by Olivia Lara
He often wondered if she knew he was a ghost of a man. That, despite all her efforts, and his efforts, he was hollow inside? That he still dreamed the same dream, after all those years? That he smiled because he had to, not because he felt it? That he had a thousand unanswered questions and he would’ve given up his life for the answers? Did she know he believed there was someone out there who his heart belonged to, forever? He just didn’t know who that person was. Just like he didn’t know who he was.
From the outside looking in, it seemed Anthony had everything. A good life, an excellent financial situation, and a fantastic career. The director of The Louvre had called him ‘the most promising art restorer in recent history’ in an interview for Le Monde the previous year, and the world’s most prominent museums had been after him ever since. Because of it, Anthony had too much unwanted attention, and he’d had to build a character for himself. Solitary, difficult, private.
‘In more recent history only tragic anniversaries, I’m afraid. Starting with the 1950 PanAm Flight 214 struck by lightning near Maryland, killing 81. Two years later, the heavy smog over London killed at least 4,000 people,’ said the voice on the radio. ‘And in 1964, on 9 December, Trans-Oceanic Airways Flight 651 from New York to Paris crashed in the English Channel, near Le Havre, killing 165. The deadliest accident in France’s history.’
‘Why do they always have to remind people of tragedies?’ said Mary and turned off the radio. ‘Aren’t there enough bad things happening right now in the world? We have to relive the old ones too?’
She didn’t like to hear news about accidents and deaths, as her life had been sad enough.
Anthony stopped short. ‘Le Havre, 9 December, 1964,’ he murmured to himself.
It was probably nothing. Why would that date mean anything to him?
‘I have to go; I’ll be back in three days,’ said Anthony.
Mary gave him a worried look.
‘I’ll be fine,’ said Anthony. ‘I knew this day would come. Can’t hide forever,’ he said attempting a smile.
The truth was that Paris terrified him and Mary knew it. What exactly made him feel that way, he couldn’t say; there was something about Paris that when even mentioned made Anthony uncomfortable and nervous. So nervous, his hands would sweat, and his mouth would go dry.
ANTHONY
10 DECEMBER 1973, MORNING
PARIS
Anthony took the train from Cambridge to London and from there to Paris. As he crossed the border, the pit of his stomach felt queasy and he was a bit lightheaded.
Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all, he thought.
He arrived at Gare du Nord as the sun was rising, and millions of thoughts ran through his mind. It was the first time he’d visited the capital, yet some places seemed familiar. Smells, noises, overwhelming sensations. The city seemed busy. He hated crowds and had become quite reserved, somewhat antisocial in the last years. He could spend days and days working on paintings, without feeling the need to see or talk to anyone. Sometimes he forgot he needed to eat or sleep. It was just him and the art.
*
In front of the Louvre, he wanted to turn back and run. Wherever. Anywhere. Just skip the meeting with the board; he decided against it because too much was at stake and he had worked too hard to give up now.
The Louvre board members received him like he was a VIP, but he didn’t feel like smiling and shaking hands. Not that day. He was restless. There was something in the air, and something in his heart ached. They approved the funding, the headquarters, and officially appointed Anthony as the lead of the European Art Restoration organization. What’d he worked for so hard, what he’d hoped for, had just happened and he couldn’t even celebrate.
‘We will see you tomorrow afternoon, Monsieur Peltz,’ said one of the members. ‘By then, we will have finalized the list of candidates for the fifteen spots and I’m sure you’re going to be pleased with the quality of the art specialists we’re presenting you with.’
The best he could do was to force a smile. When they asked if he wanted to stay for drinks after, he excused himself. He couldn’t wait to leave. It was as if what had just happened wasn’t his biggest dream come true.
On his way out, Anthony noticed a plate announcing a temporary Monet exhibition. Instead of heading for the exit, he followed the signs until he reached an open, light-colored gallery where one massive painting dominated the room. Reflections on the Water-Lily Pond, c. 1919, 200 × 1,276 cm, oil on canvas, Restored at Musée Marmottan by D.S.G.
