by Alex George
Olivier, too, had learned that there was no going back.
She takes another swig of wine. Perhaps that was Monsieur Proust’s most enduring gift, she thinks. It wasn’t her fond memories of their time together, or the wretched notebook. The most valuable thing he gave her was her independence. That, at least, is something that cannot be bought or sold at any price.
* * *
When Camille pushes open the door of the bookshop, the place is empty except for a young woman sitting at a desk, her head bent low over a leather-bound ledger. Camille looks at the volumes on display, and contemplates turning around and leaving, because all the books in the shop are in English.
There is a small cough from the far end of the room. The woman behind the desk is looking up at her, smiling. “Good afternoon, madame,” she says. “Can I help you?”
“I don’t think so,” replies Camille. “But thank you.”
“Are you looking for something in particular?”
She may as well ask. “Do you buy books, as well as sell them?”
“It depends on the books, madame.”
The woman has a kind face. Camille suddenly feels very tired. “I’m looking for a notebook,” she says. “My husband sold it.” She looks down at her shoes. “We had a misunderstanding. It wasn’t his to sell.”
“Did this notebook belong to Marcel Proust, by any chance?”
Camille’s head snaps back up. “Yes!”
“You’re Camille Clermont,” says the woman behind the desk.
She can barely breathe. “Was Olivier here?” she whispers.
An outstretched hand. “Sylvia Beach.” Her grip is strong. “Yes, your husband came into the shop yesterday. He told me that Monsieur Proust gave you the notebook years ago. He said that you’d asked him to sell it.”
“That was a lie!” says Camille hotly.
“Yes, I rather wondered,” says Sylvia Beach. “He couldn’t quite look me in the eye when he said it.”
Camille sighs. “So you didn’t buy it from him, then.”
“Of course I bought it!” says Sylvia Beach. “Your husband was asking for a fraction of what it’s worth. I’d have been a fool to let him walk out with such a treasure!”
Camille tries to hide her elation. “Did you happen to read any of it, by any chance?” she asks anxiously.
Sylvia Beach laughs. “Oh no, madame. I’m too busy to read the books I sell.”
Camille reaches into her handbag for the banknotes that she took from the hotel safe that morning. “I’d like to buy it back,” she says. “I have the money, every franc of it. As I said, it wasn’t my husband’s to sell. I’m sure you understand.”
“I’m very sorry,” says Sylvia Beach, “but you can’t have it.”
Of course. The shopkeeper knows how much the notebook is worth. She stands to make a huge profit.
“What if I paid you double what you gave for it?” asks Camille.
“Oh, it’s not about the money, Madame Clermont.” Sylvia Beach gives her a sympathetic smile. “I’m sorry about what’s happened. One more reason, if I may say so, why I’m glad I’ll never have to worry about a husband.”
Camille’s head feels a little thick. She is regretting that glass of wine. “Then why can’t I have it?”
“Because I’ve already sold it.”
She stares at Sylvia Beach, aghast. “Who did you sell it to?”
“I’m not sure I should tell you.”
“Oh please, you absolutely must. I have to get the notebook back. It’s a matter of life or death.”
Sylvia Beach considers this. “You understand that even if I give you his name, he’s under no obligation to sell it back to you? He purchased it in good faith. The thing is legally his.”
Camille nods. The thought of the notebook beneath a stranger’s fingers makes her feel sick. “But I have to try.”
Sylvia Beach picks up the pen that lies next to the ledger. She pulls a piece of paper from one of the desk drawers, and starts to write. “He’s a writer. An American. This is the address of his apartment,” she says. “It’s not far from here. Perhaps you’ll find him there.”
“Thank you,” says Camille. It is all she can do not to burst into tears. She turns and hurries out of the shop.
33
Eastern Anatolia, 1915: Hector
IT BEGAN WITH AN URGENT knock on the door. It was the sound that announced the end of everything good, and Souren Balakian can still hear it now, that frightened fist on wood echoing across the years.
His best friend, Yervant, was standing there, breathing heavily.
“You need to come,” he said. “All of you.”
“Come where?” asked Souren. Hector stood just behind his older brother. Souren was only seventeen years old, but ever since their father disappeared he had been the man of the house.
“To the square. Your mother, too.”
Souren shook his head. “My mother is sick.”
“But they want the whole village!”
“They?”
“Kasab taburu,” said Yervant.
The two boys looked at each other in silence for a long moment. Souren glanced back toward Hector. “What if we don’t go?”
“They’ll find you, you know they will. It’s better to go now than to be discovered later. Haven’t you heard the stories?”
Souren had heard the stories. They all had.
“I’m not scared of them,” cried Hector. “We should go and tell the stupid Turks what we think of them.”
“We’ll go,” said Souren, “but Mother stays here.” He tousled his brother’s hair. “But Hector, listen. We’re not going to cause trouble, do you understand? We’re going because it’s the safest thing to do. The Turks are dangerous.”
