Love Story

by Janine Boissard

  “You? But of course, sir. Whenever you’d like…”

  Jean-Pierre knew the way. He had driven him there when he had come to admit defeat to the sparrow. This time Claudio didn’t ask his driver to come upstairs. The glasses that Leblond had prescribed for him helped.

  He stopped on the stairs to remember. That day, which seemed to him a long time ago, hadn’t he been happy without knowing it? He had been hopeful and had Laura’s hand to guide him.

  A young man of about twenty opened the door. The scent of soap filled the room, and Claudio smiled to himself. Would someone prepare himself like that to receive him?

  The young man extended his hand.

  “My name is Henri Cayeux. Please come in, sir. I’m honored.”

  Claudio immediately noted the board on the trellises and the sofa with the three cushions.

  “She left her furniture?”

  “I bought them from her. She had managed to get the most out of the space. Obviously the bed just barely fits.”

  The new tenant’s feet must have stuck out of it. If he invited a girlfriend, it would be impossible.

  The advantage of being small, Laura had said with good humor.

  Claudio looked for the reproduction of the Magritte painting, Great Expectations, but of course it wasn’t there anymore.

  “Can I offer you something to drink?”

  “Thank you.”

  Emotion was drying his throat. He followed Henri toward the kitchenette—three steps—adjacent to the shower stall, which was separated from the pots by a simple curtain. A tiny loft, a birdcage.

  “Beer? Coca-Cola?”

  “Beer, thank you.”

  The tenant crouched and took two cans from a picnic cooler. He gestured toward the sofa, where they sat side by side.

  With his eyes closed, Claudio explored the aromas. The afternoon he had come, it smelled of the eau de toilette that he had given Laura. It smelled of Christmas, she said.

  Now it smelled only of the young man, books, and tobacco.

  The cans opened, Henri offered one to Claudio.

  “So you didn’t know that Miss Vincent had moved?” he said.

  And he, who had hidden the truth from Hélène, said everything to this unknown man.

  “I didn’t know. And I don’t know, either, where she is. I’m looking for her. Anything you could tell me will be precious to me.”

  “I don’t know anything,” the young man said. “I only met her twice: when I came to visit the apartment and when I brought her a check for the furniture. Everything happened very quickly, you know. She was in a hurry.”

  “She didn’t tell you where she was going?”

  “No.”

  “She didn’t leave a phone number?”

  “Nothing.”

  Nothing…the word that, since New York, Claudio couldn’t hear without feeling a blow. A word that erased everything. As if nothing had ever existed between him and Laura, as if everything had been extinguished, erased at the same moment that his sight had been given back to him.

  Darkness seized him again. He drank several gulps of beer. It was warm.

  “How did you find this studio?”

  “Through her neighbor, an old man for whom I sometimes do some work. He told me that she was going to leave. The owner wanted me to be the next one to take it. I was very lucky: I had been looking a long time for something decent.”

  Claudio looked around the studio. Something decent…The best things were the windows, almost side by side, which seemed to pull the sky into the room. Like something by Magritte. The painter would have drawn a face in those windows, or a bird.

  Claudio didn’t ask the young man to describe Laura for him. He knew the reply; he had given it to his father yesterday.

  “What are you studying?” he asked, pointing to the table full of piles of books and files.

  “I’m preparing for a degree; I want to teach French. I also like music a lot. I played piano when I was little. There isn’t enough room here for a piano.”

  He indicated the few square feet. And he said, “I have several of your CDs, sir. I admire your work a lot. I’m truly happy that you have regained your sight.”

  “I’m soon going to sing Alfredo in La Traviata.”

  The words came naturally to his lips. Maybe because the young man was deprived of his piano, Claudio offered him a kind of present. He would be the first, along with his father, to hear the big news.

  “I’ll send you a ticket,” he added.

  “Oh! Thank you! Thank you!” Henri exclaimed, delighted. Suddenly he frowned and stood up. “Wait.”

  He took a book from a pile on the table and offered it to Claudio.

  It was a paperback: The Lady of the Camellias. Claudio opened it. Laura’s name was written under another name; a used book.

  “La Traviata is based on this novel, isn’t it?” the student asked.

  “Basically.”

  Laura had told him she had read it as a young girl. Would she have bought it again?

  “Can I keep it?”

  “Of course. You can give it back to Miss Vincent when you find her.”

  The student spoke with conviction, a way of making Claudio understand that he was crossing his fingers for him. His chest tight, Claudio stood.

  “Thank you.”

  Before leaving, he took a last look at the “decent apartment” that Laura went back to after leaving him in his luxurious house.

  What do you do at night?

  I travel.

  As he went down the stairs, he was filled with a wave of tenderness. When you find her, the student had said.

  When he found her, he would help her to find better lodgings. If necessary, he would take her to Neuilly. He had rooms he didn’t know what to do with; Maria liked her a lot. And in doing so, he’d be sure that she wouldn’t fly away again.

  He stopped on a stair, incredulous, split between irony toward himself and pain, a desire to laugh and to cry. Didn’t he just dismiss the idea of living with a woman?

