‘Chéri, what are you saying?’ was the swift response. ‘Clémence isn’t your wife. I’m your wife. Me, Carole!’
He shook his head and chased a few crumbs around his plate. ‘N-no,’ he declared firmly. ‘You’re the sister.’
Carole raised her eyebrows, while Maman laughed and quickly interjected: ‘You’re confused, Paul. I was married to Philippe. You and Carole are together.’
Paul’s eyes scanned the table for help and came to a stop at me. ‘Julien!’ he exclaimed, and I nodded.
‘It’s true, Uncle Paul. You’re Carole’s husband, not Clémence’s.’
Carole and Clémence nodded emphatically.
This much contradiction seemed to provoke the old man. He hurled his fork to the floor, before staring at the two sisters suspiciously and saying: ‘You both look like two dumb giraffes.’
Sometimes tragedy has a comical side. We all gazed at each other, trying hard not to laugh.
‘I want to go to sleep now,’ Paul declared as he tried to stand up from his chair.
Carole soothingly patted his arm.
‘He can lie down in the guest room,’ Maman offered, but Paul would hear nothing of it.
‘No, I want to go to the bedroom, to our bedroom,’ he cried stubbornly.
‘How about you stretch out on the chaise lounge here, Paul?’ Maman suggested. ‘Then you can still be close to us.’
‘All right.’ He nodded.
Carole led her husband to a sofa covered in a delicate flowered fabric that stood against the wall, not far from the table. Groaning, he settled onto it and then demanded a blanket, which was immediately brought to him. He closed his eyes in satisfaction.
‘It can sometimes be very hard with him,’ Carole remarked as she joined us back at the table. ‘He’s become so unpredictable.’
She went on to tell us a story from a few days ago. That afternoon, a neighbour had dropped by. It was Paul’s nap time, and the two women were chatting over coffee in the living room, when the door suddenly swung open. There, with a big smile on his face, stood Paul in nothing except his underwear. He studied Carole’s neighbour with curiosity and obviously wanted to be introduced to this pretty, dark-haired woman whom he couldn’t seem to recall at the moment.
Trying to maintain her composure, Carole said amiably: ‘Look, Paul, we have company. Wouldn’t you like to go and put on some trousers?’
At this, Paul looked down at himself and remarked drily that he was already wearing trousers.
‘I try to take everything with a grain of salt,’ Carole concluded, reaching for another slice of lemon tart. My aunt had never been particularly sympathetic when it came to illnesses. ‘What else am I supposed to do? Most of the time, he’s perfectly calm, and we still have some lovely moments together, even if that’s pretty hard to believe. Those are the times I can still see a little of the old Paul.’ She shook her head. ‘But some days are just terrible. I don’t know, maybe part of him can tell something’s not right with his mind. All I know is that he can suddenly turn completely unbearable. He told me just a few days ago that everything was going to be destroyed “in there”, and that we should just nail everything shut.’
She sighed, and Maman carried in the coffee on a silver tray. As we sipped our petit café from the fragile Limoges cups, the conversation returned to more banal affairs.
Aunt Carole had brought me some of my favourite sweets – calissons d’Aix, a confection from Provence – and she suddenly pulled out of her large purse a tin of the soft almond slices covered in royal icing, shaped like a weaver’s shuttle.
‘Tiens! I almost forgot! I brought a little something for you. To help your nerves and your sad eyes,’ she announced unceremoniously.
‘Oh, how nice! Thank you so much,’ I replied, taken aback by her thoughtfulness.
I thought about the story Aunt Carole used to tell me about the calissons, which had supposedly been invented by the chef of the Duke of Anjou, whose lovely bride’s eyes were so sad that he wanted to inspire her to smile with these sweets.
However, when the conversation turned to Maman’s upcoming Easter trip to Honfleur with Arthur, Aunt Carole gave a deep sigh, as all thoughts about our fates were relegated to the background.
‘You have it good, Clémence,’ she declared. ‘You can always get away. I can’t do that any more.’
