by Alex George
“Actually, I’m looking for a different kind of book altogether.”
“A different kind of book, madame? What do you mean?”
“I’m looking for a notebook.”
The shopkeeper frowns. “Marcel Proust’s notebooks were never published.”
“Yes, I know. This isn’t a published book.”
“Then I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“I’m looking for an actual notebook,” explains Camille. “One that he wrote in.”
The man gives her a small, condescending smile. “You can visit every bookstore in Paris, madame, but you’ll never find what you’re looking for. Marcel Proust’s notebooks are preserved at the Bibliothèque nationale. All the ones that survived, that is.” The bookseller taps the shelf next to him thoughtfully. “I heard a rumor that there were many more, but that he had them destroyed some years before he died. Such a tragedy! I can only imagine what treasures one would find within those pages!” He smiles. “But, of course I am being greedy. Monsieur Proust has given us gifts enough.”
“Thank you very much, monsieur,” says Camille, turning to go. “You’ve been most helpful.”
The man looks disappointed. “You’re quite sure there’s nothing else I can help you with?”
“No, thank you.”
Back out on the street, Camille remembers her husband’s words. Paris is a big city, Camille. She had thought nothing of Olivier’s absence the previous afternoon, but now she remembers that he was away for several hours. In that time he could have gone anywhere. There must be hundreds of bookshops he might have visited.
The thought heralds a fresh storm of despair. She considers returning to the hotel now and making a full confession to her husband. When Olivier understands what is at stake, he will tell her where he sold the notebook. But she does not want to admit the danger she has put her family in, not yet.
She decides to give herself the day. If she does not find it by this evening then she will tell him everything, and explain what lies in those pages that he has so carelessly sold to a stranger.
Still, the thought of the notebook out in the world makes her veins run cold with dread. Camille stares up at the sky, remembering the first time her disbelieving eyes fell on the terrible words, the warmly familiar handwriting sharpening their treachery.
Betrayal, she learned that day, can go both ways.
17
Vaucluse, 1917: The Kindness of Strangers
THE VILLAGE LOOKED LIKE a hundred other places he had passed through over the last several months. As Hector trotted gently down the road into the valley, Souren gazed down on the church spire that emerged from the uneven chessboard of terra-cotta and slate rooftops below him. The buildings were clustered close together, hemmed in on all sides by dark forest.
Souren had dreamed of France every night during his trek north. The first time that he studied the map of Europe, he knew that he needed a destination, somewhere to aim for. He remembered his mother once telling him that there were more than three hundred types of cheese made in France. Souren had solemnly replied that one day he would go there and try every one of them.
There were worse reasons to choose a place to begin a new life.
The thought of those cheeses had kept him company on every step of his long journey from Anatolia. Every day the outrageous number dazzled him afresh. He tried to imagine living in a country blessed with such abundance. How happy the French must be! It was this idea of jovial, contented Frenchmen, their bellies full of delicious dairy product, that made him climb back into Hector’s saddle each morning. Once Constantinople was behind him he could have stopped anywhere, but those three hundred cheeses beckoned him on, through months of lonely travel, across borders and mountain ranges.
And for what?
It was over a week since Souren had crossed the border into France. He and Hector had ridden deep into the new country, the imperious Alps now at their backs. The countryside was windswept and craggedly beautiful. The roads were punctuated by a string of isolated villages. He waved to the natives and received nothing but suspicious glares in return. The French did not seem so happy, after all. Worse still, he was yet to taste a single bite of cheese. But he could not turn back now.
By the time he reached the edge of the village, the sun was starting to set behind the hills to the west. The first houses he passed were closed up, doors locked and wooden shutters latched tight. There was not a soul to be seen. The streets were silent but for the tattoo of Hector’s hooves on the cobbles. Not even a dog barked.
“Did we stumble on a ghost town?” Souren whispered in the horse’s ear. They stopped in the village square, in front of the church he’d seen on his descent into the valley. In the middle of the square there was a small fountain, and Souren allowed Hector to drink from its basin. He was hungry, and had been looking forward to a good meal, but the place was deserted. Souren sighed. It wouldn’t be the first time that he had gone to sleep with an empty stomach. He decided to ride on a mile or two into the woods on the other side of the village and set up camp for the night. He patted Hector’s neck. “Come on,” he said. “There’s nothing for us here.”
Just then he heard a sound he knew all too well. The staccato one-two click, the gritted bite of steel on steel: the chambers of a shotgun being loaded. At once he was back in Anatolia, trudging onward into nothingness, the barrel of a soldier’s rifle trained on the back of his head.
He turned in the direction of the noise. Thirty feet away from him, a man stood, his gun aimed at Souren’s chest.
Souren dropped the reins and slowly put his hands above his head. He did not take his eyes off the end of the weapon, which was weaving unsteadily in a small figure of eight. The gunman shouted something unintelligible at him. When Souren did not respond, the man took a step forward. He stumbled on the uneven cobbles, and as he tried to regain his balance, there was a flash from the barrel of the gun. The bullet streaked harmlessly into the darkening sky, but the noise of the shot obliterated reason. Hector rose up on his hind legs, snorting in terror. Without the reins to hold on to, Souren was thrown off the horse’s back. His body twisted in panic as he fell through the air.
