I nodded and was amazed to realise that I actually was hungry. The croissant I’d carelessly dunked in my coffee this morning hadn’t lasted long.
‘Let me quickly put a few things away, and then we can go. Gabrielle should be here any minute.’
He vanished into the shop’s back room, and I could hear him clattering around with his tools. Unlike me, Alexandre is extremely fastidious. Everything has to always be in its place. Disorder causes him almost physical pain. I walked over to the door, lit a cigarette, and watched for Gabrielle.
Gabrielle Godard was a slender, pale creature with dark hair that she always wore up, just like she always dressed in black or white garments and wrote out all receipts by hand, dark blue ink on creamy handmade paper. She was the secret queen of L’espace des rêveurs. With inimitable grace, she wore the jewelry that Alexandre created, and she made sales without being a sales clerk. She was his muse and, I suspected, the secret queen of his heart. I didn’t know this for a fact, but the two of them would fit together perfectly, in light of their eccentricities and their sense of style.
Gabrielle was taking her time, so I stubbed out my cigarette and went back inside. I walked around the illuminated vitrines that lined the currently sky-blue walls, admiring the displays. One ring in particular caught my eye. It looked like it was made of spun gold. Very fine golden strands wrapped around and around each other until they formed a heavy gold ring, worthy of a medieval queen. I had never seen anything like it. Obviously a new model.
‘So, do you like my strand ring?’ Alexandre asked proudly, as he straightened his black glasses. ‘My newest creation. Naturally, it can also be ordered with diamonds or rubies worked into it.’
‘A masterpiece,’ I acknowledged appreciatively. ‘As if spun by the lovely miller’s daughter herself.’ I sighed. ‘It’s a shame I no longer have need for something like that.’
‘Yes, a real shame,’ he agreed bluntly. ‘However, you should feel good about the fact you’ve saved a ton of money. This piece would cost you quite a bit more than the gold from the lovely miller’s daughter.’
‘That’s small consolation.’
‘I’m just saying. Come on, let’s go and eat! I don’t want to wait any more.’
Just as we were about to leave the shop, Gabrielle fluttered toward us in her black feathery clothes. After a subdued greeting, she swept past us through the door and took up her position. A short time later we were sitting at the crowded bar in Alexandre’s favourite traîteur on the Rue de Bourgogne, and eating chicken with cooked chicory in a red wine sauce. Alexandre didn’t have to push me to share a bottle of Merlot with him. We chatted about this and that, just not about Hélène, and as the pleasant warmth of the wine spread throughout my body, life seemed to shift briefly back to ‘normal’. I listened to Alexandre’s stories, tearing off a piece of fresh baguette from time to time to lazily drag through the peppery sauce.
The food was simple and good.
Alexandre wiped his mouth with his napkin.
‘And? How’s the writing going?’
‘It’s not,’ I answered honestly.
He inhaled disapprovingly and shook his head a couple of times.
‘You need to start pulling yourself together, Julien.’
‘I can’t. I’m too unhappy.’ I drained my glass and felt a surge of self-pity wash over me.
‘Don’t start crying now,’ Alexandre ordered, though I could feel his concerned look. ‘Most of the great writers were at their best when they hit rock bottom. Just think about . . . Fitzgerald or Yeats, or . . . Baudelaire. Great despair can sometimes catalyse an insanely creative impulse.’
‘That’s not happening to me, idiot. My publisher expects an outrageously funny novel from me, a com-e-dy.’ I stared at my wine glass, which by now was unfortunately empty.
‘So what? All good clowns are deeply sad creatures.’
‘That may be, but I’m not performing in a circus, where someone might accidentally dump a whole bucket of water over their head or slip on a banana skin. What I do is a little more demanding.’
‘You mean, what you’re not doing.’ Alexandre gestured at the huge waiter behind the bar and ordered two espressos. ‘And now what?’
‘No clue. Maybe I should just walk away from writing.’
‘How would you earn a living?’