‘Just stop it. I don’t leave town all the time, either,’ Maman shot back. ‘But you’re welcome to come along, Carole. Why don’t you check Paul into a short-term care facility for a week? He’d survive it, and a change of scenery would do wonders for you.’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Carole shook her head. ‘I don’t like putting him in a home.’
‘I thought so! In a home, where they beat the patients.’ A quavering voice suddenly floated over from the chaise lounge, and we turned around in surprise.
‘That’s just nonsense, Paul!’ Carole exclaimed. ‘I thought you were sleeping.’
‘How am I supposed to sleep with all this chattering?’ Paul growled, as he threw back his blanket. ‘Come on, it’s time to go. I want to go home right now.’
Clémence and Carole exchanged a mute look and rolled their eyes.
‘Stay a little longer, Uncle Paul. You just got here,’ I interjected, sitting down on the foot of the sofa. ‘Would you maybe like some coffee?’
‘Yes . . . C-coffee!’ Paul nodded, then a spark of memory flared up in his grey eyes. ‘How’s little Arthur?’
‘Arthur’s doing well. He’ll be going to the coast with Mamie soon, and he’s looking forward to that.’
‘To the coast. How lovely,’ Paul murmured as he leaned back against the seat. He then wrinkled his forehead and stared hard at me as he asked loudly: ‘Where is Hélène? Why isn’t Hélène here?’
An uncomfortable silence settled over the room.
‘Paul . . . ’ Carole finally replied. ‘Hélène is dead.’
In their unvarnished bluntness, the words fell through me like stones.
‘What? She’s dead, too?’ Paul mumbled, his eyebrows shooting upward. He then shook his head in embarrassment. ‘Why didn’t anyone tell me? Nobody tells me anything!’ He gazed at us accusingly.
‘But we went to Hélène’s funeral. You don’t remember that?’ Carole tried once more.
‘I didn’t. I wasn’t at any funeral,’ Paul declared in a strident voice.
‘You were. Last October.’
‘October, November, December,’ Paul recited, having clearly reached the extent of his mental limits.
‘I think we’d better go. He’s going a bit downhill,’ Carole said quietly. ‘Could you please order us a taxi, Clémence?’
Maman nodded worriedly and insisted that Carole take the rest of the lemon tart with her. As the door shut behind the pair, we exchanged glances.
‘Well,’ Maman remarked. ‘We all have our burdens.’ She paused for a moment. ‘At least Hélène didn’t suffer long,’ she finally added contemplatively.
I nodded, but that fact didn’t comfort me.
6
Cleaning closets
My sadly missed darling,
‘At least Hélène didn’t suffer long.’ That’s what Maman said to me just a few days ago when I was at her apartment for lunch. Carole was there, too, along with Paul. Poor Paul is in a fairly pitiful condition. He asked why you weren’t there for lunch. He’s just getting worse, and this could last for years and years.
Everything went so fast for you, and yet the end still came as a surprise, even though we were expecting it. No, you didn’t have to suffer long. The morphine was too good for that. It put you into a coma, and the doctors promised that you’d feel no pain. But I will never know what was going on inside you at the end, what your last thoughts were. There were no famous last words from you, like you see in films when people die.
I sat beside your hospice bed, holding your hand. Your eyes were closed, and you were sleeping, maybe dreaming. The afternoon sun shone
brightly through the curtains, while birds chirped outside your window.
At some point, I kissed your forehead and whispered: ‘Hélène, darling, I’m going to get some coffee. I’ll be right back.’
You moved your head slightly and murmured something inaudible. It could have meant anything. And then – or maybe I just imagined it? – you squeezed my hand gently.
Was that your goodbye? Were the words I couldn’t understand ‘Take care of yourself’ or ‘Give Arthur a kiss for me’?
I’d like to think they were.
By the time I returned, you were already gone, my angel, your fragile body only a shape under the white coverlet. Your face was pale and still, your red curls the only spot of colour. Despite all the poison they pumped into you, they remained with you until the end.
