36 AFTER SO MANY DAYS OF A COWARDLY SUN
36
A FTER S O M ANY D AYS OF A C OWARDLY S UN
That next morning, Paris returned to a normal city. After too many days spent shut inside by snowy barricades, the urban inhabitants slipped out from under their sheets to resume their lives. The smell of bakeries at dawn, the cobblestones wet with morning dew, the proud ringing of the neighborhood bells, the inevitable early-morning bad mood, the café au lait ordered to go, the out-of-control honking of a perpetual traffic jam, children with their big backpacks, rows of newspapers at kiosks dwindling little by little, the customary bonjour at work, and the out-of-nowhere suicide on the train track that takes down two whole lines. The yellow line won the lottery that morning—the line Barbara had to take to la Défense. After she’d spent a lot of time at the station without any explanation, the voice over the megaphone instructed passengers to evacuate the station. She filed obediently out onto the street and grabbed a taxi to Giresse everything was old, the ashes were plentiful, and there was a film of dust in every corner. The TV had a belly, and it would be a miracle if the computer—if that was really the computer Jasper had used—worked. In the kitchen, the burners looked ancient, as though they’d been bought in an antiques shop in the Marché aux Puces. The fridge handle was rusted. Roger opened it to check if there was anything that could go bad if Jasper took a while to return. That is, if he ever could step back into his kitchen—because you know when you leave your house, but you’re never sure of when you’ll return.
He put the bruised fruit in a bag and poured the dregs of a milk carton into the sink. After, he began to look for the folder. Roger remembered well the expression Mamie had used to describe it: “the color of goose shit.” A folder like that wouldn’t stick out in this apartment, but it couldn’t be that hard to find. Jasper didn’t have any reason to hide pages filled with Margaux Dutronc’s life during the war. Roger looked around the computer. Nothing. It didn’t even look like he had a printer. He looked through the shelves, where a pile of books seemed to have been put away willy-nilly. It wasn’t there either. At a glance, there was nothing in the room. Roger spent some time looking at a picture on top of the nightstand of a woman. Jasper’s wife was beautiful, he thought. And young. The only picture the widower had framed on his intimate altar was of her at her best moment. He had likely chosen it to look at when he needed consolation. The silver frame would need bicarbonate and a scrubbing to return its shine, not unlike the poor woman, who was only an old photograph.
Intuition made Roger open the top drawer of the nightstand. There, in the bedroom, he found his treasure. The folder. Call it mustard, call it beige, but “goose shit” also captured it. It could only be that one. He sat on the bedside with the folder in his hands. He slipped off the rubber bands and took out a handful of pages. There were maybe two hundred in total. His eyes wandered to the beginning. First page, first chapter.
The convertible parked at the door of the Théatre du Chatelet without screeching. Five German soldiers in uniform from head to toe got out of the car. They had a mission, the determination to carry it out, and the explicit orders not to be unpleasant toward the musicians. To get from the Conciergerie to the theater square, they needed only to cross the Seine River through the pont au Change. They could’ve arrived immediately if they had walked, but they preferred showing up in a car. It was imposing, scary, and gave the order an official air.
The guy wrote well. Roger took his phone out of his pocket and snapped a picture of the folder and the first page so he could show his find to Barbara. Without wasting another second, he continued to read. He flew through the story, but he didn’t want to spend any longer there, feeling like a robber who spends his time looking at the signatures of the canvases he steals. Roger left Jasper’s apartment through the front door and slammed it shut. With the folder under his arm and the fruit to throw out, he returned to the fifth floor to continue reading about the occupation of Paris through the eyes of a teenager who’d lived it from within the city. For the moment, the book was Mamie’s youth. It had been worth it to risk his life. He wouldn’t say anything to Barbara about how he’d gotten it.
