by Alex George
The black letters carved into the white granite.
There were two names, not one.
* * *
It would take more than those thirteen letters etched into stone for Jean-Paul to relinquish the hope that lingered within him.
He filed a missing persons report with the police. He waited in line for hours to speak with city officials. Inquiries would be made, he was told, but there were proper channels to go through, protocols to be followed. Bored municipal employees handed him forms to sign and wished him a good day. But once he had wandered into the city’s web, there was no escaping the clutches of bureaucracy. A succession of interviews followed, the same questions asked again and again. Jean-Paul numbly recounted the events of that Good Friday to a stream of unsmiling strangers. He wanted to find his daughter, but the city’s officials just wanted the paperwork off their desks. Reports were filed, investigations conducted, conclusions reached.
At the end of it all, over her father’s helpless protests, Elodie Maillard was declared dead, along with her mother. But still Jean-Paul believed that his daughter lived, and so he had no choice but to resurrect her.
Finally, he had his story.
He purchased a new notebook and began to write.
Grief robbed him of the sanctuary of sleep. He spent his nights at his desk, telling his daughter’s tale—not her brief few months on Rue Barbette, but everything that was still to come. He conjured up the rest of her childhood, a marriage, even children of her own. The words poured out of him, an unstoppable flow. His pen flew across the page as his imagination hurtled toward an unreachable future. While he wrote, his daughter remained exquisitely alive, his words reincarnating her. Sentence after sentence, paragraph after paragraph, he wrote long into those lonely nights.
When he finished, he sat at his desk and wept as he had never wept before. Elodie lived within the pages of the notebook, but now her story was over. This was a second good-bye, almost as painful as the first.
* * *
The Good Friday bombing of the Église Saint-Gervais was the most lethal attack on Paris of the war. Eighty-eight dead, read the reports.
Jean-Paul Maillard still believes that it was eight-seven.
He still lives in the same apartment on Rue Barbette. He listens to Gershwin late at night, and reads his story of Elodie’s life, and wonders what his daughter looks like now.
She will be ten years old.
This is who Jean-Paul is looking for every morning as he sits on the bandstand in the park by Rue de Bretagne, watching the children play.
As he walks the streets of the city, Jean-Paul is always searching. His eyes scan every crowd, hoping for an echo of Anaïs on a stranger’s face.
* * *
This is the story Jean-Paul told Josephine Baker.
This is why he can never leave. He may dream of America, but he is lashed to this city, these streets, by ropes of impossible hope.
He will always be searching for his daughter.
20
Paris, 1913: An Upside-Down Life
CAMILLE BEGAN AS A GLORIFIED postman. The first volume of Monsieur Proust’s novel, Du côté de chez Swann, had just been published, and he wanted to send signed copies of the book to his friends. Nicolas Cottin, the valet, wrapped the books meticulously—blue paper for gentlemen, pink paper for ladies. Every morning she made her way to Boulevard Haussmann, where Nicolas would hand her the day’s deliveries, always with precise instructions. She never saw her new employer during these visits. She tucked the parcels beneath her arm, climbed into a horse-drawn cab, and set off into the city.
In this way Camille discovered Paris. She learned to recognize different squares and thoroughfares. She especially loved to make deliveries across the river, on the Left Bank. Halfway across the Pont Royal, she would sometimes ask the cab driver to stop, just for a moment, so she could look out at the waters of the Seine.
When all the books had been sent out, Nicolas announced that Monsieur Proust still wanted her to come to the apartment every morning. There was usually a letter or two that needed to be delivered. Camille was pleased with this arrangement, and so was Olivier: he could see how much happier his wife was when she had something to occupy her days other than the lonely tedium of housework in the couple’s apartment in Levallois. And it was true: she looked forward to taking the bus from Porte d’Asnières to Gare Saint-Lazare every morning. Sometimes there was something for her to deliver; sometimes there was not. Either way, she enjoyed the never-ending theater to be found on the streets of Paris.
One evening that December Olivier returned home late. “You’ll never guess what’s happened!” he said as he walked through the door.
He was like a big puppy when he became excited. Camille smiled at him. “What, mon amour?”
“Céline Cottin has fallen ill.”
“Oh no. Is it serious?”
“It appears to be. She’s in the hospital. Poor Nicolas is beside himself with worry.”
“How awful!”
“Here’s the thing, Camille. With Céline sick, Monsieur Proust has no chambermaid.” His tone was stricken, as if the writer had lost both his arms. “He—Monsieur Proust—suggested that perhaps you might be able to come to the apartment during the afternoons to help him. That way Nicolas can be with Céline during her recuperation.”
Camille wrinkled her nose. “To help him? With what? Can’t the man exist on his own in the apartment for a few hours?”
Olivier laughed.
* * *
The next afternoon Camille appeared at Marcel Proust’s apartment and was welcomed in by a harried-looking Nicolas. They stood in the middle of the kitchen.
“This is a nice place,” she said, looking around. “I didn’t realize that being a writer paid so well.”
“Oh, he doesn’t own it,” whispered Nicolas. “The building belongs to his great-aunt. She lets him live here for almost nothing.”