It took his breath away. What was it about this painting? Did it mean something to him?
But it wasn’t just that beautiful painting that gave him that strange sensation and he knew it. It was this city and this day, it was a name and a touch he sometimes thought he felt, the sound of a voice, a haunting feeling and an obsessive dream. A dream he’d done his best to ignore so he could move on with his life. But that dream was overpowering him now.
There was a woman in his dream. She was surrounded by light and color. Like a painting. Like a perfect painting. He knew her voice, but he couldn’t see her. She was always there with him. Every night. Every single night of the last nine years. Sometimes, she would talk to him, although he didn’t always understand what she said. Other times she seemed lonely and cried. There were moments when she was happy, and he was happy too. The dream would always end the same way. ‘Don’t go. Stay with me,’ she would whisper. Every single time.
ANTHONY
10 DECEMBER 1973, EVENING
PARIS
‘Mister Peltz,’ he heard a man’s voice and recognized one of the members of the board. ‘I see you’ve discovered our latest restoration.’ He beamed with pride.
Anthony turned to look at what the man was pointing to. It was the Monet.
‘Yes, I-I…’ he stuttered. Had to control himself. ‘I did. It’s a flawless restoration. Beautiful work.’
‘It is, isn’t it? Since you’re here, you should meet our newest art curator. She’s responsible for it.’
All of a sudden, not far from where he was, he heard voices and laughter. A man. A woman. Another man. Laughter again.
‘Don’t go anywhere. Stay here, I’ll be right back,’ he heard the woman say, then footsteps and the sound of a door closing.
Anthony’s heart beat out of his chest. That voice. He knew that voice. He knew it better than his own. ‘Don’t go. Stay with me.’ Was it possible? Was it the same voice? The voice from his dreams. Was it her?
Anthony took a step back, and for a fraction of a second he contemplated hiding or turning around or just rushing out of there. Was he ready? Was he truly ready to see her? To find out the truth about himself?
He’d never felt more nervous or scared. Not even nine years ago when he didn’t know if he was going to get caught and end up in jail or if he was going to make it alive to the next week. That was a different kind of scared. It was physical. It was about survival. This time it was about so much more and it took over all his senses.
Two men dressed in light beige suits came into the gallery. One of them was holding a camera and a flash, the other was writing something in a notepad. They were talking loudly among themselves and he recognized their voices from earlier.
‘Journalists from Le Monde,’ whispered the man. ‘They’re here to take her photograph for an article. We’re so proud,’ he added.
Footsteps on the hallway, coming their way. Anthony gulped.
‘That must be Dominique,’ said Monsieur Brainly with a big smile. ‘I’ll introduce you.’
‘Dominique? Her name is Dominique?’ he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
He felt weak, a deaf pain in his right leg, a throbbing pain in his temples.
The room was spinning, and Anthony leaned against the wall, trying to calm his nerves and his shaking hands.
‘She’s going to be so excited to meet you,’ said the board member, but Anthony barely heard him.
‘Excuse me, I – I have to go,’ he said and ran in the opposite direction. He ran as fast as he could and didn’t stop until he was outside, in front of the museum.
He felt like he was about to be sick. The world around him was still spinning. Images. Sounds. Monet. ‘Don’t go. Stay with me.’ A flash of light. Pressure in his chest. The throbbing pain in his head.
He felt his body falling to the ground, like a dead weight, and he knew it was happening but there was nothing he could do to control it, to stop it.
In that moment, Anthony’s life flashed before his eyes. But not the life he knew.
‘Don’t go. Stay with me. Alexander, come back to me.’
‘Dominique?’ he asked not knowing where that came from. ‘Dominique!’ he yelled.
