Someday in Paris
Page 35
As I come to the end of this mortal life, I am convinced, now more than ever, that nothing is more important than love. In all its shapes and forms, at all ages and no matter what the ending is. Love is the destination, the journey. Love is the reason.
Your friend, always,
JJ
ANTHONY
7 DECEMBER 1974
LONDON
Anthony returned home. It was dark out and he stood by the window, looking out into space and wondering what he should do. He knew what he wanted to do with the paintings, but how could he, without revealing his identity and without interfering in Dominique’s life? He had no right. But it was her big day. The Unterlinden reopening. Those paintings would take her career to soaring heights and she deserved everything good in the world.
In the window, besides his reflection, he saw the box of old mail next to the door. ‘I thought I got rid of you.’ He laughed out loud, realizing he was talking to a box.
Distracted, he emptied the contents on the floor and started going through the impressive pile of – mostly – junk from the last few months.
‘Nothing, nothing, nothing. Junk, magazines, flyers, nothing. Hmm,’ he said and turned an envelope on the other side.
Painfully familiar handwriting. The stamp was from 10 October. Two months before. A letter from Dominique.
Dear Anthony,
If what you’re about to read sounds crazy, or it offends you or scares you then please tear this paper into pieces and burn it.
You have your life and I have mine, for better or worse. I have hesitated to write this letter to you. I have started it so many times. Why am I writing to you now? The reason is simple. Regrets. No, not plural. Only one regret. The biggest what-if that I’ve been carrying with me for over twenty years.
Ever since I received your first letter, I have lived with the feeling that we have met before. Not once, not twice, not accidentally on the street but in a more profound way.
I have recently discovered something that eluded me for decades. That the boy I loved when I was just a girl living here in Colmar turned out to be the man I loved when I was a grown woman. Coincidence, some may say; fate, I dare contradict.
Recently, my husband and I have gone our separate ways. It was wrong of me to even pretend I could ever be with another man, because, you see, since I was fifteen, I have only dreamed of one love, one soul, one heart. Whether his name was Leon, Alexander or…
I don’t believe my heart is capable of loving another man but him. Not in the same unconditional, heart-stopping way. Our lives revolved around each other and even when we didn’t know it, all our choices eventually led us back to each other.
My question is this: Who are you, Anthony Peltz? You are him, aren’t you? You are my Leon. My Alexander. My one. It’s always been you. Only you.
Always,
Your Dominique
Anthony read and reread the letter; he couldn’t believe what was happening. What he had hoped but never thought was possible. What he always dreamed of. Dominique was Zara; Zara was Dominique. He had loved one woman his whole life. She was the one and she always had been. And his Dominique knew. She knew who he really was, although it defied all logic. She did, she felt it; her heart recognized his. His Dominique was still his Dominique; she had never stopped being his. He might’ve been dead to the whole world but not to her.
Anthony’s eyes were full of tears but, for the first time in many years, they were happy tears: unexpected, miraculous, wonderful tears.
He kissed the letter, put it back in the envelope, and picked up the phone.
‘I need to send three packages from Switzerland to France and I need them to get there by tomorrow noon.’
One more thing left on his list. The Marmottan Museum.
DOMINIQUE
8 DECEMBER 1974
COLMAR
Anthony had never answered her letter and now she was feeling all sorts of doubts. She’d imagined it all: it wasn’t him; he didn’t receive the letter. She called to see if he was still in charge of the European Restoration. He was. Then he must’ve received it, just like all the other letters. And it had to be him because her heart had never felt as sure as it had when she found the book and the letter.
With the Unterlinden reopening coming up soon, Dominique knew she had to pull herself together. As hard as it was.
Months since she started working on it, the little Alsatian museum was unrecognizable, even to Dominique. So much work, but she’d made it, and just in time. She was pleased with the result and proud of what they had accomplished, but something was missing, something that would make the museum stand out. She had robust collections, but nothing out of the ordinary.
*
The day before the reopening, Dominique arrived at the museum a little after seven to get a head start and check on the final details.
In front of the main entrance was a black van with Swiss license plates. Dominique wondered if she had missed a delivery or if there was a problem with one of the exhibits. She hoped nothing was wrong. Although she didn’t have any big names attending the reopening, even if it was only for the people of Colmar, it still had to be perfect.
‘Miss Gardiner,’ her assistant said the moment Dominique opened the door. ‘I was just about to call. These gentlemen have a delivery for you. The boxes are in your office.’
Two men, in black suits, were just getting back in the van.
‘Excuse me,’ said Dominique. ‘Who is the delivery from and what is it?’
He looked at the yellow pad that was in the passenger seat. ‘Couldn’t tell you, madame. It says “Anonymous donation” for three of the boxes and there’s a note for the fourth one. Let me find it. One moment please,’ he said and went to the back of the van.
‘Ahem,’ he coughed loudly to get Dominique’s attention. ‘One-year loan from Musée Marmottan as a token of appreciation for your remarkable restoration efforts.’
‘That’s it?’ asked Dominique, intrigued.
He nodded politely. ‘Have a good day.’
