4 THE CALM OF MONTMARTRE
4
T HE C ALM OF M ONTMARTRE
The calm of Montmartre surprised Roger Narbona. He walked, climbed, descended, and cut through stone-paved streets, snapping three photos before rounding two corners and hitting a dead end. He didn’t see a single person anywhere. It was like a city within a city. Where were the swarms of people from the Latin Quarter, the grand boulevards, and the Champs-élysées?
Montmartre was altogether different. He wondered if the neighborhood had emptied for the weekend, if people had locked themselves in shelter from the February cold—oppressive and biting—or if he simply hadn’t been warned that this was a bygone neighborhood.
Once he started feeling hungry for lunch, he entered the first place that looked authentic. Chez Richard was a small, long-standing restaurant on rue Véron. Under the red awning, the words “fifteen euros including coffee” were written on a blackboard in elegant and well-crafted handwriting. If they were this exact with the calligraphy, surely they’d be just as scrupulous about the quality and presentation of their dishes. His deduction was premature. The soup stock danced on one side of the bowl, the chicken on the other. The second course, the steak, was a rubber tire with a side of french fries. Those, at the very least, were well fried. Not at all oily, perfectly crispy on the outside and soft inside. How they were meant to be. The way his mother, the expert, made them, because she had to prove in some way that, even though she lived in Fontclara in the farmland of Empordà, she was a proud Frenchwoman.
“Fruit or cheesecake?” the lone waitress in the establishment asked Roger. She walked in a frenzy from table to table.
“Is the cake made in-house?”
“Yeah, of course.”
“What kind of fruit do you have?”
“Apples and oranges.” The conversation was starting to drag on a little too long for the waitress, her taut, white apron tied at her waist and falling to her ankles.
“What do you think?”
“I don’t get paid to decide.”
Roger looked up at her face. He was smiling, she was not. Her forehead dripped with sweat but her hands were too full to wipe it off. The restaurant had its heater on full blast, and she had to serve the dozen or so tables all by herself.
“I’ll take an orange, thanks.”
Just as the waitress headed toward the kitchen, dirty cutlery atop a plate of steak cartilage in hand, he called her back.
“Excuse me ... Just a question.” Roger wiped his lips. “Do you know why there are so few people in the neighborhood?”
She turned around and, as if to ignore him, continued onward. On her way, she said to someone, “Monsieur Richard, the guy at table seven.”
“What the hell does he want?” The man looked in the direction of the new customer, who’d eaten his lunch with a Coca-Cola.
“He says he’s got a question.”
The owner, who hadn’t so much as moved his mustache from behind the register the whole time, walked away from the counter and, dragging his feet, approached Roger’s table.
Monsieur Richard was pudgy with a red neck, high cholesterol, and forty years of home cooking under his belt; and, best of all, he had an answer to Roger’s question. He asked for permission to sit across from Roger, ordered Laurence, the waitress, to bring him a carafe of his “special” wine, and, once finished serving himself a glass, began to speak.
The older people had abandoned Montmartre. Because it was steep, because it was out of the way, because, in order to find a little bit of life—boulangeries, pharmacies, hair salons, pet food stores—you had to first descend toward Clichy Boulevard before climbing up the hill. The young people, meanwhile, couldn’t live there because of the astronomical price per square foot. And if they were able to pay for it, they’d soon discover they couldn’t park on the street, the buildings didn’t have garages, and, even if they did, the garages were so damn narrow and shabby that it would be a miracle if they didn’t scratch their car. If you can afford to indulge your every desire, you should at least be comfortable. You shouldn’t have to suffer to do jack shit, reasoned Monsieur Richard, his toothbrush mustache bristling.
It was gentrification. An ugly word, an uglier concept.
Montmartre had slowly become a postcard neighborhood. It was rustic and pleasant in the black-and-white streets, picturesque and multicolored in the dozens of artists in place du Tertre and the eccentric clothing of the tourists who circled the vicinity of the Basilica of Sacré-Coeur—or the “Easter Mona,” as the Narbona-Bazin family always used to call it, because it reminded them of the Catalonian holiday pastry. At the start of the twenty-first century, with its technological ambitions, living in a museum-like neighborhood made for more trouble than anything else. Time doesn’t just leave people in the past, Monsieur Richard divined, signaling the end to the conversation.
Roger left a two-euro tip that the friendly Monsieur Richard and Laurence could split however they wished. Laurence hadn’t stopped running around the entire hour that Roger had been seated.
When he exited the restaurant, he positioned the menu board into the camera frame. Like the majority of time he spent looking through the viewfinder, he let the camera lead the way. He had enough of an instinct to know when he was about to capture a cheap photo, devoid of sense or meaning, and would hold back the impulse. This way, he wouldn’t have to delete the pictures later, which basically meant more free time.
He zipped his parka all the way to the top and strolled a while longer, wandering around identical-looking alleyways. In each one, he spotted something he hadn’t seen on an empty stomach. He enjoyed meandering aimlessly and discovering untouched corners of the past. Not even a stray meow from around a distant corner could break his peace. But the cold was freezing his ears and cutting at his lips, spurring him to walk faster and faster.
