by Olivia Lara
‘Millions of dollars you mean. That’s a lot more than francs. It’s probably worth a few houses in Paris, yachts in Newport and then some change to last someone a lifetime. He doesn’t need it though. He’s a successful businessman in New York. I hope one day I’ll be just like him.’
‘Like him, how? Rich? Successful?’
He laughed.
‘I bet if I told him I met you and you’re going to help us find the painting, he’d be excited. Maybe one day we could both go to Paris and look for the painting. Or to Giverny. That’s where Monet lived. My great-grandfather visited him there often. He used to go with him by the entrance to the forest and watch him as he painted. Isn’t that something? Le Havre too. I know all the places where he lived and painted. We could do a tour.’
‘I would love to—’ she started, but was interrupted by the guard’s baritone voice from a way away.
‘You can call for him, but I seriously doubt he’s here. The museum has been closed for over an hour. I was just doing my final round before locking up for the night.’ There was a metallic noise then silence. ‘What did you say his name is?’
Another man responded. ‘It’s alright, I’ll do it.’
‘Suit yourself,’ said the watchdog.
Zara didn’t move. They sounded close. Probably at the library’s entrance. She could see the light from the guard’s flashlight.
‘Leon, I know you’re in here. Vincent saw you running this way. If you’re not back at the bus in ten minutes, I’m calling the police. You give me no choice. You hear me?’ he bellowed.
‘Leon? Is that your name?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who is the man looking for you?’
‘My teacher. We’re all on a field trip here. At the public library. I kind of sneaked out.’
‘Then you’re in trouble. You should go.’
‘Big trouble probably. It was worth it though,’ he whispered.
Zara wasn’t used to such directness and didn’t know how to react at first. What she did know was that without her help, he’d get caught.
‘Come on, I’ll take you out. Where’s the bus parked?’ she asked.
‘In the town square.’
‘Alright. If you make a run for it, you’ll get there before him. When you exit, take the first street to your left then run all the way to the end and turn right. That’s the square.’
‘Uh huh,’ he said, sounding a bit lost and unconvinced.
‘Let’s go,’ she said.
‘Where? I can’t see anything,’ he grumbled. ‘Give me your hand.’
The moment their hands touched, this time on purpose, she felt that sensation again. It was more powerful now. Almost like a bolt of lightning went through her body.
They tiptoed out, walking carefully along the walls and stopping at corners. She saw the light from the guard’s flashlight going up the stairs. Here was their chance. ‘Let’s run,’ she said when they arrived at the exit sign before she realized she was still holding the Monet book.
‘I can’t. I wish I could, but I have to put the book back, or I’ll be in trouble too.’
‘I’ll wait for you,’ he said.
‘Don’t. You have less than five minutes to get back. You heard your teacher.’
He moved in closer. Their faces were inches away. ‘I don’t want to go.’
She didn’t want him to go either.
‘I wish we had more time. I wish we could talk more.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Could I maybe write to you when I get back to Switzerland?’
She gulped.
‘You want to write to me?’
‘If you want me to, of course. But if you don’t, and you think I’m—’
‘I’d like that very much,’ she said, not letting him finish. Her face was on fire.
Heavy footsteps. The watchdog was coming.
‘You have to go,’ she said shortly.
He turned to leave, then stopped short.
‘Where’s my head? How can I write to you if I don’t know where to send the letters?’ He chuckled. ‘I never asked you what your name is. Silly me.’
‘Zara. My name is Zara Ionesco.’
‘Zara,’ he repeated.
She loved the sound of her name coming from his mouth.
‘24 Rue des Jardins. That’s my address.’
‘I’ll write as soon as I get back. Promise.’
A door opened then closed. Two sets of footsteps were approaching. They were now dangerously close. ‘We can look here as well if you want,’ said the watchdog.
‘I have to go. I’ll be seeing you, Zara,’ Leon said and ran towards the door.
