by Alex George
“Do you know when your mother will be home?” he asks.
Arielle shakes her head. “She said she was going to watch a famous musician play music with his band. His instrument is the saxophone.”
The sight of the stone angels has set Guillaume’s brain spinning in a million improbable directions.
All this time, he thinks.
Is that hope he feels?
Suddenly he is no longer so concerned about the rat-faced man and his minions.
Perhaps this is one of the priest’s miracles.
“Do you know the name of the place where she’s gone this evening?” he asks.
Arielle nods. “She wrote down the name and address for me.” She disappears for a moment, and when she returns she is holding a piece of paper, which she presents for Guillaume’s inspection. “Here,” she says. “It’s called Le Chat Blanc.”
Guillaume’s smile slips, just a little.
39
Hope, Rekindled
JEAN-PAUL MAILLARD PUSHES OPEN the heavy wooden door of his building, and steps inside. In the hallway he waits for the door to close behind him. As the latch clicks into place, the frenzied brouhaha of the quartier retreats. The harried whine of passing automobiles, the yells of marauding children, the slow, rhythmic clang of an invisible workman’s hammer—now these are no more than a muffled collage of noise, suddenly a world away. Jean-Paul loves this moment. He relishes the quiet grace that lies in the transition between the city outside and his private life within these walls. Paris is always there, waiting for him on the other side of the door. But how sweet it is to turn away from all that, to come home.
He climbs the stairs to his apartment. He hangs up his coat in the hallway. At the far end of the living room is his desk. A photograph of Anaïs and Elodie hangs on the wall. Anaïs is leaning forward, laughing, kissing the baby on her nose. Elodie’s tiny fingers are reaching out toward her mother. The photograph gathered dust in a cupboard for years, when he was unable to look at all that he had lost. These days he hungrily devours every detail of the picture: these two beloved faces stir up a quiet wonder within him now.
Jean-Paul thinks of the young girl in the Jardin du Luxembourg. What was her name? Arielle. He closes his eyes.
Arielle, yes. Not Elodie.
He’d been caught unawares, blindsided by memory, longing, and hope. For a dizzying moment time had stopped as he stared into those gray eyes, the last ten years erased in an instant. His world had been briefly reconfigured beyond all hope, all comprehension—and then mother and daughter smiled their identical smiles, and his dreams evaporated as quickly as they had come. He remembers watching the pair as they walked away from him, off in search of chocolate cake, each wholly absorbed in the other’s existence. He remembers the mother’s body, exquisitely, unconsciously skewed toward the little girl. A new understanding dawns: wherever Elodie is, she is not alone. There will be someone next to her who cannot quite walk in a straight line either, pulled off kilter by helpless love.
He quietly hums the lovely melody that transported him back to the deserted church near Verdun. Never underestimate your memories, monsieur, Arielle’s mother told him. There’s no danger of that: memories are all he has. He reaches out and touches the photograph. Where is his daughter now?
His fingertips leave the faintest trace on the glass.
* * *
His typewriter awaits. Jean-Paul sits down at his desk and feeds a fresh sheet of paper into the blackened maw of the machine. He turns to his notes of the interview with Josephine Baker. There’s some hastily scribbled description of the apartment itself—the opulent mess, the gaudy flourishes, the parakeets. He begins to type.
Some hours later, the floor around his desk is a landscape of discarded paper. Jean-Paul stares at the single, desultory paragraph on the page in front of him, and then pulls it out of the typewriter. He mashes the paper into a ball and drops it on the floor to join the others. He cannot find his way into the piece. Josephine Baker’s story has everything—impoverished beginnings, triumph over adversity, talent, and beauty. He thinks about her, surrounded by expensive trinkets and pursued by men whose names she does not remember. Those red roses, so carelessly given away. He sighs. She perched on the edge of that huge sofa and smiled at him, and he was as smitten as everyone else. All he knows about her is exactly what she wanted him to know. She is the most famous person in Paris, but her celebrity is a mask. That dazzling smile was a suit of armor, hiding her from view.
