak person, Lucie Bruyère, and I have no time for weak people. Look at you, lying on the ground, are you mad? Now, please, would you be kind enough to get up from the floor, go perform your ablutions and let me get to bed?

  You’ve ignored me all the way from Marseille, she replied. I don’t understand what’s going on. Why do you hurt me? You don’t hurt people when you love them.

  After a few seconds I heard his detached voice… I hurt you because something in you allows me to do so. You allow yourself to be hurt…

  Listening to that man I grew rather upset. How could he speak so disparagingly to a woman? I could hardly imagine what wrong she had done to be treated like this. I thought that she needed to take a stand.

  Some minutes passed, without her saying anything. I imagined her shocked, lying on the cold tiles. I heard her weeping. After a while, the bed creaked and within minutes Mr Renfield was snoring. Mademoiselle Bruyère continued to weep. After what seemed a very long time, I heard her shuffle off the floor and get into bed. I went back to my bedroom… Ahem… I was too dismayed to go to sleep and so sat at my desk to record in my diary this disturbing episode.

  The following morning, I was awoken by the slamming of car doors. I looked out the window and Mademoiselle Bruyère and Mr Renfield were in their vehicle, ready to leave. They had not even said goodbye or offered a thank you. By the time I got downstairs, the engine was running, with Mr Renfield behind the wheel. He looked at me vacantly. I approached the car. Mademoiselle Bruyère wound down her window. She had tears in her eyes. She looked fatigued and miserable. She presented her hand to me and I held it tenderly. She thanked me for my candour during our interviews and for the hospitality. Mr Renfield told her to hurry up. The automatic window began to rise at his bidding and Mademoiselle Bruyère quickly withdrew her hand.

  I’ve suffered greatly in my life. I’ve seen what people can do to one another. In my experience, there are those who don’t hurt others, or at least try their best not to, and if they do, unintentionally, they know it in their hearts and they are remorseful. And then there are those who hurt others, without the slightest compunction. They hurt others in thought, word and deed and snore through the night completely unperturbed.

  Sylvia Normand

  Missing Person Department

  Poitiers

  France

  Look, I already know what you’re going to tell me… I know I should have contacted you three weeks ago, when you called my sister Mathilde. You see, Inspecteur Agnelli, I didn’t want to upset my husband. But never mind, he can go to hell… I’ve been feeling so guilty not telling you about the phone call… Yes, I got a call from my sister Lucie on the Sunday she went missing.

  We were having lunch with my two sons. I’d set the table on the veranda. The phone is in my husband’s office at the back of the house. It must have been about five o’clock, we were having coffee… I left the table to take the call. It was Lucie, she was crying. At first, I couldn’t make sense of what she was trying to tell me. After a while she settled down and muttered, Sylvia, I need help.

  I should have been in touch with you three weeks ago, I know. I feel terrible about it… It’s my husband, you see, he keeps saying, if your sister calls just hang up, always something wrong with that woman…

  Lucie was sobbing. I could hear that “Macarena” song in the background. People were laughing and shouting. Lucie finally managed to explain, Sylvia, things aren’t going so good over here, I
shouldn’t have left. Is it Ernest? I asked. My life is in danger, she whispered. I tried to play it down… What danger are you talking about, I’m sure it’s not as serious as you think… The truth is that I didn’t know how to deal with it. My sister and I, we’ve never been that close. She doesn’t confide easily in others.

  Five minutes into the conversation I heard my husband yell out: who’s calling, on a Sunday afternoon? I started to get annoyed. Lucie’s such a drama queen. And what can I do, honestly? She lives on the other side of the world. If only she’d moved to Spain or Italy, I could have jumped on a train and tried to help, but I wasn’t going to jump on a plane to Australia. A plane to Australia! That’s grounds for divorce.

  Well, I said to her, you must come back to France. She didn’t say a word. Then she began wailing… How do you expect me to come back when I have no money? I didn’t comment. Let me tell you, I’m truly ashamed of what went through my mind, but I thought, you’ve got some nerve! You make a big fuss telling me your life is in danger, why not be upfront and ask for money? I could hear my husband shouting, Sylvia, tell them to go to hell! Your sons came all the way from Angoulême to spend the day with you! I was so stuck in my own views and upset by my husband’s yelling that I simply repeated, Lucie, you must come back to France. She started crying again. Look, Sylvia, she said after she’d collected herself, do you understand what I’m telling you? And she repeated loudly, each word like a drum-beat: I HAVE NO MONEY. She explained how four weeks in France last year had cost the earth. She had to pay excess on the rental car, using up all of her savings. I’m broke, she cried. You get it? I have no money. How can I come back? I didn’t know what to say and flew off the handle at her, shouting, why don’t you ask Mathilde? She’s rich. I immediately regretted what I said. It was cruel. Cruel and stupid. I waited for her to hang up. I know too well that my sister Mathilde and her husband wouldn’t lift a finger for Lucie. They don’t help anyone but themselves. They’re stingy.