Crossings

by Alex Landragin

  Between my painfully thumping heart and the rumble of distant artillery, I slept little that night.

  At noon on Monday, with Madeleine’s derringer in a leather satchel slung around my shoulder and a newspaper in hand, I took a seat on a shaded bench at the far western corner of the Île Saint-Louis. From here, I could survey everything happening on the cobblestoned street that ran along the riverbank, including anyone entering or leaving the Baudelaire Society. I’d brought the newspaper to hide behind, but after scanning the headlines – Reynaud’s latest appeal to Roosevelt, four spies executed, reports of poisoned milk – I folded it away.

  The Baudelaire Society’s headquarters was the Hôtel de Lauzun, formerly known as the Hôtel Pimodan, where Baudelaire and Jeanne Duval had lived together, when she was his muse and he her protector and they were, in their own fashion, in love. Beneath and around me the river flowed silently, while above, in a slight breeze, the leaves of a willow whispered their secret language. The rumble in the east was constant now, putting the lie to the warm, dappled sunshine.

  Shortly before two o’clock, a gleaming burgundy Delahaye cabriolet pulled up in front of the Baudelaire Society. The thick-necked man I’d seen at the Hôtel Drouot the previous week jumped out from behind the steering wheel and opened the rear passenger door. A lithe woman in a black dress emerged and disappeared into the building. She was too far away to make out her face, but even from this distance it could be no one other than Chanel.

  Half an hour later, at the agreed time, with my right hand wrapped around the derringer in my jacket pocket, I rang the bell at the Society’s entrance. It was opened by the same besuited thug I’d seen before who, if he was at all surprised to see me, didn’t betray it. Ushered into the entrance hall, I felt like I’d stepped into a recurring dream. The marbled staircase with curved cast-iron palings, the damask drapes, the frayed oriental rugs strewn over the mosaic floor tiles, the chandeliers, the mahogany furniture – it was a kind of museum dedicated to the moth-eaten pomp of the Second Empire. I was led down a corridor to an anteroom where I was instructed to await Madame Chanel’s arrival. The sense of déjà vu continued: every object – the velvet confidante on which I sat, the brocaded floor lamp beside me, the rug on which my feet rested, the Delacroix lithographs in gilded frames hanging on the walls – prompted chimes of recognition and dread.

  The valet reappeared and announced that Madame Chanel would receive me. I followed him into the library, where two leather armchairs faced each other across a wide mahogany writing desk. Three of the four walls were entirely covered with books. I cast an eye over them. One wall was given over to every edition ever published of Baudelaire’s work, including in foreign languages. The other shelves were devoted to the secondary literature – books about Baudelaire: biographies, memoirs, criticism. All the volumes were uniformly bound in the same red peau de chagrin, with gold-leaf embossing, that had covered the Baudelaire manuscript at the auction. So about this, too, Madeleine had been right: ‘The Education of a Monster’ had been in the Society library all along. Why was the Society going to such lengths to retrieve a book it had just sold at auction? The only possible explanation was Madeleine’s.

  To be unable to trust one’s own mind is a rare and unenviable terror. And this was now the condition that took hold of me. All these corroborations of Madeleine’s stories were eroding the pillars upon which had rested, for four and a half decades, my sense of what was real and what was not. Trying to pull myself together, I continued my tour of the room. Hanging between two windows was a framed, tea-coloured chart of the world, not as it is but as it had been known a century or more ago. Someone had drawn a line that curved from one side of the map to the other, tracing a circumnavigation of the globe that had started and ended in Marseille and included a stop in the Pacific, on an island too small for the cartographer to record, but which the holder of the pencil had marked and named as Oaeetee. Below the map, on a stand, stood a scale-model replica of a three-masted sailing ship called the Solide, sailing under a French tricolour flag – not the blue, white and red flag that was approved in 1794 but the red, white and blue flag introduced in 1790, shortly after the Revolution. The model’s craftsmanship was first-rate. The maker had reproduced everything, every sail and rope, down to the officers and crew. Some were climbing the rigging, others keeping lookout, and one was manning the wheel. A circle of men was gathered on the main deck, where a sailor was tied to the bulwark and – I leaned forward to better study the scene depicted – being flogged. His back was expertly striated with waxy scarlet streaks, while another crewman was standing near him with a whip in his hand. Again, everything was exactly as Madeleine had described. Between the books, the map and the model ship, not to mention the events that had led me here, this was the moment of my complete persuasion, my conversion, my Damascus moment. If I could have slipped out of the building then and there, without even speaking to Chanel, I would have gladly done so. There was no need to meet her anymore. I had the answer to my most pressing questions: Madeleine had been telling the truth. But it was at that very instant that I heard the clipped steps of a woman in high heels approaching from the corridor outside. The door opened and Chanel entered the room in a puff of rhythm, perfume and light, approaching me with a smile that vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. Her hand was glacial to the touch.