He didn’t have any last thoughts or wishes. Only one goal, vivid and irrational like an obsession – to survive. That feeling, that horrid sensation. It was painfully familiar. A sinking feeling in his stomach as his body hit the hard surface. Voices crying for help. What was happening? Who were all those people? A deafening thud muffled the cries, and a blast of snow and ice took his breath away, knocking him unconscious. Water. Ice-cold water everywhere. He felt a thousand knives going through his arms and legs as he struggled for air. Fighting to stay afloat, his body was dead weight, pulling him to the bottom of a freezing, deep, black hole. ‘I can’t die, not now. Please, not now. I need to get out of here.’
‘Mate, hey, mate, you alright?’
Anthony opened his eyes and instinctively gasped for air. He looked around. There was no water. No people crying for help. Only two curious tourists who stared at him and whispered something to each other.
Tears ran down his cheeks.
‘Are you okay, mate?’ he heard the man repeat in a thick Australian accent. ‘Need me to call someone?’
He couldn’t speak.
‘Maybe we should stop a gendarme,’ said the woman who was with him.
‘I know you, we’ve met before. I don’t know if in this life, or maybe in my dreams, but we have, haven’t we?’ He kept repeating the words, as tears ran down his face.
‘You ill, mate?’ the man repeated. ‘Let me help you up.’
He heard the words but couldn’t process them. Nine years after his life ceased to exist, he understood who the ghost was, and how Anthony had come to exist. He remembered everything. Himself. Her. The memories started coming back when he went to Paris, but he couldn’t accept it. He couldn’t believe it was true. But now, there was no denying it. And he couldn’t stop shaking and crying. Her face was vivid in his mind. Her touch. Dominique. His love. His only love.
ANTHONY
12 DECEMBER 1973
PARIS
What he did for the rest of the day, where he went, who he talked to, how he eventually got back to the station, boarded the train and made his way back home… he couldn’t remember. It was all a haze. When he arrived home, it was past midnight and Mary was asleep. The house was quiet. He went to his study, poured himself a glass of scotch and fell into his chair.
Mary found him there the next morning.
‘Anthony,’ she said, and shook him a bit. ‘Where have you been? I’ve been worried sick. You were supposed to come back early yesterday.’
‘I’m fine, Mary, don’t worry.’
‘But I do worry. Thank God you’re alright. How did it go? How was Paris?’
He lifted his head and looked at her for a moment, then put his head back on the desk.
‘That bad? I knew you shouldn’t have gone,’ she said in a motherly way.
‘Oh, Mary,’ he said. ‘I—’
‘What’s wrong? What happened?’
He put his hand on hers. ‘I can’t talk about it right now. Please, don’t feel sad. I just – it’s just so much.’
She smiled as she did every time when Anthony retreated into his own world. She knew when to give him space; she had learned in all the years they had lived under the same roof.
‘It’s alright,’ she said kindly. ‘You will tell me when you’re ready.’
She then pulled back the curtains and opened the windows to let the air in.
‘It’s stuffy in here. I’ll make you breakfast; you must be starving.’
‘I’m not hungry. Actually, I need to go, take care of something, but I’ll be back soon.’
He went straight to the public library and asked to see newspapers from December 1964. He searched for articles about the plane crash. Seeing his name on the list of victims was heartbreaking and shocking. Why would they think I was dead? he kept wondering. Then he realized. It must’ve been the coat. How ironic, thought Anthony. There had been a man onboard who was shivering and unwell. He had given that man his coat without a second thought. His coat. With his passport and wallet.
They thought he was dead. Nobody had looked for him because they thought he was dead. His heart broke imagining what Dominique must have gone through, what JJ would have gone through. They’d buried him. They’d mourned for him. How would they react to finding out after almost a decade he was alive?
When he returned home, he paced around in his study for hours.
‘How about dinner?’ asked Mary.
He looked out the window, absentmindedly. ‘I need to go back.’
‘Go back where?’
‘Paris.’