“Why are you whispering?” asked Camille.
“Because Monsieur Proust is asleep.”
Camille snorted. “But it’s four o’clock in the afternoon!”
Nicolas inclined his head ever so slightly, acknowledging the point. “Yes, well, he keeps peculiar hours,” he said. “Now, pay attention. The most important thing you need to learn is how to make coffee.”
“I know how to make coffee, Nicolas!”
The valet grunted. “Don’t count on it. Everything has to be done in a very particular way.” He looked at her. “Very particular.” He opened a cupboard and took out a jar. “Here’s the coffee. There’s a shop on Rue de Lévis where you have to buy it. Nothing else will do. He likes the way they roast it there.”
“Rue de Lévis,” repeated Camille.
“You need to use a double boiler on the stove. The water has to pass through the coffee granules slowly. That’s the only way you can be sure that the coffee is the strength he likes.” He set a silver coffeepot down on the countertop. “Make enough to fill this, and absolutely no more. And don’t even dream about serving him coffee in anything else.” He turned back to the cupboard. A single coffee cup appeared, then a matching saucer. “This is the only cup he’ll drink out of. The saucer is for his croissant.”
“And this is the only saucer he’ll use?” guessed Camille.
The valet nodded. “Purchase two croissants each day from the boulangerie on Rue de la Pépinière. On no account should you buy them from anywhere else.”
“How will he know?”
“Oh, he’ll know, believe me. He rings the bell when he’s ready for his breakfast. One ring means he only wants one croissant. If he wants two, he’ll ring twice.”
“Does he ever eat anything else?” asked Camille, looking around the spotless kitchen. The copper pans still hung from their hooks in perfect alignment. She was sure they had not been touched since she had first seen them.
“Rarely,” said Nicolas. “Although you’ll use the oven every day.”
“Wh
at for?”
“His clothes. They need to be warmed to just the right temperature before he puts them on.” Nicolas saw the look on her face. “Monsieur Proust suffers terribly from the chills,” he explained. “But he doesn’t like the apartment to overheat, so you must be sure not to put more than four logs on the fire at any time.”
Camille opened her mouth to speak, saw the expression on the valet’s face, and remained silent.
“Sheets are to be changed every day, without fail, once he has left the apartment. That’s when you’ll clean, as well, because Monsieur Proust can’t abide the smell of furniture polish.” Nicolas turned to face her. “Most important of all, it’s critical that there is no noise of any kind while he is sleeping or writing. Do you understand?”
“No noise of any kind,” whispered Camille, rolling her eyes just a little.
“I’m being perfectly serious,” said Nicolas. “He mustn’t be disturbed. Deliverymen must never knock or ring the doorbell. And while we’re on the subject of visitors,” he continued, “anyone wearing perfume or cologne must not be admitted, under any circumstances.”
“Why not?”
“Monsieur Proust is allergic to odors of any kind. That means no flowers, ever.”
“When does he ring for his breakfast?”
“As soon as he wakes up.”
“And when is that?”
“Around five in the afternoon.”
Camille looked at him. “Pardon?”
Nicolas smiled. “That’s the least of it,” he said.
* * *
The following afternoon Camille arrived at the apartment on Boulevard Haussmann clutching a paper bag containing two warm croissants from the boulangerie on Rue de la Pépinière, as instructed. Nicolas showed her, again, how to make the coffee just as Monsieur Proust liked it, and then he put on his coat to leave for the hospital.
“You might do a little dusting while you wait for him to wake up,” he said. “Just be careful not to make any noise.” He closed the door silently behind him, and was gone.
Camille sat down at the kitchen table and took off her shoes. She had only ever met Marcel Proust once, and now here she was, alone with him in his apartment. The place was completely, eerily silent. There was not even a ticking clock to be heard. She had never gone beyond the kitchen before, and decided to explore the other rooms while her employer was still asleep. She opened the kitchen door and stepped into the hallway.
She guessed that the closed door at the far end of the corridor was Monsieur Proust’s bedroom. She peered into the other rooms. Each was a jungle of wardrobes, divans, and chests of drawers. The furniture was packed so closely together that Camille could not see how anyone could comfortably spend any time in there.
Just then she heard the faint chime of a bell from the kitchen. A single ring.
One croissant.
Camille tiptoed back to the kitchen. While the coffee brewed, she anxiously arranged the cup and saucer on a tray. A few minutes later, she walked down the corridor and knocked on the bedroom door.
“Come in,” said a faint voice.
She pushed open the door. The room was completely dark. She stood uncertainly on the threshold, the tray in front her, peering in.
“I’m over here, Madame Clermont,” called the voice.
Camille took a cautious step into the room, then another. The only light came from the corridor behind her. As her eyes became used to the darkness, she saw long velvet curtains, drawn tight against the afternoon sun. There was a bed in the far corner of the room. At the end of the bed, emerging from the white sheets, was the disembodied head of Marcel Proust. His eyes glinted in the shadows, watching her from beneath a messy fringe of black hair. She crossed the room and put the tray down carefully on the table next to the bed. Those large, dark eyes watched her, not blinking once.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
Camille performed an anxious curtsy and fled.
