Chapter 20
20
The humid August morning has me dragging my feet to meet Guillaume at Montmartre cemetery. It’s nearing the end of the month and soon it will be autumn. I’m torn between rushing to make it on time and slowing my pace so I don’t arrive a sweaty mess, weighing up whether the lecture will be worth it. I’m keen to quiz Guillaume on where he’s at with his letter writing after he admitted he was grappling with guilt. I stop on the bridge to wave – as always – to the ghosts who I’m sure hover below and then continue on, hoping today I’ll see Minou, who has been absent the last couple of visits. While the cats are wild, often locals fall in love with them and catnap them home, to live a safer more luxurious life in a Parisian apartment. I can’t begrudge them this, but the idea of not saying goodbye and never seeing him again hurts more than it should.
Inside the cemetery gates, I search for Minou, calling his name while I shake a container of cat biscuits. A few other darlings come running, but not the one I most want to see.
I find Guillaume on the bench and drop my handbag beside him. ‘Bonjour,’ I say, spreading the biscuits on the soft shaded grass.
‘Bonjour, Lilou.’ He gives me a wide smile while I wait for him to remonstrate me for not being punctual. I wait and nothing comes. Curious. Perhaps he too is distracted about our missing tabby friend.
‘No sign of Minou?’
He wrinkles his brow. ‘None. I dropped past yesterday and the day before too, early morning before they’d have a chance to be fed by anyone else, and no sign.’
A wave of sadness hits me. It’s silly, I know, being attached to an animal who roams free, but I’ve come to love him after so many visits. Without a goodbye, how will I ever know what fate he suffered? I’m embarrassed to find myself choking up when I go to reply.
Guillaume gives my shoulder a pat. ‘Don’t worry, Lilou. He’ll return. That cat has many a hang up about people. I can’t see anyone spontaneously adopting him because he’d make his displeasure known.’
‘Oui, that’s why I love him so. He’s not a lap cat, and he won’t bend his will for anyone, not even when there’s fresh fish on offer.’
Guillaume shakes his head. ‘He’s probably hiding from us on purpose. Revenge because you only brought biscuits again.’
The idea of a such a thing produces a small laugh because it rings true. I gaze around, expecting to see his furry face peeking out from a headstone. ‘That wouldn’t surprise me. Tomorrow I’ll stop by the poissonnier for some tuna. That’s his favourite.’
‘That ought to do it. And we’ll laugh about how worried we’ve been, you’ll see.’
Guillaume is trying to lighten the mood, but if Minou isn’t here, and most likely hasn’t been claimed by a local, where could he be? My mind goes to scenarios I don’t want to contemplate. If only his feline friends could speak and reassure me he’s just on an adventure elsewhere in the cemetery and will be back soon. I swipe at my eyes.
‘What have you got for me today?’
He takes a folder from his briefcase. ‘A range of decorative prayer books. One is written in Latin. A diary from the village Colmar, Alsace, known as the little Venice of France. Such a pretty town, with colourful cottages along the canals, like something out of a storybook. I’ve also got a postcard collection. If they don’t interest you, I’ll ask Benoit.’
I take the proffered folder and flick through photocopies of the range. The prayer books are exquisite. But it’s the diary I’m searching for. I find the passage he’s photocopied and I read it.
1988. How do you know when you’re in love? How do you distinguish it from general admiration for the person? There’s this new guy in my maths class, gorgeous, dreamy, utterly mesmerising. When I go to talk to him, my voice dries up. My knees go weak. I stutter and stammer, trying and failing to find my equilibrium. Try to make my mind catch up with my body. Is this love? And if so, how can I love someone without exchanging a single word with them? Is that even possible? I can’t see how I can ever find out unless my useless voice decides to work in his presence. My wobbly knees manage to hold me up long enough. What is wrong with me?
Puppy love! ‘This is adorable. Tell me, did her voice eventually work long enough for her to speak up?’
I’m expecting his usual faux gruff response, but he surprises me when he says, ‘I’m not going to spoil the surprise for you, Lilou. You’ll have to read it for yourself!’
‘Aha! You do read them, even though you claimed you don’t!’
He smiles. ‘I do no such thing. However, in this case, I’ll admit to being intrigued. When I photocopied that page, I needed to know so I skipped to the end and found my answers there.’
I gasp. ‘You skipped to the last page? Sacrilege!’
‘How did I know you’d say that, Lilou?’
It’s then I notice a marked difference in Guillaume. His shoulders aren’t as stooped as usual. There’s high colour in his complexion. Even the hollow in his cheeks isn’t as pronounced as it once was.
Could it be the first blush of romance? ‘You sent your letter, didn’t you?’
The obligatory head shake is back. ‘An old man gets whiplash the way you dart from one subject to another.’
I grin. ‘Ooh la la! I’m right, aren’t I?’
He hugs his arms around his middle section as if trying to stop the secret spilling out. To see his eyes sparkle with happiness is a huge relief. I wasn’t sure if he’d go through with the plan, and if he chose not to, I would have understood.
