The Mystery of Henri Pick

by David Foenkinos

  3

  Madeleine Pick had just turned eighty and had lived alone since her husband’s death. For more than forty years, they had run the pizzeria together. Henri worked in the kitchen, and she was the waitress. Their entire life had fitted around the rhythms of the restaurant. They didn’t want to retire, because it would have been a terrible wrench. But Henri’s body could no longer take the pace. He suffered a heart attack and, reluctantly, decided to sell the pizzeria. Sometimes he would go back there as a customer. He admitted to Madeleine that eating there was like watching an old flame with her new husband. In his final years, he became increasingly morose, detached from everything, with no appetite for life. His wife, who had always been the more cheerful, outgoing one, watched helplessly as he sank into depression. He died in his bed, a few days after walking for too long in the rain; it was hard to say if that had been a form of suicide disguised as carelessness. On his deathbed, he had appeared serene. Now Madeleine spent most of her days alone, but she never got bored. Sometimes she would do embroidery—a ridiculous pastime in her opinion, but one for which she had developed a taste. As she was finishing the last rows of a doily, the doorbell rang.

  She opened it without fear, which surprised Frédéric. This region seemed free of all apprehension regarding strangers.

  “Hello. We’re sorry to disturb you, but… are you Madame Pick?”

  “Yes, until proven otherwise, that’s me.”

  “And your husband’s name was Henri?”

  “Until he died, that was his name.”

  “My name is Delphine Despero. I’m not sure if you know my parents. They’re from Morgat.”

  “Yes, maybe. I saw so many people, with the restaurant. But that name rings a bell. Did you have pigtails and a red bike when you were a little girl?”

  Delphine was speechless. How could this woman remember such details? But yes, that was her. For a brief instant, she felt again the sensation of being a little girl, pigtails flying in the wind as she rode her red bicycle.

  They went into the living room. The silence was disturbed by a clock that reminded everyone of its presence by ticking very loudly. Madeleine must have stopped hearing it. The noise of each second had become her regular sonic backdrop. The knick-knacks scattered all over the room gave it the appearance of a Breton souvenir shop. Nobody could have been in any doubt about the house’s geographical setting: it oozed Brittany, and there was no trace of any trips to other places. When Delphine asked the old woman if she sometimes went to Paris, the response was scathing: “I went there once. What a nightmare! The crowds, the stress, the smell. And, honestly, the Eiffel Tower? I can’t see what all the fuss is about!”

  “…”

  “Can I offer you something to drink?”

  “Oh, yes please.”

  “What would you like?”

  “Whatever you’re having,” said Delphine, who had realized it was better not to rush things. The old woman went into the kitchen, leaving her guests in the living room. Delphine and Frédéric glanced at each other in an awkward silence. Madeleine quickly returned with two cups of caramel tea.

  Out of politeness, Frédéric drank his tea, even though he loathed the smell of caramel more than anything. He did not feel at ease in this house; the atmosphere was oppressive, even a little scary. He had the feeling that terrible things had happened here. Then he spotted a photograph on the mantelpiece. The portrait of a gruff-looking man, with a thick moustache.

  “Is that your husband?” he asked in a low voice.

  “Yes. It’s one of my favourite pictures of him. He looks happy in that one. And he’s smiling, which was quite rare. Henri was not the sociable type.”

  “…”

  This reply seemed to offer a concrete dimension to the theory of relativity: the young couple could not discern even the hint of a smile in that photograph, and certainly no sign of happiness. On the contrary, Henri’s expression seemed to communicate a deep sadness. Yet Madeleine kept going on about the feeling of joie de vivre that emanated from the portrait.

  Delphine didn’t want to rush her hostess. It was better to let her talk for a while, about her life, her husband, before she brought up the reason for their visit. Madeleine spoke about her old job, the hours that Henri spent at the restaurant preparing everything. There’s not much to tell, she admitted in the end. The time passed so quickly, and here we are. Until this moment, she had seemed detached as she reminisced about the past, but suddenly she was choked by emotion. She realized that she never talked to anybody about Henri. Since his death, he had disappeared from conversations, from daily life, perhaps even from the memories of everyone who’d known him. And so she started confiding secrets, which was out of character, without even wondering why these two strangers sitting in her living room wanted to hear her talk about her deceased husband. When an event occurs that gives you a sense of well-being, you tend not to question its cause. Little by little, Delphine and Frédéric formed an impression of a man whose life had been utterly discreet and free of drama.

  “Did he have any passions?” Delphine asked eventually, in an attempt to accelerate the conversation.

  “…”

  “Did you have a typewriter at the pizzeria?”

  “What? A typewriter?”

  “Yes.”

  “No. Never.”

  “Did he like to read?” asked Delphine.

  “Read? Henri?” the old woman asked with a smile. “No, I never saw him read a book. Apart from the TV guide, he never read anything at all.”

  The faces of the two visitors expressed a mixture of stupefaction and excitement. Confronted by their silence, Madeleine abruptly added: “Actually, I’ve just thought of something. When we sold the pizzeria, we spent days on end packing all our stuff. All the things we’d accumulated over the years. And I remember finding a cardboard box in the cellar, full of books.”

