‘Écoutez! I raised three children,’ she would snort whenever Hélène risked contradicting her. ‘Every single one of them has better manners than children these days.’
Maybe she had still managed to botch something in their upbringing, since I had never seen even one of her children come for a visit.
‘Would you mind feeding Zazie? Only if it’s not a bother, though, otherwise I could ask someone else,’ Cathérine continued.
Zazie? Oh, Zazie!
The film Zazie dans le Métro always came to mind whenever Cathérine mentioned her white-booted black cat. Arthur was totally crazy about her.
‘Of course. I’m here, so no problem at all,’ I replied. ‘I’ll hold the fort.’
It would have been better if I hadn’t said that.
‘Oh, you poor thing! I hope you won’t feel too lonely,’ Cathérine replied instantly, watching me again with congenial eyes. ‘Now that Arthur’s gone, you’re all on your own.’ Cocking her head, she pursed her lips in sympathy, and I sat straight up in alarm.
‘Oh, I’m actually really glad to have some peace and quiet,’ I exclaimed reassuringly. ‘I need to write.’
I’d said that so often in recent weeks that I almost believed it myself. My words must have sounded convincing, because Cathérine propped her chin in her hand and studied me with interest.
‘What’s your new book about?’ she asked.
I was glad to supply the information now that we had once again left the winding paths of my personal state of mind.
My new novel was about a publisher at a small press, whose energetic engagement managed to just barely keep the company afloat. The publishing industry isn’t exactly flourishing these days, after all, and his marriage is in trouble and on the brink of collapse. But one day, lightning strikes. Thanks to a chain reaction of hilarious coincidences, one of his press’s novels has been mixed up with a serious literary work of the same title – and it has been unexpectedly nominated for the Prix Goncourt. The novel quickly sells out, and a new edition has to be hurriedly printed, since it has become the season’s hottest title. Publishers around the world run up bids in ludicrous auctions to buy the foreign rights. The award jurors find the book ‘refreshingly simple’ and ‘ingeniously framed in colloquial prose’. An immensely wealthy Indian actress wants to create a Bollywood movie based on the novel with herself as the star. Everything gets out of hand, and the individuals responsible for the mix-up are so embarrassed that they refuse to speak up and admit their mistake. At the end of the book, the publisher, sedentary by nature, can no longer contain his delight, and secretly dances around his small garden in the moonlight.
That was also the working title for my new novel, at least as it currently stood: The Publisher Who Danced in the Moonlight.
Cathérine had listened attentively. ‘Mmm, that all sounds really good. It’s sure to be an amazing book,’ she declared, giving me an encouraging smile.
I smiled back, pleased, and my eyes slid complacently over her waterblue tunic that she had paired with jeans and which matched her eyes quite nicely.
‘But I think the title is a little funny.’
‘Well, it’s supposed to be a humorous novel, Cathérine,’ I replied wryly. Good grief! The title was the best part about this stupid book.
When I’d suggested it to him, Jean-Pierre Favre had slapped his legs in delight. ‘Marvellous, my dear Julien, it will be absolutely splendid! I’m going to tell the designer right away so he can start on the cover design as soon as possible.’
At the time, we’d both thought I’d dash this book off, lightly and deftly, and it would follow quickly on the heels of my first bestseller.
I took a deep breath and noticed Cathérine’s eyes darken.
‘I imagine it must be difficult – I mean, to write a funny book like that after everything . . . everything that’s happened,’ she stumbled to a halt.
I’m sure she meant well, but she possessed the rare talent of being able to press her delicate fingers into sensitive wounds.
‘I hope you know, Julien, that you can call me on my cell any time,’ she said. ‘I mean, in case you’re feeling stir-crazy or you find yourself stuck with your book.’
Like hell I will, I thought as I paid for our meals.
‘Sure enough,’ I said with a smile.