And before I realised that everything was finally over, before the pain crashed through me with the fury of a demolition ball and paralysed me for days and weeks, for one short moment, I thought you had finally done it.
I thought that this moment, which had been dangling threateningly over our heads for weeks, had finally reached its fulfilment.
We had said all there was to say to each other, Hélène. We had discussed everything that needed to be and had assured each other of our love so, so often that at least I have a good feeling about that. This knowledge lights my days like a single candle.
Three days before you died, you opened your eyes. A milky haze had already settled across your green eyes.
‘My love, come, be mine again, like once in May . . . ’ you whispered, suddenly staring at me in desperate longing. ‘Do you still remember, Julien . . . in May . . . in May . . . ’
‘Oh, Hélène, of course I still remember,’ I said. ‘How could I ever forget that beautiful day in Montmartre?’
You smiled and sighed quietly, and your eyelids fluttered before closing again. How could I have known that this little exchange would be our last conversation? That these were the final words I would ever have from you?
I was never able to figure out if this sentence came from one of your beloved poems. I couldn’t find the verse anywhere. But now it is chiselled into your gravestone, and whenever I see it I am overwhelmed by my certainty that we will meet again some day. But the time will stretch on so long for me, my love!
Maman came over to my apartment yesterday, just as she had threatened. There was no changing her mind. She wanted to clean out the closets with me. Your closets, Hélène! It was strange to see all your clothes, coats and sweaters vanish into the large bags Maman had brought along. All of your colourful scarves and shawls.
I took each piece in my hands and had to give it up. So many small goodbyes!
Now that it’s over, I’m very glad I did this ‘closet cleaning’ with Maman. It is easier when someone is helping you, and you aren’t on your own with all the memories. So much of the past crept out of the closet. I saw your clothes and couldn’t help recalling situations in which you had worn specific items. I suddenly saw random moments before me, caught like frozen images, things I hadn’t thought about in ages.
Eventually, the closets were empty, but no matter how horrible it had been, there was also something liberating about the process.
By the way . . . while we were cleaning out your closet and the bureau drawers, we realised just how many red pieces of clothing you owned, Hélène. How bold you were! I don’t know of any other redheads who like wearing red as much as you did. Oh, my beloved! Sometimes I sit here writing, and part of me almost expects the door to open. And there you’ll be, standing in your red dress with the white polka dots, laughing at me.
I kept your prettiest clothes, and will give them to Aunt Carole for Camille, her youngest daughter. Camille is just as slender and tall as you, and she will love these.
I gave your purses to Cathérine, as well as the silver ring set with the aquamarine, the one you bought that time at the Porte de Clignancourt flea market. She had asked me a few weeks ago if she could perhaps have a personal memento, something of yours she could keep. She was very happy with what I gave her, and wears the ring day and night. She was also very honoured to have your purses, she declared, giving me a sudden, tight hug.
I confess I feel a little uneasy around Cathérine. She is so emotional and sensitive, and I don’t deal well with that. She often just brings me down, but I don’t want to be unfair. It can’t be easy to lose a close friend, either. The two of you did so much together. Can you still recall all those summer evenings when you said you were just going to ‘run down quickly’ to her place? Your voices, laughing and chatting, would drift up to me all evening from the balcony.
Regardless, Arthur likes spending time with Cathérine. She really has the patience of a saint. They spend hours playing cards, or she reads stories to him from her thick book of fairy tales in which people always end up living happily ever after. Nice idea, right?
The two of them fixed crêpes together last Saturday, and I had to come downstairs to sample everything. It was a lovely afternoon. Arthur’s face was bright red, and he was in high spirits because, with Cathérine’s help, he had actually managed to flip a crêpe in the air. He was as pleased as punch.
Cathérine told a couple of great stories about you, ones I didn’t know, and we laughed and laughed.
