He started running after Delphine. In the middle of the street, in front of numerous witnesses, he grabbed her by the arm.
“Let me go!” she cried out.
“No, you’re coming home with me. This is nonsense. We should be able to talk, without it degenerating like this.”
“I know what you’re going to say, and I don’t agree.”
“I’ve never seen you like this before. What’s going on?”
“…”
“Delphine? Answer me.”
“…”
“Did you meet someone else?”
“No.”
“Then what is it?”
“I’m pregnant.”
1Probably Rouche’s most hated activity, along with the practice of any kind of sport; he was driven crazy by the mere idea of entering a Zara or an H&M, above all because of the music.
2He was the kind of man whom you always feel that you are disturbing, even though he’s not actually doing anything.
PART NINE
1
After hanging up the phone, Madeleine showed her contract to Rouche. It was true: she was due to receive 10 per cent royalties, which would be a considerable sum. So the editor really must believe that Pick was the novel’s author. Continuing their discussion, Madeleine and Joséphine admitted that they had been seduced by this rather mad idea. They had believed it but, deep inside, they had always thought the story a little improbable.
“So who did write the book?” Joséphine demanded.
“I have an idea,” admitted Rouche.
“Tell us, then!” Madeleine urged him.
“All right. I’ll tell you what I think, but first, could I have a little more of your delicious caramel tea?”
“…”
2
When everybody began talking about the Pick phenomenon, several journalists became interested in the fate of such rejected books. They wanted to find out who had turned down The Last Hours of a Love Affair. Perhaps they would uncover a reader’s report justifying the rejection? Of course, there was still the possibility that the Breton pizzeria owner had never sent his novel to publishers. He could have written it, without showing it to anyone, before fate had decreed that the library of rejects was created in his own home town. At that point, he’d decided to deposit his manuscript there. It was a plausible hypothesis, and many people had admired the qualities of a man who had never sought the limelight. But the journalists still wanted to check whether he’d sent his novel to any publishers. And there was no trace of it anywhere.
In truth, most publishers do not keep archives listing the books they have rejected; the only exception is Julliard, who famously published Françoise Sagan’s Bonjour Tristesse. In Julliard’s basement was a list of all the books they had received over the past fifty years; dozens of files with rows of author names and book titles. Several newspapers sent interns to go through that list of rejects. There was no mention of Pick. But Rouche, guided by his intuition, had searched for another name: Gourvec. Had the librarian himself written a book that nobody wanted? Perhaps he had personal reasons for putting so much energy into creating a library of rejects? This was Rouche’s theory, and he found the evidence to support it: on three occasions—in 1962, 1974 and 1976—Gourvec had tried to publish a novel and had probably sent it to several publishers, including Julliard. They had all said no. These failures had surely pained him, because no trace of him could be found after this. He had given up trying to be published.
When Rouche had discovered evidence of the novels rejected by Julliard, he had done some research into Gourvec’s estate. No children, no material goods; he had left nothing behind. Nobody would ever know that he had written anything. He had probably got rid of all his manuscripts; all, except one. This was what Rouche imagined. When he created this library, Gourvec had decided to slip one of his own books onto its shelves. Naturally, he didn’t want to put his name to it. So he’d chosen the most insignificant person in the town to represent him: Henri Pick. It was a symbolic choice, a way of giving form to his text through a shadowy presence. According to Rouche, this was undoubtedly how it had happened.
Gourvec was well known for giving away books: it was entirely possible that he had one day given Henri a copy of Yevgeny Onegin. The pizzeria owner, unused to such presents, had been touched by this gesture and had kept the novel all his life. He wasn’t a reader, though, so he’d never opened the book, and therefore had no idea that certain phrases had been underlined:
To live and think is to be daunted,
To feel contempt for other men.
To feel is to be hurt, and haunted
By days that will not come again,
With a lost sense of charm and wonder,
And memory to suffer under—
The stinging serpent of remorse.
This all adds piquancy, of course,
To conversation.
Those lines might evoke the end of a literary dream. Whoever writes has a heart that beats. Once hope has been shattered, it turns to the bitterness of the unfulfilled. And then to the sting of remorse.
Before going in search of Gourvec’s past, Rouche had decided to start his investigation by finding proof that Pick was not the book’s author. This was the first, critical stage. He’d gone to Rennes, and discovered the letter. And now he was in Crozon, at the Picks’ house, explaining to them what he thought. To his surprise, the mother and daughter seemed to have little trouble accepting his theory. Although another factor had to be taken into consideration: both of them had suffered unpleasant, even tragic, consequences as a result of the book’s publication. They wanted to get back to their old lives and felt generally quite relieved by the idea that Henri had never written a novel. Later, it occurred to Joséphine that this revelation might prevent them receiving the royalties; but, at that moment, they only considered the emotional aspect.
“So you think it was Gourvec who wrote my husband’s novel?” asked Madeleine.
