The Paris Affair

53 Christoph

53

Christoph

September, 2002 – Bonn

Christoph sat at the piano and watched Daniel and Julia walk down the path and into the street. Daniel stopped to hold the gate open for her. The look that flashed between them was like sunlight glinting on water. It made Christoph feel old, but also very happy.

It had been two weeks since his fever started. Time had passed in fits and starts, full of terrible dreams. Thankfully, Daniel had been there. Soothing words, a soft touch of his hand, and once, on the worst and most disturbing night, when Christoph had dreamed of Stalingrad, Daniel had climbed into the bed and held him tight.

Christoph still felt tired. His cancer was making him more exhausted by the day. Today, however, he wanted to play the piano. He’d persuaded Julia and Daniel that he’d be fine left alone for an hour whilst they went shopping for paint. Daniel had decided to redecorate his room now that he was staying. They’d spent the morning taking down all of Daniel’s old photos and stowing them in albums.

Christoph played the opening bars of the ‘Moonlight Sonata’. The memories in his mind were like a book he could read over and over. True, the ending was inconclusive, but he’d come to accept that it was better to have known and loved and lost Sylvie than never to have met her at all. She’d affirmed his humanity at the very moment when it had seemed most in doubt.

A movement caught his eye. Somebody was opening the gate and coming down the path. For a moment, with the sun shining in his eyes, he thought it was Julia. It reminded him of that day a few months ago when she’d arrived.

But it wasn’t Julia walking up the path. This woman was older. Her hair was tied back in a neat silver bun. She glanced towards the window, unable to see him because of the sun’s reflection, but he could see her. His heart stopped beating. The note he was playing died away. The woman looked just like Sylvie.

The doorbell rang and jolted him to his senses. Silly old fool, you’re seeing things. It’ll be a neighbour or someone selling something. But his heart stammered as he reached for his stick.

‘I’m coming,’ he called, out of breath at the sudden movement. He wrenched open the door.

It was a dream. But no, she was laughing and crying, and coming towards him. His Sylvie, after all this time, after all these years. His stick clattered to the ground and he pulled her close, gathering her in his arms. Her touch ignited the secret chambers of his heart that time had buried. Thank God she’d come.

A gentle breeze blew across the garden. The lavender swayed, bees losing their anchor on the flowers. Clara had made tea. He sat next to her on the bench by the vegetable patch, his arm around her. She fitted next to him like the other half of his being.

‘Clara.’ Christoph tried the name on his lips. It felt right somehow.

‘It’s strange to hear you say it,’ she said.

Christoph smiled. ‘Sylvie is the woman I met in the war. Lisette the woman who eluded me. But you, Clara, are all of them in one.’

Clara cupped his cheek, tears moistening her eyes. ‘I’ve missed you,’ she said.

‘I’ve missed you too.’ Christoph blinked back tears and smiled. ‘It’s funny. I’ve waited all this time, and now the past is catching up with me. I even spoke to Jacques a few days ago.’

Clara frowned. ‘Poor Jacques. It wasn’t fair of me to leave him like that, but I was going through something, a kind of crisis of identity. I had to go right back to the beginning and become Clara to escape it all.’

‘Did it work?’

‘I wanted a fresh start without being dragged down by memories of the war and you. But no, it didn’t work. Instead, I collapsed. A wonderful psychotherapist helped put me back together again.’

Christoph drew her close and kissed her lips. It was hard to think of all the years wasted. He drank in her delicate scent, touched her hair. Then a thought occurred to him.

‘How did you know I was looking for you?’

Clara smiled, the wrinkles around her eyes adding depth to her face.

‘Someone discovered my real name. I’d left it hidden in the recipe book, in case you ever needed to find me.’

‘That book was lost to me for years,’ Christoph said. ‘Julia found it. She’s been cooking the recipes and helping to revive my memories.’

‘Julia. That’s who it was. She put an advert in all the English newspapers. Of course, I never saw it – I hate the news. But one of my employees read the classifieds, saw the name Clara Saunders and brought me the cutting.’

‘Goodness, I had no idea Julia had done that.’

Clara clasped his hands. ‘I’ve always felt guilty I never told you what I did in the war. I was afraid you’d see it as a betrayal.’

‘I did at first,’ Christoph said, smoothing his thumb over her palm.

‘I was going to tell you that last time in Paris,’ she said, ‘but I never got the chance.’

‘I never forgot you,’ Christoph said. He reached into his pocket and took out his wallet. There, preserved in the folds of his driving licence, was a sprig of dried lavender.

‘Is that mine?’ Clara exclaimed. ‘From all those years ago?’

‘I told you I’d look after it. I posted it home to my mother, along with the key, just before they shipped me out to Russia.’

Clara opened her purse and took out a piece of folded card. ‘Look, I kept this too.’

It was the postcard from La Tour d’Argent, the first time they’d had dinner.

‘Keepsakes from another lifetime,’ Christoph said, touching the creases.

‘Oh, Christoph, I’m so thankful to be with you again. If it’s not too late, I’d like to stay,’ Clara said. ‘I want to spend every minute here and make the most of the time we have left.’

‘There won’t be many minutes,’ Christoph said, ‘but they are all yours.’