  Poor Hélène.

  34.

  Would he ever find her?

  He had gone to The Agency, he had climbed up to her sparrow’s perch and asked everyone who approached him these last weeks. In vain.

  All that was left was her family: the baker father, the mother, the beautiful one.

  Laura could not have left them without some news. She was too attached to them. And who knew if she had taken refuge there, in Villedoye?

  Using his computer, Claudio had found only one Vincent listed in the village: Fernand. Laura had never mentioned her father’s first name; it was always “Daddy,” like a little girl. It must be Fernand.

  He had already called twice. Each time, the mother had picked up: a strong, colorful voice.

  “She is not here, sir. Who’s speaking?”

  The first time, he had said that it was The Agency. The second time, David.

  “Do you know how I can reach her? It’s important.”

  The “no” had been definitive. Had Laura given instructions to say nothing? To say nothing to him? He had hung up full of shame and anger.

  May arrived with its tenderness, flowers, promises. The rehearsals would begin soon. Claudio decided to take himself to Villedoye.

  Laura had so often described her father to him that it felt like he knew him. It was he whom Claudio wanted to meet. When he phoned the town hall to find out what day the bakery was closed, the employee took him for an idiot, but she replied, “Mondays.”

  What would be the most propitious time to show up unexpectedly? For, he said to himself, he was afraid no one would meet with him. He decided on three thirty in the afternoon, after lunch and a siesta. If Fernand were out, well, he would wait as long as necessary.

  The village was in the middle of the countryside, about twenty kilometers from Deauville. Claudio asked Jean-Pierre to drive him there.

  “We’re going to visit Miss Vincent’s family,” he said.


  The driver made no comment, and Claudio was grateful for that.

  When Henri, the student, had received him, he had taken care to dress himself well. Just as carefully, Claudio chose the clothes in which he would meet the baker: jacket and tie. To neglect his appearance would show a lack of respect. They’d need about two hours in order to arrive in good time.

  It was windy and cloudy, but the apples trees in the gardens were in flower and the masses of hydrangeas that bordered the houses were blooming. The bakery was in a small square not far from the church. Claudio asked Jean-Pierre to wait in front of the church.

  “Good luck, sir,” the driver murmured as Claudio left the car, and his chest grew heavy again.

  The few shops were closed, streets and paths deserted. Laura had grown up in this atmosphere of calm, almost apathy. What personality and will she had needed to escape this, to become the vital and spirited young woman he had known.

  On the road, he had asked Jean-Pierre to describe her car, and Jean-Pierre had laughed. “A wreck, sir. The young lady said that it was reserved for you and for Normandy.”

  There wasn’t any wreck near the bakery.

  A simple beige canvas curtain was lowered on the window. The house had only one story. The windows were open, and a curtain fluttered. Claudio knocked on the door adjacent to the shop. He heard loud steps coming down the stairs and Fernand Vincent appeared.

  He was a small man with a mass of salt-and-pepper hair and green-brown eyes; like Laura’s? Claudio didn’t see any rainbow, only mistrust: Fernand Vincent recognized him.

  “Laura isn’t here,” he said abruptly. “My wife, either. My wife went to Deauville to see our eldest.”

  He seemed to reproach the singer for surprising him when he was the only one at home. He wore jeans and a polo shirt, and his feet were bare in espadrilles. Had Claudio disturbed his nap?

  “I came because of you,” Claudio said. “I would like to speak with you.”

  An old woman appeared in the square, a basket on her arm. Laura’s father drew back.

  “Come in.”

  They were in a narrow vestibule where waxed coats were hung, boots of all sizes at their feet. The baker pointed to a door.

  “Please.”

  It was surely the dining room: a round table covered with a waxed tablecloth, a few chairs, plates on the walls, a small library, and a television set. It smelled of bread.

  “Take a seat.”

  Claudio sat by the table. There was a sewing box on the table and a young girl’s dress.

  “Would you like something to drink?”

  “No, thank you.”

  The man seemed relieved. He chose a chair facing Claudio, crossed his hands on the table, and waited.

  The tenor had played to full houses. He had faced television cameras everywhere in the world and answered questions from hundreds of journalists. He had shaken the hands of heads of state. This afternoon, with the baker of Villedoye in front of him, he felt like a schoolboy come to beg a favor, afraid of being refused.

  “In effect, I’m looking for Laura,” he said. “She helped me to regain my sight. I want to thank her, but she disappeared and I have no idea where she is. I thought that you might have some news of her.”

  “We do from time to time,” the father said carefully.

  “She quit the agency that employed her and she moved. To be frank with you, I have the impression that she is avoiding me and I don’t know why.” Claudio continued with difficulty. “I know that she sometimes spoke of me to you. Did she tell you why?”

  “No, sir. She only told us that she changed her job and apartment.”

  The man was sincere. Claudio read that in his look. Fernand Vincent didn’t know any more than he did about why his daughter had fled.

  “Have you seen her since she came back from the United States?” he asked.

  Fernand Vincent’s eyes widened with amazement.

  “Laura went to the United States?”

  “I had my cornea transplant there, in New York,” Claudio explained.