Standing in the middle of the pitch-black corridor, ignoring all sounds and shadows, she watched him leave and wondered if he was right. If she would ever see him again.
LEON
11 DECEMBER 1954
VAUD
They’d missed the play in Strasbourg because of him. The teacher had almost called the police. And on their way back to La Rolande, on the school bus, everyone gave him nasty looks. Some even said nasty things. Vincent, who would jump at any opportunity to just be Vincent, shoved him and pushed him to the back of the bus. Leon would’ve pushed back under any other circumstances, but now he didn’t care. His mind was elsewhere. Busy with her. And how interesting she was, so unlike anyone else he ever met. How he would’ve listened to her talk about green beans if that was what she was interested in because she made everything sound like a story, a fairy tale almost. Magical.
And it was magical, wasn’t it? He’d seen the sign for the museum and felt drawn to it, not knowing why. Then he’d run faster and faster like he was running for his life, desperate to get there. But what he found wasn’t at all what he expected. A small museum and no sign of the Monet. And then darkness. And in that darkness, magic happened when he heard her voice. When their hands touched. When they sat next to each other on the cold floor, in the dark, and time stood still. He had never felt that way before. She smelled like jasmine, and her laughter was the most beautiful thing in the world. Leon closed his eyes, trying to picture what she looked like, how she smiled. He wondered if she had blonde hair and blue eyes like his best friend, Nicole. Even her name was unique. Zara. Zara and Leon. Leon and Zara. Magical.
*
Back at school, Leon ran to the girls’ dorm and up the stairs to Nicole’s room. Luckily there were no teachers around to see him and tell the headmaster. He was in a lot of trouble anyway because of what had just happened in Colmar. One more stunt like that – not his words – and he would get detention and lose his privileges for all eternity. But he had to tell Nicole what happened. They always told each other everything.
He knocked on her door and when she opened, he lunged forward and pushed her in, quickly closing the door behind them.
‘Sit down. No, let’s both sit here,’ he said in one breath as he pulled her by the hand and pushed her shoulders down until she sat on the bed.
‘What’s going on?’ she asked. ‘I haven’t seen you this agitated since you told me about your father’s Monet. I hope it’s not something about that.’
Leon ignored her snarky remark because he was too busy smiling from ear to ear. Nothing could dampen his happiness. He got up and walked to the window then back and, stopping in front of her, slapped himself on both cheeks. Not hard, but hard enough to make them red probably. He could feel them burning now.
‘What’s gotten into you? Are you okay?’
‘I’m just – I can barely sit still.’
‘Obviously.’
Now it was her turn to pull him by the hand and force him to sit next to her.
‘Tell me,’ she said as she was holding both of his hands in hers.
‘I met someone.’
‘You met someone. Okay. That sounds interesting. Who is this someone?’
‘Her name is Zara and she’s just – oh God, Nicole, I don’t know how to explain. She’s like me… but a girl. No, I’m lying. She’s
better than me. She knows so much about art. She’s so interesting and—’
Nicole let go of his hands and slowly pulled hers back and placed them in her lap. She looked down for a moment.
‘What?’
‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘Go on, tell me. Where did you meet her? Who is she?’
Without stopping to breathe, he told Nicole every detail of his one hour with Zara. When he finally looked up, Nicole looked like she wasn’t even listening to him. Absentmindedly playing with her fingers, she seemed totally disengaged, staring out the window.
‘Am I boring you?’
She didn’t respond.
‘Nicole,’ he said a bit louder.
Almost startled, she turned to him. ‘Yes. I’m listening.’
‘You’re not saying anything. What do you think?’
‘About what?’
‘What do you mean about what? About Zara. Isn’t it incredible?’
‘Yes. Incredible,’ she repeated.
‘Hey, I listen to all your Vincent stories,’ Leon said, frowning. ‘And I never complain, though you know what I think of him.’
Nicole tilted her head to the side and looked at him for a moment. ‘What does she look like? Is she pretty?’
