by Sarah Jio
“I—” We both speak at once, then stop and laugh. For some reason, I feel a little nervous, and he seems to be too.
“You go first,” he says.
I smile. “I was just going to say that I’m happy to be spending this day with you.”
“Me too,” he says, smiling. As we round the next corner, he begins to tell me about his life growing up in Paris. He points out the park where he took his first steps, the apartment where his parents brought him home from the hospital after his birth, the bench where he had his first kiss (her name was Adèle, and she had braces), his favorite bar, and the best bakery, where we stop and order two pains aux raisins. I listen and laugh and take it all in. Victor’s Paris is colorful and vibrant. Every corner has a story. Every café a memory.
“You love this city so much,” I say as we make our way down an alley so narrow that a passing car nearly scratches its side mirror against the stone building. “So what made you want to leave and spend time in the United States?”
“Well,” he says, “that’s a bit of a long story.”
“I’d love to hear it.”
He nods. “First it was for education. I wanted to go to culinary school, but I wasn’t interested in any of the stuffy classical French schools here. I was fascinated by the cuisine coming out of Northern California, specifically Napa and Sonoma. Fresh ingredients with such style and personality. Wine food.” He laughs. “At least that’s what I call it. I wanted to cook like that. So I went and studied there for four years, then worked off and on in kitchens in California, New York, before coming back here again around the time my mom got sick.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.”
He nods. “Breast cancer. But she recovered.”
I place my hand on my heart.
“After that, I did a lot of soul-searching. And I ended up back in California.”
“What brought you back this time?”
“A special lady,” he says. There’s a glimmer in his eye that tells me he was once bewitched by her, and perhaps still is.
“How did you meet?” For some reason, I want to know everything about the person who captured Victor’s heart.
“By chance, really,” he says, staring out at the street ahead dreamily. “She was on a summer trip with a few of her girlfriends, just after graduating from college. She walked right up to me and asked for directions, in Montmartre, actually.” He smiles. “And just like that, I was…” He pauses for a moment. “What is that American saying? Oh yeah, I was putty in her hands.”
I smile. “So the two of you were together for a long time?”
“Years, yes,” he says, his face awash with memories. “I’ve never met anyone like her. She could light up a room just by stepping foot in it. And her laugh,” he pauses and laughs, “it was magic.”
I hate that I feel a pang of jealousy. I imagine that Victor’s long-lost love must be tall and beautiful, with thick dark hair and a functioning memory. She’s probably wearing a chic outfit and doing something very important right now, like editing a magazine in New York City or completing her neurosurgery residency.
“What happened then?”
His face changes suddenly. “Life happened, I guess you could say.”
“Surely if you loved her that much, you could have worked out your…differences?”
He shakes his head. “No, not with her. Sadly, some things cannot be fixed.” He clears his throat. “Anyway, sorry to go on about that. Besides, here we are.” He points to a rather steep staircase and bows with a cheeky smile. “At the top of the hill, my lady, I give you…Montmartre.”
I grin, adjusting my bag on my shoulder. “Race you to the top?” I smile and take off ahead of him.
“Hey!” he says, chasing after me. “Unfair advantage!”
I forge ahead, laughing. I’m entirely out of breath when I reach the top, with Victor just behind me.
“Hey, I had to carry the basket,” he says, grinning and equally out of breath. He sets it at his feet, then places his hands on my shoulders, turning me around to face the expanse of city below.
“Have you ever seen anything more beautiful?”
I shake my head.
“I’ve traveled the world, and this…this is the pinnacle. And it’s home.” He reaches for the basket again. “Come on, I know a great place for us to throw a blanket down and eat.”
We walk through what feels like a small village punctuated with shops, cafés, art galleries, then a bit farther. Victor points to an iron gate. “Right through here,” he says, unhooking the latch.
“What is this?” I ask. It doesn’t look like a park. Maybe someone’s residence?
“You’ll see,” he says, motioning me through the gate.
We dip beneath an underpruned flowering vine that threatens to overthrow the very trellis that has given it life. A crimson flower tickles my cheek as I duck under it.
The scene just ahead is like something out of a fairy tale, or at least a fairy tale I’d like to read: at our feet a patch of wooly thyme, so soft it looks like a green pillow, and all around, roses, hydrangeas, alliums as large as dinner plates—flowers everywhere. But the view of Paris from this magical little perch is what really takes my breath away.
“Wow,” I say, stunned.
“Isn’t it something?” Victor says, setting the blanket on the bed of thyme and sitting down. He tucks his knees to his chest as I sit down beside him.
“Yes. How did you find it?”
“It’s a long story.” He winks at me. “But let’s just say I don’t share it with many people.”
I smile. “Well then, I’ll take that as a compliment.”
He opens the wine, Burgundy, pours us each a glass, then lays out a selection of cheeses and meats, pickled vegetables, an orzo salad with Greek olives and cherry tomatoes. It all looks divine.