I actually wrote a lot during that first week. I sat down every morning at my computer, drank black coffee like an idiot, smoked, and hammered out some kind of trivial nonsense. When evening came, I deleted everything I’d written.
Another example of staying busy and not making any progress.
However, I didn’t destroy my letters to Hélène.
I told her about my unsuccessful attempts at writing; about Arthur, so glad to be at the seaside with Mamie; about Mamie, whose sister Carole had actually joined them in Honfleur for a few days, after her daughter had offered to take care of her sick father for that time; about Camille, who especially loved wearing Hélène’s red dress with the white polka dots and had fallen in love. I wrote about Alexandre, who was very busy getting ready for his spring exhibition, but who had still managed to drop by one evening to make sure I was all right. About Zazie, who I was feeding and who rolled gleefully around on the carpet whenever I opened Cathérine’s door.
I started to write to Hélène almost every day – completely unfiltered letters, almost like diary entries. This felt good, and the secret compartment in the gravestone was slowly filling with envelopes. I felt so close to Hélène, as if she were still here, just somewhere else.
And she actually was somewhere, too.
I also wrote about the woman whom Arthur and I had met, and how I had first thought that Arthur was talking with the tree where she’d been sitting. I found myself unconsciously watching for her whenever I went to the Cimetière Montmartre.
Sophie was nowhere to be seen the first time I went back, but that was probably because it was Easter Sunday and she had better things to do than repair angels and gravestones. On the other hand, I discovered a nosegay of forget-me-nots on the grave, which Cathérine had obviously left before her departure. It was raining the next time, and the girl from the cemetery was not around. But my third visit brought the sight of a petite figure in overalls and cap a distance away. She was sitting on top of the roof of a weathered mausoleum and scrubbing at the porous stone with a wire brush.
She waved down from her perch.
‘Oh, the author,’ she called.
And I said: ‘Oh, the sculptor. You’re back again?’
‘I don’t work in the rain.’ She climbed down from the roof of the stone structure and wiped dusty hands on her overalls. ‘And you? Already back at the cemetery? I thought you wanted to write.’
‘I’m trying.’
‘And how’s my little friend doing?’
‘Arthur? Amazingly well, especially since he’s away from all of this. He’s running down the beach, playing in the waves, collecting shells. According to my mother, he’s happier than he’s been in a long time.’
‘A walk along the beach is the best therapy,’ Sophie asserted, and I laughed because she always seemed to have a platitude at the ready. ‘I’d like to go the coast again.’ For a moment, her big eyes drifted dreamily across the billowing trees. ‘But I have too much to do right now, and we can only work when the weather is good. If the sun is too strong, it’s bad for some of the materials, and you can’t use the preservatives when it’s freezing.’ She started to climb back up on the mausoleum.
‘Who actually hires you for all this?’ I asked quickly. ‘The city?’
‘Sometimes the city, when the graves that need restoration are old and fall under historic preservation ordinances. But often I’m hired by private clients – descendants of the famous people who are buried here. You’d be surprised.’
We chatted for a few minutes, before she finally climbed back up on the roof of the family crypt, and I left the cemetery and wandered around Montmartre a lit
tle. I kept an eye out for Sophie’s little bistro but didn’t find it. Instead, I walked up Rue des Saules, which led me past green grapevines – remnants of the days when Montmartre had been a hilltop village – and past the Maison Rose, the famous pink house that Picasso used to visit. I finally came to Le Consulat, where years ago Hélène and I had sat outside in the sunshine.
The days were growing brighter and warmer. Even Madame Grenouille forgot that she despised the world, and when we ran into each other in the hallway in front of Cathérine’s apartment, she greeted me quite pleasantly, at least for her. She was already aware that her neighbour was on vacation and that I was taking care of her cat. I went downstairs twice a day to look in on her. As soon as she heard me, Zazie would miaow loudly on the other side of the door, and she would enthusiastically rub against my legs when I spooned her food out of the small can and gave her fresh water.