Hector was too excited to listen to his brother. “Let’s go!” he shouted, and started to run down the street toward the main square. Souren and Yervant followed him. A dry wind blew through the village, whipping up small tornados of yellow dust. The narrow streets were baking in the hot afternoon sun.
Word of the arrival of the kasab taburu had spread quickly. By the time the boys arrived in the market square, most of the village had already assembled. People clustered together in small groups, terror on their faces. After Cevdet Bey’s posse descended on Bitlis, fifteen miles to the east, the trees on the outskirts of town had hung heavy with gruesome new fruit—the mutilated corpses of Armenian men.
But there were no Armenian men in the village, not anymore—at least, none of fighting age. They had all been conscripted into the Ottoman army months ago, carted off without warning one night to fight on the Eastern Front. Souren’s father was one of the men taken away. They had not heard from him since.
The crowd that gathered, then, consisted mainly of women and children. Souren held Hector’s hand, but as they approached the group his brother slipped free from his fingers and ran into the mass of bodies, disappearing from view. Moments later a group of warriors on horseback thundered into the square. The men came to a stop in front of the church and dismounted. Only one man remained in his saddle. He wore a black turban and filthy combat fatigues. His cheeks were scarred by deep pockmarks. There was a small armory strapped to his back—two revolvers, a sword, a Mauser rifle, and two long ammunition belts, fattened with cartridges.
“My name is Kamil Ömer,” shouted the man. “I come on the authority of your new vali, the honorable Cevdet Bey.”
Yervant stood next to Souren, his arms crossed. He nodded at the warlord astride his mount. “Look at the smile on his ugly face. He’ll happily kill us all, and he’ll be paid well for his trouble.” Kamil Ömer had been serving time in jail in Artamid for multiple murders until the new governor had released him to carry out his dirty work with his gang of thugs.
“He won’t kill us all,” said Souren.
Yervant spat on the ground. “We’ll see.”
Kamil Ömer was walking his horse up and down in front of the crowd. “I come with new i
nstructions from the vali,” he cried. “It is my duty to ensure that they are carried out to the letter. The smallest failure to comply is an act of treason against the empire, and the perpetrators will be punished accordingly. Do you understand?”
The villagers nodded. If all they had to do was follow instructions in order to survive, there was hope for them yet.
Ömer looked satisfied. “Very well,” he declared. “First, effective immediately, every household must surrender all weapons.”
Yervant nudged Souren. “Easier to massacre us if we have nothing to fight back with,” he whispered.
“Second, my men are hungry. They need food. We have authority from the vali to requisition any supplies from this village as we deem necessary for our continued defense of the empire against its enemies.” The Turk cast his eyes across the worried faces in front of him. “We will come into your houses this afternoon and take what we need. If you try to hide so much as a morsel of food for yourselves, you and your family will be punished without mercy. When you are dismissed from here, you will return to your homes and wait for my—”
Kamil Ömer stopped in midsentence. He clutched his jaw, a look of surprise on his face, which quickly turned to fury. Slowly he lowered his hand, revealing a dark red gash in his cheek. He climbed off his horse and picked up a rock that was lying on the ground. “Who threw this?” he screamed.
The villagers stared at him in terrified silence.
The warrior drew the long curved sword from the scabbard strapped to his back. “I am not a man who asks a question twice,” he snarled. He strode to the edge of the crowd and grabbed a young girl. She could not have been more than six years old. He dragged her out of the crowd, ignoring the screams of her mother. The Turk roughly pulled the girl’s long hair backward, exposing her neck. The look on his face was one of vicious delight. “A child will die every ten minutes until the person who threw that rock steps forward,” he shouted.
“Wait,” said a voice.
Souren’s blood turned to ice in his veins.
Kamil Ömer released the girl, who ran sobbing back into her mother’s arms. He turned his attention to Hector, who had stepped out of the crowd and stood defiantly before the Turk, his arms folded across his chest. He was twelve years old, and small for his age, but he confronted the heavily armed warrior without the faintest shadow of fear. Just as Souren began to move to his brother’s defense, he felt Yervant’s hand on his shoulder.
“Stay where you are,” hissed his friend.
“I can’t just—”
“Souren, listen.” Yervant’s words were low and urgent. “That man is a murderer, and he’s armed to the teeth. You have no weapons, and you’ve never thrown a punch in your life. If you try to intervene, he’ll kill you. You understand that, don’t you? He’s looking for reasons to slaughter us all.”
Souren stared at Kamil Ömer, who was circling his brother with a predatory look on his face.
“So I’m supposed to just stand here?” said Souren.
“Think of your mother,” whispered Yervant. “If you act the hero, she’ll have two dead sons instead of one. Who will care for her then?”
Kamil Ömer continued to pace around Hector. There were so many ways to kill a young boy. Souren watched those small eyes as they made their calculations. The Turk was deciding how to make the most of this opportunity—how best to show the villagers that he was not a man who made empty threats. He spoke to one of his lieutenants. The man nodded and ran into the church. He returned a moment later carrying a wooden chair and a length of rope. Ömer looked at Hector and pointed to the chair. Hector sat on it.