‘I don’t know what she looks like. Have you been listening to me? I couldn’t see her. But I’m sure she is. I’m sure she’s the prettiest girl ever.’
Nicole snarled. ‘But she could very well be a three-headed monster with hairy legs and a big wart on her nose, couldn’t she?’
‘That’s not funny,’ he said, stung by her tone.
‘It is, in a way,’ she said. ‘You’ve been talking nonstop about a girl you haven’t even seen. I find that funny. Ridiculous, even.’
Leon and Nicole had shared everything through the years, with one condition: he didn’t judge her and she didn’t judge him. That was Vincent’s job and he had been doing it impeccably since they were kids. Perhaps Nicole had been spending so much time with Vincent lately, she was turning into him.
‘Does it matter what she looks like? I like her for who she is, not how long her hair is or how blue or green her eyes are.’
She looked away.
‘This all sounds—’ She suddenly stopped.
‘What?’
‘I don’t know. Childish.’
Leon got up. He was hurt. ‘Why childish?’
‘Because only kids have fixations like this. You barely talked to her, you don’t know what she looks like, and you’re acting like she’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you. You did the same with that silly quest of yours. It was childish then and it is childish now.’
‘You’re wrong! I thought you of all people would understand. You’re my friend. I thought you’d care,’ he said, his voice raised. ‘You want to see childish? I’ll show you childish,’ he said and stormed out of the room.
‘I do care—’ Leon heard her say but he didn’t turn around.
He was mad. So mad, he didn’t talk to her at all for two whole days, which was the longest they’d ever stayed away from each other since they first met.
*
In the summer of 1945, when Leon was seven, his father, Leonard Price, moved his family from a small house in the suburbs of New York City to the Upper West Side, in one of the three apartments on the top floor of Manhattan’s most coveted and newest high-rise: ‘The Diamond Tower.’
The other two apartments were occupied by the D’Angers – Jean Jacques, Demetria and their seven-year-old daughter, Nicole – and the Saint Germains. Leon didn’t know anything about the Saint Germains, but he knew Jean Jacques D’Angers, his godfather and his father’s best friend; Jean Jacques had visited them many times on his way back home from his travels, always bearing gifts.
While his parents were busy unpacking, Leon wandered out into the hallway and from there to his godfather’s apartment, where he was invited in by a blonde girl with pigtails and a sparkly red dress.
‘I’m Nicole,’ she said as soon as he walked in. ‘You’re Leon, aren’t you? Papa told me you were coming. Come to my room – I have lots of toys. Want to play with my dollhouse?’
Leon wasn’t sure he wanted to play with dolls, but he was happy to finally have a friend. Where he’d lived before, the kids were older, and he had been spending most of his time alone.
That same afternoon, Vincent Saint Germain, the boy next door, showed up too. He was eight, taller and stronger than Leon. And because he had met Nicole before Leon did, he seemed to think he had some sort of right over her.
Vying for Nicole’s time and attention seemed to be a constant in their lives, even now, nine years later, although one thing had changed: their group’s dynamic. In time, Leon and Nicole became best friends, while Vincent was now her boyfriend.
Nicole and Vincent made sense as a couple and Leon had known from the beginning he was the odd one out. Even when they were small, he was merely ‘accepted in their world’; he didn’t truly belong. His family was ‘new money’, not like the Saint Germains and the D’Angers, whose noble names carried a lot of weight on both sides of the Atlantic.
In 1946, Demetria D’Angers died of influenza, leaving JJ a young widower with a small child. Taking pity on him, Vincent’s parents, Margaux and Francois Saint Germain, sometimes allowed Leon and Nicole to play with their son in their apartment.
Soon though, both Leon and Nicole regretted accepting the invitation, especially after overhearing Margaux Saint Germain talking to her friends about JJ.
