Love Story

by Janine Boissard

  The lights dimmed.

  It was like a great wind that lifted, swelled, spread in waves, sometimes gentle, sometimes violent. I didn’t know the names of all the instruments that made up an orchestra, but each one had its own voice and color that blended or opposed, blazed or murmured, in a common prayer, a common supplication.

  I also didn’t know the best words to express all that I felt: this beauty that hurt, this emotion that liberated. Tomorrow I would read the words in the newspaper. For now I walked along the sea; I crossed the bright gardens, the flowered valleys; I lost myself in forests; I glimpsed dizzying summits.

  These voices told me what I always knew in my heart: we are alone in a world of great beauty and infinite pain.

  Suddenly the choir exploded. The human voice joined the instruments. A cry arose.

  All that breathes praise the Lord.

  Claudio and the sopranos stood at the front of the stage.

  Hélène Reigner sang alone.

  Praise the Lord, my soul.

  I closed my eyes to hear better. To what could one compare that voice but to a nightingale? What color did she give it but that from a source lit by the sun? Banal? Cliché? Of course. But too bad; that’s the way it is.

  A chorus of women’s voices responded, thanking the Lord, praising His charity.

  Very straight, his chin thrust out, Claudio waited, and I waited for Claudio. Then his voice rose, muffled, full of choked tears, like a dark veil stretching across the stage, joy tearing itself apart.

  I wandered in the night and in the deep darkness,

  Surrounded by enemies who pursued me.

  My heart stopped. He was hurling a cry of distress, he was singing his own suffering. Who heard that?

  The choir responded; the sopranos blended their voices to placate him, to give him hope.

  I looked to the Lord and He leaned toward me.

  Then Claudio again; again the black veil.

  We implore You in the darkness.

  Keeper, will the night end?

  My neighbor’s hand grazed my arm.

  “Miss, are you all right?”

  I couldn’t hold back a sob. Bravo! But you, sir, you hear the beautiful music; I hear the hopelessness of the man I love and I can hardly stand it.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  Don’t do that, said Mother when I cried during a story or a film. All will end happily, you’ll see.

  Later, Hélène Reigner’s voice mixed with those of the other sopranos. They formed a braid of light to celebrate the new dawn.

  Night is dissipated.

  Day is breaking.

  The orchestra and choir came together in an immense cry of gladness. There was nothing but praise and gratitude to the Lord.

  Claudio’s face was like that of someone captive. I felt I was captive with him. With all due respect to my mother, no God, no Lord could ever return the light that had been stolen from him.

  The entire hall rose to applaud. The ovations lasted a long time, enough time for me to put myself back together. When the light of those six hundred bulbs illuminated the sun’s chariot again, the heroine was ready to resume her work as guide.

  No official dinner was planned. What would Claudio want to do? I hadn’t the slightest idea. I went to the dressing rooms. I had located his while accompanying him to the afternoon rehearsal; his was next to Hélène Reigner’s.

  A small, joyous crowd was pressed into the corridors. There was laughter, congratulations; it felt like a kind of deliverance. Claudio’s dressing room was full. From the window, I could see the sea. I recognized the conductor, a Japanese man. The two sopranos were there too. A bottle of champagne was being passed around.

  I had difficulty getting to him. When Hélène Reigner saw me, she smiled kindly.

  “What do you want, little one?”

  Claudio held out his hand.

  “Is that you, Laura?”

  I slid my shoulder under his hand. Silence fell around us. Everyone looked at me, awaiting my response.

  “I’d like to know what you would like to do now, sir.”

  My voice was more cracked than ever, and a few laughs followed.

  “What do I want to do? Well, have fun, of course!” said Claudio. “The night has just begun, as you see. And I’m in good company.”

  The night has just begun. Was I the only one who made the connection between those words and those that he had just painfully sung? There was some light laughter. With some shame, I felt tears coming again. Can’t take Laura anywhere. Artless at the opera…

  His hand left my shoulder and he raised his champagne glass.

  “To Nice, to us, and to the party,” he said before taking a sip.

  “Don’t do anything for him,” said Hélène Reigner. “I’m here. You’re free.”

  8.

  In Villedoye, everyone is at home by nine o’clock at night. The only sign of life is the bluish light of televisions behind curtains.

  After eleven o’clock, it seemed that all of Nice was still out on the street.

  Far from the Promenade and the scent of flowers, the odors of frying, spices, peppers, and garlic ran along the narrow alleyways, intersected by stairways, of the old city. There were restaurants, music, and laundry hanging outside windows everywhere.

  No, I wasn’t at home, but at least here no one laughed as I passed by.

  What do you want, little one?

  Claudio hadn’t kept me. He hadn’t defended me. But from what would he have defended me? Who had attacked me? They had been happy to let me go.

  You’re free, miss. I’m here.

  Was Hélène Reigner Claudio’s mistress?

  He had known her before he lost his sight and had been able to appreciate her beauty. She had a lovely voice, they were part of the same world, and they often traveled together. Of course she was his mistress. To be jealous was completely ridiculous. Wasn’t jealousy a part of secret and hopeless love?