‘But you were just there.’
He sighed. ‘I shouldn’t have come home and bothered you. I should’ve just stayed there, but I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know where to go.’
‘You can’t bother me. This is your home,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you take a few days to rest, and then you can go to Paris again? It will still be there.’
‘I don’t want to rest. I need to go back.’
She didn’t push him any longer. When Anthony’s mind was set on something, Mary knew not to interfere.
He took a bath, changed, and Mary helped him pack fresh clothes in his suitcase.
‘I have to be back at the Louvre tomorrow,’ he said.
It was both a truth and a lie. He did have a meeting but not for another two days. That wasn’t the real reason why he was going to Paris. He was going back because she was there.
‘This is the name of the hotel, and the phone number. If you need anything, call me,’ he said, writing it down for her.
He took the night train again to Paris.
Although he had been there just the other day, it was as if that had never happened.
It wasn’t him who had gone to the Louvre. It was Anthony. But who was Anthony and who was Alexander? Where did one stop and the other begin?
He experienced everything now as if he hadn’t been back in Paris for nine years. It was all so new, so raw, so beautiful. Full of memories and feelings.
When he saw the Eiffel Tower in the distance, his heart sank. Le Petit Coin was so close. All he needed to do was take a right turn instead of going straight. He hesitated. He could still do it. Next right. Next right. Then what? He had been gone for so long. A lot could have happened in nine years.
He kept walking and walking, for what seemed like forever. It got dark and cold, and he kept walking. He was afraid that if he stopped, he would do something impulsive. He would make a mistake.
Anthony couldn’t think. Couldn’t focus. Not even as he finally decided to call it a night and arrived in front of the hotel that evening and went up to his room. It got even worse there. When he pulled the curtains, the tower’s beam lit up his room and blinded him. He was so close to what he wanted more than anything. To the person he wanted more than anything. Yet, so far. So painfully far.
For the rest of the night, he sat on the floor, in the middle of the room, drinking from a bottle of red wine and thinking. Putting together all the pieces of the puzzle of the last few years.
His oldest memory was waking up in a hospital. Trying to move but realizing he was tied to a bed. Feeling scared. Setting himself free. Snatching a patient’s clothes and shoes from
one of the rooms and sneaking out the back door. Panicking. What had he done to be restrained like that? Was he a criminal? Had he hurt someone? It had seemed so easy, so natural for him to steal that man’s things. Was he a dangerous thief?
Then he remembered stumbling out of the hospital, wearing those shoes two sizes too large, walking with difficulty, and pushing himself until he couldn’t move anymore. He remembered falling in the snow, convinced that was the end.
The next image that came to him was waking on the side of the road. It was dark and he was cold, so cold he could barely move, and his teeth were chattering violently. Where was he? What year was it? Who was he? What had happened to him?
A truck stopped a few meters in front of him and a man came out and after taking some boxes from the back, went into a store.
Desperate, confused, and afraid he was going to die if he stayed there in the snow for much longer, he propped himself up and with the last ounce of strength, climbed into the back of the truck.
*
Anthony took another gulp of wine and closed his eyes for a moment.
*
His last thought before he’d passed out in that truck was that he couldn’t die. Because he had to be somewhere. Someone was waiting for him somewhere. Where and who, he didn’t know. But that was what kept him going. What gave him strength. What made him not give up.
He woke up when a strong light flashed in his eyes. There were voices. A man. A woman. He couldn’t understand what they were saying, he didn’t know what was happening, only that someone grabbed him and it felt like he was floating above the ground.
‘Mr Peltz,’ he heard a voice and at first, he didn’t react. Whoever was talking was not addressing him.
‘Mr Peltz. Anthony,’ the voice insisted. A woman’s voice.
He opened his eyes.
‘Good, good,’ she said. ‘Well, hello. Welcome back,’ said the woman who was dressed as a nurse. She smiled kindly at him.