What the Light Touches

27 THAT OLD WAY OF LOVING

27

T HAT O LD W AY OF L OVING

Dear Margaux,

I’m writing to you from home, my heart full of fear. With the way things are shaping up, I’ll make it out. Everything happens so quickly, and I fear I may not be able to tell you how much I love you again.

The news flies these days. And, unfortunately, our orchestra is in the midst of a storm. Today, I found out they arrested Imtold Lefebvre on his way to the theater, and what will happen after this, only God knows. However, I worry it won’t be good for me or for us.

Imtold is my friend, and based on the way he disappeared, I’m beginning to think I’ll never see him again. It’s really cruel imagining what has happened to him. And how all of a sudden, I’ll never see someone who’s been by my side my entire life. He was a school friend who became an orchestra friend, and it saddens me knowing we may never play together again. I hope I’m mistaken, but ...

It terrifies me most to think about how his life may have ended.

I introduced you to Imtold the day you and I met near the door of the Chatelet. Now, the wagging tongues in the orchestra, which do exist, say that Imtold was a member of the resistance. They say Imtold and a friend of his I didn’t know blew up a German bookstore that was—and still is—near the Sorbonne, twice. I didn’t know. I can’t believe it. But the conductor, Delphin Moureau, told us the Germans hunted down Imtold’s friend, a guy who made bombs, and wounded him, and instead of finishing him off, they tortured him until he confessed what they wanted to hear. I have no idea if things went that way. No one knows anything for sure. Truth is scarce during times of war. The reality is that Imtold’s been swallowed up by the earth.

As you can imagine, I have nothing to do with all this. What happened? I don’t know how to tell you. We move in uncertainty in this damn city, ever since the devil arrived in a sidecar. All I know is that Imtold stayed at my house for three days. Hiding? He never said that. The week before, he asked me for a favor. He explained that he couldn’t return to his apartment, and what else was I supposed to do? I told him yes, of course, he could stay the days he needed to. He would have done the same for me without thinking twice or asking me why. Not everyone becomes selfish in war, like they say. There are people who help. A lot. And they do it with their hearts, risking themselves for good people. And Imtold was a hell of a good person. And friend.

If I’m writing to you, Margaux, my Margaux, it’s because I’m scared. Very scared I may be next. Why? Because you see how the cookie has crumbled. Because everyone listens here and everyone talks. Because, in order to save yourself in this world, you betray your neighbor, your acquaintance, if you need to. And we all fall like flies.

Hitler is the devil, and it feels sometimes like this will have no end. We Frenchmen have lost, and the Vichy government surrendered to save their own skin. They surrendered in the name of the homeland and gave the country as a gift. I don’t understand it, but I do see an end to all this. The BBC, which you know I listen to sometimes, says it will, that there will be a day the nightmare ends. But if this international assistance is to come, I hope it doesn’t take too long, because this has been very difficult and long.

It might be too late for me.

What’s my sin? Nothing, dear Margi. I haven’t done anything. And you know that. We musicians who’ve been able to play in big orchestras are privileged. We haven’t had to go to the front, and despite everything, the Germans respect us. You know I live for music and for being with you as long as the situation allows it. This is the first time I’ve ever been in love. And the last. I never would have said that love could create these feelings. Every day we’re together, I hear the angels and archangels sing. Every day we’re together, my happiness is so great that not even Ravel could describe it in musical notation. Every cloud over our heads disperses when you look at me, dear Margaux. Your laughter is my salvation.

You’re very young, you are. You have your whole life ahead of you. Don’t let these people run it. Go your own way. Always go your own way. Try to be happy. Better said, be happy. Do it, even if it’s for me.

And whatever happens, never stop playing. You play so well. Every day, you get better, my little duckling. The notes will never betray you, remember?

