by John Tagholm
By midday, Beatrice had still not returned the calls and another piece of unfinished business awaited her when she got back to the hotel. Jean-Paul, still in pursuit, had left a note asking if he could take her to dinner that evening. She screwed the paper into her pocket to rest against her phone. She went to her room, set up her computer and for the time being at least, decided to postpone her responses, hoping that the answers would become clear during the course of the afternoon. She registered the fact that there were at least forty-five million references to Joseph Troumeg on Google and limited her search to verifying the name of his early restaurant in Provence. She found out that it had been situated along the north side of the old port in Marseille. It had a short life, no longer than two years and since Troumeg had opened it before he became a celebrity, did not bear his name, but that of the old city, Massilia. “These were my years of learning,” she read over and over again in different articles, “when the fishermen and the market people would define what I would cook that day, the best that land and sea could provide. It was my apprenticeship. I owe a lot to Marseille.” The restaurant opened in 1957 “at a time when garlic had yet to be invented in Britain,” continued the quotation in typical Troumeg style. He was twenty-three years old and clearly however much Marseille had given him, it wasn’t enough to keep him there long.
But might he have gone back now? And if not there, why not any of the other places over the world where he’d had restaurants, shops and homes? Once again, she sought a logic for his disappearance, hard when the man appeared to move by instinct rather than reason. She doubted that amongst the avalanche of references on her computer there would be one that would make her task any the easier.
She did see, however, on a map of the south of France that Marseille was not too far from Toulon and that single fact confirmed her plans for the next three days. She intended to please everyone else by pleasing herself. She phoned Jean-Paul and told him she would be happy to be taken to dinner that evening. He didn’t sound surprised, but that was to be expected, although he might have thought differently if he’d known why she’d agreed to his invitation.
She approached calling Harry quite differently.
‘I’m sorry it has taken me so long to get back to you.’
‘I’m just glad that you have.’
‘I’m going to be in France slightly longer than I thought. I’ve got to make a trip to the south in a couple of days time. Were you serious about taking me to lunch in Paris?’
‘Of course. Has Amanda spoken to you?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘I hope you didn’t mind?’
‘No, not at all. I think you’ve made quite an impression on her.’
‘That’s what I was hoping. Well, what I mean is, I was hoping she would give a positive report about me.’
‘I think I’ve probably got that already, but it’s always nice to have another point of reference.’
‘Like in our jobs, really. Checking our sources.’
‘If you like.’
‘What about tomorrow?’
‘That’s what I was going to suggest. It’s an expensive lunch.’
‘All in the interests of research, you understand. We need to discuss our child Flotsam.’
‘You sound as though you might be able to claim it on expenses.’
‘It’s an investment in the on-going project,’ he said.
‘Could you get here for coffee?’ Beatrice was going to suggest the café where Troumeg took his breakfast, but remembered that Jean-Paul might be lurking there and changed her mind. ‘I’ll see you at the Terminus Nord, just opposite the station. Eleven?’
‘Perfect.’
The last piece in the jigsaw was her mother and Beatrice knew that however much she wanted her daughter to see her in Toulon, she would make it appear that she was doing Beatrice a favour. And so it was.
‘The day after tomorrow? Well, I suppose that’s ok. Let me just check with Jean.’
Beatrice resisted being drawn into this game and held back from mentioning that she would be doing some work in Marseille. She knew that her mother would assume that she was merely being accommodated, and in that she would have been correct. Having laid the paving stones of the next three days, Beatrice set off back to the rue Manin with renewed energy, crossing the increasingly familiar 19th arrondissement. She was preoccupied with Joseph Troumeg’s history of himself, the gap between fact and fiction, the impreciseness of history. She couldn’t account for it but she carried with her the sense that her actions were being governed from elsewhere and a new energy surged through her and she broke into a run and was whistled at by construction workers on the avenue Jean Jaurès
It was late afternoon and people were returning from work and she waited outside the block, getting her breath back, before following a man in a dark overcoat through the outside door with a smile and a thank you. She went up to the first floor in the hope that, because of her age, the woman she had been told about would more than likely be at home. At the third apartment she was greeted by a suspicious voice.
‘Who is it?’
‘I was visiting Madame Leval’s old apartment this morning and I was told you knew her well. My name is Beatrice Palmenter and I’m researching a film.’
‘About Odile?’
‘Well, not directly. About her son.’
The door opened and a chain was slipped off its berth. A tall woman, elegantly dressed, allowed her to enter.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ Beatrice said, but her apology was met by a shake of the head.
‘I’m Marguerite Fourcas. I’m only too happy to talk about Odile. I miss her. A whisky, perhaps?’
Beatrice noticed from the small brass clock on the mantelpiece that it was just after five o’clock and imagined a drink about this time was a regular routine for the woman.
‘Here’s to Odile,’ the older woman said. ‘But it is Joseph you want to know about, I think.’
‘I want to know about both.’
The old woman laughed. ‘I was a few years younger than Odile, but I knew her for almost sixty years. She barely mentioned Joseph, except once in the early days, when we first met. You know the story?’
