Love Letters from Montmartre

by Nicolas Barreau

  She nodded. ‘I know, Julien. When I read that letter, it felt like my heart turned inside out. You were so distraught. You begged Hélène for a sign, and I . . . ’

  She broke off for a moment, as tears welled in her eyes.

  ‘I was so sad for you, Julien, and I wanted to help you somehow.’ She leaned back into the sofa where we were sitting next to each other. ‘And so, I read all your letters, from the first through the latest one you had brought to the grave. I was shocked. I knew you weren’t doing well and how much you missed your wife, but that . . . ’

  She shook her head. ‘I just wanted to do something to help you feel happy again. I wanted to help distract your thoughts. And then I had the idea about the answers.’ She smiled. ‘I left a trail for you and hoped that eventually it would lead you to me. To be honest, I was a little surprised you didn’t think of me much earlier . . . ’

  ‘But I did think of you, Sophie,’ I cut in. ‘Right at the start, I went through all the possible solutions. But you had a boyfriend who was always calling you. How could I know that Chouchou was your father? Why do you call him that anyway?’

  She grinned. ‘It dates back to my nursery-school days. My mother had always called Papa mon petit chou, and I turned that into chouchou at some point.’

  ‘The last great secret.’ I brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. ‘No, the next to last. Why did the thing with the letters stop so abruptly?’ I looked at her searchingly, and she turned red. ‘Were your feelings hurt when I forgot our date?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ she whispered. ‘What can I say? You were at the grave for so long. You didn’t came back, so I followed you. I saw Cathérine standing at the grave with the letter, and you yelling angrily at her. I quickly climbed up the old chestnut tree to hide.’

  ‘And you heard everything from up in your hiding place?’

  She nodded. ‘You were so upset about the letters, and you just kept yelling that it was private, private! And in one horrible, scary moment, I realised what I had actually done. If you could hammer a good friend into the ground like that, how would you react when you found out that I was the one who had opened your letters and read them?’

  She looked at me.

  ‘My lovely house of cards collapsed in one fell swoop, everything I thought I was building for us. And then you went on to say that I was just a random person you’d met at the cemetery.’

  ‘Yes.’ I nodded unhappily. ‘I’m so sorry, Sophie. I regretted that the moment I said it. I was just so annoyed at Cathérine for never stopping with all her questions.’ I picked up her hand. ‘You were never just a random person to me, Sophie,’ I said quietly.

  ‘I know that. Now. But when I heard you say that, it was a huge shock for me.’

  ‘And you fell out of the tree because of that?’

  ‘No, no.’ She smiled. ‘You’d have heard if I’d tumbled out of the tree like some windfall apple. After you stormed off, I stayed up on my branch for a while longer, feeling quite awful. When I finally decided to climb down, I slipped, and when I hit the ground I sprained my ankle. It hurt so badly I thought I’d broken it. And this was right after you’d insisted that you’d never fall in love again.’ She placed her hand on her heart and grimaced drolly. ‘I sobbed all the way down the path.’

  ‘Oh no . . . ’ I could imagine her hobbling down the cemetery path. ‘It was a really bad day for both of us. And then?’

  ‘I didn’t go back to the cemetery for several weeks. I could hardly walk, much less work. I had plenty of time to think about everything, which seemed more and more hopeless. Until . . . ’

  ‘Until you saw my last letter to Hélène.’

  ‘Yes.’ She nodded, her face brightening. ‘I was ecstatic when I read that you missed me. That in the end, you’d actually fallen in love – with me!’

  She wrinkled her forehead. ‘But then I remembered that you still didn’t know who had taken all the letters, and I was suddenly scared that you’d never forgive me . . . ’ She plucked at her dress, embarrassed. ‘Are you really not angry with me, Julien? You must know one thing: I only did it out of love. I love you, Julien.’

  She turned toward me, and I couldn’t help thinking about the first time I had seen this face, that day when she had sat above me and gazed down from her wall, the day I had thought for a heartbeat that she was a pixie. And then my thoughts turned to our night-time stroll through silent Montmartre, that magical hour before our ways parted and I’d watched with a pang of regret as she walked away. That was the moment of my first inkling, my first thought, my first wish, which at the time, I didn’t dare follow through to its full extent.

  I pulled her fiercely into my arms.

  ‘Oh, Sophie,’ I whispered, burying my face in her hair. ‘I had so hoped it was you.’

  As she later lay sleeping in my arms, I stared for a long time into the night’s darkness, which wasn’t as dark as usual due to a single silver beam that fell through the opened window. I thought how life is both sad and humorous, horrifying in its injustice yet full of wonder at the same time.

  And unbelievably beautiful.

