Love Story

by Janine Boissard

  “I can’t describe her eyes: Rainbow when she cries, Leblond said. But I felt her tears on the tips of my fingers, and when she cried, it was for me, not for herself, like Hélène.” His eyes brightened. “And do you know that she was ready to give me one of her eyes?”

  Yes, David knew. Leblond had told him and he had had trouble believing it.

  “I don’t know what her mouth is like,” Claudio continued, “but I remember all the words she spoke because they allowed me to see. When we stayed at a hotel, my poor David, she beat you hands down. You would have said, The curtains are blue or yellow or green; she said, Claudio, when the wind ruffles them, it’s like the sea. And I saw the curtains and the boats too.”

  He motioned to a still life painting: a carafe, a glass, an apple.

  “There, she would have said, There’s water in the carafe; it’s making me thirsty, how about you? And I would have drunk from the carafe.”

  Again he turned to face David and, strangely, at that moment, he seemed happy.

  “She made me see the inside of things. So you see, if she’s small, ugly, plain, or nothing at all, as that bitch Hélène claims, what the hell do I care?”

  In his life, David had read and heard many declarations of love, but rarely one as beautiful. And that’s why he could no longer control the situation. For one unprecedented reason, a simple, banal reason: Claudio loved Laura.

  To say that it was he, David May, who had brought her to him—so certain that nothing could happen between his talented tenor and the “little sister.”

  The words of Germont, Alfredo’s father, came to mind:

  Generous one, oh generous one,

  You should live happy.

  It was Laura’s complete, absolute generosity, like that of Violetta, that had conquered Claudio. And if he were crazy, as Hélène said, then David was becoming so too, because he just compared Laura to the heroine of La Traviata.

  He approached the singer and put his hand on his shoulder. Until then he had refused to reveal his deepest thought—too dangerous. Today he no longer felt he had the right. Generosity must be contagious.

  “I agree with Maria. Laura loves you; I guessed it a long time ago. And I believe that she left because she couldn’t imagine that you could love her too.”

  “Not from the same world?” Claudio asked painfully.

  “Let’s say that you seem to her…too high for her.”

  “What bullshit. What if I told you that it’s me who doesn’t deserve her? Damn it, how can I make her know it?” He laughed. “I can’t even put an ad in the newspaper: Correction: it’s not Hélène Reigner that Claudio Roman loves, but Laura Vincent.”

  David forced a laugh too, then became serious again.

  “Everything Laura did, all that she sacrificed, was so that you could be Alfredo. So don’t disappoint her. Convince Hélène to come back to rehearsal. Maybe it’s your only chance to find her. She won’t be able to resist her desire to come…to admire her work.”

  “You think?” Claudio asked. “You think she’ll come?” His voice was animated.

  “Do you know what she had promised me in New York? She had promised to attend the première if I forgave my father.”

  He laughed again, a laugh less sad.

  “OK, I’ll go offer my apologies to the diva if that’s what she’s waiting for. Will you take me?”

  “Whenever you’d like,” David said.

  “Time makes me handsome and repentant,” Claudio said as he directed them toward the door.

  At the moment he was about to go out, he stopped and turned toward his agent with an almost shy smile.

  “Speaking of which, I don’t think I told you, but in New York, at Mr. Pierre’s, I made love to Laura. It was rather nice. I told Hélène, and I think it’s that that she couldn’t swallow.”

  He left the room.

  David fell into an armchair.

  I made love to Laura…

  That explained everything: the new color in his voice, the fire, the pain. Now that he had suffered, he could finally sing of love.

  Finally?

  38.

  June arrived.

  The Italian rehearsal—the rehearsal with the orchestra—had taken place.

  The Paris orchestra and its choir had been chosen for the performance. Hearing them, David had said to himself that Verdi would be well served.

  The composer had written La Traviata wishing that priority would be given to feelings: love, passion, generosity, anger, jealousy. His work would translate life with its feasts and its miseries, its happiness and its suffering. All of that was heard this afternoon at the Champs-Élysées Theater, and David remembered the words of a great violinist: When I cry and make the room cry, it’s because I touch the flesh of life.

  Then it was the seamstress’s turn, working in the middle of the scenery in which the opera would be performed.

  The director had wanted period scenery and costumes, the period during which Alexandre Dumas had written his Lady of the Camellias. Why bother to make it look modern? Wasn’t love always of its time? Always new for those who lived it, whether yesterday or today?

  They awaited the dress rehearsal, followed two days later by the preview, when selected big names, relations, and journalists would crowd in.

  And finally, the première, with the public.

  Would Laura come?

  Claudio had called Fernand Vincent to ask another favor. When his daughter called him next, could he tell her that he counted on her presence at the opening of La Traviata, at the Champs-Élysées Theater, Saturday, June 10? A ticket would be waiting for her.

  The baker had agreed to convey the message, but Claudio had thought he heard a certain coldness in his voice. Had he imagined that?

  She’s unhappy; what did you do to her? Laura’s father had asked when Claudio had visited Villedoye.

  He was desperate. He only lived in hope that she would come.