He stands up and walks across the room to the gramophone player. A moment later, the familiar clarinet fills the room. As Gershwin’s music gallops majestically forward, Jean-Paul thinks about another George—the invisible composer from New Jersey who lives above Shakespeare and Company, making that terrible noise on the piano. He never would have written such a thing in Trenton, you can be sure of that, said Sylvia Beach.
All these Americans in Paris! Josephine Baker he understands—and Sidney Bechet, and Lloyd Waters. France has liberated them from the color of their skin. But what about all the other Americans in Paris? What are they escaping?
Everyone is running toward somewhere, he told Josephine Baker that morning. Perhaps it’s as simple as that, he thinks. We’re always gazing toward the horizon, searching for the next adventure. And those who are trapped still dream helplessly, obsessively: Rhapsody in Blue still fills his heart with longing for New York.
His notebook is lying on the table, as usual. Elodie’s story is always within reach. Jean-Paul remembers Josephine Baker’s offer to mention it to Ernest Hemingway. That morning he dismissed the idea—the story is his, and his alone. But now he begins to wonder.
What if he were to ask for Hemingway’s help? Suddenly his imagination hurtles forward, and he cannot resist.
He’ll give Hemingway his novel. Then, a few days later, he’ll receive an enthusiastic note from the American, inviting him to lunch. Over steak and oysters, he’ll listen modestly as the famous writer tells him what a masterpiece he has written. With this enthusiastic endorsement, publishers will fight for his book. There will be meetings with editors, legal contracts. Money, he supposes, although he does not much care about that.
Jean-Paul imagines a mountain of books, Elodie’s life bursting from between the covers of every one. His daughter, resurrected a thousand, ten thousand times!
And then.
Perhaps one day Elodie will pick up the book.
Perhaps she will read it, and see herself in those pages.
Perhaps he will no longer have to look for her.
Perhaps she will come looking for him.
40
A Woman Scorned
CAMILLE HURRIES DOWN Rue de l’Odéon, clutching the piece of paper that Sylvia Beach has given her. The address is a short walk away from the bookshop, and she sees no reason to waste any time.
She unfolds the paper. It reads:
ERNEST HEMINGWAY
6 RUE FÉROU
A writer, said Sylvia Beach. Camille has never heard of him. To her horror, she feels a tear run down her cheek.
Ernest Hemingway’s apartment is just around the corner from Rue des Canettes, where her husband is probably wondering if she is ever going to return.
All Camille really wants is to see Marie and hold her close.
The door at 6 Rue Férou is slightly ajar. Camille steps into the cool, dark interior. On the other side of the hall is a staircase. She crosses the room and climbs the stairs.
In front of Hemingway’s apartment she pauses for a moment. She takes a deep breath, and then knocks. Does he even speak French? she wonders. If not, she realizes, he won’t have been able to read the words she is so frightened of. Camille’s English is passable—most of the hotel’s guests do not even try and speak French and just assume that they’ll be understood if they shout loud enough—but still her stomach knots tightly in apprehension.
The door is opened by a woman. She is holding a cigarette in one hand and a glass of re
d wine in the other. She wears long, flared trousers and a silk blouse, both dazzlingly white, and no shoes. Her dark hair is cut very short, almost like a boy’s, with a thick fringe swept across her forehead. This gives her a masculine air, despite the elegance of her clothes. She leans languidly against the doorframe and takes a long drag of her cigarette.
“Oui?”
Camille glances at the hand that is holding the wineglass, and sees a wedding band. “Madame Hemingway?”
The woman acknowledges this with a slow tilt of the head. She does not take her eyes off Camille. “Do you speak English?” she asks.
Camille nods. “A little, yes.”
The woman’s eyes are dark and flat and cool. Camille is suddenly aware of how tightly she is clutching her handbag. “How can I help you?”
“My name is Camille Clermont.” Camille beams. “I would like to speak to your husband.”