Roger left the folder on top of the red sofa. Before heading to the retirement residence, he grabbed his camera and the cutting from the old magazine with a portrait of young Margaux atop a bike. He was dying of curiosity to see the grandmother’s face when she saw her picture. Jasper’s book hadn’t mentioned it yet. Or if it did, Roger hadn’t gotten there yet. He’d skimmed through the pages, running his finger along the words, looking for two key words: Bike photograph. If they were there, he’d missed them.
He took the metro toward Viviani with haste. When he arrived, Mamie wasn’t in her bedroom. The workers had to call her back in from the therapeutic garden, a patio where smoking companions puffed pipes in secret, nurses acted like they didn’t see, and everyone crossed their fingers that they wouldn’t get caught by the health inspector.
“You weren’t expecting me, Mamie ...”
“Marcel’s brother?”
“Roger, yes.”
“That’s it. The man who’s brightened my granddaughter’s face.”
“That’s the best compliment I’ve received since I arrived in Paris.”
Mamie Margaux fell into the tall, winged armchair. “But the girl is older than you.”
“That doesn’t ruin it, ma’am.” He tried to turn things around. “No one cares about that stuff anymore.”
“You’re right about that. Sit down.” She pointed to her bed. “Don’t listen to me; all of us here are made out of old mold.”
Her bed was made, and he didn’t want to mess it up. Instead, he sat down at the desk chair that sometimes served as a place to dine on the evenings Margaux was too lazy to leave her room. Roger struggled to find a way to begin the conversation.
“Barbara told me not to disturb you too much.”
“Do you know anything about Jasper?”
“Jasper? The latest news is—” How do you phrase it when doctors aren’t optimistic? “Everything is the same. He’s not getting better, but he’s not getting worse, they said.”
“Maybe that’s enough. I can’t get it out of my head. It feels like a lie, well as he was doing.”
“Hopefully, he’ll come back to write your story.”
“Who cares? I already know all of that.”
“But it would be good to have it written. It’s a valuable testimonial.”
“For whom?”
“For Barbara, above all.”
“Valuable?” She thought about it and picked out its advantages. “I don’t know. It’s just a life. Memories are memories. If they weigh heavily, they’re more annoying than useful.”
“Do you think about that a lot?”
“A little or a lot, I don’t know. That’s all we have left.”
On the topic of memories, Roger found his moment. He took out the picture and placed it on her lap. He didn’t say anything. He just watched the grandmother’s reaction, how she picked up the photograph with both hands having no idea what she was about to see. She raised it inches from her nose, looked at it for five seconds, then suddenly let it go. It was as if having it between her fingers disgusted her, like it anguished her to touch it. She raised her chin up to the ceiling and closed her eyes. The photograph of a young Margaux in black and white, beautiful, on top of the bike, rested once more on her legs.
Roger didn’t say anything until the grandmother, with her eyelids closed, breathed deeply and asked, “Where’d you get this?”
He had to tell the truth. “From under the bed.”
“Which bed?” Mamie lowered her head and opened her eyes to interrogate him.
“From a Banania tin. It was under my bed. I put my suitcase under there, and—”
“This picture ... The infamous bike. We went through some bad times over this damn photo. It’s been years since I’ve seen it. Years.”
“Barbara told me it was you. You have the same air.”
“The girl has seen it?”
Roger didn’t respond. His face answered her.
“Of course she’s seen it. And what’d she say?”
“She said you shine. Or something like that.”
Mamie shook her head. “She doesn’t know the story.”
Roger was dying to ask, “And what is the story?” But he held himself back. He was reluctant to accept firstfruits without Barbara there. Whatever it was, they had to hear it together. On the other hand, he wanted irresistibly to squeeze Mamie Margaux so she would talk about it and let fly everything she had saved up for so many years.
“Maybe Barbara will read about it in Jasper’s book.”
“Not all of it comes up there. There are episodes that hurt so much ... This picture really came at a high price. Very high.”
Roger paused for a long silence to give her the chance to either begin the story or save it for herself. In the end, he limited himself to basic information.