Beatrice shook her head. ‘Only that she was a single parent and that Joseph didn’t come to her funeral.’
Marguerite looked at her. ‘That’s about it. I don’t want to waste your time, but the truth is Odile told me very little, only that she never saw her son. When I asked why she remained silent.’
‘Did something happen between them?’
‘Who knows. You must understand that Odile was a very active woman. She didn’t appear to regret not seeing him, far from it. She used this place as a base and was often gone for weeks, especially in the early days.’
‘Did she ever talk about the war?’
‘Never.’
‘Wasn’t that strange for someone of her age?’
The woman smiled sympathetically towards her. ‘The answer to your question is no. And yes. Many French people refused to talk about it, but, then again, many did. I could understand both. But she barely referred to it.’
‘But didn’t Odile change her surname in the 30s?’
The woman shrugged. ‘That’s the first I’ve heard. Many did. I knew she was Jewish and, believe me, many Jews did not want to be reminded about what took place. I respected that.’
‘You met Joseph?’
‘Alas, no. By the time Odile and I became friends, he was gone.’
‘Did she say when he left?’
‘No. As I say, it was not something she talked about.’
‘Strange, though?’
‘Families,’ she said, taking a sip of whisky.
‘Joseph has often spoken of his mother to the press. Don’t you think that’s odd?’
‘We all like to create our own histories.’ There was a finality about her statement and Beatrice looked at Marguerite Fourcas and knew that, at another time, in different circumstances, the old woman w
ould tell of her own history, real or imagined. Beatrice took her telephone number and promised to be in touch and on the way back to the hotel tried to imagine what it would be like to be a mother and never talk about your child, particularly one as famous as Joseph Troumeg.
She had just enough time to shower and change in order to be suitably late for Jean-Paul who was waiting in the hotel bar downstairs. She paused on the stairs to watch him, leaning on the counter with a glass of Ricard, a dark blue shirt under his leather jacket, quite unconcerned at her tardiness. He kissed her on the cheek, but didn’t offer her a drink and beckoned her to follow him through the door. Outside a cab was waiting. Inside, he made no attempt to tell her where they were going and she didn’t ask. The journey was short, no more than fifteen minutes, and they pulled up in a street of ill-lit office buildings, an unlikely place to find a restaurant. Once again she followed him down a much narrower street towards a beacon of light and in through doors to the bustle of diners crammed into a small room. Jean-Paul was greeted with bear hugs and rapid French, with barely a glance towards her, and finally they were escorted to a table in the corner, pressed tight by diners on other tables close by.
‘Cosy,’ she said, almost her first word of the evening.
‘The best table,’ he said.
The maitre d’, who she could now see had a walrus moustache, approached them, beaming. He spoke to Jean-Paul and told him what he thought best on the menu. Finally she was asked what she would like to drink and chose another whisky.
‘He says the ecrevisses are delicious,’ Jean-Paul told her.
‘Yes, I heard,’ she said.
‘This is one of the hardest restaurants in Paris to get a table,’ Jean-Paul explained.
‘I’m not surprised at this size.’
They ordered, but not before Jean-Paul had gone into a detailed conversation with the walrus about the other dishes. She looked around and it was true that the restaurant was all that you might expect from an old fashioned bistro, apart from the enormous prices. Jean-Paul began to explain that everything was original, the restaurant having been bought by a group of enthusiasts to stop it falling into the hands of a chain. He spoke vividly about the erosion of the old Paris and the demands of tourism and commerce.
‘What do you think?’
‘It’s charming,’ she said. ‘Do you bring your girlfriend here?’
‘I have done, yes.’ He smiled at her.
‘And she knows I am here tonight, I expect.’
He opened his hands. ‘Why do you want to know about my girlfriend?’
‘Tell me about your parents, then.’
‘My father was a butcher and my mother used to help him.’
‘And how did you get on with them?’
‘Fine. My father could be a bit of a bully but so can most fathers.’
‘Did he bully his wife?’
Jean-Paul tilted his head one way then the other, which probably meant yes and certainly what did it matter. She waited.
‘He loved dogs.’
‘He loved dogs but bullied his wife and son. He sounds almost English.’
Their main courses arrived and for a while they ate in silence and she thought of meals with Joshua, where he’d spoken endlessly about his passion for the designs of Charles Eames, of Ben’s obsession with founding his own company, of Anthony and his flirtations with her mother, of Adrian, another obsessive chef and all the other men who had performed in front of her as if she hadn’t really existed.
‘I said, what are you thinking?’
She looked at him. ‘My boyfriends.’
‘You have more than one?’
‘I have had more than one, yes.’
‘And now?’
‘And now, no.’
He moved a little closer to her and she was amused to see that he had not registered the tone of her responses, or had chosen to ignore it.
‘My friend Amanda says I always choose the same sort of man, that I repeat my mistakes.’
Jean-Paul was clearly pleased to hear this information, probably thinking he could be the exception.
‘And what sort of man is that?’
‘That’s a good question, Jean-Paul. If I knew, it might save me a great deal of trouble.’