Nonetheless, the high points of those uneventful days were definitely my visits to the cemetery and my conversations with Sophie, which kept my thoughts distracted for a while. I managed well enough as long as they were occupied, even if a flood of despair threatened to engulf me sometimes at night, and sadness would wash over me when I least expected it.
It might be a laughing couple on the street, carefree and holding hands, or a song on the radio – and there it was again, the needle of pain. When I heard about the death of a famous stage actor from the Comédie-Française, the tears welled up in my eyes. I practically never went to the theatre, and I didn’t know the individual personally. However, in those days, even the sight of a lonely croissant in my breadbasket was enough to send me off the deep end.
The pretty weather attracted the tourists to the Cimetière Montmartre, and that bothered me as well. At one point, an English school class stood grouped around Heine’s grave. The kids were yelling and taking selfie after selfie. I had to stifle an impulse to stride into their midst and cry: ‘Shut your fucking mouths! This is a cemetery.’
On another day, I saw strangers standing arm in arm at Hélène’s gravestone, staring pensively at the bronze angel.
‘What a lovely face,’ the man said.
And before they strolled on to the next grave, I heard the woman say: ‘And what a sad poem. I wonder what the story is behind it? She was so young.’
Earlier, before death affected me so deeply, I used to walk around cemeteries the same way. I would read the inscriptions and make up the fate that had played itself out between the dates that demarcated a single life. There rested a child who had never had a chance to fall in love. Here was a man who had followed his wife into the grave only three months later. They were stories that touched me in that moment and made me think, but I left them behind as soon as I stepped back out into the bright flow of life. Today I was restless, like a story with no beginning and no end.
I ran into Sophie once more, three days before Arthur was supposed to return. She was in the process of packing up her tools and leaving, but she must have sensed how forlorn I was feeling that afternoon, because she fussed at me that I came here much too often. She then suggested that we go and have a cup of coffee somewhere.
I gratefully agreed.
‘Be honest – why do you come to the cemetery so often, Julien?’ she asked, once we were sitting underneath a café awning out on the Place du Tertre.
Her eyes bored into mine, and I felt my cheeks flush. I didn’t know how to tell her about the letters in which she herself appeared.
‘You’re not coming here because of me, are you?’ She shook a teasing finger at me.
‘I wish I could say that was why . . . But I’m always glad to see you, Sophie,’ I explained truthfully.
‘Doesn’t matter.’ Her mouth turned up in a mocking smile, as she pointed her spoon at me. ‘I have to tell you, Julien, that all this grave-visiting isn’t doing you any good. It’s lost time that you could make better use of, and it won’t bring Hélène back.’
Her brusque manner somehow made everything easier.
‘Well . . . I need to make sure everything’s in order,’ I replied. ‘Bring fresh flowers and so on.’
‘Yeah, sure.’
She grinned pointedly, and I felt like she’d seen through me. Then with a sudden gesture she pulled off her little cap and shook out her long hair as she turned her face up toward the sun. In amazement, I gazed at the dark torrent that now framed her face.
‘Give them while you still can, since on graves, they bloom for no man,’ she quoted.
I asked: ‘Where did you get all the clever sayings?’
‘From my grandmother,’ she explained cheekily. ‘She was a wise woman – just like me.’
‘I’m glad you’re sharing some of that wisdom with me, Sophie.’
‘That’s good. Without me, you’d be lost.’
I would have liked to just sit there, distracted by the buzz of activity around the square and by Sophie’s banter, which did me so much good, but then her phone rang.
She laughed and said: ‘Should I pick up a baguette?’ and: ‘Yes . . . me too. See you soon!’
She then turned to me and said: ‘I have to go!’
I had absolutely no desire to go back home, so I took the Metro to Saint-Germain and strolled aimlessly through the quarter. I walked down Rue Bonaparte, looked at a couple of picture books at Assouline, and considered purchasing a leather wallet embossed with various letters of the alphabet, then discarded the idea when I saw how much it cost. I finally turned down Rue de Seine and sat down at a table in La Palette to have a small supper.