  “So you think he might have been reading at the restaurant, without you knowing?”

  “No. I asked him what they were, and he told me they were all the books left behind by our customers over the years. He’d put them there in case they came back to claim them. It struck me as a bit strange, because I couldn’t remember any customers leaving books on the tables. But I wasn’t there all the time. And when the shift was over, I often went back home while he cleaned up. He was in the pizzeria much more than I was. He’d get there at eight or nine in the morning, and come home at midnight.”

  “Oh yeah, that’s a long day,” observed Frédéric.

  “Henri liked it that way. He adored the mornings, when there was nobody to bother him. He’d prepare his dough, and sometimes he’d change the menu so people didn’t get bored. He enjoyed inventing new pizzas, and coming up with names for them. I remember the Brigitte Bardot… and the Stalin, with its red chilli peppers.”

  “Why Stalin?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. He had these fancies sometimes. He liked Russia. Well, he liked Russians anyway. He said they were a proud people, a bit like the Bretons.”

  “…”

  “Excuse me, but I have to visit a friend at the hospital. Those are my only outings these days—the hospital, the retirement home and the cemetery. The magic trio. But why did you want to see me?”

  “Do you have to leave now?”

  “Yes.”

  “In that case,” said Delphine, disappointed, “the best thing would be to meet again later, because what we have to tell you might take a while.”

  “Ah… that sounds intriguing. But I really do have to go.”

  “Thank you for taking the time to see us.”

  “You’re welcome. Did you like the caramel tea?”

  “Yes, thank you,” chorused Delphine and Frédéric.

  “Oh good, because someone gave it to me, and I don’t like the taste at all. So I try to get rid of it when I have guests.”

  The two Parisians gaped at her, and Madeleine added that she was just kidding. As she got older, she had come to real
ize that nobody imagined she was capable of having a sense of humour. Old people, it was assumed, were gloomy sods, incapable of sarcasm, who didn’t understand anything.

  As they were leaving, Delphine asked Madeleine when they might see her again. With an ironic smile, the old woman replied that she had plenty of free time. So, whenever they wanted. They agreed to meet up the next day. The old lady moved closer to Frédéric and said: “You don’t look well.”

  “Oh?”

  “You should take more walks by the sea.”

  “You’re right. I don’t get out enough.”

  “What do you do?”

  “I write.”

  She gave him a look of dismay.

  4

  When she saw her friend in the hospital, Madeleine told her about the visit she’d just had. To entertain the patient, she lingered on the story of the caramel tea. Sylviane squeezed her hand, a sign that she’d enjoyed the anecdote. The two women had known each other since childhood: they’d skipped rope in the playground together, they’d told each other about their first time with a boy, they’d conversed about their children’s problems at school, and life had gone on like that until their husbands had died at almost exactly the same time. And now one of them was going to leave before the other.

  5

  After that curtailed visit, Delphine and Frédéric decided to eat lunch in the restaurant that used to belong to the Picks. The pizzeria had become a crêperie, which seemed more logical. People visited Brittany to eat crêpes and drink cider. You had to submit to the culinary diktat of each region. With the arrival of the new owners, the restaurant’s clientele had radically changed; the local regulars had given way to tourists.

  They looked around the premises to familiarize themselves with the idea that Pick had written his novel here. To Frédéric, it seemed unlikely: “It’s charmless, hot, noisy… Can you really imagine him writing here?”

  “Yes. In winter, there’s nobody here. It’s hard to believe, but for many months of the year it’s very quiet. The perfect depressing atmosphere that writers need.”

  “True. That’s exactly what I think when I’m writing in your place: the perfect depressing atmosphere.”

  “Very funny…”

  They were both cheerful, and increasingly excited by this whole story. They’d been impressed by Madeleine’s personality. They were eager to see her reaction, the next day, when she learnt about her husband’s secret.

  The waitress1 asked them what they wanted. As always, Delphine made her choice quickly (in this case, a seafood salad) while Frédéric hesitated for minutes on end, his eyes frantically roaming the menu, like a writer struggling with an ill-formed sentence. In search of a solution to his dilemma, he looked around him at the plates on other people’s tables. The crêpes looked good, but which one should he choose? He weighed up the pros and cons, all the while aware that he was cursed. No matter what he did, he always chose the wrong option. To help him, Delphine advised: “You always get it wrong. So if you want a crêpe complète, choose a forestière instead.”

  “Good idea.”

  The owner listened to this dialogue without saying anything, but when she passed on the order to her husband, she added: “Just to warn you, they’re psychopaths.” A little later, while enjoying his crêpe, Frédéric admitted that his girlfriend had solved his problem: all he had to do was go against his instincts.

  6

  As they ate lunch, they dwelt on the story of the manuscript they had discovered.

  “This is our Vivian Maier,” said Delphine.

  “Who?”

  “You know, that wonderful photographer whose pictures weren’t found until after her death.”

  “Oh yeah, you’re right. Pick is our Vivian…”

  “It’s practically the same story. And people adore stuff like that.”