‘Doing something that requires a limited vocabulary,’ I shot back cynically. ‘I could go into ice-cream sales. I’ll purchase an ice-cream maker and a cart, and then . . . Vanilla, chocolate, strawberry . . . ’
‘Marvellous idea. The sad ice-cream man from Boulevard Saint-Germain. I can see it now. People will come running, just to see your melancholy face.’
With his huge hands, the giant set our tiny demitasse cups of thick porcelain on the counter and slammed a sugar shaker down next to them.
‘What should I do? I lack inspiration.’
‘Do you want my opinion?’ Alexandre stirred some sugar into his coffee.
‘No, I don’t.’
‘What you lack is a woman.’
‘Right. I lack Hélène.’
‘But Hélène is dead.’
‘It might be hard to imagine, but I’ve noticed that.’
‘Now you’re pissed off.’ He slipped his arm placatingly around my shoulders. I shook him off.
‘That’s enough, Alexandre. You’re insensitive.’
‘No, I’m not. I’m just your friend. And I’m telling you, you need a woman. No man should be on his own for long. That’s just not good.’
‘I didn’t ask for this, okay? I was very happy.’
‘That’s exactly the point. You were happy. And now you’re obviously not. It’s all right to admit that.’
I let my head sink into my hands.
‘I admit everything. And now what?’
‘Now . . . is always the right time because it’s the only time.’
‘You should hear yourself. You sound like a priest,’ I replied gloomily.
‘All I mean is that you need to rejoin the human race. You’re thirty-five years old, and you’ve spent the past six months living like a hermit – Julien!’ He gently shook me, and I lifted my head out of my hands. ‘I’ll be opening my spring exhibition the Saturday after Easter, and I want you to come. Maybe you’ll rediscover your inspiration there, who knows? A little human society will do you good, my lad.’
He drained his espresso in one gulp and abruptly grinned at me. ‘Did you know that unhappy young widowers rank quite high when it comes to women?’
‘I don’t care.’
‘The same goes for unhappy old widowers, but only if they’re very rich. Maybe you should write a few more bestsellers and save the ice-cream idea for your next life.’
‘Stop, Alexandre!’
‘Bon, I’ll stop. I have to get back to the shop anyway.’ He glanced at his watch, which matched mine. ‘But you have to promise that you’ll come.’
‘I promise, though under duress.’
‘That doesn’t matter. We can’t always do what we’d like to.’
Alexandre tossed a few notes onto the bar, and we walked out and said goodbye.
Easter was two weeks away, and my mother was planning to take Arthur to the beach for fourteen days. Once they’d left, I’d be able to visit Alexandre’s exhibition without having to make major arrangements. The party might actually help distract me. At any rate, it was a date in the calendar of my otherwise monotonous and joyless life, whose days were all running together, all shaped by the same rhythm of sleeping, eating, taking Arthur to nursery school, and picking him up from nursery school.
I really did plan to go to the spring exhibition. I even wrote the date, 17 April, in my planner, although I was worried that I might not know anyone there. I’d never been good at making small talk.
The fact that I ultimately didn’t go to Alexandre’s party was related, though, to a different matter, one that would send me into deep confusion.
4
King Arthur of the Round Table
My Most Beloved Darling,
Last night, Arthur suddenly appeared like a little ghost in the bedroom door. He was crying bitterly, and Bruno, his old brown teddy bear, was dangling from his hand. I switched on the bedside lamp and jumped up in alarm. I sleep very lightly now that I’m the only one in our bed. I no longer sleep like a log, the way you used to tease me about whenever you’d sweep back the curtains to let the sun in.
I crouched down next to our little boy and wrapped my arms around him.
‘Pumpkin, what’s wrong? Do you have a tummy ache?’
He shook his head and just kept sobbing. I picked him up and carried him and the bear, clutched tightly against his chest, to our bed. I tried stroking his wet little face and calling him all the pet names I could think of, but it took him an age to come round.
‘No, leave me alone! Maman’s supposed to come. I want Maman to come!’ he suddenly cried out, beating his little legs against the coverlet.
I watched him, helplessly. I could’ve given him anything in the world he wanted, just not this.