“I’m not afraid of you,” he shouted.
Ömer issued more instructions to his lieutenant, who began to wrap the rope around Hector’s body, securing the boy’s arms by his sides.
Yervant’s hand was heavy on Souren’s shoulder, holding him in place. “Your mother,” he said again.
Souren closed his eyes. He knew Yervant was right.
Once Hector was trussed to the chair, Ömer’s lieutenant went back into the church and emerged a minute later carrying a large metal canister. He placed it on the ground next to Hector and unscrewed the lid. Hector’s look of defiance vanished immediately and was replaced with naked terror. The man began to tip the canister’s clear liquid across Hector’s back and shoulders. He kept pouring until the boy’s shirt was completely soaked, front and back, then he did the same to his trousers. By then tears were streaming down Hector’s cheeks, but still he made no sound. Some of the women began a high, keening wail. The soldiers stepped forward, rifles cocked, ready to quell any disturbance.
Kamil Ömer stood to one side and watched proceedings, idly smoking a cigarette. At his command, the man stopped pouring. Souren could smell the pungent aroma of kerosene. The Turk stepped forward and addressed the crowd.
“Let there be no misunderstanding,” he shouted. “I require total obedience from every person in this village, man and woman, no matter how old or how young. Nothing less will be tolerated.” He looked down at Hector. “You, boy, are going to help everyone learn this lesson.” He almost put a hand on Hector’s wet shoulder, and then thought better of it. Instead he took a long drag on his cigarette, so that its tip was burning brightly, and then he dropped it onto Hector’s lap.
34
A Priest’s Advice
GUILLAUME LIES PROSTRATE in the middle of the studio. He listens to the retreating footsteps of the three men, who are bickering with each other as they walk down the staircase. He rolls over and slowly pushes himself up onto his knees. A string of blood and saliva falls from one side of his mouth and pools on the floor. He crawls across the room toward his bed. Once on the mattress, he stares up at the ceiling. The middle of his face is a white-hot supernova of pain.
The corridor is silent. The men have gone for the moment—although presumably Arnaud, the giant, will be on sentry duty outside the building, keeping a hopeful eye out for Gertrude Stein.
Guillaume twists his head and gazes forlornly at the faded rectangle of wallpaper where Suzanne’s painting used to be. For more than ten years the little house in the woods has given him the strength to face every new morning, but today it has literally saved his life. Without Gertrude Stein’s six hundred francs to offer them, Guillaume would already be dead. His earlier regret dissolves and reassembles itself into a bitter kind of gratitude.
With a sigh, Guillaume crosses the studio to the small sink in the corner of the room. He gingerly washes the blood off his face and examines himself in the small mirror on the wall. His nose has been flattened by the rat-faced man’s knee, and there are matching dark purple crescents beneath both of his eyes.
When Gertrude Stein fails to appear, Le Miroir’s men will be back to finish the job. There’s no way of knowing how long their patience will last. Guillaume knows he must escape while he still can. He strips off his bloodied shirt and puts on a clean one. He looks at the paintings strewn across the room. He must leave all this behind. To his surprise he feels no great regret. Survival is all that matters now.
He walks over to the window and peers out at the rooftops and chimney pots. He unfastens the latch and opens the window. The sounds of the city below rise up from the streets to meet him. Grunting with the effort, Guillaume hauls himself through the window. He looks back into the studio one last time and then lowers himself onto the slate roof. After a moment to get his bearings, he sets off, picking his way across the unfamiliar terrain, navigating from one roof to the next. By the time he sees what he is looking for, he is several buildings away. The top of the iron ladder pokes up over the edge of the rear of the roof. Guillaume approaches it with trepidation, his stomach churning. He has never had a head for heights. Slowly he begins to climb down, rung by cautious rung.
Finally, the ground. He is in a small, paved courtyard. A scrawny cat eyes him from behind a potted rosebush. At the far end of the courtyard there is a gate. Guillaume opens it and steps into a de
serted alley, barely wide enough for a man to walk down. At the end of the alley he can see pedestrians marching by. He catches his breath for a moment, exhausted and enervated by his escape, and then starts to walk toward the street.
Among the crowd of Parisians, he feels safer. He tacks through the throng, averting his gaze from passersby, aware that the bruises on his face are attracting some curious glances. As he goes he watches for men who might be watching for him.
His nose is in agony. He must get to Gare Montparnasse, but all he wants to do is to stop moving.
Ahead of him he sees a small church. On impulse he pushes open the door. Pale shafts of light fall through the tall, narrow windows. He sits down in the back pew and closes his eyes.
“Can I help you?”
At the end of the pew stands a priest. He is a small man, neatly put together, precise and compact. He wears wire-rimmed spectacles. A pair of shiny black shoes pokes out from beneath the hem of his cassock.
“Forgive me, father,” mutters Guillaume. “I just need to rest for a little while.”
“Your nose looks sore,” says the priest.
“It’s felt better,” admits Guillaume.