Did you really wander around the 10th arrondissement one evening with her, half drunk, looking for your car, which you couldn’t find because the police had impounded it hours before? You never told me about that. What other secrets did you keep?
I actually like Cathérine, but the fact that she was such a good friend of yours makes it difficult for me. She was your friend, not mine. I can sense how hard she’s trying for Arthur and me, and I suspect she wants to establish the same kind of familiarity that existed between the two of you. The reality is that her attempts make me uncomfortable. I sometimes wonder if perhaps you asked her to take care of us. Even though you’re no longer here, chérie, I think I can still feel your influence everywhere I look.
For example, I found an envelope in one of your handbags that was stuck right at the back of your closet – I’m just glad I thought to look through them before giving them to Cathérine. Most of them didn’t have anything interesting in them – two torn movie tickets from Studio 28, a restaurant receipt, a comb, a few coins, a piece of gum, a set of photo-booth pictures showing you and Arthur clowning around. And suddenly in your evening handbag, I found a mauve envelope with my name on it.
I didn’t recognise it right away, and my heart pounded in my ears as I extracted the handwritten note and unfolded it. I found a poem from Heine, a few short verses, and a sweet saying. And then I finally remembered discovering that envelope on my desk after the first time you’d come over to my place. Before that day, we hadn’t even kissed, but one thing led to another. And that hopeful little poem inspired me to dance around the room in delight. It made me just as happy as it now makes me sad. And yet – I was still so glad to have that sign from you!
The Homecoming
We drove all night long
In the dark post coach;
Our hearts touched,
We joked and laughed.
But when morning broke,
My dear, weren’t we amazed!
Between us sat Amor,
The blind passenger.
I wonder how the letter made its way into your handbag. Maybe you were keeping it there for me – for a day like this one, when I would be cleaning out the closets.
I kiss you tenderly, my heart’s love, and am grateful for those wonderful, untroubled days that are now light-years away. And yet they seem within arm’s reach right now. Oh, to only have you again, like once in May!
Julien
7
The woman in the tree
This was the afternoon I met Sophie.
It was the Thursday before Easter, and Arthur had only a half-day of nursery school. He insisted on coming to the cemetery with me, since he was leaving with
Mamie the following day.
We ate around noon and then packed his small travel bag, so we didn’t make it to the cemetery until after four. Arthur was proudly carrying a rose that we had bought together, along with an Easter arrangement from Au nom de la rose, a small flower shop on Rue Lepic that had caught my eye when I had strolled along Rue des Abbesses.
He was so excited about his trip, and hummed quietly. On the other hand, my heart grew heavy and my spirits flagged the closer we drew to Hélène’s grave.
A gentle breeze softly rustled the leaves in the old chestnut tree, and sunbeams shimmered along the path. Arthur placed his rose at the headstone, and I set about cleaning up the grave. I sent him off to toss a faded bunch of daisies onto the nearby compost pile, a rectangular enclosure of boards in which other dying flowers and wreaths were withering away.
In any case, Hélène couldn’t complain about her grave not being visited enough. Every time I came to the cemetery I found fresh flowers or a bouquet at the grave.
As Arthur dashed off, I quickly pulled the letter out of my pocket, opened our secret compartment, and added it to the other envelopes. I had written ‘for Hélène’ on this envelope, as well as the number 3 with a circle around it, so that I could keep track of how many letters I’d already written. There weren’t all that many as yet. Although writing them was proving to be unexpectedly comforting, I was still far away from the positive turn in my life that Hélène had predicted. I felt quite alone in the world – not just when I spent my evenings sitting in my apartment feeling lost, but when I walked along the streets of Saint-Germain, which had recently taken on the hints of springtime. On sunny days, people sat around the outdoor cafés, laughing and chatting, so cheerful to the outside eye. Life seemed to be starting anew, but I was still grappling with the unfairness of fate. According to Jean Giraudoux, when a person is gone you suddenly feel like you are surrounded by film extras, and there’s nothing you can do to change that.
Love Letters from Montmartre Page 6