‘Fine, fine. I’ll tell you only because I’ll never hear the end of it, and here we are at a business meeting, discussing everything but business.’
I smother a smile. ‘Stay on track, Guillaume! You sent the letter when…?’
‘I sent the first letter a month ago, almost. That very day we spoke at the patisserie.’
‘And she replied?’
‘I got one in return within a couple of days. I wasn’t sure how my correspondence would be received as I told Clementine in no uncertain terms that I’m very sorry but I had already met the love of my life.’
‘Brutal, Guillaume!’ My shoulders spring up somewhere around my ears. Should I have given him more pointers?
‘Let me finish,’ he says, holding up a finger. ‘I didn’t want to give the woman unrealistic expectations. I explained Mathilde was the love of my life, and I miss her terribly still and always will. If that didn’t discourage her then I’d be open to becoming acquainted with her slowly via letter.’
My shoulders relax. I do tell matches honesty is always the best policy, so perhaps he’s expressed himself well. ‘What did she say back to that?’
He chuckles and I almost fall off the bench. Not once since Mathilde died have I heard such a sound escape his lips. ‘Clementine wrote in great detail, describing her ex-husband, and I only laugh because it was the polar opposite of what I wrote. She called him a snivelling crackpot of a man who has been going through a mid-life crisis for most of his adult life. While written in jest, I felt it was cathartic for Clementine to write about what unfolded, and how it had stopped her opening her heart again. It’s understandable that she would have reservations trusting in love, so I have reassured her I’m only a letter away and she may use me as a sounding board as long as she wishes.’
My heart explodes. It really does. This is exactly what I hoped would happen. Guillaume has so much love and support to give and to receive in turn. Having a special friend to converse and confide in might just be their ladder to love… ‘That’s so lovely, Guillaume. I bet she really could use a friend like you. Often it’s easier to confide in someone who is a stranger to the situation. There’s a real freedom in being able to express those pent-up emotions and receive support in return.’
‘True, true. I felt it would be unfair to continue singing Mathilde’s praises when Clementine’s marriage was so different, but sometimes it’s hard not to. Mathilde’s always with me.’ He pats his heart but doesn’t choke up this time. The guilt has been replaced with a quiet confidence.
‘I’m sure Clementine understands and will be just as respectful when you reminisce about Mathilde, but it’s nice that you’re hesitant to make it the focus of your letters.’ Marmalade, the ginger cat, saunters over and springs up on Guillaume’s lap, letting out a plaintive meow. The sound is so sad it gives me goosebumps. Is it because her best friend Minou is missing?
I don’t mention this to Guillaume because I don’t want to tear up again, and I’m sure he’s noticed the difference in Marmalade’s nature too.
While I gaze around the cemetery for Minou, I ask, ‘How many letters have you sent and received?’
‘Oh, who’s counting? There’s been a number of them, going back and forth as fast as the post service can keep up. I’m expecting a reply today. It’s made leaving work rather exciting, stopping to check my PO box in the hopes there’s a letter waiting for me.’
‘That really is beautiful.’ I can picture his face as he stops to check for a letter, his wide smile as he carries it home where he pours a robust red wine and sits on the sofa to read.
‘I’m so glad Paris Cupid found Clementine for me. She’s a wonderful person and seems to be at the same stage of life as I am. It’s not that we want some torrid love affair, it’s more that we want to build a friendship based on trust and mutual affection. Having someone in this big bustling city I can write to about my day, my work, my pain, my joy, breaks up the monotony of those long dull evenings.’
‘I agree. Clementine seems a good match for you and I’m so happy to hear the nights aren’t as lonely. Do you have a timeframe in mind to meet or will you take things as they come?’
He absently pats Marmalade, unaware that she’s gazing up at him with such rapture in her eyes, as if his presence is easing the loneliness of missing Minou. The cats here love Guillaume, so much so that when he’s here I become almost invisible to them. Perhaps I need to invest in fresh tuna more regularly.
‘As a gentleman, I think it’s best to follow her lead in that respect. There’s no need to rush. I’m enjoying the letters far more than I can say.’
‘You really are a gentleman, Guillaume, and you’ve made me very happy giving this a chance.’
‘I really should thank you for encouraging me, but I don’t want any praise to go to your head and give you any more crazy ideas.’
I laugh. ‘Probably wise.’
‘Anyway, let’s talk business. Which of these suit you?’ He points to the folder.
‘Benoit can have the postcards, but I’ll take the rest.’
‘Merci. Now, price?’
I rattle off a figure, ready to counter.
‘Fine,’ he says.
My jaw drops. ‘But – Guillaume, we always negotiate.’
‘No time! I’ll deliver them on Friday.’ If I didn’t know better I’d say his mind was busy with thoughts of a certain Clementine…
Guillaume says goodbye to Marmalade, packs his things and strides away with great purpose. I spend the next little while traipsing through headstones and ornate graves, looking for Minou, but have no luck finding the tabby cat.