Take care of your father. He’s a good man. You ought to know he has everyone in his pocket at the theater. Mr. Ferdinand endears himself, because, even in these times when everyone’s days are gray, he never says no to anyone. Maybe we should all try to act like him. Being on good terms with everyone, never looking for problems. That’s human. What’s so bad about our natural instinct to ensure conservation? We still don’t know who will be writing this episode of history in which we’re caught up. We don’t know how all this will be judged, but in the day-to-day, our situation, the situation of the good-faith Parisian, isn’t about cowardice or bravery. There are many nuances between the German collaboration and the active resistance. And this is perhaps where the majority of French people who still live in occupied territory try to be. Whatever way this ends, don’t ever scold your father for anything. He undoubtedly did what he had to do. He searched for the best thing for you and your mother. Whatever they say, he’s in an understandable position. Adjust to the situation, strive to live, move forward, and wait for better times to come. Survive, yes, this is the sacred verb of our times. Survive with the hope that this Nazi nightmare cannot last forever. Not even Hitler will be eternal. There will be a time when this world of fear, hunger, and sirens must end in some way or another.

It comforts me to think that, for every sheet of paper we rip off our calendars, an end may grow nearer.

And when the day comes, when the barbarism ends, I’ll want only to be with you. To live it. So that the two of us, if you’re willing, can start a family. This is a wish of mine I never expressed to you, and I’m taking advantage of the moment to tell you.

My most beloved, I’m getting ahead of myself, don’t you think? And I don’t know if this is the right place or time to say these things. But I’m writing in spurts because my heart is dictating, because I have nothing to lose, and because I’m picturing your beautiful eyes reading these lines. I assure you that if I could have one wish from the magic lamp in One Thousand and One Nights right here and now, nothing would make me happier than to know there’s a future in which you and I light a fireplace, waiting for the moment a baby calls us father and mother. Can you imagine how talented our children would be at playing the oboe? Or maybe they’d want to play the bassoon to annoy you?

Margaux, my duckling ... Don’t ever be ashamed.

Allow me to say it to you one more time. It’s impossible to love more than I love you as I write this letter that I hope you won’t need to read. You are my life.

I love you with that old way of loving.

With all my heart, without holding anything back.

D. D.

P.S.

I hesitated to write you this letter. Once I wrote it and without even daring to reread it, I really questioned whether I needed to get this to you. I hesitated again out of fear. Out of fear that it would weaken you to read it. Out of fear that it could end up hurting you. If anyone finds it, I wouldn’t forgive myself if this letter incriminated you in something you had nothing to do with. I’ve questioned everything, in short, out of fear this might be the last time I could “talk” to you. Nothing in this world would make me angrier, dear Margaux. If that were even the case, I’ve wondered if this silent goodbye would be easier for you. I don’t know. Everything is so complicated and strange that it’s too hard for me to think with so much fogginess around me. Forgive me, in any case. Sincerely, it’s come out of me like this, with my heart.

I hope to have wasted ink in vain and that you and I can see each other again. If not tomorrow, then the day after. At the moment, I have only written the words. At every event that life brings us, you must play the music.

Always yours.

Damien folded the three sheets of paper and placed them in an envelope. He didn’t list a sender. On the outside, he wrote only one thing.

For M. D. (in case of emergency)

Once he checked the clock, he realized he had to run. The rehearsals before concerts were sacred, and Moureau would get irritable if all the musicians were not in front of the music stand, their sheet music ready, ninety minutes before doors opened. He knotted his tie, dressed in his dark concert outfit, and ran his hands through his hair in front of the mirror to loosen his curls. He didn’t like how they’d bunched up on his forehead.

With the letter in his jacket pocket, his scarf wrapped around his neck, and the oboe case in his hand, Damien walked toward the theater to the rhythm of the molto allegro of the second Rimsky-Korsakov movement. Anxious about Imtold’s disappearance, he had the feeling on his way to work that this wouldn’t be just any Saturday. He looked from side to side when he turned every corner, waiting for a green uniform to ask him where he thought he was going. He feared that, in an ambush, a patrolman would surprise him, shout at him to halt, and ask him, “Are you Damien Devère?” And then it’d be lights out, good night. Only Germans had access to gasoline over the past few months, and there wasn’t a single vehicle that wasn’t driven by a swastika-clad uniform circulating the Parisian pavement. The few women who walked toward the ration lines dragged their feet. The dejection and hunger deteriorated them week after week. Despite everything, they’d go anywhere they needed for two potatoes and a head of cauliflower, and they were resigned to stand and wait however long they had to.

