The Mystery of Henri Pick

by David Foenkinos

  She was nervous about the possibility that Madame Pick would refuse to sign the contract. Frédéric sought to reassure her: “Why would she refuse? Surely it’s a nice surprise to find out you’ve spent your life with the Fitzgerald of pizza without realizing it…”

  “Probably. But she would also be discovering that she spent her life with a stranger.”

  Delphine was apprehensive about the shock that this revelation might produce. Madeleine had clearly said that her husband never read books. But perhaps Frédéric was right: the news they were about to give her was positive, gratifying. After all, it wasn’t the existence of another woman they were going to reveal, but a novel.2

  9

  Late that morning, Delphine and Frédéric rang the doorbell at Madame Pick’s house. She quickly opened the door and invited them in. To avoid getting to the point too directly, they talked for a while about the weather, and then about Madeleine’s friend whom she had visited in the hospital. Frédéric, who had asked about her, was so bad at appearing interested in the subject that she replied: “Do you really want to know?”

  “…”

  “I’ll go make some tea.”

  Madeleine headed for the kitchen, giving Delphine an opportunity to glare at her boyfriend. Sometimes the person you love can turn into a caricature in your eyes; for Delphine, Frédéric had become the typical social misfit, while he saw in her a portrait of overweening ambition. She lectured him in a harsh whisper: “Don’t start trying to suck up to her. She likes honesty. That’s obvious, don’t you think?”

  “I was just trying to create a climate of trust. And don’t get all sanctimonious on me. I bet you’ve already printed out the contract, haven’t you?”

  “No!”

  “But you’ve written it on your computer, right?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I knew it! What kind of royalties are you offering her?”

  “Ten per cent,” she admitted, blushing slightly.

  “And film and TV rights?”

  “Fifty–fifty. The standard split. You think it could be a film?”

  “Oh yes, definitely. Maybe even an American remake. It could take place in San Francisco. I can see the mist-veiled landscapes now…”

  “Here’s your caramel tea,” announced Madeleine, suddenly appearing in the living room and interrupting the whispered conversation. Could she ever have imagined that her guests were already thinking of casting George Clooney in the role of her husband?

  Frédéric, just as obsessed by the clock as he had been the day before, wondered how anybody could think clearly in a room filled by such a tyrannical ticking. He tried to think during the silences between the seconds, but it was as impossible as trying to walk between raindrops. But mostly what he thought was that he should just let Delphine do the talking; she was so much better at it.

  “Have you been to the Crozon library?” she began.

  “Of course, yes. I knew Gourvec, the old librarian. He was a nice man, very passionate about his books. But why are you asking me? Do you want me to borrow a book?”

  “No, not at all. I mentioned it because there’s something unusual about that library. Maybe you already know about it?”

  “No, I have no idea. Listen, why don’t you stop beating about the bush and just tell me what you want? I don’t have that much time left, you know!” she replied in the same sarcastic voice that unsettled her guests and prevented them from relaxing into a smile.

  So Delphine started talking about the library in a roundabout way. Why has this young woman come to my house to go on about the local library? Madeleine wondered. She wasn’t surprised that Gourvec would have come up with that idea about the rejected books. She’d said nice things about him, out of politeness and respect for the dead, but in her opinion he had always been a bit mad. Some people had thought him cultured, but Madeleine had always considered him an eternal adolescent incapable of adapting to adult life. Every time she saw him, she always thought of a derailed train. Besides, she knew things. She had known his wife, for a start. The whole town had argued over the reasons for her disappearance, but Madeleine knew the truth. She knew exactly why Gourvec’s wife had fled.

  When you want something, you have to prolong the conversation, thought Delphine. So she laid on the details, some of them completely made up, as she retold the story of the library. Frédéric watched her, fascinated, wondering if she was the one who ought to be a novelist. She was quite masterly in her evocation of an era that she had barely known at all. You could sense the sincerity of her desire pulsing beneath her words. Finally, Delphine got to the heart of the matter, asking questions about Henri. The widow talked about him as if he still existed. Looking at Frédéric, she said: “That armchair you’re sitting in was his. Nobody else was allowed to use it. When he came home late at night, he liked to sit there. It was his way of taking a break. I liked to watch him then, the dreamy look on his face. I could tell it did him good. Because, you know, he worked all the time. One day, I tried to calculate the number of pizzas he’d made. I think it was in the tens of thousands. That’s quite a lot, when you think about it. So, yes, he was fond of that armchair…” Frédéric wanted to sit somewhere else, but Madeleine held him in place. “There’s no point. He’s not coming back.”

  Madeleine’s hard, ironic facade melted now, to reveal a face that was much more human and emotional. The same transformation had occurred the day before: at the mention of her husband, her cynicism gave way to her truth, the pain of being a widow. Delphine hesitated: perhaps this revelation would upset her too much? She shared her concern in a brief exchange of glances with Frédéric, and for a moment she was tempted to forget the whole thing.

  “But why are you asking me all these questions about the past?” Madeleine said.

  Her question went unanswered. An awkward silence settled in the room, and even the ticking of the clock seemed less loud in Frédéric’s ears. Or was he just getting used to it?