  Hadn’t she said, in the little-girl voice that she used when she was happy, In the dress circle, please?

  In another envelope, which he wanted to be given directly to her, Claudio had put a note announcing his reconciliation with his father. And, in Italian, so as not to scare away the sparrow, he had added: Ti amo, and signed it “Alfredo.”

  Ridiculous…a big ninny at his first declaration of love.

  But wasn’t it the first?

  Would Laura come? David asked himself. If he had given Claudio false hope, he would never forgive himself.

  After Claudio had offered his apologies to Hélène, the rehearsals had resumed. This flesh of life of which the violinist had spoken burned in the voices of the old lovers, each expressing through his character his own suffering, sometimes his anger.

  Sometimes it seemed to David that he was teetering on the brink of ruin, where the least misstep by one or the other would bring down the whole company.

  Good news, though. Claudio’s eye was even better: another ten points of visual acuity. Dr. Leblond spoke of a miracle. His patient could manage by himself on stage practically without any difficulty. Hadn’t Maria Callas said, If you listen to music with your ears and your heart, you find the gestures.

  It was Saturday, three days before the dress rehearsal. A major television station had invited the tenor to appear during the evening news, when it drew its largest audience.

  The anchor asked Claudio about his state of mind. Next Tuesday would be his great return to the stage. He must know that he was awaited, that he would be scrutinized by some…The foreign press would be there. In a certain way, it was the hour of truth.

  How did the singer feel? Moved, happy, maybe a little fearful?

  “Grateful,” Claudio replied simply. “Toward she who gave me the opportunity to realize a dream: to play Alfredo.”

  “She? Who are you speaking about?” the anchor asked, surprised.

  “She will understand,” the singer said.

  The anchor didn’t insist. Without doubt, it was
Hélène Reigner, his partner…which led him to the next question: How did Claudio see the character of Violetta?

  His guest was silent for a few seconds, seeming to concentrate.

  “She is love,” he finally said. “Nothing to do with how we talk about love today, body to body, where sex is king. Violetta is complete giving, she is generosity itself. She offers everything without waiting for something in return.”

  “Is that your definition of love?” the journalist asked. “To give everything?”

  “Why not?”

  “And how do you recognize it? Don’t you risk missing it?” the journalist continued, enchanted by so much passion.

  Again Claudio was silent. Then he turned toward the camera, his face set, as though he wanted to convey a message to someone.

  “A vast breath, ‘like the entire universe.’ A burning…not only where you think. And to speak as in certain songs, the feeling of finally living, of not having really lived until then.”

  His eyes returned to the anchor. “And Alfredo dies, not having understood that in time.”

  “But Alfredo doesn’t die!” the anchor exclaimed, disconcerted by his guest’s suggestion.

  “What do you know about that?”

  39.

  What do you know about that?

  Three people received the message right into their hearts. Maria, who cried in her little apartment in Neuilly, David, who just had the sky fall on his head, and Hélène.

  And, at the same time, Hélène understood why Claudio had demanded to appear alone at the television studio.

  In front of millions of people, this madman had just made an appeal to the little clod, comparing her—can you imagine?—to Violetta; in a way, stripping Hélène of her character.

  Humiliated, drunk with pain and rage, she decided she was going to reveal to her partner that which, afraid of disrupting the rehearsals, she had had the good sense to hide until now.

  In her desire for vengeance, it was she who was going to lose her head.

  Monday, the day before the preview, the theater director generously gathered the company for some champagne. They pressed onto the red carpets in the foyer, lit by beautiful lamps signed Lalique. The only one missing was Hélène.

  No one had seen her since Claudio’s interview, which many of them were talking about in whispers. What fire! What passion! But what did he mean by his What do you know about that?

  When the opera singer appeared, in a flamboyant dress, more than ever Valkyrie, David feared the worst. All that Hélène was missing was the spear with which to kill.

  Her eyes searched for Claudio. Having found him, she went straight to him.

  “I saw her.”

  Soon understanding what this was about, Claudio grabbed his partner’s wrists.

  “Where? Where is she?”

  He was ready to run and search for her right away. Laura had heard him on Saturday, he thought. She was finally coming back to him.

  “Where is she? I don’t have the slightest idea,” Hélène said. “It was last week, I don’t even know when. She came out of a big music store on the Champs-Élysées.”

  “And you let her go?” Claudio stammered. “You had told me that you would bring her to me.”

  “Change of plans,” Hélène said icily.

  Her eyes shone with hate. David wanted to beg her to shut up. Didn’t she see that they were going to make a scene? Everyone present felt it: conversations stopped, everyone moved toward the couple and surrounded them. David tried to clear a path toward Hélène.

  Too late.

  “Why did you do that?” Claudio asked in a weak voice that no one recognized.

  “The young lady was in agreeable company: a charming young man. I didn’t think it wise to disturb them.”

  Ridding herself of yesterday’s humiliation while leaving Claudio’s folly to blaze in the eyes of everyone, that was, without doubt, Hélène’s point in coming to reveal her meeting on the Champs-Élysées. She had expected cries, a great scene that would make Claudio look ridiculous.