“Yes.”
“How do you plan to prove it?” asked Joséphine.
“Well, as I said, it’s only a theory at the moment. And Gourvec left nothing behind—no manuscript, no admission of his passion for writing. Gourvec rarely talked about himself; Magali mentioned that in an interview.”
“All Breton men are like that. There are no chatterboxes here. You didn’t choose the right region for an investigation,” said Madeleine, amused.
“Very true. But I have a feeling that there’s still something about this story that I haven’t grasped yet.”
“What?”
“When I mentioned Gourvec at the mayor’s office, the secretary blushed bright red. And then she became very unfriendly.”
“So?”
“I thought maybe she’d had an affair with Gourvec, and that it ended badly.”
“Just like with his wife,” added Madeleine, unaware that this response would change everything.
3
It was very late, and even if Rouche would have liked to keep talking—and, in particular, questioning Madeleine about what she’d said regarding Gourvec’s wife—he sensed that it would be better to postpone the rest of their discussion until the following day. As in Rennes, swept along by his enthusiasm, he had failed to book a hotel room. And this time he didn’t even have a car to sleep in. Out of politeness, he asked his hosts if they knew of a hotel in the area; but it was practically midnight, and everything was closed. Clearly he would end up spending the night in their house, but he felt embarrassed at not having planned anything, and at imposing himself in such an inelegant manner. Madeleine reassured him, adding that it would be her pleasure.
“The only problem is that the sofa bed’s in a terrible state. I would advise against it. So that only leaves my daughter’s room. There are two beds in there.”
“My room?” repeated Joséphine.
“I can sleep on the sofa. My back already hates me, so this won’t change our relationship one iota. Please don’t worry about
it…”
“No, it’ll be better with Joséphine,” insisted Madeleine, who seemed strangely fond of Rouche. She loved the child that she still saw within him.
Joséphine led Rouche to her room, and showed him the two single beds. It was her childhood bedroom, unchanged since those days; she used to invite her friends to sleepovers in the extra bed. The two beds were separated by a small table, on which stood a lamp with an orange shade. It was easy to imagine children chatting the night away against such a backdrop, sharing secrets. But here, now, they were two adults of the same age, each sunk in solitude, like two parallel lines. They started talking about their lives, and the conversation lasted a while.
When Joséphine turned off the lamp, Rouche noticed that the ceiling was scattered with luminous stars.
4
They woke at almost the same instant. Joséphine took advantage of the darkness to slip into the bathroom. Rouche was thinking that he hadn’t slept this well in a long time; presumably a consequence of the fatigue accumulated over recent days and the quietness of this house. There was another feeling inside him too, although it was not something he could define. In truth, he felt lighter than he had the previous day, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Probably the weight of the break-up with Brigitte. You can rationalize everything, but it is always your body that decides how long it takes an emotional wound to heal. That morning, when he opened his eyes, he felt able to breathe again. The pain had vanished.
5
Over breakfast, Madeleine talked about Gourvec’s wife. She hadn’t stayed long in Crozon, but they’d got to know each other quite well. And for one simple reason: Marina—that was her name—had worked as a waitress at the Picks’ pizzeria.
“It was when I was pregnant,” said Madeleine in a neutral tone that gave nothing away of the tragedy behind those words.1
“Gourvec’s wife worked with your husband?”
“Yes, for two or three weeks. And then she left. She broke up with Jean-Pierre and went back to live in Paris, I think. I never heard from her after that.”
Rouche was stunned; he’d thought Gourvec had chosen Pick’s name for his manuscript almost at random, to avoid having to invent a pseudonym. Now he was discovering a connection between the two men.
“So your husband knew her better than you did?”
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, you just told me you were pregnant, and she was replacing you.”
“I couldn’t work any more, but I was there practically every day. And it was mostly me she talked to.”
“And what did she tell you?”
“She was a fragile woman, who was hoping she’d finally found somewhere she could be happy. She said it was hard to be a German in France in the 1950s.”
“She was German?”
“Yes, although you couldn’t really tell. I think most people had no idea. I only knew because she told me. You could tell she was damaged in some way. But I don’t know much more than that. Or I don’t remember much more, anyway.”
“How did she end up here?”
“It started with letters. She and Gourvec were pen pals. It was pretty common at the time. She told me he wrote such beautiful letters. So she decided to marry him and come and live here.”
“Ah, so he wrote beautiful letters,” Rouche repeated. “I have to find that woman and take a look at those letters. It could be crucial…”
“Is it really that important for you to prove that my father didn’t write that book?” Joséphine asked in a cutting voice that dampened Rouche’s enthusiasm.
