I Looked for the One My Heart Loves (17 page)

“She's being treated, I suppose,” Anne said.

“Yes. But whenever she starts feeling better, she stops taking her meds.”

“Is your son aware of her condition?”

“When he sees his mom shriveled up in bed, silent, he knows something is wrong. The doctor told me that it was best for me to explain things to him.”

“Is he with her now?”

“Geneviève is in Canada. With her parents. It's her haven. As for Guillaume, he's on a school ski trip to the Sierra Nevada.”

28

If Alexi
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in a situation that overwhelmed him, Anne was also struggling. Coming up with believable excuses for being out every evening wasn't easy. And she wanted to spend the upcoming weekend with her lover. She kept searching for an alibi. She didn't want to involve Agnès since she would ask questions. But she did have three other friends she had remained in contact with from her days at the École du Louvre. François knew that Anne sometimes went to the movies or the theater with them. Why not tell him that she and her friends wanted to go to Bruges for the weekend to visit some museums? When she felt satisfied with her story, she picked up the phone and called her husband at the office.

“François? Are you very busy?”

“Well, you know … But I do have time to talk to you.”

“Christine and the gang are driving up to Bruges …”

With stunning ease, she went on with her lie.

“This weekend!” François said. “But I haven't seen you all week!”

“I know …”

“You really feel like going?”

“I might not get the chance to go again.”

Anne had the unpleasant sensation of asking her parents' permission for something.

“How long would you stay?”

“From Saturday to Monday. Amanda gave me a day off.”

“If you really want to go … go!” François said, sounding upset.

As she hung up, Anne had to stifle a cry of joy.

She planned on meeting up with Alexis after going home to kiss her daughters and get changed for the evening. Edith was going to stay with them until François returned from work.

“Where are you going?” the girls asked.

“Very rich and very boring art collectors are in Paris for a few days. I have to hang out with them.”

“They're old?” Aurélie asked.

“No. Why?”

“I thought that to be rich you had to be old.”

“Not necessarily.”

“That means I won't have to marry an old man to have a lot of money and jewelry. …”

“Aurélie!” Anne said, horrified.

Behind the wheel of her Austin, Anne couldn't help but smile as she recalled what her youngest daughter had said. At the end of a short drive, she found a parking space. Walking the last few yards between her and Alexis, Anne was overwhelmed with joy, to the point where tears filled her eyes.

As soon as she walked into the apartment, Anne saw that Alexis had prepared for her visit. The woodstove was burning. Colorful flowers were arranged in a water jug. New candles had replaced the ones that burned out the evening before.

“Champagne!” said Alexis, opening the fridge.

“Wow!”

As Alexis filled their glasses, he said, “You're never going to guess what I did this afternoon.”

“Tell me all about it.”

“I went to the Louvre, the ancient Egyptian wing.”

“Did that bring back memories from your first visit?”

“Not really. But I did have a great time.”

Alexis took Anne in his arms, kissed her neck, and smelled her perfume.

“I feel ready for Montmartre,” he said.

Until Saturday, they made sure not to go where Anne might meet someone she knew. They saw
The Umbrellas of Cherbourg
in a movie theater on Rue La Fayette that often featured old classics. They had dinner at the Coupe-Chou and went to a jazz concert at the Caveau de la Huchette, both spots in the Quartier Latin. The hardest part was letting go of each other at one or two in the morning, when Anne headed home. Alexis didn't ask Anne about her life with François, but she saw the sadness in his eyes every time he walked her to her car.

At last, Saturday came, and she set her small suitcase down on the floor.

“You're going to have to put up with me for the next forty-eight hours,” she said.

He helped Anne take off her coat and said, “It's so wonderful that you managed to get away.”

They decided to put on a record. Gypsy songs, violins, balalaikas filled the room where they lay.

“Sorry,” Alexis said. “I'm afraid this bed isn't very comfortable.”

“Who cares?” she said.

She didn't add that she would have been okay with a blanket thrown on the floor if it had come to that. Far from scaring her, the realization showed her how attracted she was to this man who had taught her the mysterious alchemy between lovers, the harmony between two bodies, two living beings. Many times, she had read magazine articles warning against devastating passions. But though she did burn for Alexis, she was only afraid of one thing, that she wouldn't turn him on enough.

A downpour woke them up in the middle of the night. The rain was pelting the roofs, overflowing the gutters. Anne pulled the covers up to her chin. She loved the sound of the rain.

“A few gusts of wind,” she said, “and it'd be perfect!”

Eyes opened in the darkness of the room, Alexis simply enjoyed the feeling of happiness and well-being he was experiencing. What was it about this woman who made him forget all about life's hardships? But past experiences had taught him to be prudent, and so he didn't want to rush anything.

Anne let Alexis drive to Montmartre.

“You have to get used to driving in Paris,” she told him.

They parked on Rue Joseph-de-Maistre. The rain had stopped falling early that morning, and the streets and sidewalks were now dry. Holding hands, they went up Rue Lepic, heading for Place du Tertre. Alexis lit a cigarette. Looking at his surroundings, he was confronted with contradictory impressions. What he saw was at once familiar and foreign. But when they reached the bookstore where his father had worked, memories came back to him with an intensity that stunned him. Books were no longer sold in the shop, only souvenirs for tourists. But what he saw in the window weren't miniature Eiffel Towers or the posters that were actually there, but the Victor Hugo and Jules Verne novels that his father loved instead. From that moment on, his memories obliterated everything else. His mother always used to decorate the front of the store with ornaments she made herself from cardboard, paint, and pieces of cloth. In the days before Christmas, Alexis had helped out at the store, gift-wrapping books on the long table that smelled of beeswax. Alexis relived those days, his throat constricted. Everything that he had forgotten, voluntarily or not, came back to the surface. Anne could tell how moved he was, and she remained silent.