We drink and eat as the early autumn sun makes its journey across Paris. Between bites, I tell Victor about the art class I stumbled into. I reach for my bag and produce my sketchbook, showing him my drawing of the hydrangea.
“That’s…really good,” he exclaims. “It almost looks professional. Hey, maybe we’ve solved the mystery of your identity. Maybe you’re a famous artist.”
I shake my head. “I highly doubt that.”
“Well, even if not,” he says, pointing to the open page, “it’s still a clue.”
“I guess,” I say with a sigh. “I mean, I’ve been trying to make sense of who I am, but is it weird to admit that I’m a little scared to find the answers?”
“Not at all,” he says. “What you’re going through is monumental. Anyone would be feeling apprehensive.”
I nod. “I know there are so many things I could be doing to get to the bottom of my identity. I could go to the embassy. I could do a background check, then fly to my hometown and interview every resident until I learn who I am. But to be completely honest, Victor, I don’t want to.”
“Tell me why?”
I feel my eyes getting misty. “Being in the dark about my life is weird and scary and kind of lonely. But what if the alternative is…worse?”
Victor refills my wineglass.
“What if my memory comes back and I hate my life, or worse, hate myself? From all I can tell, I was miserable before. I don’t want to be that woman.”
Victor places a finger to my lips and shakes his head. “Then don’t. Be you. You don’t ever have to go back.”
I look out at the horizon, thinking about the words he just uttered.
“You know what I believe?” he says, turning to me. “That no matter what we try to make of our lives, much of it isn’t under our control. Yes, we can study and work hard and be good friends, lovers, citizens, parents. But what happens will happen. There’s a lot of freedom in believing that all of it is already written in the stars.�
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“That’s…beautiful,” I say.
He nods, leaning closer to me. “Like this afternoon, this moment. We were meant to have it. The stars already knew it would happen.”
“There’s definitely something freeing about that,” I say.
“It’s true,” he continues, reaching for my hand and examining my fingers carefully, as if meeting them for the first time. After a moment, he raises my hand to his lips and kisses the top of it, which sends an electric sensation up my arm and through my entire body. “Maybe your accident wasn’t such a tragedy after all,” he continues, turning his eyes to me. “Maybe it was a gift.”
I nestle closer to him. As the late-afternoon sun casts shadows across Paris, somehow that’s all the assurance I need.
* * *
—
IT’S TOO LATE to walk back; it will be dark soon, so we take a cab to my apartment. I consider inviting him in, but decide against it. This has already been a perfect day.
“I had a lot of fun today,” he says.
“Me too. Thank you.”
I wave as the cab drives off, then turn to the entrance to my apartment building. Monsieur de Goff doesn’t look up from his post as I head to the elevator, and I tell myself not to let his grumpiness ruin a beautiful day.
“Wait,” he says before the doors close. I hold my hand out to keep them open. “Someone came to see you today.”
“Oh? Who?”
“A man.”
“Did you get his name?”
“No, he wouldn’t leave any information.”
I shrug as he hands me a small stack of mail, then head upstairs. Inside my apartment, the air is stuffy and warm, so I open the balcony doors and let some fresh air in before sorting through mail, mostly bills, but a hand-addressed envelope catches my eye. I open it immediately.
Dear Ms. Williams,
I’m sorry to reach out once again, as I know you told me no already, but given the importance of my project, I wanted to try once again to see if you might, please, allow me to have a moment of your time. Even just 15 minutes.
With my greatest gratitude for your consideration,
Estelle Olivier
I scan the contact information below her name. A phone number, and an email address indicating she is a student at Sorbonne University. What did she want, and why had I apparently turned her away?
I notice the blinking light on my phone and press a button to play a voicemail from Dr. Leroy, who wants me to come in for a follow-up visit. I decide to call back the college student instead.
“Hi, this is Caroline Williams. I received your letter and I thought I would—”
“Yes, Madame Williams!” she practically squeals. “I’m so very glad to hear from you.” She sounds young.
“How can I help you?”
She clears her throat. “I’m studying journalism, with an emphasis on history. For my final project before graduation, I’m working on a piece about 1940s Paris during the occupation of France. I’m interested in sharing stories from that time that have never been told, and I’ve settled on one in particular.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Why is it that you need my help?”
“I’m interested in some of the older residences on the rue Cler, particularly yours, and I’m hoping you wouldn’t mind if I stopped by to have a look and take a few photos for my project. I promise not to consume too much of your time.”
“Of course,” I say. “How about…this evening? Seven o’clock?”
“Yes, thank you!”
“Perfect.”
I reach for my sketchbook and colored pencils, then head to the balcony, where I begin sketching the view of the rue Cler below. People bustling across the cobblestone streets. Bicycles weaving this way and that. Colorful produce laid out seductively on tables, enticing passersby. Old stone buildings standing guard.