  At last Delphine replied: “In that library of rejected books, we found a novel written by your husband.”

  “By my husband? You’re joking!”

  “The manuscript is signed Henri Pick, and as far as we know there is nobody else with that name. And it mentioned that he lived in Crozon, so it can only be him.”

  “You think my Henri wrote a book? Frankly, I’d be amazed. He never wrote me a single word. Not even a poem. It’s not possible. I just can’t imagine him writing anything!”

  “And yet he did. Maybe in the restaurant, every morning, he would write for an hour or two…”

  “And he never gave me flowers!”

  “I don’t see the connection,” said Delphine, puzzled.

  Madeleine shrugged. “I don’t know… I’m just saying…”

  Frédéric thought this invisible connection between writing and flowers was very beautiful. It was a daring imaginative leap in Madeleine’s mind, as if those nonexistent petals were the visual transposition of an aptitude for writing.

  10

  The old woman continued the conversation, although it was clear she didn’t really believe what they were saying. Perhaps someone else had written her husband’s name on the manuscript, had hidden behind his identity?

  “That’s not possible. Gourvec only accepted manuscripts that were handed over in person. And the date on the manuscript is from the very start of the library’s creation.”

  “You expect me to trust Gourvec? Who says that he didn’t use my husband’s name?”

  Delphine didn’t know how to reply to this. After all, what Madeleine said was possible. For now, apart from his name on the manuscript, there was nothing to prove that this novel had indeed been written by Henri Pick.

  “You told us that your husband loved Russia,” Frédéric reminded her.

  “Yeah. So?”

  “His novel is partly about the great Russian poet, Pushkin.”

  “Who?”

  “Alexander Pushkin. He’s not that famous in France
. You’d really have to be a fan of Russian culture to write about him…”

  “Let’s not get carried away. Just because he named a pizza after Stalin doesn’t mean he read Pushkin. I think you’re both a bit odd, I have to say.”

  “The best thing would be for you to read the novel,” Delphine interjected. “I’m sure you will recognize your husband’s voice. You know, it’s really quite common for people to have a secret passion, something they don’t want to share. Maybe you have one too?”

  “No. I like embroidery. But why would I hide that from Henri?”

  “No secrets?” asked Frédéric. “I’m sure you must have kept some things hidden from your husband. Everybody has secrets, don’t they?”

  Madeleine did not like the way this conversation was going. Who did these people think they were? And this whole thing about the novel, she just couldn’t believe it. Henri, a writer? He hadn’t even written the day’s specials on the chalkboard outside the restaurant; she’d been the one to do that. So how could he have theorized about some Russian poet? And a love story! That was what the two young people had said. A love story? Henri? He’d never even written her a Valentine’s Day card. So the idea that he had a whole novel in his head… come on, it just wasn’t possible. The only notes he’d ever left for her were invariably about the logistics of running the pizzeria. “Don’t forget to buy flour; call the carpenter about the new chairs; order Chianti.” And that man was supposed to have written a novel? She didn’t believe it… although she knew from experience that people were capable of surprising you. Many times, she’d heard stories about people living double lives.

  She started thinking about all the things Henri hadn’t known about her. Her private, inaccessible self. All the things she’d hidden from him, her economies with the truth. He knew her likes and dislikes, her past and her family, but all the rest was a mystery to him. He didn’t know anything about her nightmares or her desires; he knew nothing about the lover she’d had in 1972 and the pain of never having seen him since then; he didn’t know that she had actually wanted another child, despite what she’d told him, and that the truth was simply that she couldn’t get pregnant again. The more she thought about it, the more she had to admit that her husband knew her in only an incomplete way. Which meant that this thing about the novel could be true. She had caricatured Henri; it was true that he didn’t read and didn’t seem interested in literature, but she’d always thought he had a unique way of looking at life. She used to say that he had a noble mind; he never judged people, always took his time before advancing an opinion on anyone. He was a man with a good sense of proportion, at ease with the idea that he had to detach himself from the world in order to understand it. By refining his portrait in this way, she made it less impossible to imagine her husband as a writer.

  A few minutes later, she even thought it was possible. Improbable, sure, but possible. And there was something else to bear in mind: she liked this manifestation of the past. She wanted to believe anything that enabled her to be in contact with Henri again, the way some people start playing with Ouija boards. Perhaps he left this novel for her? So he could surprise her by returning. So he could tell her that he was still there; perhaps this novel was a way of whispering his presence into her ear, so that their past could live again. So she asked: “Can I read his book?”

  11

  On the way back to Morgat, Frédéric tried to console his disappointed girlfriend. Perhaps it was for the best that they hadn’t immediately discussed publication. By taking things slowly, they would give the widow time to come to terms with the revelation. Once she’d read the novel, she would have no more doubts. A book like that could not be left in the shadows for much longer. Surely she would feel immensely proud to have been the companion of the man who had written such a novel; she could always tell people that she was his inspiration. You don’t have to be young and beautiful to be a muse.