  THE STORY OF VIVIAN MAIER

  (1926–2009)

  In Chicago, a somewhat eccentric American woman of French origin had spent her life taking photographs without ever showing them to anybody, without ever thinking of exhibiting them, and often without even having enough money to have the pictures developed. Consequently, she never even got to see a large part of her work, but she was aware that she had talent. So why did she never try to make a living from her art? Instead, wearing baggy dresses and an old-fashioned hat, she earned money as a nanny. The children she looked after could never forget her, and particularly not the camera that she always wore on a strap around her neck. But who could have guessed just how good she was?

  This woman, who ended up destitute, living on the margins of society, left behind thousands of photographs whose value has gone up every day since their discovery. At the end of her life, while she was hospitalized and incapable of paying rent on the lock-up garage where she kept the fruit of her artistic life, the boxes containing her photographs were auctioned off. A young man who was preparing to make a film about Chicago in the 1960s bought them all for a paltry sum. He typed the photographer’s name into Google, but nothing appeared. When he created a website to display the work of this unknown photographer, he received hundreds of comments raving about it. Vivian Maier’s pictures could not leave anyone indifferent. A few months later, he typed her name into a search engine again, and this time found her obituary. Two brothers had organized the funeral for their former nanny. The young man called them, and that was how he discovered that the genius whose photographs he owned had worked most of her life as a childminder.

  It’s the perfect example of somebody living an artistic life in almost total secrecy. Viviane Maier was not interested in fame, or in showing people her work. Nowadays, her photographs are exhibited all over the world and she is considered one of the great artists of the twentieth century. She had a unique way of capturing scenes of everyday life from unusual angles. But it’s undeniable that a large part of her current fame derives from the way in which she was discovered, by chance, after her death.

  *

  For Delphine, the comparison with Pick was justified. This was a Breton pizzeria owner who, in absolute secrecy, had written a great novel. A man who had never tried to be published. Of course it would intrigue people. She started bombarding her boyfriend with questions: “When do you think he would have done his writing? What was his state of mind? Why did he never show anybody his book?” Frédéric tried to respond, like a novelist attempting to define the psychology of one of his characters.

  7

  Pick would come to the restaurant very early each morning, Madeleine had said. Perhaps he wrote then, while the pizza dough was resting? And then he hid his typewriter when his wife arrived. That way, nobody would know. Everybody has a sort of secret garden. His was writing. It would only be logical that he didn’t try to publish his novel, Frédéric continued. He had no desire to share his inner passion with anyone. Hearing about the library of rejected books, he decided to deposit his manuscript there. But one detail in this story struck Delphine as odd: why put his name on the book? At any moment, someone could have seen that and made the connection. There was a discrepancy between this subterranean life and the risk of being caught like that. Presumably he guessed that nobody would bother rummaging around those shelves at the back of the library, said Frédéric. It was like a message in a bottle. Write a book, and leave it somewhere. And who knows? Perhaps one day it will be discovered.

  Delphine thought of another detail. Magali had explained that the authors had to come to the library in person to leave their manuscripts. It was hard to believe that such a secretive man would have agreed to this demand. He probably knew Gourvec, since they’d lived in the same neighbourhood for half a century. What was the nature of their relationship? Perhaps librarians take an oath, like doctors, suggested Frédéric. Perhaps they are sworn to professional secrecy. Or perhaps Pick had told Gourvec when he dropped off his book: “Jean-Pierre, I’m relying on you not to breathe a word of this when you come to eat pizza at my restaurant…” A sentence that seems a little wea
k for a secret literary genius, but perhaps that’s what happened.

  Delphine and Frédéric took great pleasure in putting together all these theories, in trying to flesh out the novel behind the novel. Then the author of The Bathtub had a brilliant idea: “What if I wrote this story? A behind-the-scenes account of our discovery.”

  “Yes, that’s a very good idea.”

  “I could call it The Manuscript Found in Crozon.”

  “Nice reference.”

  “Or maybe The Library of Rejected Books. Do you like that?”

  “Yes, that’s even better,” Delphine replied. “To be honest, as long as you’re publishing your books with me, and not with Gallimard, I’m happy with any title you come up with.”

  8

  That evening at the Desperos’ house, the famous novel was all anybody talked about. Fabienne thought it highly personal: “It seems to be autobiographical, and it’s set in Brittany…” Delphine had not even considered this aspect of the novel. She was hoping that Madeleine wouldn’t see it that way, because if she did she might be opposed to its publication. There would be time, later, to rummage through Pick’s life and discover whether or not there really was a personal resonance to the book. In the end, the young editor decided to take her mother’s comments as an encouraging sign: when you like a book, you want to know more about it. How much of it is true? What did the author actually experience? Much more so than for the other arts, which are figurative, there is a constant hunt for the personal in literature. Unlike Gustave Flaubert with his Emma, Leonardo da Vinci could never say: “The Mona Lisa is me.”

  Of course it was pointless to speculate, but Delphine could already imagine readers unpicking Pick’s life. Anything could happen with this book, she could sense it. Although it has to be said that nothing is predictable. How many editors sure of having a bestseller on their hands have ended up with a flop? Then again, how many huge successes have come out of nowhere? For now, she needed to concentrate on convincing Pick’s widow to let her publish the book.