At this, the woman emits a short, bitter laugh. “So would I, madame. I’ve not seen him since he stumbled out of here this morning.”
Camille’s smile slips. “He’s not here?”
“Alas, no.”
“Is he writing somewhere?”
“I sincerely doubt it.”
“Do you know where I might find him, Madame Hemingway?”
“Call me Pauline,” says the woman. She takes another drink. “I’m afraid I don’t know where my husband is. We only arrived back from our honeymoon a few weeks ago, but I hardly see him anymore. He says he missed his friends while he was away, and so he’s been busy catching up.” She pauses. “Very busy.”
“Do you know when he’ll be back?”
“If the last few nights are any indication, it won’t be until very late, and when he does, he’ll be roaring drunk.”
Camille stares at her in horror.
“John Dos Passos is in town,” continues Pauline Hemingway. “My husband tells me that when writers get together they need their space, their freedom. No women to bother them, you understand.”
Camille nods, although she does not understand. She has never heard of John Dos Passos.
“Perhaps I shouldn’t complain.” Pauline sighs. “I’m probably better off on my own, anyway. Ernest has been in a foul mood ever since we got back from our honeymoon and he realized that he’d missed Lindbergh’s arrival at Le Bourget. He thought he should have been there. A witness to history, or some such nonsense.” She leans forward conspiratorially and cracks a small, lopsided grin. “He can’t stand the fact that Lindbergh is younger than he is, and more handsome, and a million times more famous. He’s as mad as a wet hen about it. And apparently it’s all my fault. As if I held a gun to his head and made him whisk me off to the south of France!” The woman laughs her short, bitter laugh again. “So here I am, abandoned by my new husband and left to fend for myself, with nothing but a couple of bottles of middling Burgundy for company.” She holds up her glass of wine and scrutinizes it closely.
“I really do need to find your husband,” says Camille.
Pauline looks at her. “What do you want with him?”
“He was at Shakespeare and Company earlier today. Mademoiselle Beach sold him something of mine by mistake. I came to ask for it back.”
“Ah, the lovely Sylvia. It was a book, I assume?”
“A notebook. Just a little thing. But it’s important to me.”
“I’m sorry I can’t help you. He could be anywhere. For Ernest, Paris is a giant playground.” Pauline makes an unsteady sweep of her hand to indicate the city that lies beyond the apartment walls. “So many delights around every corner, and he doesn’t see why he should deprive himself of a single one of them.”
“Could you tell me some of the places he likes to go?” asks Camille.
“You could try any of the bars in Montparnasse.”
Camille’s heart sinks. There must be a thousand of them. “Thank you,” she says, and turns to go.
“Wait. I’ve just remembered. Do you know Le Chat Blanc?”
Camille shakes her head.
“It’s a jazz club in Montmartre. Sidney Bechet is playing there this week. Ernest said he might go tonight, with John.” The last of the wine disappears down her throat. “I heard Bechet play once, in Aix. I loved him. But do you think it occurred to my husband to ask his new bride if she would like to go and see him again? Do you think he thought to include me in his evening’s plans?”
Camille does not answer.
The newly minted Mrs. Hemingway looks at her wineglass for a long moment. “Anyway, yes. Le Chat Blanc,” she says. “Just look for the two loudest Americans in the room.”
“You’ve been most helpful,” murmurs Camille.
“I hope you get your little book back.”
“Thank you.” Camille turns and walks back toward the stairs. She can feel Pauline Hemingway’s gaze on her back as she hurries down the corridor.
“If you find my husband,” calls the American from the door of the apartment, “tell him to drink up and come home.”
41
Le Chat Blanc
FINALLY, RUE DES ABBESSES.
Souren Balakian staggers along the street, clutching his suitcase. His improvised bandages protect his ruined hand from the lacerating night air, and the brandy has helped, but the pain still stuns him. He should be at a hospital, he knows, but no doctor can attend to his regret, or mend his broken heart.