‘Pumpkin, Maman’s in heaven. You know that,’ I said quietly and unhappily. ‘We’ll both have to manage without her for a while. But we have each other, and that’s something, isn’t it? And on Sunday we’ll go with Mamie to the Jardin des Plantes, and visit the animals.’
The sobs broke off for a moment before starting up again.
I spoke gently with him and talked imploringly, like a priest reciting the sacrament. Through his tears and hiccups, he told me at last that he’d had ‘a bad dream’. And it really was a nightmare, Hélène. It shamefully revealed to me that Arthur, our cheerful, vivacious little Arthur, who had seemingly made his peace with the new situation and who’d tried so hard to cheer up his mournful father, hadn’t coped with the death of his Maman as completely as I’d thought. It may be true that children adapt to new situations more easily than we adults, but what other choice do they have? I have heard Arthur talk to his friends at nursery school about you with such great naturalness, about things that we adults never vocalise. It always reminds me of that old film of René Clément’s – Les jeux interdits, Forbidden Games – that we watched together in the little theatre in Montmartre. You liked the score so much that you later bought a CD of that Spanish guitarist, Narciso Yepes, and listened to it over and over again. I still recall how touched we were by that film. We sat there all the way through the credits, mutely holding hands. I think we were the last people to leave the theatre. Little Paulette and her friend Michel – as they coped with the war in their childish way, playfully dealing with the death and horror that surrounded them, and creating their own world which had its own order and meaning. Do you recall how they stole all the crosses from the cemetery and even out of the church in order to create graves for Paulette’s dead dog and all the other dead animals in their secret graveyard? I have always thought that children are amazing creatures, with the way they can slip into fantasy, and the simplicity and clarity with which they view things. The way they live their lives and how they somehow make things work out for the best for them. When do we lose this – our faith in life itself?
Arthur’s dream also took place in a cemetery. I still feel a chill when I think about it. He was all alone at the Cimetière Montmartre, as he explained. At first we were walking down the path together, but then he got distracted for a moment and I was suddenly gone. So he searched for your grave, hoping to find me there. He wandered around the graveyard for hours and got lost, stumbling down paths and allées, weeping and calling for me. He finally found it, your grave. A man in a leather jacket was standing in front of the gravestone with the angel’s head, and Arthur was so relieved.
He called: ‘Papa! Papa!’
But when the man turned around, it was a stranger.
‘Who are you looking for?’ the strange man asked nicely.
‘I’m looking for my Papa!’
‘What’s your Papa’s name?’
‘Julien. Julien Azoulay.’
‘Julien Azoulay?’ the stranger asked, before pointing at the gravestone. ‘Yes, this is where he is. He died a long time ago.’
And suddenly there on the gravestone wasn’t just your name, but also mine, as well as Mamie’s and even Cathérine’s and her cat Zazie’s. And just like that, he knew that everyone was dead. He was all alone in the world.
‘But I’m only four,’ he sobbed, staring at me with his big eyes, panic-stricken. ‘I’m only four!’ He unhappily held up his hand and showed me four fingers. ‘I can’t be on my own.’
My heart twisted in my chest.
‘Arthur, pumpkin, that was just a dream. A bad dream, but none of it is true. You aren’t alone. I’m still here. I’m always here, trust me. I’ll never leave you, so don’t worry about that.’
I took him in my arms and rocked him back and forth softly. I spoke calmly to him until his sobs gradually faded away.
That dream made me feel sick, Hélène, and Arthur’s fears and his childish despair cut me to the quick. I comforted our little one as best I could. My conscience pained me, and I swore to take better care of Arthur from now on. I’ll read books to him, watch films with him. I’ll take him to the Tuileries to eat waffles and sail little white boats across the big lake. I’ll take him out to the country and go for walks along meandering streams. In the summer we’ll go for picnics in the Bois de Boulogne, spread our blanket underneath some shady tree and stare up at the sky. I’ll even take him to that dreadful Disneyland he talks about all the time for his fifth birthday. I’ll let him bring a few friends along, and we’ll hurtle down the Wild West roller coaster and follow that up with mountains of French fries and cotton candy. I will try to focus less on myself and to be more of a committed father. Yes, I will even try to write, even if it might only be a page a day.