An hour later, Camille was pacing up and down the kitchen. She wondered if the coffee had been to his liking. Was the croissant acceptable? There had been no further rings of the bell—indeed, there had been no noise of any kind from the bedroom. She wondered if Monsieur Proust had fallen back asleep.
Finally she stepped into the corridor and was horrified to see dark wisps of smoke emerging from beneath the bedroom door. With a cry of alarm, she ran down the hallway and flung the door open. A wall of black cloud billowed into her face. Across the room she could just make out the silhouette of Marcel Proust, who was standing near the bed, bent over double.
“Monsieur!” she cried. “Can you hear me? I’m over here! There’s a fire—”
“Close the door,” wheezed Proust, not looking up.
Against her better judgment, Camille did as she was told. The curtains were still drawn. A small lamp next to the bed spilled a weak light into the room, but the smoke made it difficult to see what was going on. Her eyes began to sting.
“Are you all right, monsieur?”
“I’m absolutely fine, Madame Clermont. This is my daily treatment for my asthma. I burn Legras powder and inhale the fumes. The smoke clears the congestion in my chest. It’s a marvel, I assure you.” He began to cough. Camille watched in bewilderment as his rasping hacks filled the bedroom. When the fit passed, he said, “There’s no need to worry.”
The smoke was clearing a little. Like the other rooms in the apartment, the bedroom was crammed full of furniture. A grand piano stood immediately in front of a mahogany chest, so close that the drawers of the chest could not be opened. There were books piled high on every surface. All the other rooms in the apartment were decorated with ornate wallpaper, but the walls of the bedroom looked quite different. Camille looked more closely. They appeared to be covered with a lining of cork.
“For sound insulation.” Marcel Proust had seen her staring. “I like to keep all the noise and light outside.”
Camille flushed. “And here am I barging in and bringing both with me!”
“Ah, but you will always be welcome, Madame Clermont.” He paused. “But only you. If you could keep the rest of the world at bay, I’d be most grateful.”
“I’ll certainly do my best.” She began to move toward the door.
“Oh, and Madame Clermont?”
She turned back to face him.
He smiled at her. “You make excellent coffee.”
* * *
After a few months, there was no more Madame Clermont. Now there was simply: Camille.
She quickly became accustomed to Marcel Proust’s domestic rituals. Such idiosyncrasies did not strike her as strange. She understood his desire that things should be exactly as he wanted them, and she did her best to abide by his every wish, never once passing judgment on his peculiar ways. Together, Camille and Nicolas looked after Monsieur Proust’s domestic arrangements, and Olivier chauffeured him to his appointments and assignations across the city. The Clermonts spent less and less time in their apartment in Levallois. Their lives began to orbit increasingly around the needs and desires of their employer.
Then came the war.
Olivier was called up to serve as a driver, transporting food to the front. A week later, Nicolas also received his mobilization papers. The apartment on Boulevard Haussmann was suddenly empty.
“Come and live with me, Camille!” Proust begged her. “There’s a spare bedroom here. Why spend so much time traveling back and forth to Levallois? It’s not as if Olivier is waiting at home for you anymore. He’s off at the front, poor man!”
And so Camille packed a suitcase and moved into the apartment on Boulevard Haussmann. She missed Olivier terribly, but escaped her worry about the war by devoting herself completely to Marcel Proust’s every need. Such dedication was required due to the strange hours he kept. If he left the apartment, it would usually be after midnight, and he would not return until the early hours of the morning. It was during these late-night forays into the city that Camille put fresh sheets on
his bed and aired out the bedroom. During the day the curtains were always drawn and the shutters kept tightly closed; while she cleaned the room, she opened the windows and let the cool night air in. The room had not seen a flicker of daylight in years.
Since Monsieur Proust refused to carry a key, Camille was required to stay awake to let him back into the apartment on his return from his nocturnal outings. His nights in the city were spent visiting acquaintances and attending glittering soirées thrown by the elite of Parisian society. He trawled these glamorous parties on the hunt for material for his book. He listened to gossip and noticed what people were wearing. After he hung up his hat and coat, he would regale an exhausted Camille with stories of what he had seen, whom he had met. Then he would retreat to his bed and begin the day in earnest—which was to say, he would write it all down.
Proust rarely moved from his bed while he worked. He wore white pajamas and lay with heavy wool sweaters wrapped around his shoulders for warmth and support. He used his knees for a desk. It looked absurdly uncomfortable to Camille, but he was able to write for hours on end without moving. Despite the lateness of the hour, Camille was not permitted to sleep while he was writing. If he needed something, she was expected to respond immediately, no matter what time it was. Every whim had to be catered to at once; nothing could interrupt or delay his work. She spent nights slumped over the kitchen table in a lonely vigil, just in case the bell might ring. One night she brought him a plate of fried potatoes just as the first hint of dawn mottled the dark sky. Proust was hunched over his work, scribbling furiously, surrounded by notebooks and a sea of scrap paper. He did not look up as she placed the food on the table by his side.
“Monsieur?” said Camille. “Is everything all right?”