  Claudio remained quiet.

  And confronting his livid face, which looked as though he was being destroyed from the inside, she understood her mistake, maybe even realized that there really was love there.

  Disoriented, she looked for David. The silence was complete. The director and the theater director framed Claudio, unusual bodyguards who held glasses of champagne in their hands.

  The tenor surveyed the crowd.

  “My Laura, with a young man?” he asked.

  His shoulders drooped, and he cried. Child’s tears that he didn’t try to hide; a man’s heavy sobs that he couldn’t hold back.

  PART III

  Them

  Oh joy!

  40.

  The reviews were unanimous; Claudio was praised to the skies. A couple on fire, one newspaper proclaimed. Some said that, matured through experience, Claudio had never sung as well. He is Alfredo, the experts agreed. So quickly Alfredo, who could have believed it?

  He should be happy.

  I happened to think that it was a little thanks to me that he realized his dream. I tried to laugh about it: I was there at the right moment, that was all. Claudio was ready; I didn’t do anything more than open the door for him.

  When my father told me that he had come to Villedoye, I laughed. Daddy liked to tease. With a chauffeur wearing a cap, he added. So I had to believe him. I told him that the chauffeur’s name was Jean-Pierre and that we were friends.

  He seemed in rather bad shape, your singer, Daddy said. You could say that he misses you, little one. He asked me to tell you that the key is still in its place.

  I hung up quickly. I choked. You could say that he misses you…

  The torture of hope had me in its clutches, tore my heart, revived all the fires and made all the moons shine brightly.

  And if?

  If my Claudio really missed me? If, now and then, a lake in the middle of trees, white with frost, appeared to him and his icy hand sought mine: Bad weather for sparrows.

  The sparrow lost her head. She bumped into windows flashing with dreams. And if I went to take that key at the bottom of the stoop? If I opened that door, went into the living room, only to meet, one time, one time only, his brand new gaze, to discover his new face?

  Would I dare?

  The picture in the newspaper brought me back to reality: Hélène and he, both so beautiful. Claudio’s new face, his brand new look, burning with passion, devouring her.

  It was funny: it was the little things that hurt the most. The striped, V-neck sweater that he wore in that photo: I knew it. It was I who had draped it on the chair, near his bed, the day after his concerts; the sweater he wore on our walks. I had buried my face in it so often I could still smell his odor.

  He didn’t seem to understand why you had disappeared, Daddy also told me.

  Obviously. Because he would never look at me the way he looked at Hélène in the newspaper.

  We know each other better than well, she had said in the interview.

  Damned hope. How could I have doubted for one minute that I had made the right decision?

  It wasn’t hard to find a job. It was in the big store on the Champs-Élysées, where I stocked up on CDs. I often noticed posters calling for salespersons. They found that I was qualified. It happened very quickly.

  I worked in the classical music section. At The Agency, I had to pay attention to my clothes, right, David? The only thing they asked of me here was to wear the red vest with my employer’s logo.

  I liked my work. I lingered near the songs: Mozart, Schubert, with their sentimental lyrics that, most often, ended with abandonment or death. Mom wouldn’t like it.

  Lately there had been a lot of talk about a certain Verdi opera that would be opening soon at the Champs-Élysées Theater, as well as about the person who was going to play Alfredo. I listened. I drank. Is it true that he regained his sight? Is it true that he seduces everyone? He seem
s like a pig. I had to listen to my colleagues.

  If they knew for whom I had been a guide…

  Yesterday a client asked me when the new CD of La Traviata was coming out. I didn’t know what to say. Soon, I hoped. I’d buy it. I’d even be able to get it on discount.

  Imagine a six hundred-square-foot apartment in the sixteenth arrondissement of Paris, full of beautiful furniture, paintings, and clocks. You would be at my house.

  I occupied a comfortable bedroom with an en suite bathroom, in exchange for taking care of an old woman who could no longer manage on her own. She was not very demanding and it didn’t bother me to be awakened at night. I’d gotten used to it over the last few months.

  I made breakfast and I could keep a few things in the refrigerator.

  I was free on weekends.

  Since I had to be there from eight o’clock to relieve the woman who gave Mrs. Rose Vermer her dinner, I also had the right to watch television.

  Last Saturday, they announced that Claudio would be on the eight o’clock news. I didn’t allow myself to watch. The photograph had been enough. I went out and walked until I was exhausted. After all, wasn’t it my night off?

  Denis Maréchal worked in the same store as I, in the “new arrivals” section. He was neither handsome nor tall, rather shy, extremely nice. We were about the same age.

  His girlfriend recently dumped him; in a certain way, I dumped my “friend” too. We were made for each other. We had lunch together nearly every day and sometimes had a drink together.

  Unfortunately, Denis will finish his work here at the end of July. His family is from Granville, on the Channel. One of his friends just opened a video store and he offered Denis a job. He accepted the offer.

  “If you want, I can bring you in my luggage,” he suggested.

  His friend would have work for me and Denis owned a small apartment by the port where I could stay.