He returned home once the streetlamps flickered on. As he climbed past each floor landing, he lowered his jacket zipper little by little. On the fifth floor, he felt around his pockets in search of the oboe key chain. He entered without announcing himself. Barbara’s eyes were glued to the computer screen, and she barely greeted him.
“Holy hell, it’s so cold,” said Roger.
“What?”
“It’s colder than Siberia.”
“It’s fine here.”
“I meant outside.” He set his camera bag down on the red sofa. “Is that normal?”
“It’s Paris. It’s February.”
“Thanks for the information.”
“They said it’ll get colder. A cold front coming from somewhere.”
“From the north, surely.”
Extreme phenomena always come from above.
Barbara worked while listening to classical music. Some familiar piece. Roger had heard it many times before but couldn’t put a name to it. Bach would be his guess. When you’re not sure what you’re listening to but it sounds really nice, say Bach. The cello suite played so quietly that Roger figured Barbara hadn’t even heard it. He picked up his things, went to his room, and warmed his hands on the radiator. Then he put his butt on it. He took off his boots, grabbed his Canon, and stretched across the bed to skim through the photos he had taken of Montmartre. With the camera on his lap, he slowly surrendered to sleep. Roger hated naps. He thought they were a waste of time. Plus, once he woke up from them, he always felt bloated and like he couldn’t relieve any of the symptoms. But night trains will topple even the bravest, and he offered up little resistance as sleep defeated him.
He was woken by a scream. He didn’t know where he was, whether it was morning or afternoon, or where the cries were coming from. It wasn’t just one, either. He got up and opened the window. It was a dark night, and the air shaft was emitting the same dreadful odor as when he’d first entered his brother’s room. He brought his ear closer to the window to try to figure out where all the fuss was coming from. He thought he saw movement in the laundry room of the second floor. Or maybe it was the third. He definitely heard a woman cursing out her husband and his whole family, ancestors included. The man, if there was one, silently accepted the yelling. The tirade seemed like it would go on for a while, so Roger closed his window, hoping this wouldn’t be his daily lot.
After the nap—he had no idea how long it had lasted—the room was no longer Marcel’s. Roger had made it his own in just a few short hours.
Cold, he got to one knee and slid the suitcase out from under the bed to grab a thin sweater to wear around the house. But the suitcase resisted. He looked to see if it was jutting out into any of the wooden legs holding up the box spring. It didn’t seem like it. He rested his other knee on the ground and leaned over to investigate. The Samsonite had gotten stuck between a leg and a metallic box. Even while splayed out on the ground, Roger couldn’t fit his arm far enough to move everything at the same time. He stood, lifted the box spring and hoisted it over one of his shoulders, then, with one hand, nudged the suitcase while towing the box out awkwardly with his foot. The problem now solved, he put the mattress back into place, careful not to make any noise that might scare Barbara. The box was bright yellow, made of tin, and about twice the size of a shoebox. Based on the amount of dust gathered on top, it couldn’t have belonged to Marcel. It must have stayed hidden there for a long time, perhaps forgotten, maybe even lost. There was a somewhat juvenile advertisement on the lid. He could make out the head of a Black man wearing a fez, red like his lips, holding a steaming white mug in one hand, and the words “Banania le petit déjeuner familial.” It must have originally contained powdered chocolate separated into jars or packets. But Roger was fairly sure there was no longer any trace of ColaCao—or anything like it—left inside the tin.
Should he open it? At the end of the day, the only difference between snooping and investigating was perspective. And why not, if no one would know?
Before slipping off the lid, he gently shook the box to see if there was anything fragile inside. Nothing. It didn’t weigh much, and he didn’t hear any movement. He put the box on the bed and opened it with caution, making sure the dust wouldn’t spread all over the duvet cover. Inside he found clippings. A wad of magazine pages, more photographs than articles. Pieces of pages carefully cut by hand. They hadn’t been crumpled—just the opposite: the documents looked as if they’d been ironed. The person who had preserved them had good taste. There were pictures of Paris from a past time. Happy people stood in black and white. Elegant people with fancy hats, well-dressed workingmen, and a woman on a bicycle who looked like she’d posed expressly for the picture. They were images of serenity, of the happiness of the streets, of peaceful people filling tables on terraces. Then, among the clippings, he found a color photograph—a faint and faded hue—that emanated the same peacefulness.
Whoever collected the photographs clearly possessed solid judgment and a good eye. Roger hadn’t exactly discovered a treasure, but, with an eye glued to the door in case Barbara should open it—he was sure she wouldn’t, but without a latch, you never knew—he spent a good while discovering the beauty of a time period he’d never known. The fever of a long-ago Paris.
He returned the tin box back to its place and resolved to make the most of the photographs; all the while, Barbara continued to sit in front of her computer screen until eleven o’clock. She was wearing a blue muslin onesie that stretched from the hood folded behind her neck and covered her toes. The desk was British colonial, with a carpenter’s trim work and several drawers. It faced the window, and the wood had become irregularly discolored by the sun. On top of the desk, next to her computer monitor, Barbara kept only a box, a plastic cell phone holder, and, at that late hour, an herbal tea whose scent filled the dining room.
