Claire Marvel (33 page)

Authors: John Burnham Schwartz

I asked her how Claire had crossed the river.

Corinne’s arm moved two inches to the right, her finger marking the river. “There is a metal bridge for the cars, the one we came over. But Claire detested its ugliness and noise. So, un jour, she finds for herself another route, this way—” The arm swung again, now to the left half a foot, the place there hidden behind a stand of trees and the one ruined house. “Here the river is not so wide. There is a very old bridge made of stones by the Romans, in bad condition, with signs of warning from the département saying attention, do not walk, en réparation. This is what Claire liked—the chance to have it for herself.”

Corinne’s arm had begun to tremble in the air, and she lowered it.

“I was expecting her for dinner. She was coming by foot. Half the hour, maybe the hour it takes. And each time she brings me always these things, petits cadeaux—bottle of wine, sometimes books, stones she finds, n’importe quoi. Objets trouvés, like a conversation between us. Because it is in these small things, these beautiful small things, that I see her best. You understand? Son
âme,
tout ce qu’elle était.”

Corinne paused, her head turning, and in a moment the dog had appeared at her side—so quickly that I had no idea
where he’d come from. He stood still, leaning imperceptibly against her legs as if to shore her up. She began to stroke his back.

“I wait, but she does not arrive. I telephone but there is nobody. Éventuellement I begin to look. Je la cherche. To the river I take Gaston. I find the place there, la route qu’elle préfère, the stone bridge where it crosses and the fast water just beneath. The light is like this now, not so easy to see. The bridge I know well. I have lived here all my life. There are the signs of warning as before—attention, en réparation—and the river at this time of year is fast, plein, dangereux. Too much rain from the winter and the water so high under the bridge. Stones wet, mouillé, not for crossing. And on one edge I see that a piece is missing. Next to the sign that says attention is a hole where before there was stone. I tell Gaston to stay and carefully I go on the bridge. And it is true. On one edge the stone is gone, fallen into the water. And I begin to understand. I remember how her pockets are heavy with the things she brings me always, and the water is high and fast like this, and the darkness. And no one to help her.”

Corinne stopped petting the dog and her shoulders slumped, and now she looked old.

“C’est tout,” she said in a voice full of sorrow.

“What about the police?” I asked.

“The police?” Suddenly her voice was hard and she turned her eyes back to me. “He comes the day after to talk to me, l’agent de police. To say a farmer has found the body, floated almost to Carennac. To ask me stupid questions of his own imagination. Was Claire happy? Was she sad? Does she drink
too much wine? A boyfriend who does not love her? And I say to him, ‘Pourquoi? Pourquoi vous me demandez ces questions?’ And then he says, ‘Parce qu’elle s’est suicidée.’ He says this to me as he sits in my house. About the accident, the bridge that falls away into the water—nothing. The idea of her misery is what he likes. He says to me how they find all these things in her pockets—heavy things, two books, bouteille de vin, piece of stone, et cetera, and how this proves her wanting to drown herself. And I call him a fool. What kind of wine? I ask him. Maybe it is one I talk about with her before. What kind is this stone? Is there not maybe a picture on it, a shape, something maybe she brings to show me? It is beauty she loved, the taste of life. She could not get enough. It is more of life she wanted, not less. But of course he does not know what I am talking about. He does not listen. It is not written sur son papier. He does not know why I am crying. To him she is just a body—un objet trouvé, without desire.”

It was dusk, the day deepening to its end. Lights were shining now from most of the houses. But by the river the ruined dwelling remained cloaked in darkness, and from one end of the valley to the other the tight walled fields appeared as smoothly impenetrable as floodplains at midnight. The hamlet, the house and barn—all had vanished.

“Listen,” said Corinne urgently, taking my hand. “Listen to me now, Julian, and always remember: c’était un accident. Un accident. There was so much more Claire wanted. And already when she fell, she was coming to you.”

nine

T
HE WOOD IS IN THE BARN
. The sheep are in for the night. At day’s end I stand on the terrace of the house we once shared and watch the valley born again with the lights of other lives, as the gray-blue river that is Claire’s spirit grows silvered and yet still more luminous. Until as evening comes, her glow finally starts to fade, and I let her go.

acknowledgments

I am particularly indebted to the following people:

My agent, Binky Urban, whose support and wisdom have guided me since I was twenty-one, and always will.

Nan Talese, for being that brilliant, old-school editor writers dream about but almost never meet in real life.

Ileene Smith, whose razor-sharp intelligence as a reader is matched only by her generosity as a friend.

Beatrice Rezzori and the Santa Maddalena Foundation in Donnini, Italy, for the chance to work undisturbed in a place of great beauty, peace, and inspiration.

Ed Maddox and Zach Goodyear of Choate Rosemary Hall, who long ago showed me what it means to be a good teacher.

And finally, my wife, Aleksandra, who gave me the knowledge, and the desire, to write a love story.

FIRST VINTAGE CONTEMPORARIES EDITION, MARCH 2003

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Vintage Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York. Originally published in hardcover in the United States by Nan A. Talese, an imprint of Doubleday, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, in 2002.

Vintage is a registered trademark and Vintage Contemporaries and colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

The Library of Congress has cataloged the
Nan A. Talese/Doubleday edition as follows:
Schwartz, John Burnham
Claire Marvel: a novel / John Burnham Schwartz
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-1-4000-7580-5
1. Political science teachers—Fiction. 2. Graduate students—Fiction. 3. Loss (Psychology)—Fiction. I. Title
PS3569.C5658 C57 2002
813′.54—dc21
2001044413

www.vintagebooks.com

v3.0

Table of Contents

About the Author

Other Books By This Author

Dedication

Part One