The waiter had just brought me a glass of red wine when I recognised the man in the gold-rimmed spectacles who was carefully folding his newspaper as he sat in the other corner of the bistro beneath a large oil painting. I tried to hide behind my menu, but it was too late. Jean-Pierre Favre had already seen me.
‘Ah, Azoulay, my dear sir!’ He hurried over to my table and pulled out a seat for himself. ‘What a marvellous surprise! May I join you for a moment, cher ami?’
I nodded uncomfortably and tried to smile.
‘I’m so glad to see that you leave your apartment occasionally,’ he said with a wink. ‘I was worried you might have barricaded yourself inside.’
We hadn’t been in communication since the silent note that had been pushed back and forth underneath my door a few weeks ago.
‘How are you doing? I was just thinking about you yesterday, and I was going to call you. We have the perfect cover for the novel lined up.’
I feigned enthusiasm. After all, the novel was my novel.
‘All we need now is the finished manuscript,’ the publisher joked, pushing up his round glasses, which had a tendency to slip down his narrow nose every few minutes. ‘I hope the writing’s going well?’
‘Oh yes, very well,’ I lied valiantly, taking a gulp of my wine. ‘I have almost fifty new pages. Just have to put your mind to it.’
‘That’s what I said!’ Favre cried, swaying backward and forward in his delight. ‘You just have to start. Write the first sentence. That’s the secret.’
He waved at the waiter and ordered himself a glass of red wine. He clearly had no intention of leaving any time soon, now that he had managed to get his hands on his author.
He seemed to be calculating numbers and dates, at the end of which he smiled contentedly. ‘That means we’ll be able to release the book next spring. Bravo, Azoulay! I’m so proud of you! That is quite formidable.’ His eyes beamed at me. ‘You’ve made it over the hump, haven’t you? I always knew you’d be able to do that in the end.’
I silently sipped my wine and nodded.
‘The Publisher Who Danced in the Moonlight – that will be a winner! I can feel it in my bones, and that means money, my friend.’ He gave a little clap.
His excitement rendered me speechless.
How in the world could I destroy his hopes?
I desperately needed a cigarette, but I would have to go outside to do that. I drained my glass in
a single draught and gazed at him resolutely.
‘However . . . ’ I started.
‘However?’ Jean-Pierre Favre echoed, his eyes flickering with a little concern.
I ran my fingers through my hair. ‘I’m not completely convinced that what I’m writing is any good,’ I explained contritely, deciding not to share the inglorious fact that in reality I hadn’t written anything.
‘Ah, the butterflies are all part of it,’ Favre asserted, dismissing my assessment with a wave of his hand. ‘That’s what I like so much about you, Azoulay. Your self-doubt makes you more critical of your own work. Your text ends up better because of it.’
‘That might be, but I sometimes think that what I’m writing is utter rubbish, and then I wonder who in the world will actually want to read it,’ I sighed. ‘At this rate, there’ll end up being only one reader of my books. Me!’
‘Oh, hogwash! Stop talking such nonsense, Azoulay! Shall I tell you something?’ He shot a triumphant look at me. ‘You can’t write rubbish. That’s what I say, as your publisher.’
With these promising words, Jean-Pierre Favre stood up and patted me on the shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, Julien. You’ll do it. The book is practically done, right? And you’ll find the last sentences as well.’
I watched him pay his bill and stride jauntily out of La Palette. I wasn’t so sure. I would have to tell him the truth eventually. How long should I keep him in the dark?
I jabbed despondently at my quiche Lorraine, unaware that something would happen next day that should give months of inspiration to a proper writer.
9
Could you please hold me?
Everything was perfectly normal the next morning. I got up, drank my coffee at the small, round table at the balcony window, and skimmed the newspaper. The same as always, except that the phone would not stop ringing.
Love Letters from Montmartre Page 8