In front of the H?tel de Ville, a stone’s throw from the Chatelet, Damien realized that the sole of one of his shoes had opened from the front, like the mouth of a whale. He was right at the theater, and he approached slowly, trying to hide his torn shoe. He didn’t have any others. The poster in the doorway announced the concert of the day in large writing. Scheherazade.

He traversed the lobby, entered the dressing rooms, and popped his head onstage. A couple of his companions were already tuning their instruments in the hall. The percussions and the strings said, “Good afternoon,” and Damien mechanically and halfheartedly responded. The busy wind instruments returned the greeting with their eyebrows. Trying not to bother anyone in the narrow slalom between the music stands, he arrived at his seat and left the oboe case on top of his chair. Far from that madhouse, Ferdinand, knee on the ground, made sure the conductor’s platform was leveled. It had become an obsession for Delphin Moureau, because he didn’t want it to look like he was conducting the concert during an earthquake. When Ferdinand looked up, he saw a pair of shoes.

“What’s broken now?” He looked up farther to see who was standing there in front of him and found Damien before him. “Oh, hello, boy.”

“Good afternoon, Ferdinand. When you’re done ...”

“Right now.” He shook the wood with both hands. “Now the conductor can jump and stomp, because this thing won’t budge, even if he dances a fandango.”

The electrician huffed and puffed as he got up. He had started to need to leverage himself with two hands on his knees to stand up.

“Do you have a minute?”

“I even have two,” Ferdinand responded, not guessing what Damien had in mind.

“Let’s go to ...,” he said, gesturing toward the theater wings. “There’s too much racket here.”

Once he had Damien in front of him, the electrician realized this wouldn’t be any ordinary conversation. It was enough just to look at him to pick up on it.

“What’s wrong with your eyes?”

“Me?” Damien replied innocently. “What’s wrong with them?”

“It looks like you’ve seen a wolf.”

“The truth? That’s why I wanted to see you. I might be in trouble.”

That’s when Ferdinand became alert. “What happened?”

“They caught Imtold. One of the violinists.”

“I know who he is.”

“They arrested him.”

“I know. And?”

“I could be next, Ferdinand. I hope not, but I could be the next one. I have this hunch—”

“All right now. Let’s not get flustered too early. You? Why you?”

“I swear I have nothing to do with the German bookstore. I haven’t done anything, not a single protest, but ...”

“But?”

“Imtold was my friend. And he stayed at my house. Not long, just a few days. But he stayed at my house.”

“ Merde. Who knows?”

“I have no idea. But for me, all this ... Everyone is a potential spy in this city these days. Everyone knows something, gossip spreads. If more than just you knows something, you’ve already lost. One rumor is enough to ...”

The electrician shuffled the almonds in his pocket. “I know what you mean.” He took a deep breath. “I’ll do what you need me to.”

“I’m only asking for one thing, Ferdinand. Just do one thing for me, understand?”

“D. D ... I ...” He took his hands out of his pockets and opened them. He begged for forgiveness with his eyes. “Don’t ask me for anything that—”

“I won’t compromise you. Don’t worry. I won’t get you involved in any problems. God protect me. This isn’t going in that direction. But please promise me that ...”

“Tell me, then.”

“That you’ll do me this favor.”

He took the letter out of his blazer pocket.

“This is for your daughter.” He held the envelope like it was burning him and placed it in Ferdinand’s hands. “It’s for Margaux, but safeguard it for me, please. And don’t give it to her. Never give it to her. Never in your life. Do you understand what I’m asking you?”

“I don’t think I understand what you mean,” he said resignedly.

“Protect it. Let her read it only if something happens to me. Only if they arrest me or if I disappear, or if ... Only then can you give her the letter and tell her about this conversation.” Damien’s eyes were misty, and he tried to hold his tears back. “Please. Can I count on you?”

“Why don’t you send it yourself? You can still send letters.”

“I don’t think I’ll be able to send anything from where I’ll be.”

“Don’t assume the worst, Damien.”

“I’m not. We’re already in the worst possible situation.” His nerves made his voice higher pitched. “Can I count on you? Do you understand the mission?”

“Fine.” He tapped on the letter with his finger. “You put it here ... ‘For M. D. in case of emergency.’” He placed the letter in his pocket.

“Ferdinand, my friend ...” Damien struggled harder not to cry.