  Epilogue

  Montmartre – that famous hill on the northern edge of Paris, where tourists cluster around the street painters on the Place du Tertre as they create artworks of dubious quality, where in late summer couples ramble through the lively streets hand in hand before sinking down a little breathless on the steps of the Sacré-Cœur, to gaze in amazement across the city shimmering in the final gentle rosy glow before nightfall – Montmartre is home to a cemetery. It is a very old cemetery, complete with dirt paths and long shady drives that meander under lindens and maples. It even uses names and numbers, which make it seem like a real town. A very silent town. Some of the people resting here are famous. You can find graves ornamented with artistic monuments and angelic figures in sweeping stone garments, their arms gracefully outstretched, their eyes fixed on the sky.

  A dark-haired man enters the cemetery, carrying a giant bouquet of roses. He stops at a grave known only to a few people. No one famous slumbers here. No author, musician or painter. This isn’t the Lady of the Camellias, either. Just someone who had been deeply loved.

  Nonetheless, the angel on the bronze tablet affixed to the marble gravestone is one of the loveliest here. The woman’s face – earnest, perhaps even serene – gazes out with a hint of a smile, her long hair billowing around her face as if being tossed by a wind at her back.

  The man pauses, listening to the laughter of a child who is waiting outside the cemetery gate with a young woman.

  It is a later summer day. A butterfly flutters through the air, finally landing on the gravestone where it beats its wings a few times.

  The man pulls a letter out of his pocket, the last of thirty-three letters he has written to his wife. He places it in the secret compartment in the gravestone and shuts the little door. He then takes a step back and glances one last time at the bronze angel with its familiar feathers, and lays the bouquet of roses on the grave – certainly the largest to be found anywhere in the entire Cimetière Montmartre.

  ‘You were so smart, Hélène,’ he says, his smile a little askew. ‘It’s obvious you somehow managed to orchestrate everything to win your bet. I know you, Hélène, you simply can’t lose. Never could.’

  The man lingers a moment longer. He studies the peaceful face of the lovely angel, and for a millisecond he thinks he sees the corner of its mouth twitch upward.

  ‘Au revoir, Hélène,’ he says before turning and walking back down the path with a smile on his face.

  He had been unprepared for what had happened, just as unprepared as anyone could be for the arrival of happiness or love. And yet, both of them are always there. He knows that now.

  His small son and the woman he loves are waiting for him at the cemetery gate. They take each other’s hands and stroll out into the sunlit day.

  The man’s name is Julien Azoulay.

  And I happen to be Julien
Azoulay.

  Dearest Hélène,

  This is the last of my letters to you. I have written you thirty-three letters, just as I promised. When you forced this oath out of me, Hélène, I was so emotionally broken that I never would have believed what you told me: that by the time I reached this last letter, my life would take a turn for the better. I hated it when you said that. I didn’t want to hear it, and I fought against it tooth and nail.

  And yet, wonder of wonders, that is exactly what has happened, Hélène.

  I have actually fallen in love. It’s more than that – I love, and I am loved. Every morning, I am astonished anew by this incredible blessing.

  A year ago, I was the unhappiest man in the world. My heart had turned to stone, was surrounded by a wall. And then this woman entered my life. She is so very different from you, Hélène, and yet, I love her with all my heart. Can you believe that?

  I cannot remember who once said: ‘The heart is a very, very resilient little muscle.’

  But you know what, Hélène? I’m so glad it is.

  And even if you weren’t the one who left all those little things for me in the secret compartment, I still believe in miracles. I sometimes think that it was you who sent that butterfly that one day, the one that Arthur chased and that led us to Sophie. And who knows? Maybe that really is what happened.

  Arthur immediately accepted Sophie into his heart. It took me a little longer, but then again I’m just a dumb man, as Sophie sometimes teases.

  I didn’t go to Honfleur this summer.

  I wanted to stay with Sophie, whom I had just found.

  At first, Maman was disappointed when I called to tell her that I wouldn’t be joining them at the coast. However, when I explained that I was sitting next to the girl she had been hoping was walking around somewhere, who could love her Julien, she was simply happy for me.

  ‘Oh, my child,’ she repeated huskily. ‘Oh, my child!’

  You always remain a child to your mother, even if you are eighty years old. I might smile at this, but sometimes I worry a little about the day there will no longer be anyone to say that to me. Oh, my child!

  The summer is almost over now. The summer break has ended, and people are returning to Paris.

  Camille had her baby a few days ago – an adorable girl – Pauline. We were all there for it. Aunt Carole was over the moon, and even old Paul had a lucid moment when she placed the baby in his arms. He said it was the most precious treasure, such a small creature.