‘He says he’s grieving, and his work is the only refuge he has… but traveling the world and leaving the girl alone for months on end is preposterous. Poor child. Can you imagine? What she must be feeling knowing her father doesn’t love her and wishes she didn’t exist! How can you not feel sorry for her?’
‘Don’t listen to her,’ Leon comforted Nicole when she started to cry. ‘Your father loves you. He works a lot and he’s sad because your mother died. It’s hard for him. I would be sad too.’
But the damage had been done, and Nicole never forgot what she had heard that day. Or how she felt. And that was only confirmed one year later when her father informed her he’d made arrangements for her to live in Europe. Without him.
JJ and Francois had both studied at La Rolande, Europe’s most prestigious school, so it came as no surprise to anyone – except for the children, perhaps – when they both made plans to send Nicole and Vincent to Switzerland when they turned ten, the minimum age to be accepted into the elite establishment. Vincent left first, and then, a year later it was Nicole’s turn. Afraid it might jeopardize their status in New York’s high society if Leon attended a regular private school, Leonard proceeded to enroll his son at La Rolande too, despite his protests.
Now, six years later, La Rolande was the children’s second home. It was where they lived and learned, laughed and cried, celebrated their birthdays and even their Christmases.
And while Vincent and Leon, too fundamentally different to bond as friends, were never close and didn’t even try to pretend they liked each other, they were still part of each other’s lives because of their relationships with Nicole.
*
Two days after their fight, Nicole knocked on Leon’s door.
‘Are you still mad at me?’
Leon opened the door and leaned against the frame. ‘It depends. Are you going to apologize?’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.’
He let her in.
‘I missed you. Let’s not fight again,’ she said earnestly.
‘I missed you too. I got bored of talking to myself.’
She laughed, then looked around at his messy room and picked up a crumpled piece of paper. ‘What is this?’
‘Nothing,’ he said, yanking it out of her hand.
‘I thought we didn’t keep secrets from each other.’
‘We don’t,’ he said, ‘but I don’t want you to start again.’
‘Start what?’
‘It’s a letter to Zara.’
Nicole rolled her eyes.
‘See? I knew it!’
‘Is that what you’ve been doing for the last two days, locked up in your room?’
He nodded, feeling a bit embarrassed.
‘How about we do something together instead?’
Leon looked at her blankly.
‘Everyone is going skiing,’ she said in a singsong voice. ‘You know how much you love skiing.’
‘I don’t want to go,’ he said stubbornly.
‘Why not? So you can continue scribbling notes you’re not even sending?’
Leon shrugged.
‘Fine. If this is what you want, I’ll leave you to it,’ she said, walking to the door. ‘I’ll go see where Vincent is. I bet he won’t say no.’
‘Don’t go,’ he pleaded. ‘I don’t know what to write. Please help me! What do I say?’
‘You want me to tell you what you should write to another girl?’
‘Why not?’
She crossed her arms. ‘Because.’
Leon had never written to a girl before. He’d started the first letter fourteen times and torn it apart fifteen. The last one he’d double ripped out of sheer frustration.
‘Just write something already. This is torture,’ said Nicole, exasperated after a while. ‘It’s going to be dark soon and we’ll miss the whole day.’
He quickly wrote a silly note and put it in an envelope.
Do you remember me?
Leon
‘That’s it?’ she asked and started laughing.
‘It’s better than nothing,’ he mumbled.
‘I would never respond to this. It’s a waste of time anyway. You have plenty of friends here; you don’t need a new one.’
ZARA
16 DECEMBER 1954
COLMAR
It didn’t matter that she’d had to wait one more hour, hidden in the library until the guard finished his evening round. Nor that she had to walk home in the freezing rain and go to bed hungry after telling her mother she was too tired to eat. What Zara felt in that short time she’d spent with Leon, she had never felt before. She didn’t regret anything except not telling her mother about him, but they had never talked about boys before and she didn’t know how she would react. Or whether she would understand. For now, he was her little secret. Her magical little secret.