  ‘A relic of the Society’s founder,’ she said without introducing herself, looking down at the model ship with a frown. ‘A bit of an eyesore, really. I’m of a mind to donate it to some provincial museum somewhere and be rid of it.’ She set off in the direction of a liquor cabinet camouflaged among the bookshelves. ‘Something to drink?’

  ‘Bisquit Dubouché. You have a fine library. Who’s your binder – Meunier? Lortic?’

  Chanel shook her head with a smile as she poured. ‘Guess again.’

  I approached the nearest shelf, taking a book at random, examining the leather, the embossing, the filigree. ‘This is very fine work, reminiscent of Marius Michel, though more modern. There’s an artist’s temperament at play here.’ I opened the book and held one of the pages open against the light of the windows. ‘My guess is . . .’ And there it was, a spectral fingerprint: the binder’s watermark. ‘No, it can’t be. The expense alone . . .’ But the quality of the work was beyond question. ‘Can it be that this entire library was bound by Legrain?’

  Chanel approached me holding two glasses, one of which she handed to me, holding my eye as she did so. It was unsettling, locking gazes with this woman. She was no longer young, but an awesome power emanated from her, elegant and flinty at once, animated by a restless energy that could easily be mistaken for youth, and was even, perhaps, preferable to it. ‘Using lacquers by Jean Dunand,’ she confirmed with a half-smile, sitting on the edge of the writing table. ‘Now you understand the value of the full collection. When I took the reins of the Society, I had it entirely rebound, to give it an aesthetic unity Baudelaire himself would have been proud of. It’s the finest collection of its type in the world. These volumes are for the sole and exclusive use of the Society’s members. There are books here of which there exists only one copy.’ Her eyes sparkled proudly.

  ‘Don’t you think outsiders also ought to be able to read them?’

  ‘Not at all,’ she smiled. ‘Now, to the matter at hand. Do you have the manuscript?’

  So I’d gambled well: she had not managed to retrieve the manuscript from Vennet. It was still out there, somewhere, hidden by the old man before he was killed. And now my purpose was clear: I had to get out of here alive and find it.

  ‘I don’t.’

  Chanel blinked. ‘Then why are you wasting my time?’ she said, almost growling.

  ‘Until only a couple of weeks ago, that manuscript was here, nestled among all the other Baudelaire originals on that wall, bound by Legrain, like everything else.’ I’d based my gambit on what Madeleine had told me, although I had no way of knowing if my arrow would hit its mark. Chanel lo
oked at me with all the inscrutability of a casino habitué. She raised her hand, presumably to reach for the bell on the desk to call the valet. I plunged mine into the satchel and pulled out Madeleine’s derringer, pointing it in her direction. ‘I suggest you don’t ring that bell.’ My heart lurched into another painful, stabbing gallop. Chanel took a sip of brandy, narrowing her eyes and studying me as if sizing me up for the first time. But she didn’t say anything. If her silence was calculated to be unnerving, it worked. But I’d long since passed the point of no return. ‘Why would you sell a manuscript, only to go to such lengths to retrieve it after it was sold?’

  She did not reply, but smoked her cigarette calmly, keeping her gaze on me the entire time. I felt foolish, an impostor, playing a role for which I was ill suited. But, receiving no satisfaction, I decided I could only press on. ‘Why would you murder the man who bought it?’ Again, no reply. To make matters worse, I was now blushing. The silence dragged out so long that I couldn’t bear it another second. ‘I think I know why. You thought you could take advantage of the impending invasion to try to tempt Madeleine out of her lair. And perhaps, if things had turned out a little differently, it might have worked.’