In a moment, there it is again, the sound of wind chimes and palm trees in the breeze, just as before. This time, I am on a beach. I hear the waves crashing on the shore before I can see them, and when I do, I watch as they hit the sand, exploding into a million bubbles before retreating. Mesmerized, I walk closer to the water’s edge, plunging my bare feet into the sea as a wave pummels my ankles and splashes my legs. I laugh to myself as another wave comes, this one completely soaking my dress.
“Mommy, come on!” A little girl’s voice calls out behind me.
I turn around and see a small figure in the distance. The blond ponytail. A pink and white polka-dot bathing suit. Little tanned legs. She’s running hand in hand with a man, the same one who wrapped his arms around me in the kitchen.
“Come chase us, Mommy!” she calls to me. “Daddy says you can’t beat us.”
Their backs are turned; I can’t make out their faces. “Run, Alma, run!” the man says, his voice muffled by the crashing waves.
Alma. Her name is Alma.
I know them, these two ghosts running on the beach ahead, and yet I…don’t. Regardless, the pull to be near them is magnetic. “I’m coming!” I cry, running from the next wave, plunging my feet into the sand, one after the other, forging my way down the beach toward them. But the faster I run, the farther away they seem. Tears sting my eyes. “Wait, I’m coming!”
My eyes shoot open involuntarily, ripping the scene from my view. There is no beach. No waves. No sand. Just Paris.
“I’m coming, Alma,” I mutter. “I’m coming.”
* * *
—
I AM EMOTIONALLY exhausted when the doorbell rings later that evening, and I regret agreeing to meet the Sorbonne student, but it would be rude to cancel now.
I do my best to smooth my messy hair as I walk to the door. A young woman stands in the hallway outside. She’s tall and pretty, with short brown hair that’s cut to a blunt bob. “You must be Madame Williams,” she says, extending her hand. “I’m Estelle. It’s so nice to finally meet you.”
“Please, come in.”
“Wow,” she says, placing her hand over her mouth. “It’s just as I imagined one of these old apartments would look. So…grand.”
I watch as she strolls slowly around the room, marveling at everything from the ceiling to the floorboards.
“Would you like to sit down?”
“Thank you,” she says. “I don’t want to take up too much of your time, but, Madame Williams, can I just say what a special opportunity it is to be here.”
I nod, a little confused. “Call me Caroline.”
She nods.
“Tell me about your project.”
“Well,” she continues, producing an old book from her satchel and handing it to me. “I found this in the university’s archives. It’s a notebook kept by a French nurse who worked with the Resistance during the occupation of Paris. She lived nearby, and she writes about an apartment in this building.”
My eyes widen. “My apartment?”
“Well, maybe. I’m still piecing it all together, but from what I can tell, a high-ranking German officer lived in the building. He was a terrible man, linked to all sorts of despicable crimes against humanity.” She opens the notebook. “As you can see, the pages are badly damaged and faded. I’m working with a graduate student in the science department to see if I can make out the text under a special ultraviolet light. I’m not sure if it’ll work or not, but it’s worth a try. As it is, I can only make out a few words. And a name.” She points to a badly water-stained page. “Céline.”
“Wait,” I say, my eyes wide. “Céline?”
“I know it may sound crazy,” Estelle says, “but I don’t think I’ll be able to rest until I know what Esther was trying to say. I have to know what happened.”
I glance down the hallway toward my bedroom. “Wait a second,” I say. “I have something you might be interested in seeing.” A
moment later, I return with the cigar box.
“What’s that?”
I open the box. “Letters from Céline, to the man she loved.”
Estelle gasps. “Where did you find these?”
A chill erupts on the back of my neck and travels downward, sending a trail of goosebumps along my arms. “In the closet of the guest bedroom. It was wedged behind the wall. I have no idea why they were left here, or by whom. I’ve read several. They’re heartbreaking. I’d planned to go through them all, but I’ve been so consumed with my own life that, well, here.” I pull out the stack of letters and hand them to her. “Why don’t you take them and see if they might help you with your project.”
“Wow,” she says. “This is…truly remarkable.”
I smile. It feels good to help solve a mystery, even if it isn’t my own.
“I know it might seem futile,” she says, closing the box and tucking it into her bag, “to find the truth about this one story after so many years have passed, and also when so many other stories have gone untold. Céline is just one among thousands, but for some reason, I feel drawn to her.” She sighs. “My roommate, Liesel, doesn’t understand my fascination with occupied Paris. ‘There’ll never be another Hitler again,’ she said, ‘so what’s the point?’ But I don’t see it that way.”
“That may be true,” I reply, “but even if we think that something like that could never happen again, we don’t know it. Besides, I’m with you. I think there’s value in learning from the past.”
“Thank you,” she says, standing. “I’ll leave you now. As curious as I am about having a look in that guest bedroom you mentioned, it’s getting late and I should go. Besides, I’d like to do a bit more research first. Do you mind if we meet again?”
“Of course not,” I say.
“Thank you.”
As the door clicks closed, I can’t shake the thought of Céline. In this strange twist of fate, my life is inextricably entwined with this woman from another era whose past is as murky as my own.
CHAPTER 10