They hugged each other like they never had before. Resting his chin on the electrician’s shoulder, the young man held back a sob to say, “I really love Margaux. I really love her, you hear?” and he felt Ferdinand hug him tighter. The electrician hugged him tightly like he hadn’t hugged anyone throughout the whole war. He hugged him tightly to seal the pact. He hugged him tightly to let him know he was part of the family. He hugged him tighter and tighter, because he was afraid that this goodbye, disguised as courage, would ruin his daughter’s happiness. And suddenly he understood what it would mean to give her the letter in his pocket.

Damien dried his eyes with the sleeve of his blazer and entered the hall. Once he was at the door, Ferdinand shouted, “Boy. I don’t know if I should tell you now.”

Damien turned around. “What is it?”

“I also had a surprise for you.” He didn’t know how to say it. “My daughter is coming to the concert.”

“Now?”

Ferdinand nodded.

“But ... I asked Margaux not to come. I told her there weren’t any tickets left today. That—” His shoulders drooped. “Oof.”

“I’m sorry. I knew it would make her happy. I told her if she wanted to listen to the concert, she could stay with me in the drop scene. She won’t be able to see it, but ...”

Damien forced a smile. “You did well, Ferdinand, don’t worry. I’m happy to know your daughter will be here. I’d like to see her. I’ll play better than ever. Today, we will revive Scheherazade. It’ll be a great concert. You’ll see.”

“I’m sorry, Damien.”

“On the contrary. Thank you so much, Monsieur Dutronc.”

Ninety minutes before the concert, a visitor knocked at the door of the conductor’s dressing room. Delphin Moureau told them to come in as he hummed the final movement of Scheherazade . Two German officers walked in with determination, followed by two soldiers who looked like they meant nothing but business.

“Do you know why we’re here?” the officer in black asked nicely.

“To wish us the best of luck with our concert, I suppose.”

“Well, of course, Herr Dirigent .”

“But it’ll be hard for it to sound the way you would’ve liked,” said the officer in green, who was clearly not visiting the theater for the first time. “We heard you lost a violinist this week.”

“No doubt. If anyone knows that, it’d be you, since you do the head count every week.”

“What was his name?”

“Who?”

“The violinist.”

“Lefebvre. He appeared as Jean Lefebvre on your lists, because that is his Christian name, but everyone here called him Imtold. He was a very good violinist.”

“You’ll miss him.”

“Of course. An orchestra is like a clock. If there’s a hand missing, the clock will continue to tick, but it will stop telling time.”

“Is it so noticeable to have one fewer violin?” the officer in green asked, the only one playing along with him.

“That’s something you, someone with such musical sensibilities, surely know how to judge.”

“I see you never get nervous, Herr Dirigent .”

“Should I be?”

“Sir, you have a concert in”—the officer looked at his clock—“an hour and a half. Well, that is if you end up conducting this concert, of course. May we sit?”

They didn’t wait for permission. The two officers grabbed two chairs, turned them to face Delphin Moureau’s stool, and took a seat. One of the soldiers, the one whose face was half dark like he’d injured his skin in a fire, went out the door, locked it, and stood guard from the outside. The other, a dunce, kept watch from inside the dressing room.

“Do you know who Denise Landau is?”

“No, sir.”

“Are you sure, Herr Dirigent ?”

“I believe so ...”

“Well, that’s very strange, because she knows who you are. In fact, she knows a lot about your life. She’s come to see us, and she’s told us things ... about herself. But mostly, about her husband and you. Or, sorry, maybe I’ve gotten the last name wrong. Maybe you know her as Denise Sully. They have that tradition here in France too, huh? Where the woman takes the husband’s last name when they marry? Answer when I ask you something. Do they do it or not, Herr Dirigent ?”

“Yes.”

“Very good. Let’s continue. So you know who Denise Sully is?”

“I don’t know her personally.”

“You’re right. You’re a real gentleman and haven’t had the pleasure of meeting her. That’s something she told us herself, that deep down Herr Dirigent is a coward. The person you know very well, whom you know in the most intimate way that we don’t dare say, is her husband, correct? Does the name Jean-Clair Sully ring a bell?”

“I know him, yes.”

“I’m happy to hear you’re starting to remember.”

“But I haven’t seen him in a long time.”

“How long?”