* * *
When Souren awoke, he was lying in a bed, enveloped in fresh white sheets. He could not remember the last time he had enjoyed such a luxury—ever since his escape from the death march, his nights had been spent sheltering under bridges or shivering on the floor of cold, deserted barns. He lay quite still, enjoying the kiss of the cotton against his skin and the softness of the mattress beneath him. He shifted beneath the sheets, and a lacerating fissure exploded down one side of his body. He cried out at the pain.
A middle-aged woman was sitting next to the bed, a book in her hand. She looked up from its pages and said something that he could not understand. Souren tried to sit up, and this prompted an even fiercer jolt of agony. At this the woman reached out a hand and touched his shoulder. She spoke again, more urgently this time.
“Where is Hector?” Souren asked her. “Where is my horse?”
At this the woman leaned back in her chair and called out. A moment later a man appeared by the side of the bed. He peered down at Souren and began to speak. Again, Souren did not understand a word he said.
“Where is Hector?” he asked.
“Hector,” repeated the man, his eyes flashing in recognition. He pointed at Souren. “Hector?”
“No, no,” said Souren. “Hector is my horse. Have you seen him? Is he all right?”
The man murmured something to the woman, and then started to speak, slowly and clearly. Souren shook his head to show that he did not understand, but even this small movement made him wince. The man pointed to himself. “Philippe,” he said. He pointed to the woman. “Françoise.”
“Françoise,” whispered Souren.
* * *
Later that day Françoise ushered a tall, unsmiling man into the bedroom. He carried a leather bag, which he placed between hi
s feet as he sat down in the chair next to the bed. Souren watched the man anxiously. Was he a policeman, come to take him into custody? The man said a few gruff words. When he reached down to open his bag, he did not produce handcuffs, or a gun. He removed a stethoscope.
The doctor performed a careful examination, speaking quietly to Souren as he worked. Souren found the meaningless words strangely calming. When the doctor finished, he talked at some length to Françoise, and handed her a piece of paper. Then he was gone.
The medicine that the doctor prescribed was appalling, a toxic syrup that made Souren’s lips pucker whenever Françoise brought it close to his mouth, but it served to dull the pain.
Each day Françoise sat by the bed and pointed at things, saying the word in what he supposed was French. Bed. Table. Window. Book. She wrote each word down on a sheet of paper and, once he was well enough to prop himself up, made Souren copy out each word ten times.
Souren drew a picture of Hector and showed it to Françoise. “Have you seen my horse?” he asked her, in Armenian.
She smiled and shook her head.
* * *
Three times a day Françoise brought Souren food on old plates, their elegant patterns faded by years of use. She served up hearty stews, thickly sliced hams, slabs of roasted chicken, the crisp golden skin salty and delicious. She brought mountains of sweet, fresh vegetables, bowls of piping hot soup, and crusty baguettes as thick as Souren’s forearms. Each night she gave him a sliver of cake, a crumbling pastry, or a delicate slice of tart. And, yes, she brought cheese: creamy white triangles; stout, blue-veined wedges; and unctuous concoctions that oozed across the plate, their volcanic fumes catching at the back of his nose.
Souren ate as if he had never eaten before.
Françoise sat next to the bed and watched him.
* * *
After a week Souren was well enough to climb out of bed. His shoulder still hurt, but he was able to make his way down the stairs. The house was modest, but elegant in its simplicity. The kitchen was the largest room in the house. He sat at a long wooden table and watched Françoise prepare their meals. She moved with calm assurance as she cooked. Souren thought of his mother, who had always fretted unhappily in the kitchen, a never-ending stream of gloomy predictions about the meal to come passing her lips. Everything was served with the same air of resigned defeat. Her despair was often justified, but Souren’s father never failed to shower each dish with extravagant praise and always asked for a second helping, which he ate with as much ostentatious relish as he did the first. Souren had done his best to carry on the tradition after his father disappeared, but sometimes he would fall silent when he saw his mother and brother looking at him in silent misery.
Each morning and afternoon, Souren walked through the village and into the countryside beyond. It was early spring. Clusters of flowers bloomed on the verges of the lanes, tiny explosions of yellow and purple. A chorus of exquisite birdsong filled the air. Souren saw and heard little of this, however. He was looking for his horse. He peered into every pasture and searched every unlocked barn, but Hector was nowhere to be seen. When Souren became too tired to go any farther, he turned and traipsed back to the village.
The main square had a butcher’s shop, a baker, a hardware store, and two vegetable stalls. Most of the day’s business was concluded by the middle of the morning. In the afternoon old men gathered on the wooden benches beneath the ash trees to smoke and grumble at each other. Sometimes they hauled themselves upright long enough for a round of pétanque. Souren liked to watch these games. The men’s lethargy vanished when it was their turn to play. They crouched forward, suddenly lithe and alert, considering their shot. The metal balls caught the sunlight as they flew through the air. In the group was the man who had appeared out of the shadows with his shotgun on Souren’s first night in the village. Souren felt his suspicious eyes linger on him, and would quickly walk away.