  Barbara Cartland’s heroine returned to her palace with an empty stomach and a heavy heart.

  “Isn’t Mr. Roman with you?” the receptionist asked, surprised, when handing me my key.

  “He’s with friends. He’ll be back later.”

  The bed had been turned down. My nightshirt was carefully arranged on the sheet. On the pillow was a small gold box with two heart-shaped chocolates, accompanied by a note from the hotel: “Good Night.” The party continued.

  When I had arrived the day before, there had been a basket of fruit in my room. I chose a pear that I ate with the chocolates. There is a dessert like that called “poire belle Hélène.” Nice.

  The door that led from my room to Claudio’s room was not locked. I went in. His pajamas were on the bed and he also had a box of chocolates, but he wouldn’t be able to read the “Good Night.”

  Open the curtains, little one.

  I opened them and left one window half open as he had asked me to do in Auxerre. Here, it smelled of the sea, and I imagined hearing it.

  I was going to go to bed after having taken a bath when he returned. He wasn’t alone. I recognized Hélène’s voice; she was having a hard time opening the door.

  “I hate their new card keys,” she said.

  Claudio laughed. His laugh seemed a little thick. She finally succeeded, and the door banged shut.

  “Oh, chocolates!” she exclaimed.

  I lay on my big bed. I turned off the light and blocked my ears. I wanted the walls to be made of reinforced concrete. No, I wasn’t jealous, but I did have the right to be unhappy.

  How much time passed? I finally went to sleep. A noise woke me. The door between our rooms was wide open. Claudio was standing at the threshold, lit by the light of his room.

  “Are you sleeping, Laura?”

  My heart beat as though it would break. I turned on my bedside lamp: 3:15. I slid out of bed and went toward him.

  “I’m here.”

  Hélène’s words.

  He held out his hand,
looking for my shoulder. I offered it to him. He was wearing the dressing gown from Auxerre, open over his pajamas.

  His face was a mess.

  “Did I wake you?”

  “You could say that.”

  “Forgive me. You’re trembling. Are you cold? Go back to bed.”

  I obeyed more than happily since my T-shirt barely covered my belly. Yes, I was trembling. From emotion. I covered myself with the sheet.

  He followed me, and this time it was he who sat on the edge of the bed.

  “I sent her back to her room,” he said. “She would have stayed all night, but no thank you.”

  He gave a little macho laugh. He played the role of a seducer, but he seemed like a lost man, someone lost at sea, crying for help.

  “She fucks well, that’s the important thing.”

  I couldn’t hold back a start. “I don’t like that word.”

  “You don’t like fucking?”

  “I prefer making love.”

  He was quiet for a moment. I pulled the sheet up a little higher.

  “You’ve had many lovers?”

  “Certainly fewer than you’ve had.”

  He laughed again.

  “No, listen. Love…in love…Let’s see, little Laura, you don’t read, you who have eyes? You don’t go to the movies? You don’t watch television? Love is old-fashioned. Today, it’s only sex that counts. Women are no longer afraid of their bodies; they claim them, show them off, open them to whomever wants them.”

  “That’s not what makes women the happiest.”

  “Now it’s happiness. You’re mixing everything up: sex, love, happiness. What are you doing, talking about the soul?”

  “You talked about it a little while ago when you sang.”

  He didn’t reply. He sighed briefly. Then his hand searched for me, found my shoulder, fingered the fabric of my T-shirt.

  “Cotton. A little girl in cotton.”

  His hand traveled lower. My heart beat hard again. If he made these kinds of visits to the pretty Corinne Massé, it was not surprising that she succumbed to him. He stopped.

  “So, you who believes in love, Laura, tell me how it works.”

  I looked at this man. I heard his voice, his complaint. You didn’t choose. You simply said, “It’s him,” and all the clichés came crashing down on your head.

  “It’s funny. It takes your breath away, and at the same time you have the feeling that you never breathed as well before. It burns you terribly, yet all you ask is to continue burning. You have the feeling that before, you only seemed to live. You are unfair to yourself.”

  “You speak as the songs do,” he said.

  “As Mozart’s songs do?”

  He was silent again. His face was calmer. It seemed to me that his great pain had abandoned him. He breathed deeply.

  “I’m happy you’re here. It’s always a little difficult after the concerts. Especially after this damned symphony.”

  Night is gone. Day is come…?

  “Did you like it, at least?”

  “I was very moved. If you want to know, I even cried a little.”

  “Little Laura…little tear…”

  And then he leaned toward me and planted a kiss on my cheek, close to my lips. I was suffocating; I was burning. He was so close, so virile, so handsome and unhappy.

  OK, I really wanted to be the sister, but I also felt like the mother who wanted to take him in her arms and protect him, ease his pain. I couldn’t be everything at once, though. Let’s not forget the woman who found herself full of shudders because of a single stolen kiss.

  When he moved away to look at the dial of the watch that never left his wrist, I breathed and felt sad. He was looking for the hands of the watch, the numbers.