  Finally, a response: Chanel smiled – a sly, barely perceptible smile. At the time, I couldn’t understand it. After all, she didn’t know that my derringer contained no bullets. ‘Ah, Madeleine,’ she said. ‘Madeleine Pernety – or perhaps you know her as Madeleine Blanc. I should have known she would be mixed up in this. She is a most charming creature, isn’t she? So easy to fall in love with. Of course, as you can imagine, you’re not the first. You are neither the first to have fallen for her, nor the first to have been duped by her. If her story is convincing, it’s only because she’s rehearsed it so often. And sadly you are certainly not the first to have agreed to commit a crime punishable by death on her behalf. For what we are dealing with is a sadly deluded, and very dangerous, mind. Although I have been a victim of her delusions for a long time now – for as long, indeed, as I have been president of this Society – I am also aware that there are other victims. And among those victims are the men who fall in love with her.

  ‘Madeleine is a woman obsessed. She is very good at recognising obsession in others. And it’s easy to mistake her obsession for love, especially when one is craving it oneself. How long have you known her? I’d wager a few weeks at most. Am I right?’

  Having just committed the sin of saying too much, I opted to say nothing at all.

  ‘Your silence speaks volumes. Have you considered the possibility that Madeleine planned everything from the beginning? Or did you think you met by coincidence, like real lovers? A Baudelaire scholar meets a woman who promises him a rare prize – no, two prizes: her heart and a rare manuscript, days before its auction. That’s quite a coincidence, wouldn’t you say?’ She looked me directly in the eye. ‘Did she tell you you were Baudelaire in a past life? That she was Jeanne Duval?’

  I was determined to say nothing. She smiled again, leaning back and drawing on her cigarette.

  ‘Monsieur, I have been shadowed by Madeleine for almost two decades, so I should know a thing or two about her ways. In your own small way you are also a victim of that woman’s insanity. But at least we still have the privilege of being alive. Several others have not been so lucky.’

  She took a sip of her drink. Again, I resisted the temptation to speak, which is easy to do when one is holding a gun at someone. I found myself admiring Chanel’s aplomb.

  ‘Consider this,’ she continued, moving around the writing table and sitting in the leather chair on the other side. ‘Consider what she is asking you to believe. She contends that it is possible for the soul of a human being to cross from one body into another. Monsieur, I don’t know you but I can only assume you are an intelligent man. I assume from your accent that you are German, probably Jewish. In your circumstances, it should not astonish you if your reason is taken hostage by an attractive woman. Being a German Jew at this place and time, you may be excused an old man’s folly. So I cannot hold a grudge against you, even though you are pointing a gun at me. Instead, I wish to appeal to your intellect. I am quite sure I can persuade you I have a rational explanation for everything that Madeleine has told you. You see, she was a member of the Society when I first joined it in 1921. She’d been a member for some years, rising to the position of secretary when Aristide Artopoulos was its president. Naturally, she assumed she was the heir apparent. Instead, when I joined, Artopoulos decided the Society would be better off with me as its president. In retrospect, it is clear that Madeleine was already lost in her fantasies – lost to reason and logic – even before my arrival, only it wasn’t apparent at the time.

  ‘You see, Madeleine’s psyche is deeply scarred. She was a nurse during the war, and it destroyed her. Shellshock. She was one of those survivors of that terrible conflict who appear well but are secretly diseased, only her disease is one of the mind. Perhaps it was Baudelaire’s madness that drew her to him. And of all his writings, she identified most with “The Education of a Monster”.

  ‘At some point, no doubt driven by a kind of primal guilt complex, she fused her own identity with that of the Édmonde de Bressy character described in the manuscript. And over time, she developed this elaborate backstory, piecing together fragments from a variety of sources, even the model ship you were studying when I entered the room. She became so entangled in these inventions of hers that she eventually decided, when Artopoulos accorded me the presidency, that I was her ancient rival, hell-bent not only on her destruction but on that of the entire world. Thankfully, at this point, she did not have a firearm, or my life might have ended then and there.