  The day before the operation, Laura and he had chosen their dinner according to this man and his wife. Later Laura had come into his room.

  “She had told us that you had regained your sight, sir. We thought that that was why she no longer worked for you. We thought that you no longer needed her.”

  No longer need her…Claudio’s chest tightened painfully. If only…

  “Did she tell you what she’s doing now?”

  “No, sir, we don’t know.”

  “Do you know where she’s living now?”

  “She didn’t tell us that either.”

  “But surely she has at least given you a telephone number?”

  “It’s always she who calls us.”

  Fernand Vincent had responded wearily, as though he too reproached Laura for a kind of abandonment. How he had hoped he would find her here.

  Stubborn as a mule, Claudio had said to his father. And how. Not wanting to be found, she had systematically erased all traces of herself. David was right: It would be better to abandon the search.

  I can see, I’m going to be Alfredo, I found my father again…What was he going to do with this damned nuisance? This little girl who wasn’t even pretty? Why was he wasting his time here when so many big projects were waiting for him?

  But if Claudio saw, if he was going to be Alfredo, if he had renewed contact with Jean Roman and the fragrance of the paternal cigar, it was thanks to that damned nuisance.

  His eyes moved toward the library. Between the books, he noticed a large, framed photograph. Stifling the strong beating of his heart, he rose and grabbed the photograph, as though afraid he would be prevented from doing so.

  The photo had been taken on the famous boardwalks of Deauville. Fernand Vincent and his wife, a beautiful and strong woman, taller than he, were holding the shoulders of two young girls standing in front of them: a threadlike blonde with long, smooth hair and a brunette with bangs who looked toward the lens with a wild air.

  Claudio leaned toward the little one, his heart melting with tenderness. Five, six years old? A fledgling.

  The frame still in his hands, he turned toward the father.

  “Would you have any other pictures of her? More recent photos? You understand: I’ve never seen her.”

  “Laura doesn’t like photographs. She’s the opposite of her sister that way,” Fernand said, looking elsewhere.

  And Claudio understood that, if he had more pictures, he wouldn’t show them to Claudio without his daughter’s approval. He also knew that it would be useless to ask to see her bedroom.

  The father suddenly lifted his head and looked at Claudio angrily.

  “She is unhappy,” he accused. “She can always try to hide it, but we see it clearly. What did you do to her?”

  “I don’t know. Really,” Claudio replied with some effort. “And I’m also unhappy. I’m only asking for one thing, sir. That she return.”

  He interrupted himself to swallow some saliva. His throat was tight.

  “Can I ask something of you?”

  Mistrust again darkened Fernand Vincent’s face. He didn’t reply.

  “When she calls you, tell her that I’m waiting. Tell her that the key is still in its hiding place. She’ll understand.”

  For the first time, he saw a bit of warmth in the man’s look.

  “I will tell her.”

  Claudio put the frame back between the books: Barbara Cartland novels with pink covers. He smiled in spite of himself. Wasn’t he living a story that would not have been out of place among those written by the famous author? The hero frantically searching for the missing heroine.

  The father was standing. The audience was over.

  “Thank you for receiving me,” Claudio said. “And forgive me for disturbing you.”

  Schoolchildren with backpacks were admiring the car in front of the church. Jean-Pierre was outside, leaning against a tree. Seeing his boss, he put h
is hat back on and went to open the car door.

  On the threshold, the baker nodded his head, as though it was then that he found an explanation for his daughter’s disappearance. Claudio wanted to tell him that it wasn’t his car or his driver, but his agent’s. Decidedly, he had become perfectly ridiculous. Sorry…thank you…the car isn’t mine…Did he have to justify the fact that he was a famous tenor and that he lived well from his work and his talent?

  The two men shook hands.

  “Bread and music, is it true that you told her that?” asked the father.

  “The two indispensable foods for life,” Claudio completed the sentence.

  Reproach passed through the dark look that rested on him.

  “You forget love, sir.”

  35.

  I live a secret love

  This love that makes the entire universe throb

  Mysterious love,

  The heart’s torment and delight.

  Claudio made these words his own, these words sung by Alfredo for Violetta during the first act of La Traviata.

  Minus the “heart’s delight.”

  If, when he had called the sparrow’s perch and heard a man reply, a horrible fear had overtaken him, it was because, for a few seconds, he had imagined that Laura had met someone.

  If, each day, at three o’clock in the morning, he awoke anxious, searching for a shoulder, a hand, a voice, even though he had regained his sight…and if, in Hélène’s arms, after a brief instant of pleasure, he was filled with sadness, the desire to save himself…

  And if, finally, bread and music weren’t enough to nourish his life…

  Didn’t he love Laura?

  Mysterious love. Especially for him. How Claudio, who flattered himself to have always known how to keep his distance from his conquests, so that none of them had ever succeeded in tying him down, how had he allowed himself to be trapped?

  The secret love that, until now, he had not wanted to know existed.

  One night—it was in Nice last autumn, when he went there to sing Mendelssohn—Claudio had asked Laura what love meant to her, and he had been amused by her replies.