  12

  Readers always find themselves in a book, in one way or another. Reading is a completely egotistical pleasure. Unconsciously we expect books to speak to us. An author can write the most far-fetched or implausible story ever, but there will still be readers who will say: “I don’t believe it: you wrote the story of my life!”

  Where Madeleine was concerned, this feeling was understandable. It was perhaps her husband who had written this novel. So, more than anyone, she sought out resonances with their life together. She was disconcerted by the way he described the coast of Brittany; it seemed very perfunctory for a man who had this region in his blood. But she supposed it was a way of saying that the background wasn’t important. What mattered was intimacy, the precision of emotions. And there was so much of that. She was surprised by the sensual, even erotic, descriptions. In Madeleine’s eyes, her husband had always seemed attentive but a bit boorish; kindly, but not really romantic. In the novel, there was such delicacy of feeling between the characters. And it was so sad. They embraced before abandoning each other forever. They touched each other with a desperate desire. The author represented the last hours of a love affair through the metaphor of a slowly dying candle, consuming itself in a frenzy of flickering light. You kept thinking that the flame had gone out, but it kept being resurrected and its survival was so beautiful; it went on for hours, a symbol of hope.

  How could her husband have nurtured such an expression of intensity? In truth, reading the novel spirited Madeleine back to the beginning of their own love. It all came back to her now. She remembered how, in the summer of her seventeenth year, she had to leave with her parents for two months, to visit family in the north of France. She and Henri were already in love, and the thought of that separation was so painful. They spent a whole afternoon together, their bodies entwined, trying to memorize every detail of each other, the two of them promising that they would think about their love all the time. She had completely forgotten that episode, until now. And yet it was at the very root of their love; their hearts had grown fonder during that long, forced absence. When they saw each other again, in September, they had sworn never to be apart again.

  Madeleine was deeply moved. Her husband had kept within him that fear of losing her, and he’d transcribed it into words years later. She didn’t understand why he hadn’t wanted to show her his writing, but undoubtedly he had his reasons. Anyway, it was certain now: Henri had written a book. Madeleine let go of her initial incredulity and gave herself entirely to this new reality.

  13

  When she had finished reading, Madeleine called Delphine. Her voice had changed; it was thick with emotion. She wanted to say that it was a beautiful novel, but she couldn’t. Instead, she invited the young couple to visit her again the next day.

  That night, she woke up and reread a few passages. It was as if, with this novel, Henri had returned from the dead to see her again, to tell her: “Don’t forget me.” And yet she had forgotten him. Not completely, of course; she thought about him quite often. But, deep down, she had got used to living alone. People had praised her strength and her courage, but it hadn’t really been all that hard. She had prepared herself for the final deadline, and when it came she had accepted it almost peacefully. You can get used to what once seemed unbearable more easily than you expect. And now he had come back to her in the form of a novel.

  When the young couple arrived, Madeleine tried to put her feelings into words: “It’s just strange, Henri returning like that. It’s like I didn’t know him before.”

  “No, you shouldn’t think of it like that,” Delphine replied. “It was his secret. He probably didn’t have much self-confidence.”

  “You think?”

  “Yes. Or maybe he didn’t tell you about it because he wanted to surprise you. But as nobody wanted to publish it, he left his novel in a drawer. And later, when Gourvec opened his library of rejects, he decided that was the perfect resting place.”

  “Maybe. Anyway, I’m no expert, but I thought it was beautiful. And the story about the poet was very interesting
too.”

  “Yes, it’s really a wonderful novel,” Delphine repeated.

  “I think it must have been inspired by our two-month separation when we were seventeen,” added Madeleine.

  “Oh really?” asked Frédéric.

  “Yes. Well, he changed a lot of things.”

  “That’s normal,” said Delphine. “It’s a novel. But if you found yourself in the story, then there’s no doubt any more.”

  “No, probably not.”

  “You still have doubts?”

  “I don’t know. I feel a bit lost.”

  “I understand,” said Delphine, putting her hand on Madeleine’s.

  After a while, the old woman spoke again: “My husband left lots of cardboard boxes in the attic. I can’t go up there. But when he died, Joséphine took a look at them.”

  “Joséphine is your daughter?” asked Delphine.

  “Yes.”

  “Did she find anything interesting?”

  “No. She told me it was mostly old account books for the restaurant. But we should take another look. She didn’t spend long up there. Maybe he left some explanation, or another book…”

  “Yes, we should take a look,” said Frédéric before heading towards the toilet. In fact, he wanted to leave Delphine alone with Madeleine because he sensed that she was about to talk about publication.

  Frédéric wandered around the house, examining each bedroom. He saw a man’s slippers, presumably Henri’s.3 He stared at them for a moment, and gradually they were replaced by a vision of Pick. He was like Bartleby, the Herman Melville hero. The scrivener who constantly declares that he would prefer not to, in his tenacious determination to avoid all action. That character had become a symbol of renunciation. Frédéric had always loved Bartleby, with his subtle social protest, and The Bathtub had been partly inspired by him. Pick, he thought, was a similar character. There was a sort of rejection of the world in his attitude, as if he were driven by an ambition for obscurity, a figure swimming against the tide of an era where everybody seeks the limelight.