  ‘So she quit – well, more accurately, she vanished, never to be seen again, taking the manuscript with her. And every now and then, she manages to coax some unsuspecting lover into doing her bidding, hoping that somehow she will be rid of me and will finally reclaim her rightful position as president of the Baudelaire Society.’

  She rang the bell for the valet and stood. Suddenly I was glad the bullet chamber was empty. Had it not been, I would have found myself torn: in awakening my doubts about Madeleine’s sanity, Chanel had led me to question my own.

  ‘Monsieur, you can put your gun away, you will not need it today. I guarantee you your safety. Out of pity. For you are nothing more than an innocent dupe. My advice to you is to leave Paris immediately. The Germans will be here in less than a week and they will come looking for you, I promise you. In different circumstances, I would send for the police right now. You are an unfortunate, but today you can consider yourself lucky. There are more pressing matters to attend to. Good day, monsieur. And good luck.’ And with that she crushed what remained of her cigarette into an ashtray and walked out of the room as if she didn’t have another second to spare.

  I did not put my gun away, as Chanel had ordered me to do. I kept that gun in my hand until Chanel’s man ushered me out of the building, my heart beating painfully, and even once I was alone on the street I put it in my pocket but kept my grip intact in case I was being followed. I walked along the Quais d’Anjou and de Bourbon, turned the corner and began walking towards the cathedral – slowly at first, deep in thought. Occasionally, one’s illusions are stripped away so suddenly that the mind is left spinning like a top. So it was on this occasion. What, precisely, had that meeting achieved? I’d arrived seeking certainty, one way or the other; within minutes, I’d settled on one kind of certainty, only for that certainty to be summarily demolished. I was no closer to solving the mystery of Vennet’s murder – nor that of Madeleine’s disappearance. And as for the manuscript, all I could be certain of was that the Baudelaire Society did not have it. I had been thoroughly outfoxed. That part of me that had always been ashamed of the thought of being in love with Madeleine was screaming at the part of me that still loved her, I told you so!

  In the maelstrom of my mind, I tried reconstructing the events of the previous fortnight. Could
it really be that Madeleine had chosen me as the target of her elaborate scheme? Had she deliberately led me to Jacquenet’s bookstore to entice me into her murderous game? Or had it been more intuitive, less calculated than that, the spell she cast over me? Whatever the explanation, how could I have fallen for it so completely? And if her love was counterfeit, why was my heart still aching?

  I realised I needed to retrieve my black suitcase and leave Paris as quickly as possible. But to do that, I would need some help. With the rumble of the approaching conflict behind me, I walked hurriedly across the Pont Saint-Louis and the cathedral garden, past the cathedral, its windows hidden by sandbags, and across the empty square, cutting through the stream of southbound boulevard traffic, now peppered with military trucks and soldiers on foot also fleeing the onslaught, towards the Quai des Orfèvres. At the entrance gate of the Palais de Justice, a line of men were carrying boxes from the offices onto a barge. I asked the guard to see Massu but, after he’d made a call, he told me to come back the following morning. When I insisted on seeing Massu right away, the guard threatened to have me arrested.

  I crossed the river and headed homeward down the Rue Danton. Away from the Boulevard Saint-Michel, the streets were so quiet my steps echoed against nearby buildings. Shafts of golden light, speckled with flakes of dancing ash, pierced the afternoon shade, and the air smelled of burning paper.

  When I neared my building on Rue Dombasle, Chanel’s Delahaye cabriolet was parked around the corner. There was no one in it. Thankfully, I’d signed my letter to Chanel with Arthur’s name and apartment number, directly above mine. At the foot of the stairs, I listened for noises. Nothing. I looked up. No sign of a human presence. There was no point being surreptitious, I decided – the staircase creaked – I must walk as any other man would normally walk. Only now I found myself asking, how do men normally walk? Feigning normalcy, I climbed the steps to my apartment and entered it. Knowing Chanel’s henchman would be listening, I left the door unlocked. I took off my shoes and, moving as quietly as I could, heart throbbing, I took my black suitcase, my papers and what little money I had and left, descending the steps two at a time, suitcase, shoes and all. I ran in my socks down Rue Dombasle, turned right at the Rue de Vaugirard and down the steps of the entrance to the Métro.