It is a warm night. The streetlamps are on, casting small pools of light up and down the road. The sidewalks are thick with people, but Souren does not see them. He moves forward, thinking only of Thérèse. In the bar on Rue de Vaugirard he imagined her body, but those cravings have dissipated. Now all he wants is comfort and kindness.
He does not know whether such things can be bought, or what they might cost.
His pace quickens as he approaches Le Chat Blanc. There is a crowd gathered outside the entrance to the club. A few steps away women are leaning up against a wall, half in and half out of the shadows. Souren puts down his suitcase and scans their faces.
After a moment, Thérèse steps forward. “Are you looking for me, chéri?” Her smile disappears when she sees the stricken look on his face. “What’s wrong?” she asks.
Souren holds up his hand, still wrapped in the puppets’ tunics. “I burned my hand,” he says.
Thérèse frowns. “Why have you come here?”
Souren knows that somewhere in the darkness a man is watching them.
“I need you,” he says.
“No, you need a hospital.”
Out of the corner of his eye Souren sees a dark shifting in the shadows. “Please,” he whispers. “Let’s go upstairs. Will you take me upstairs? Just for a little while?”
Thérèse puts her hand on his arm. “I’m no doctor.”
“I don’t need a doctor,” he tells her.
She looks at him for a long moment. “You have money?”
He nods.
“All right.” She sighs. “Let’s go.”
* * *
The music is heavenly. Jean-Paul sits at a table near the front of the low-ceilinged room. In the center of the stage stands Sidney Bechet, resplendent in a tan double-breasted suit, eyes closed, horn raised to the sky. Beads of sweat glisten on his brow as his fingers fly across the silver keys of his instrument. He weaves syncopated spells, bewitching concatenations of rhythm, melody, and swing. The saxophone’s fat, honeyed tone fills the room. Behind him, the band plays their hearts out. The bass rumbles. The high hat snaps in crisp time. The trombone delivers a sweet countermelody. All move as one. They’re playing “Muskrat Ramble,” a jaunty tune full of sass and vinegar.
Jean-Paul takes a sip of his drink. It has been a long day. He glances at his watch, and wonders where Josephine Baker is. A vague unease flutters down. Perhaps she has forgotten her invitation. Perhaps she just wanted to say something kind.
The song ends, and the room fills with applause. Sidney Bechet holds his saxophone aloft to acknowledge the crowd, h
is face cracked into a wide, mischievous grin. His eyes roam around the room, his hungry gaze lingering longest on the beautiful women. Jean-Paul watches him. The bandleader is a man of notoriously prodigious appetites. He looks completely at ease in front of a roomful of strangers. He is doing precisely what he was put on this earth to do, and he is enjoying every moment of it. Bechet says something to the band. Then he turns to the audience and announces, “Salty Dog Blues.” The band breaks into the new tune, a raucous dirge, heavy with longing and regret. The audience cannot take their eyes off the saxophonist—except, Jean-Paul notices, for one woman, a few tables away, who sits alone, a half-drunk glass of white wine in front of her. She is not looking at Sidney Bechet. In fact she hardly seems to notice the music at all. She sits bolt upright, her head turned away from the stage. She is staring at something, or someone, on the far side of the room.
The band is building up steam. The pianist pounds out gutbucket despair. The trombone shimmers. The saxophone wails. The crowd, enraptured, breathes into the music. They don’t want to miss a note. Jean-Paul glances again at the woman. She has resumed her gaze across the room. He follows the trajectory of her stare.
On the far side of the club, sitting with another man, he sees Ernest Hemingway.
* * *
Guillaume Blanc stands in line outside the club. Every time the door opens to admit another customer, he hears a blast of music. His heart is clattering as loudly as the drums on the stage.
As he shuffles forward, a low counterpoint of bittersweet regret has begun to rumble within him. His tombstone angels have been on Suzanne Mauriac’s wall for all these years! He has already begun to mourn each day that he has stayed away with an ache that is seeping into his bones. He is tormented by the thought of an alternative universe, one where he had not waited so long.