“This picture is hanging in an exhibition. In the Bibliothèque historique de la Ville de París.”
“This one?” She was more surprised than scared. “My picture?”
“Yes, this one and many more. But this one, too. They created an exhibit from slides a photographer had done for a Nazi propaganda magazine.”
“What’s the name?”
“Signal.”
“Yes, but not the magazine. The photographer.”
He pronounced the name slowly. “André Zucca.”
“Zucca, that’s it. Of course. I couldn’t remember it.”
“His mother was Italian, but he was from Paris.”
She repeated the last name two more times and, as though hypnotized by the repetition, was left stupefied and staring at the white ceiling.
“If you’d like, I can tell you my side of how all this happened,” said Roger.
It was a matter of generating trust so Mamie, if she wanted to, would come back down to earth. He told her how he’d moved into Marcel’s room to spend fifteen days in Paris, how he’d emptied his suitcase and found the box under the bedspring. In that powdered-chocolate tin, he found all kinds of photos and old clippings from a 1940s Paris magazine. But he hadn’t said anything to anyone. To Barbara least of all, lest she think he was snooping through the apartment. Later, while visiting an exhibit, he’d come to realize that one of the pictures hanging in the BHVP was the same one he’d seen in the tin under the bed. He arranged things so Barbara would accompany him to the show about Parisians during the German occupation. He led her effortlessly to the hall of all the women on bikes. And when he had her in front of the photo, he moved. Barbara recognized her grandmother at seventeen. Sixteen, maybe. She said she’d never seen the picture. Roger confessed that he had. When they returned to the apartment, he took out the Banania box, and much to Barbara’s surprise, she realized the photo they’d seen at the museum was the same one that had been hidden in her home for who knows how long. For sixty years, surely.
“More than sixty,” Margaux emphasized. “Count them yourself. Right now we’re in—”
“2008.”
“We went through some hard times because of this photo. The whole family. But so did Zucca. After the war, he had to change his last name. He even left Paris for some town with a new identity. But we searched for him.”
“Who? What do you mean ‘we searched for him’?”
“Jasper and I. Jasper accompanied me.”
“And?”
“We found him. Of course we found him.”
Mamie went silent, as if she’d said too much. Then, all of a sudden, she grabbed the picture and brought it back up to her face. She looked at it with less regret than she had the first time.
“Do you really think Barbara looks like me?”
“The eyes, the nose, of course. You both have something. Elegance and beauty.”
“Can I tell you something?” For the first time in the afternoon, Mamie Margaux’s beautiful smile made an appearance. “I’ve always thought that.”
Roger left the home when a nurse said they were beginning to serve dinner and that guests were no longer allowed to stay. His heart was beating fast, and he was excited to tell Barbara everything he’d discovered. And all that they’d yet to discover. He called her from Square René Viviani, next to the oldest tree in the city. After the third ring, though, he hung up. Then he sent her a message.
Your grandmother is wonderful. The photo with the bike has a lot of history. Secrets we still haven’t uncovered.
Ok.
Between your grandmother, the picture, and Jasper’s book, I’m dying to tell you everything. We’ll talk when you get back.
Okay. Perfect. Kisses.
In the lobby of Edouard VII, Barbara put her phone on airplane mode, stowed it in her bag, and sprayed her wrists twice with her perfume. Frode Arnesen was a hair away from catching her. He appeared by the stairs, agile and nicely dressed. The editor proceeded down to the hotel hall in shining shoes and with the top button of his shirt undone.
“Ties are only for old people now.”
“Mr. Arnesen.” She did a half bow.
“Have you noticed no one in the literary world wears them?”
“Now that you mention it ...” Barbara smiled without finishing her agreement.
They gave each other two kisses.
“I’m happy to see you after such a long time. You look the same, Frode.”
“You, on the other hand, look better.” His credibility didn’t rest in his blue eyes but rather in the convincing way he said things. “Where are you taking me for dinner?”