At his new home, the French lessons continued. There were so many things to put a name to. They identified words by pointing and pantomime. Françoise helped him write down each word and corrected his attempts at pronunciation.
Merci, he said. S’il-vous plaît.
It was months since Souren had spoken to anyone other than his horse, and he was determined to learn this new language. He was a diligent student, and before long he could communicate in a rudimentary fashion with his hosts. One night he showed them his map, tattered and torn from the constant folding and unfolding during his long trek north, and pointed to where he came from.
“Armenia,” said Françoise softly.
“You know there is a war going on, don’t you?” asked Philippe.
Souren nodded.
“The other villagers think you’re an escaped soldier.” He mimed firing a rifle. “They think you are German.”
“German?” said Souren.
Philippe pointed to the map. “I have told them that they’re wrong, but the less men know about a thing, the harder it is to make them change their minds about it.”
“But I do not speak German!”
“All they know is that you do not speak French,” replied Philippe.
Françoise patted the back of his hand. “You’re welcome in our home, Souren, but you should always remember that you’re a stranger in this town.”
Souren thought of the old man who appeared out of the shadows with his shotgun on the night he and Hector arrived. He could still see the look on the villager’s face as he raised the weapon to his shoulder. Souren’s only crime was to be from somewhere else.
18
Thérèse
GUILLAUME SITS DOWN on the bed and stares at the empty wall. There is a pale rectangle where Suzanne’s painting has sat for the last ten years. His hangover has returned with a vengeance, sharpened by loss and regret.
What a fool he has been.
He thinks of the artists who used to live in Montmartre after the war. They had painted together, laughed together, drank together, and fought together. Each pursued his art with rare singularity of purpose. It was a time of gallant, impoverished idealism and fraternity, ripe with the promise of possibility. But they had all left, one by one, beguiled by the more refined comforts of Montparnasse and the Left Bank. Over there, patrons bought their work before the paint was dry, and to hell with the price. There were enough art collectors in Paris to make rich men of all of them. All it took was a chance encounter with the right benefactor, and a career was made. Guillaume has watched his friends’ success until now he is the only one left in the old quartier. Of course, there’s nothing he wants more than to join his old friends for oysters and a glass of something expensive and delicious at the zinc of La Rotonde, but he manages to find a certain painful satisfaction from the fact that he cannot. He wears his poverty like a badge of honor, even as his stomach rumbles. Guillaume does his best to submerge his jealousy beneath a veneer of self-righteous disdain, but it does not always work. Integrity does not pay the bills—or street thugs. He puts his head in his hands. Gertrude Stein’s six hundred francs will not save him from Le Miroir’s henchmen. Where is he going to get the rest of the money? Then he thinks: Brataille.
Guillaume should have asked the art dealer for a loan the previous evening, but he’d had too much pride. There is no time for such indulgences now. He thinks about Brataille’s lovesick tears as he drank himself under the table last night. If Guillaume can persuade Thérèse to give him another chance, he can probably name his price. Unfortunately he knows that his chances of success are practically nonexistent. She is not a woman who changes her mind.
Thérèse is beautiful in a sultry, exotic way. Her body is made for pleasure, all delicious curves and ripe flesh. She is the most popular whore working at Le Chat Blanc. Customers have been falling in love with her for years. Guillaume has heard many stories of her clients’ lust-addled buffoonery. They promise her the world: money, diamonds, even, once, a small apartment on Rue du Cherche-Midi. One or two have begged for her han
d in marriage. Thérèse has no patience for such nonsense. When customers start to act like besotted fools, they become more trouble than they are worth, and she refuses to see them again. Brataille appears to have fallen into this trap. Guillaume is sure that nothing he can say will make Thérèse change her mind, but he needs to try. Without another six hundred francs, he’ll be on the train back to La Rochelle before the end of the day.
He cannot look at the empty wall where Suzanne’s painting hung for another moment. He needs to escape, to turn away from what he has lost. He stands up, stuffs Gertrude Stein’s money beneath the mattress, and hurries down the stairs.
The cafés and restaurants of Montmartre are filled with people. Guillaume traipses along the streets, thinking about the empty patch of wall where Suzanne’s painting used to be, stunned that he will never see it again. He remembers Suzanne, buttoning up her dress, getting ready to make her escape. You’ll always have this to remember us by.
He lets out a small bleat of anguish. He starts to walk toward Rue des Abbesses.
* * *
Thérèse is already at work. Her leather skirt clings to her rump as closely as a second skin. Her top is lacy and black. Dark hair falls down her back, alluringly unkempt. There is a dark red slash across her mouth. She is at her usual spot, leaning against a brick wall next to Le Chat Blanc, watching the street, a smoldering cigarette between her long fingers. Some of the women stroll back and forth along the sidewalk, whispering come-ons to the men who shuffle by, but Thérèse stays at her post. She doesn’t have to go looking.
She watches him approach. “Well, if it isn’t my favorite starving artist,” she says, taking a languorous drag on her cigarette. “What brings you around these parts, chéri?”
“Actually,” says Guillaume, “I wanted to talk to you.”