Dominique cut the ropes and with her assistant’s help slowly opened the cover of the first box. She took a step back. Her eyes were playing tricks on her, certainly.
It was a Monet. A Le Havre. Strikingly similar to Impression, Sunrise. Soleil Levant. But not it. Nothing she’d ever seen before, in reality or even in an art book.
With trembling hands, she opened the other two boxes. Three almost identical paintings. Minuscule differences only scholars and experts would notice. Glorious. Magnificent. Three paintings nobody knew existed. But she knew. Leon had told her. Was that possible? Her heart, her heart wasn’t wrong.
One more box to open, bearing the stamp of Musée Marmottan.
When she cut the ropes, she didn’t expect to see in front of her eyes, in her museum, in all its glory: Monet’s Impression, Sunrise. The original painting.
‘Is this what I think it is?’ asked her assistant.
Dominique collapsed on a chair and stared at the paintings. ‘Can this be?’
She kept calling the Marmottan Museum but received no information about the loan. She phoned other experts in Impressionism to inquire about the three paintings. According to official documents, they didn’t exist. Of course they didn’t.
Her colleagues called other colleagues who called other colleagues and in less than twenty-four hours the entire art scene buzzed with rumors about the never-before-seen Monet inside a small provincial museum in Alsace. Which coincidentally had a grand reopening the very next day. She got bombarded with calls from the press, experts, scholars and countless requests to attend the opening of the museum from the biggest names in the art world. Dominique was overwhelmed.
She kept trying to focus on the opening event but all she could do was think about the paintings. Could she dare to hope? Was it all a dream, again? She couldn’t go through the disappointment again. But what a beautiful, impossible, magic dream it was.
DOMINIQUE
r /> 9 DECEMBER 1974
COLMAR
The night before the opening Dominique had a dream. The same dream she’d had twenty years before, right before meeting Leon for the first time. But now, when she woke up, it all made sense. She looked like the woman in the mirror. She was the woman in the mirror. And that night, when all the guests had arrived, the museum would also look exactly as it had in the dream.
Only two things were missing. In the morning, she rushed to the store next to the town square. She had a dress in mind. A specific dress she had been dreaming of her whole life.
A few hours later, everything was set. Colmar had probably never seen such commotion and trepidation as that day. Important people from all over the world showed up. Dominique couldn’t have been happier. Critics, buyers, and media, they were all fighting for a better look at the Monet paintings.
‘Who is the owner of these paintings?’
‘I am. But I have no intention of selling them, if that’s what you’re looking for,’ replied Dominique to the appraisers, who didn’t look like they believed her.
‘Each of them is worth well over eighty million dollars,’ insisted another.
She smiled, nodded and ignored the conversations about money. Those paintings were priceless. How could they know? How could they understand?
She took a deep breath, before stepping into the big gallery where the reception and party were underway. It looked like people were having a wonderful time. The musician was playing something on the piano but there was too much noise in the gallery and you could barely hear. Something classic perhaps. Vivaldi’s Four Seasons.
Dominique was there physically but her mind and her heart were somewhere else, uncontrollably searching for him, looking for answers.
Someone said something to her, but she didn’t understand or maybe she didn’t hear. She kept staring at the women and men, all dressed elegantly, sipping their champagne from crystal flutes and admiring the massive paintings on the walls. Especially the Monet. The Monets.
What a powerful sensation of déjà vu. The noises, the light, the people. Like she had lived that night before.
Dominique walked slowly towards the corner of the room and found herself standing in front of a mirror. She took a step back and gasped, looking at herself in that beautiful, long, flowy emerald-green dress. She touched her hair and the tiara-like headband. Yes, she looked exactly like in her dream. That beautiful, impossible dream, from twenty years ago.
She went to the store, thinking that if somehow she recreated everything she saw in her reverie, the dream would come true. But there was still one missing piece. The most important one. The man in her dream.
*
The musician stopped, then nodded as if she was talking to someone. Moments later the young woman started playing again and the room, as if on a signal, went quiet. Absolutely quiet. Only Dominique found herself humming along. ‘Hymne a l’Amour’.
Her heart beat fast; her legs were weak. She held on to a chair, afraid she’d fall.
Across the room, a pair of sapphire-blue eyes. That was all she saw. It was as if a void ate everybody else in the room up and it was just the two of them, alone, staring at each other. Dominique didn’t move, barely breathing. She was even afraid to blink and to miss that moment.
She heard a voice, the same voice she heard a long time ago, that night at the charity ball.
‘I am here.’
Dominique couldn’t control her tears, she couldn’t, and she didn’t want to. Not anymore.
He walked towards her and she saw his eyes were tearing up as well. He stopped in front of her, not saying a word, and they stared into each other’s eyes.
‘I know you, we’ve met before,’ he said, his voice shaky.
‘We have, haven’t we?’
‘Maybe in another life, or maybe in my dreams,’ he whispered.
‘Maybe in another life, or maybe in my dreams,’ she whispered simultaneously.
Tears ran down her cheeks.
He smiled. ‘We keep seeing each other,’ he said, ‘just like that day. That wonderful Wednesday at the café.’ Their first Wednesday.