“Close by. We just have to cross the street. I thought you’d like to go to the Drouant, where they give the Prix Goncourt.”
“The Drouant? Good idea. I don’t think I’ve ever been there. If it’s very expensive, I’ll pay. If not, Giresse and Trésor can pay.”
“There are pictures of winning novelists on the stairwell heading up to the private salons. It’s very charming. You’ll like it.”
“Let’s do business, then,” said the editor, sticking out his elbow so Barbara could grab it, and they crossed l’Opéra in dignified steps.
The restaurant seated them at a table for two next to the window Barbara had expressly asked for when she’d made the reservation. They readily accepted the courtesy glass of champagne.
“An interesting way of starting the night,” he said in exquisite French.
Frode Arnesen, a dandy, had the pride of someone who doesn’t think they need an instruction manual. He spoke in a low voice, smiled modestly, and had straight teeth. Even his gesticulations were elegant. He wore a dark gray suit over his starched white shirt. His neck posture seemed stiff. The cuffs of his shirt stuck out symmetrically from his blazer. At fifty, the Norwegian editor was a veteran in his field. It wasn’t enough for Barbara to look at the cuticles and nails of her interlocutor to know if she’d make the sale. She wasn’t used to failing. And Frode, who’d come all the way to Paris to close a deal he could have done from his office in Oslo, had a nice manicure and the hair of men who drink a lot of water. She didn’t even taste the champagne throughout the dinner. They went for red wine. A Chateau Latour.
“Why’d you become an editor?” Barbara asked.
“That’s a good question.” He had to think. “Probably because of a toboggan. A new one they’d put in a kids’ park near the town hall. I must have been four or five years old, and I wanted to be the bravest of my friends. It was the first time I’d tried that red toboggan, which was a big event in Sogndal. I climbed the stairs, jumped with my arms out in front, fell headfirst onto the ground, and must have knocked a neuron loose. I’ve always thought something inside me became irregular after that, and that’s why I became an editor. It doesn’t make sense any other way.”
“You make me laugh, Frode.”
“If it weren’t for that blow, why would I have started my press?”
“Because you love the work you do. You can tell from afar.”
“Very much so. My day-to-day is mesmerizing. Reading a handful of bad manuscripts, enduring the egos of good novelists, dealing with cover designers, who all have an inner tyrant. Preparing a speech for the presentation of a book that will be sold to only seven people, two of whom will fall asleep halfway through reading it and one of whom will abandon it entirely. Meeting with literary agents who are very interested in numbers and much less so in letters.”
“And meeting interesting people too.”
“That’s true.” Barbara had disarmed Frode Arnesen. “Negotiating foreign rights with you makes up for all of it.”
“I see the blow to your head also sharpened your sense of irony.”
“No, no, I’m telling you the truth. Dining with you, here in Paris, what more can I want?”
“That I sell you the rights to Anne Delacourt’s book, maybe?”
“We’ll close that over a drink at my hotel.”
“I only drink to toast when I’ve closed a deal.”
“That’ll be the case. Good on both ends.”
Before dessert, they established the important clauses of the contract. No more than a year could pass between the transfer of rights and the publishing of Tomorrow in Norwegian. Cappelen would have to reproduce the same cover design from Giresse he said yes, an espresso. She said no.
“If I have coffee, I won’t sleep.”
“And?” In one word, he said it all. With the next pause, the Atlantic-blue eyes of the Norwegian revealed his intentions.
“Frode,” she said, smiling. “This is a business dinner.”
“And we have to celebrate that we’ve closed the deal.”
“We’ve already toasted. And we’re good.”
“The Edouard VII has a beautiful terrace at that. I’m sure they make gin and tonics there. And you’ll see the Palais Garnier like you’ve never seen it before.”
“Are you going to be the one to explain Paris to me? You men are really—”
“Is someone waiting for you at home?”
Before responding, Barbara finished off her red wine and wiped her lips slowly.
“No. No one is waiting for me.”