He didn’t know what to say. After a brief silence, he said that he was obsessed with finding out the true identity of the novel’s author. It was hard to explain. He’d felt completely empty after his professional disappointments. He’d tried to put on a front, to smile occasionally, to shake hands, but it was as if death was slowly taking possession of his body. Until the moment when, unaccountably, he’d been woken from his depression by this story. He felt sure that something was waiting for him at the end of this adventure, something that would give him a reason to live. That was why he wanted proof, even if everything strongly suggested that Gourvec was the author. The two women were taken aback by this monologue, but Joséphine went on: “And what will you do with your proof?”
“I don’t know,” Rouche replied.
“Listen, darling,” Madeleine told her daughter, “it’s important for us, too, to know. I mean, I went on television to talk about your father’s novel. I’d like to know the truth before I die.”
“Don’t say that, Mama,” said Joséphine, taking her mother’s hand.
Rouche couldn’t know, but Joséphine’s gesture was something that had become a rare event lately. As was Madeleine calling her daughter “darling”. Unexpectedly, recent events had brought them closer together. They had both been thrust into the limelight, with often paradoxical consequences: simultaneously happy and disappointing, intoxicating and unbearable. Joséphine ended up seeing it her mother’s way. The truth that Rouche would uncover was perhaps necessary for their peace of mind. He would go off in search of Marina, who would surely be able to confirm that Gourvec was the secret genius behind The Last Hours of a Love Affair. He would also discover the reasons for their abrupt separation after only a few weeks of marriage.
6
Early that afternoon, Joséphine drove Rouche to Rennes; from there, he would take the train to Paris. As for her, she went back to work the following morning, after a few days off.
7
Since the break-up with Brigitte, Rouche had gone back to living in his attic room. That Sunday evening, he was alone, in its cramped confines, fifty years old, with grave financial difficulties, and yet he was happy. Happiness is always relative; several years before, if someone had shown him this vision of the future, he would have been terrified. But after all he had been through, he could see this tiny hovel as a sort of paradise.
Before leaving, he’d asked Madeleine for a favour: would she go to the mayor’s office on Monday morning and check the marriage register. She had known Marina only under her married name, Gourvec. But after leaving Crozon, it was likely that she had used her maiden name again. On the internet, Rouche had found no trace of a Marina Gourvec.
Madeleine was confronted by the same woman Rouche had seen two days before. She explained her request, and the woman replied: “Why is everybody so obsessed with Gourvec at the moment?”
“It’s not an obsession. It’s just that I knew his wife, and I was hoping to find her again.”
“Oh really? He was married? First I’ve heard of it. I thought he was against commitment.”
Martine Paimpec said a few more things about the librarian that left no room for doubt: the two of them had known each other very well indeed. Without being prompted, she ended up opening her heart and pouring out all the regrets that had festered for so long inside it. Madeleine wasn’t surprised: Gourvec was well known for living with his books and for not loving anything or anyone else. She tried to comfort the woman: “It wasn’t you. In my opinion, it’s wise to be wary of anyone who loves books. At least I didn’t have to worry about that, with Henri.”
“But he wrote a book…”
“Maybe not. In fact, it might have been Gourvec who wrote it. And, frankly, a writer who would put my husband’s name on his book… what a weirdo! So you have nothing to regret.”
“…”
Martine wondered if she could consider these words as a consolation; it didn’t really matter any more, after all. He’d been dead for a long time, and she still loved him.
*
After a while, Madeleine found the information she was looking for: Marina’s maiden name was Brücke.
*
Two hours later, Rouche was squeezed into one corner of his room in an attempt to find a Wi-Fi signal. He was squatting on his third-floor neighbour’s network, but it only worked if he pressed himself against the wall. He quickly found tr
aces of several different Marina Brückes, but they were mostly Facebook profiles, with photographs of women who were too young to be the one he was searching for. Finally, he found a link to a record cover, on which the following dedication was printed:
To Marina, my mother.
So that she can see me.
The search engine had found the words “Marina” and “Brücke” on that page. The record in question was by a young pianist, Hugo Brücke, who’d recorded Schubert’s Hungarian Melodies. That name was vaguely familiar to Rouche: at one time, he’d gone to a lot of concerts and operas. It struck him that he hadn’t listened to music in a long time, and that he missed it. He looked for more information on this Brücke, and discovered that he was playing a concert in Paris the next day.
8
The show was sold out, so he waited in a narrow backstreet where the artist was supposed to come out after the concert. Next to him stood a very small woman whose age he couldn’t guess. She walked over to him: “Do you like Hugo Brücke too?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve been to all his concerts. In Cologne, last year, it was divine.”
“So why didn’t you go tonight?” Rouche asked.
“I never buy a ticket when he plays in Paris. It’s a matter of principle.”
“I don’t understand.”
“He lives here, so it’s not as good. Hugo doesn’t play the same way in his own city. When he’s away, it’s different. I came to realize that. The difference is tiny, but I can hear it. And he knows it, because I’m his biggest fan. I have my picture taken with him after every concert, but when he’s in Paris I just wait outside the exit.”
The Mystery of Henri Pick Page 17