“You know what surprised me about today?”
“Excuse me?” Barbara pretended she hadn’t heard him.
“You’re working.” He pretended he hadn’t noticed. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to ... What do you do for work?”
“What about you?” she snapped. Barbara relaxed. Her bad moods never lasted the whole day. “Foreign rights.”
Roger sat down on the red sofa, eager to listen.
“International rights? For what?”
“For books, for authors. I make sure authors from our press are published in other countries and languages.”
“Are you a literary agent?”
“No. A literary agent represents many different writers. I only sell—or try to sell, at least—writers from a single publishing house. I go back and forth to book fairs. London. Frankfurt ...”
“And are they good? Your writers?”
Barbara faced him; she’d stopped turning her back to him for the very first time.
“Real auteures .”
“ Auteurs , you mean.” Roger’s French was impeccable, but he felt bad correcting a real Parisian.
“The three I represent, for your information, are three women, three novelists. And are ”—she emphasized the syllable—“the best.”
“It’s a joke, come on.” He saw Barbara’s green eyes staring daggers back at him and tried to lighten the mood with a smile. “Tell me what you really think.”
“If I didn’t think they were the best, I wouldn’t be able to sell them.”
When Barbara smiled, Roger sensed a slyness. Perhaps her youthful aura had something to do with her front teeth, which had an elegant gap that Barbara showed little interest in modifying. Her hair, curly, dark, and unfettered, bounced around though she was sitting still.
Roger cleared his throat the way all Narbonas did before broaching a difficult subject.
“What kind of tea are you drinking?”
“The tin is in the kitchen. This one is ... I don’t know what I’ve made for myself today. Licorice, I’m guessing.”
Barbara sniffed the mug to check. Roger continued on with his mission.
“You know what surprised me most about today?” The more eager you are to learn something, the harder it is to ask about it, he realized. “I’ve mentioned it before, and it’s become even clearer now that I know what you do. I think it’s strange there isn’t a single book or photo in this entire apartment.”
“You’re thinking too narrowly. I have it all here.” Barbara pointed to her computer screen. “It’s more practical for work. I read it all from one place. Or, if I’m traveling, I read it on a tablet. I work with stories, not paper. I sell novels, plots, lives and personalities, writing styles, and feelings. When I moved here, I didn’t have to bring a single physical book.”
“I haven’t gotten used to e-books. Not because I’m not a reader, but because I like touching the cover and knowing whether I’m on the right or left page whenever I grab a book.”
Barbara stood and stretched her arms, arching her back like a cat shaking off its sleepiness. Too many hours sitting down, he thought. Yawning, she seemed to remember something.
“There actually is a book in the house. Just one, as far as I know. My grandma wanted to keep only one. Mamie Margaux’s favorite.”
Roger waited for her to fetch the book. Or, at the very least, for her to tell him the title. But Barbara went straight to the fridge, picked up an apple, washed it, and took a bite. Once he realized she didn’t want to go down that road, he went straight to the point.
“And what about pictures? How come there isn’t a single one in the house? It’s weird.”
“That ...” She chewed the mealy apple in her mouth and sat back in her office chair. “There’s a story to that.”
Roger concealed his interest, donning a poker face. He didn’t want to try his luck and blurt out something that would ruin it all. He yearned for that monologue—for an explanation he expected to follow—but also felt that, by feigning disinterest, he’d be more likely to entice the suspicious and discreet Barbara to open the floodgates. Even if slowly.
“One fateful day, my grandma woke up here, in her room, and said she didn’t want to see any more pictures of herself. Just like that. I’m talking about a long time ago. She decided over the course of a single night. And, lo and behold, she immediately took down the three or four she’d had hanging. There weren’t any more than that, but she took them all down. The ones with us, with my mother ... family photos, all taken down. If she happened to be in the picture, she’d take it out of the frame and rip it up. No, sorry, I’m lying. She didn’t rip them up. Maybe she hid them away, but who knows where.”
“Wow, your grandma’s quite the character.”
“You’ve never heard of someone reacting like that?”
“I’ve heard of it, but why did she take them down?”
Barbara looked at the apple, checking to make sure there wasn’t a worm.
“I guess”—she took a bite—“because of some bad experience.”
Roger waited for Barbara to elaborate. He gave her the floor, hoping she’d keep unfurling her scroll.
But Mamie Margaux’s granddaughter figured she’d said enough. She wasn’t sure how he pulled it off, but she had somehow revealed more to that smart-aleck Roger, who’d spent only a couple of hours in the apartment so far, than she ever had to Marcel during their four months of silent cohabitation. Before saying good night, Barbara offered him one last nugget.
“You know the strangest thing of all?”
He looked at her expectantly.
“Since that day, my grandmother hasn’t let anyone take a photo of her. Never again. Not once. By anyone.”