“A long time. Since the war started, we ...”

“What?”

“We haven’t seen each other again.”

“That’s not exactly what his wife said. She told us, in all the nasty details she could have kept to herself, that you and Jean-Clair are lovers. She tells us you see each other twice a week, and that these meetings continue to this day. She tells us she was suspicious her husband had another woman in his life and didn’t stop until she uncovered it. And what’d she find? A double serving of surprise. Her husband’s mistress wasn’t a woman but a man instead. Can you imagine how poor Denise felt? She discovered the affair was with a well-known man. A prestigious man. A famous orchestra conductor, who it turns out has a Rimsky-Korsakov concert this afternoon in a hall full of German soldiers ready to applaud once the performance ends. But you know what’s wrong? We Germans don’t clap for faggots. We are, as you say, cultured people. We know men love women, and everything else is depravity and sickness. This is the problem. Are you one of these homos?”

“I ...”

“Why’s your lip trembling? Are you going to deny it now? Are you a homo or not? If you have a lover who’s married to a woman, then what happens? Are we to think that maybe you’re bisexual like Jean-Clair Sully? It doesn’t surprise me that France loses its wars when it has people like you. You’re in the wrong century. This isn’t Rome or Greece or any of those bacchanals those people had. Do you know what we do with faggots? We send them on a trip. We isolate them, like the Jews, so they don’t mix with the normal population, because you know what, Herr Dirigent ? Everything is contagious. Bad things are even more contagious. You’re like a virus that spreads, and no one knows how. That’s why it’s better to start from the root. Cut it in one fell swoop.”

“What do you want from me?”

The officer maintained a stubborn silence before responding.

“Names.”

Someone called at the door, and the soldier with the burned face entered.

“They’re calling the conductor to the rehearsal, sir.”

“Tell the orchestra it may be a while. Tell them to keep tuning and to start from the beginning.”

“Yes, sir,” the soldier obediently responded, before leaving the dressing room.

“This depends on you, Herr Dirigent . We want you to name names.”

Delphin Moureau cursed himself for not having fled to Switzerland when his lover had told him everything was ready for an escape, without the risk of getting caught. He lifted his chin, and he tried to keep his dignity. “Where is Jean-Clair?”

“Are you asking if he’s on vacation?”

“I want to know if he’s okay.”

“You’re really in love, aren’t you? His wife told us you two were really head over heels.”

“Please don’t joke.”

“Don’t what?” The officer in green poked Moureau’s cheeks forcefully. “You’re not embarrassed to be a homosexual? Someone so great, so famous, so disgusting ... What an example for the people.”

“Let it go,” the official in black intervened.

The officer in green obeyed him immediately, tried not to become irritated, and continued the game in his error-riddled French.

“Where is Jean-Clair, you ask. Look, Denise cooperated. She came motu proprio. She told us what was going on, and we made a promise: she tells us who her husband has been with, and we let her husband get back on the right path. You understand how that works?” He flicked the conductor’s chest hard. “Do you understand or not?”

“What names do you want?”

“The ones that will allow you to conduct the concert today. The alternative wouldn’t be good for anyone.”

The conductor lowered his head for the first time. The officer took the opportunity to suggest a pact.

“The names. That’s easy. If, after, you correct your behavior, and we don’t find out about any more sadomasochistic episodes, you can conduct the concert next Saturday and the Saturday after that. It just depends on you.”

“But I don’t understand what you want me to tell you. Whose names? For what?”

“The names of the people who helped Lefebvre bomb our bookstore. You must know his friends.”

“I don’t know anything about that.”

“We heard you knew Lefebvre very well. He’s been in the orchestra for a long time. That doesn’t mean that you and he ...?”

“Please ...”

“Did he hide at your house?”

“No, sir. He’s never come to my house. He was just a musician in the orchestra to me.”

“He wasn’t a faggot like you, you mean.”

The conductor put his head between his legs. The head officer let him be for a minute. When he grew tired of listening to him cry, he put his hand on the conductor’s shoulder and reminded him of the proposal in a whisper.

“Just one name, Herr Dirigent . Just one, and you can conduct the rehearsal and the concert on Saturday, and we’ll never bother you again. That’s the deal. That is ... if you keep your dick in your pants.”

“Just one?”