‘Papa, can I sleep with you tonight?’ he finally asked.
‘Of course, pumpkin, the bed is big enough.’
‘Could you leave the light on, too?’
‘Sure.’
He was asleep a few minutes later. He gripped my hand tightly and had Bruno squeezed under his other arm.
Did you know, Hélène, that back around the time of your funeral, he asked me if he should give you Bruno to take along on your trip? ‘Then Maman won’t be so alone,’ he said, and hugged his bear as he looked at me, uncertainly.
It would have been a huge sacrifice.
‘That’s a great idea, Arthur,’ I said. ‘But I don’t think Maman is quite that fond of teddy bears. Bruno should stay with you.’
He nodded, relieved.
‘You’re right,’ he said, then paused for a moment. ‘What if I give her the red knight and my wooden sword?’
That is how his favourite knight, and the sword he spent so long picking out at Si tu veux, that magical toy shop in the Galerie Vivienne, made their way into your coffin, darling. No idea if you actually have a use for them where you are. Arthur said that a sword can always come in handy.
As I lay next to him last night – this all happened around three – I spent a long time studying his tender face with its dark eyelashes, in the glow from the bedside lamp. He is still so little, a baby bird, and I vowed to protect his fragile spirit with all the strength I have. I so wish I could shield him from all the bad things in the world.
I watched that sleeping child, for whom I would sacrifice my life, and thought how he’ll soon grow bigger. He’ll pull pranks with his friends, get a five in maths (if he has inherited my genes, that is), listen to ear-splitting music in his room from which I will be banished, go to his first concert with friends. He’ll stay out all night long until the sun appears as a pink streak across the sky, will fall in love for the first time, will drown his relationship sorrows and tears while ripping a picture of a pretty girl into a thousand little pieces. He will make mistakes and get things just right. He will be sad, as well as ecstatically happy, and I will stay at the side of th
is marvellous little boy as long as I possibly can. I will help him and watch him grow and grow up, and become the finest possible version of himself.
And one day, he will be the one at his father’s side.
I gave Arthur a kiss, and for a fleeting moment, I was overcome by the thought of how thin the ice is that we move on when we pin our hearts on something living.
We are all so fragile. Every day. Every hour.
I remember us discussing names for him. At that point, he was just a cloudy shape on the ultrasound scan in your hand.
‘Arthur – isn’t that a big name for such a little creature?’ I’d asked. Arthur made me think about the knights of the Round Table. ‘Why not just Yves or Gilles or Laurent?’
You laughed. ‘But, Julien, he won’t stay small for ever. He will grow into his name, you’ll see. I like Arthur, an old name with a nice sound.’
And so we stuck with Arthur. Arthur Azoulay. What will become of our little knight of the Round Table? We’ll have to see. It’s a shame you’re no longer here to watch your little son grow into his name. We thought that was going to go differently, didn’t we? But maybe, maybe, maybe you can still watch everything with your lovely eyes which have closed for ever.
I do so hope that. I will take good care of him, I promise.
The world was back in order this morning. Arthur was quite cheerful, and he gulped his breakfast. It was as if that bad dream never happened. Children forget so quickly. Nonetheless, he would like to sleep ‘in Maman’s bed’ all the time now. Then I won’t be so alone, and besides our bed is much cosier, he explained. We left at that point, and he happily skipped down the street in his blue rubber boots with the white dots. He’d remembered by then that today was the nursery-school field trip to the puppet theatre in the Parc des Buttes-Chaumont. You know how much he loves the puppet theatre.
On the other hand, I felt completely wiped out, after getting less than three hours of sleep. I may take a nap later on. Luckily, I have no major commitments for the rest of the day. Mamie invited me over for lunch, though. She insisted on it. Her quarrelsome sister Carole will also be there with her husband, the one with dementia. I’ll get to watch my own puppet performance. The scenes between the three of them are really absurd and always very entertaining.
Love Letters from Montmartre Page 4