He placed his hand over one of hers. ‘But you could have any man you wanted, Beatrice.’ He squeezed lightly as he said her name.
‘Perhaps that’s the problem, Jean-Paul,’ she said, gently removing her hand. From the look on his face, he clearly enjoyed this game but the process of flirtation was entirely one sided.
‘Tell me about your girlfriend.’
‘What is there to say?’
‘I suppose that is why I am asking.’
‘She’s just someone I’m seeing.’
Something had taken hold of Beatrice and she was reminded of the tide pressing against her boots in the Thames, a gentle but insistent weight conveying a message that she had yet to decode.
‘I’m sure she wouldn’t want to be so lightly dismissed. What does she do, where does she live, how does she get on with her parents, is she moody? That sort of thing.’
When Jean-Paul frowned she knew it was not simply because he didn’t have the answers. He was irritated and blew air between his lips which said “I am wasting my time and my precious night off.”
The evening trailed away and Beatrice filled the silence with talk of her films, her father and her mother in Toulon, but she was talking to herself, as she knew only too well. She had rattled back to the 19th alone in the cab, but quite happy. The clouds had parted and a gibbous moon gave enough light to define them but not enough to dim the stars beyond. The street lights flashed by at intervals, the frames of a film, a familiar sequence she had used several times, her face flickering in and out of darkness.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
They were taking fish inland to the big town by the bald mountain. The path led northwards, climbing all the time so that when she looked behind the sea became wider and the shape of the coast more defined. When she does this, she can see that the boy is watching her, as he had done before, and she takes pleasure in this. It was not the look of mocking curiosity that some gave, that told her she was an outsider, but more focused and direct. He is the son of the merchant who organises these trips to the interior, an olive skinned boy whose hair is tight packed and shiny. She knew it was his father who had asked her mother if her daughter might accompany the group, since they would be away several days and he would not want her to worry. In turn, her mother had explained this to her with a gentle smile and she thought more was contained in this exchange than mere approval for her absence. She can see her mother more completely now and each day register her beauty so that she might contrast it with her own.
As she climbs the path she feels the smooth surface of the crimson stone at the centre of her brooch, a token of safety and a confirmation of her as a woman.
It is winter and the wind blows hard in their faces. This pleases the men because it will keep the fish cool and helps the donkeys who carry the packs with sad eyes and small steps. The path weaves on through the bleached hills and she thinks of the sailor and her mother and what she had seen. He had come back from the sea and she had watched from the stairs unseen as he took her mother in the way that had been explained to her in the grey town. It was clear that her mother wanted what was taking place as much as the man and from time to time she shouted encouragement. The girl knew that she could not share this moment with her mother, that it belonged only to her and the sailor, but it was not a shock to see what they were doing. She had tried to imagine the act of sex, but until now she had been unable to describe its extremes.Somewhere on the path, which is now the autoroute 7, at the brow of the long climb, when the sea began to disappear behind them, she understands some of the elements that make her who she is, that her mother had helped create, directly and also without knowing. Her breasts are clear on her lean frame and the legs that run so fast and carry her up th
e pitted hills have taken a new shape in proportion to her fuller body. She is still tall and slim but she notices that men look at her differently and she comprehends why.
They come to the monastery an hour before dusk, the remains of which can still be seen close to the white stilted viaduct which supports the high speed trains to the sea. They are fed by the nuns in a long room with high windows open to the wind and in return give some of their fish. Water is brought for them to wash and she imagines the boy’s body. Later he approaches and speaks to her and she sees that they are being watched by the others, playing out a part that is expected of them. He tells her that his father had come from another land to the east, along the sea and that his mother had died giving birth to him. In return she offers her stories of the grey town and describes how the Norsemen had killed her father, a warrior who had fallen in to the river to be carried off by the gods. They swap what they know, trading their pasts, offering up the details for investigation. The girl understands this barter and knows that it is part of the negotiation. Even in her excitement and the closeness of their heads, another sensation is clear, one which will keep her awake in the long room with the wind howling above. That part of her which could climb alone to the hills, that everyday would relish her singularity and independence, might be lost in this exchange, and this tempers her joy. But then she thinks of her mother, the jeweller, with two husbands and now the sailor, who still maintains her identity, who could give herself and yet remain herself. She looks up at the curved moon and at the stars, brighter than ever in the sharp clear sky and sleeps, her body lifting upwards into that very sky, the same then as it is now.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Beatrice could see that Harry Wesley had come fully armed with excuses, for she imagined that, in the cold light of day, he might have regarded this trip as a folly and therefore rather exposing. He was already installed when she arrived, a lap top in front of him with an array of papers and folders to one side so that there was barely room for his coffee cup, let alone hers. He was nervous when he rose to greet her, only the third time they had met and he was unsure whether to kiss her on the cheek or shake her hand and in the end did neither. He turned to his computer for support, for on the screen was the familiar skull and he pointed at it, declaring that he’d brought their daughter, Flotsam. Even before she sat down, he swung the screen in her direction.