  The rest of us stood there, deeply moved, and Arthur was perfectly still when the baby reached for his finger and wrapped her tiny fingers around it.

  Arthur is still ‘going’ with Giulietta. She came over again the other day, and I heard him say to her that he was so happy that his Papa had someone to go with again.

  Sophie still has her attic apartment in the restorers’ courtyard, but she comes over almost every day after work and stays the night. It is wonderful to have a woman in the apartment again who can fill my life with light. No, not just any woman, but Sophie alone. Unlike Alexandre, I don’t believe that you can fall in love with just anyone. When Alexandre heard that Sophie was the one behind it all, he claimed that he’d known all along. Typical! He’d been the one betting that it was your friend. I’m very glad that Cathérine has apparently got through her crisis. She greeted Sophie, Arthur and me very amicably in the entry area when we ran into her recently. She was in the company of a friendly man she introduced as her new co-worker.

  And someone else is happy, too. He interrupted me when I was writing my first letter to you, Hélène, and he ended up interrupting me as I wrote this last one. I had just sat down at my desk when Jean-Pierre Favre called to see how the novel was going.

  ‘The novel’s coming along great,’ I told him truthfully. ‘I’m almost done with it. However . . . ’ I hesitated.

  ‘However?’ he asked impatiently. ‘Stop leaving me in such suspense, Azoulay!’

  ‘However, it’s turned into a very different book.’

  ‘Okay?’

  ‘What would you think of a love story that starts out in a cemetery?’

  ‘In a cemetery,’ he repeated, considering this for a moment. ‘Hmm. Well, why not? In a cemetery, that sounds original . . . I like it! All good novels start with a funeral. But . . . does the story have a happy ending?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘After all, I write romantic comedies.’

  He laughed.

  ‘Very good, Azoulay, very good. But the book about the publisher who dances around in the moonlight, let’s not shelve it completely, après tout?’

  ‘Definitely not,’ I replied. ‘That’ll be the next one I write.’

  ‘Wonderful! I can tell that you’ve found your old joie de vivre, Azoulay,’ Jean-Pierre Favre declared happily.

  And he’s right, my old publisher. My life was so heavy, and now it has grown light again. Perhaps not as light as air, but still very light. I’m happy, Hélène. I never would have thought I’d say that again. I’m so filled with my love for Sophie, but I often think lovingly about you. I believe my heart is large enough for both of you. But my place is here, Hélène, and yours is in the cemetery, or somewhere between the stars.

  This is my final letter to you, my angel, and I don’t think that anyone will read it except for you. It will sit in your gravestone until perhaps, many years from now, someone will find it there and be amazed at this token of a great love.

  I may be long dead by then, and we will have each other again, like once in May. But until then, I will live and love.

  Yours,

  Julien

  Postface

  This novel is a work of fiction, and yet it is filled with things and incidents that actually did or possibly could occur.

  The idea for this novel came to me several years ago when I was walking around an old cemetery one spring. It was not the Cimetière Montmartre, which I chose for this book because I find it so unique. It was a small enchanting graveyard far from Paris.

  In this small cemetery, there is an angel that served as the model for the bronze angel on Hélène’s grave. This was also where I found that verse about the lovers in May, which touched me so deeply that it inspired me to write this story.

  You could say that I stumbled across it, so to speak, because the three lines were inscribed in a round slab that was set into one of the pathways. The letters had been buried under such a thick layer of gravel that I had to carefully brush the stones away before I could make out the words.

  I have thought a lot about these unknown lovers, and hope with all my heart that they are now together again, like once in May.

  It has been a long time since anyone was buried in this small cemetery with its old trees, green bushes and rolling meadows. These days, old men sit here in the sunshine and read newspapers on the green wooden benches. In the summer, young students spread their beach towels on the grass under the trees and read their books. Couples stroll leisurely down the paths, friends tell each other their secrets, young parents push their strollers on walks. Sometimes, pearly lanterns are strung between the graves, which is particularly captivating, and you can hear the bright laughter of children having birthday picnics here with their mothers.

  I love the idea that in this peaceful place, where many years ago the dead found their final resting places, life goes on. This is the very same ground on which small feet trample, people dwell on their thoughts, and others exchange smiles.

  I think the dead take delight in this. I believe that they watch over us, the living, kindly and indulgently; that we know so very little about what is possible in the realm between heaven and earth; and that they always want to remind us that love is the answer to all our questions.

  Paris, May 2018

  Nicolas Barreau is both the name of an acclaimed Parisian writer of mixed parentage, who studied at the Sorbonne and worked in a bookshop on the Rive Gauche . . . and a pseudonym concealing the identity of a mysterious lite
rary figure, unreachable except through his editor.