  “Almost four o’clock!” he exclaimed. “Poor Laura who is dying for sleep. It’s not easy to take care of an old, selfish man like me.”

  “That’s for sure,” I said with conviction.

  He laughed, this time honestly. My victory.

  “Don’t move,” he said while getting up. “I’ll make it by myself.”

  His hands extended, guided by the light from his room, he walked toward the door. Reaching the door, he stopped and turned.

  “But as for love, you’re mistaken, little girl: it’s fucking that counts.”

  Take that, Barbara Cartland.

  9.

  I’d been the official publicist for Claudio Roman for two months. I didn’t work for anyone but him, with the help of Monique, an assistant chosen by David. I had kept my office at The Agency.

  I had never thought the day would come when Claudio would ask me to call him by his first name. But it happened naturally, because I had for a long time been calling him that to myself.

  I learned, through his biography, which was given to journalists, that he had started by studying piano when he was very young. He had discovered singing when he was around ten years old, when he sang in the school choir. His music teacher had noticed his voice. While he was doing his regular studies, he attended the conservatory in Bordeaux, his native city, then he entered the conservatory in Paris. His meeting with David May was decisive. He had chosen to devote himself entirely to singing.

  To love the man is to love the little boy he was. I imagined Claudio conscientiously doing his scales, then singing with his friends, full of spirit and confidence.

  His large eyes open and still believing in love.

  I now knew all the periodicals and radio programs that focused on classical music. The most difficult thing was not getting the press interested, but choosing among the many journalists who wanted to meet him. David took care of his travels. We were in constant touch with each other.

  Each time he entered a new hotel room, Claudio had to tame the space, in a way. Step by step, his hands in front of him, his nose alert, he made a slow tour of the room, locating the furniture, the doors and windows, the possible obstacles. Each time I watched him do this, my heart sank.

  I struggled to describe some things for him: a lamp, a painting. “Everything that I haven’t touched doesn’t exist,” he said to me one day.

  I had to tell him everything that was on his plate when he ate. The aroma and the consistency of the food were not always sufficient. I was completely lost in the fine restaurants that served elaborate dishes.

  When I was younger, I had once done an experiment with my friends: blindfolded, we had to tell the difference between red wine and white wine. Many of us got it wrong.

  Eventually he started inviting me to share his breakfast. He ate late and always in his room. I kept insisting that I had already eaten mine long before. I helped him help himself to the profusion of foods on the breakfast tray, while allowing him as much as possible to manage for himself. Sometimes he was annoyed that he couldn’t do it himself and shoved me away brutally.

  Little by little, I learned to be patient. Patience became a part of love.

  Why me? I had asked myself when David had first come to meet me.

  Why her? my colleagues at The Agency asked.

  Why Laura: attached to a star, now a regular at the best places, traveling, staying at the most beautiful hotels?

  Sometimes it seemed that Mathilde had taken offense. I had not talked about my salary, paid by David, which was now double what it had been. But, as Corinne Massé had said, I was often on call day and night.

  Claudio lived in Neuilly, in a house with a garden. I went there regularly. It felt like the country there; I heard birds. A grand piano took up much of the living room. He used it when he did voice exercises each morning.

  “The voice, like the breath, needs to wake up. It mustn’t be forced. What if I lost my voice? What would be left?”

  I met Maria, his Portuguese nana. After looking at me warily, she seemed to understand that I had no intention of playing the role of mistress of the house. Had Corinne Massé dared to do that?

  Claudio never mentioned her, and I said to myself, One day, it will
be the same for you. He’ll notice that you’re not of the right stature, and he’ll hire someone else and soon forget you.

  Would the new one accept the singer’s nocturnal visits during their travels, at the hour when, prisoner in a strange place, she was gripped with fear?

  I didn’t wake you, little Laura?

  Would she agree, sometimes dozy with sleep, to submit to not very pleasant—make that aggressive—questions and to stay at his side until calm replaced the pain on his face?

  “Are you pretty?” he had asked me one day, or, rather, one night, when he had come to my room. “Do you know what Hélène said about you?”

  My heart had sunk. I had stiffened my back.

  “She says that you are insignificant…What do you think of that?”

  I had thought, that night, that Claudio was nasty and that he should therefore be particularly unhappy. I had thought, too, that Hélène was a cow.

  “Some people find me utterly charming,” I said, defending myself with some humor.

  “Do you want to know how I see you?”

  If I had refused, he would have easily said more, so I had preferred to keep quiet.

  That night, we were sitting side by side on a sofa. I wasn’t receiving the prince in my bed anymore and I avoided wearing T-shirts that were too short. I wore pajamas.

  “You are a small model: shorter than five foot two. It’s your shoulder that tells me that. Small, but well proportioned…”

  His hand tried to take a tour of the model. It wasn’t the first time. I pushed it away, laughing, and he didn’t insist. Maybe he remembered a certain Corinne Massé, whom he had encouraged in certain illusions.

  His hand moved up to my hair. I always accepted that; I even closed my eyes while he caressed my hair.

  “Thick plumage, a small, willful beak, a fierce look. I see you as a field sparrow.”