‘Seems so,’ she replied, still crying. ‘You know you’re standing in my museum?’
He looked around. ‘I am? I’m sorry, I didn’t know,’ he said, trying to sound serious.
‘It’s okay,’ she continued in the same serious tone. ‘You can have it today. You know, this is the best museum in the world.’
‘Is it?’ he said and took her hands in his.
‘What do you see? Out there?’ she asked, showing him the walls covered in paintings.
‘Lilies? A sunrise? Sunset? Colors?’
‘Close your eyes,’ she said. And she did too.
‘Do you see that skinny girl sitting on the floor and holding a lilies book? What about the boy with his eyes closed, trying to imagine what she looks like? Remembering how she makes him feel so he can find her? Again and again? Always?’ she asked.
He opened his eyes. His face lit up. ‘I get it. This is the best museum in the world.’
‘I’ve wanted to do this for ten years,’ he whispered. His hands cupped the sides of her face, gently. His lips stopped for a moment on her eyes. Her cheeks. Dominique felt she was melting away. Disappearing like a dream in the morning. She felt his warm breath and touching his chest with her hand, she felt his heart beating so fast. In tandem with hers. Same rhythm. One heart. One soul. His lips touched hers and the world stopped. Time stopped.
*
‘People say it for a reason. Because it’s true. It does happen. The butterflies, the weak knees, the knots in your stomach. When it happens, hold on to it. Hold on to it like your life depends on it. Because it does. Depend on it.’
*
She held on to him as if she was losing her balance. As if she was afraid it was all a dream, and she would wake up and he’d be gone. He gently caressed her face, her hair.
‘I’m sorry it took me so long to come back, to tell you I love you. I love you!’
‘I love you! Only you, always,’ she said and pressed her lips to his, losing herself in him. In their love.
DOMINIQUE
9 DECEMBER 2019
COLMAR
‘And that, my darling girl, is how your Grandfather Anthony and I fell in love with each other, again and again and again. Three months later, we were married in the small church in Colmar. Shortly after, I got pregnant with our first son and the rest is history,’ I say, smiling.
‘You mean my Grandfather Alexander. Or should I say Leon?’
I chuckle. ‘And Impression, Sunrise, well, its adventure continued after I returned it to Musée Marmottan. A few years later, it was stolen. This time the original. Although it is said that whoever took it was looking for one of three your grandfather and I have.’
‘Did they ever recover it?’
‘Five years later, somewhere in Corsica. And ever since, it’s been living a quiet life.’
Valerie laughs. ‘So far.’
‘So far,’ I say.
‘Mamie, what about Grandpa Vincent? How did you two…?’
‘Become close again?’
‘Yes.’
‘In time, we forgave each other, I think. We had been not only a couple, but also good friends for such a long time and we missed each other. Plus, we were both your Aunt Anne’s parents. I was very upset with him but he apologized so many times for pretending to be Leon, that your Grandfather Anthony couldn’t take it anymore and forced me to forgive him. That is… after he punched him in the nose.’
I laugh. ‘Vincent said he deserved it. Then, slowly, he started visiting again, even stayed weekends with us here in Colmar. He never remarried, but he was happy, writing his books and spending as much time as he could with Anne, and then with his grandchildren.’
Valerie smiles. ‘I remember him telling us stories, when we were kids. Wonderful stories. I am surprised he never told me this one.’
‘It wasn’t his story to tell,’ I say, smiling back.
Valerie stares at me, like a child seeing a snow globe for the first time.
‘Magical,’ she whispers. ‘Thank you. For the story. For everything.’
‘With all my love, darling,’ I say, and she wraps her arms around me.
Valerie looks out the window, at the snow falling on the trees. Slowly, taking its time.
‘I never thought I’d say this or feel it. Is it really possible?’
‘What?’
‘Falling in love without seeing the other person? Without knowing who they are?’
‘What do you think?’ I say.
Her eyes are teary. ‘I think it’s possible. If it’s true love. If they’re your soulmate. Because your soul recognizes their soul; no matter what they look like, no matter how their voice sounds, what color their eyes are.’
I smile, relieved, like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders.
ANTHONY
9 DECEMBER 2019
COLMAR
I haven’t been Alexander Leonard Price in fifty-five years. It was bizarre hearing my old name tonight. Like I’ve stepped into another world for a few hours. Back in time. I wonder how Dominique felt reliving it all. I know it wasn’t easy for her. When she told me a few years ago she wanted to write it all down, her part but also my part, I didn’t think it was a good idea. Some of the things we went through were painful. Some were still a blur. But now, listening to her, I understand. Dominique always felt it was her duty to warn Valerie of what might happen if she ignores her heart, but also to let her know about the magical power of their dreams. They share a special bond. Just like we do. Different but just as magical.
I looked at Dominique as she was reading tonight, and I loved her more for it. I loved her more after hearing the entire story. I wanted to say I was sorry for what I put her through, but I know she wouldn’t want my apologies. She’d say it was meant to be. We wouldn’t be here otherwise.