“Take me to where we used to play,” Alexis finally said.

On this winter's day, the square was deserted, apart from a few stray cats. Taking in the public benches, the fountain, the buildings' facades, Alexis talked about Bernard and his other buddies, how they played marbles and soccer right there in that very square. Then he wanted to see his old school, and then the apartment building where he and his parents lived.

“Was it in this yard that I made that promise to you?”

“Yes. Next to that fence over there.”

As the afternoon passed, they encountered painters selling their work on the sidewalks and a few tourists. Alexis insisted that they walk by Anne's old building.

“I need to see where you used to live.”

After all the time outside they had gotten cold, and so they went to a restaurant and had crepes and hot tea. Then Alexis said he would like to see the Château des Brouillards.

“My parents often talked about it,” he said. “It always intrigued me.”

At the end of an alley stood an eighteenth-century stone house of modest dimensions.

“I was expecting something more poetic,” Alexis said, “a more mysterious-looking building.”

“Gérard de Nerval lived there for a while.”

“I'm still disappointed.”

Anne didn't try to change his mind. She herself had never had any interest in the house she found so gloomy. Going down Rue des Saules, they reached the Musée de Montmartre.

“I like this place a lot more,” Alexis said.

“The first time I ever saw you,” Anne said, “you were just a few steps away from here. It was during the wine harvest festival, in September 1938. You'd just moved into the apartment on Rue Becquerel.”

“Your memory will never cease to amaze me.”

“You've said that before.”

Alexis smiled.

Once they'd reached Place Émile-Goudeau, Anne pointed at a wood and brick building in need of repairs.

“The Bateau-Lavoir,” she said.

“My father had books and magazines about that place. But I was too young to be interested in that kind of stuff.”

Fascinated, Alexis listened to Anne tell of the unknown artists at the beginning of the century who had moved into this old piano factory, a maze of hallways and rooms like the gangway of a ship. Poets Max Jacob and André Salmon were the first to settle there. Then, in 1904, Pablo Picasso joined them, followed by Kees van Dongen, Guillaume Apollinaire, Théophile Steinlen, Pierre Mac Orlan, and Juan Gris. Not minding the bitter cold of winter or the blistering heat of summer, they all worked in tiny rooms. There was no gas, no running water, but plenty of rats and bugs. Living among factory workers, actors at the beginning of their careers, struggling store clerks, they had a hard life. But that didn't prevent them from creating major works of art and throwing unforgettable parties.

“After the war, they moved to Montmartre and to the La Ruche studio complex in Montparnasse,” she said.

“Do you have any books about that era?” Alexis asked.

“There are a few at the gallery. I can lend them to you.”

“Thank you for taking me on my pilgrimage,” Alexis said. “It was important to me that you be with me.”

“Thank you,” Anne said. “I'd been avoiding that part of town myself.”

“I understand. …”

“Impossible. You don't know the reason why I've avoided Montmartre.”

Anne had said too much not to go on, and so she told Alexis what he had meant to her, as far back as when they were kids.

“I never stopped thinking about you,” she said. “How many times did I dream I ran into you on one of those streets we were just at?”

In order to end her confession on a lighter note, she added, “Who else could brag about having inspired such a lasting passion?”

Moved, Alexis tried to imagine Anne as a small girl, both stubborn and unhappy.

“Nothing gave you a change of heart?” he asked.

“If I hadn't read your article by chance, I probably would've stopped thinking about you, eventually. Maybe … But destiny decided otherwise. Some people are just meant to be together.”

“Everything was against us being together. The war, me living in Egypt and then in Canada …”

“Everything!”

“What would've happened if we hadn't gone through so much, if we'd stayed in Montmartre? Would we have dated? Would we have gotten married?”

“Maybe you would've preferred someone else. Then I would've shot you in the heart!”

“Or maybe you would've become a nun. … I can picture you walking around wearing one of those big white headdresses.”

“Very funny,” Anne said, slapping Alexis's arm.

29

Before heading home,
Anne
stopped into a bookstore to look at travel guides on Belgium and Bruges. Not used to lying, she was afraid that François would ask questions about her trip. Heart beating, she opened the apartment door. Her husband was on the phone and, with a gesture of his hand, told her not to disturb him. Anne went over to her daughters' room.

“Did you bring us presents?” Aurélie asked.

“There was nothing nice!”

Disappointed, the girl said, “This is not a good day.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Papa is in a really bad mood.”

This was a rare thing, and so Anne began to worry. Did her husband find out anything? If so, what was she going to tell him?

As soon as François hung up the phone, Anne walked over to him. He looked terribly tense.

“It's a mess,” he said. “Some calculations weren't properly transcribed before they were sent to the factory. I have to go down there.”

“In Toulouse?”

“I'll be gone until Thursday!”

It wasn't the first time François had to take an emergency trip to where the company built fuselages.

“I have to pack up and go,” he said.

While Anne worked at the gallery during the day, Alexis kept setting up meetings.

“I'm pretty confident I'll get a transfer,” he said.

“Won't you find Europe stuffy after living in California?”

“I actually miss the old continent.”

“What about your wife? Is she going to be okay with this?”

“She doesn't like the States anymore. She's not happy, no matter where we live.”

It had been a long time since Alexis and Geneviève had shared good times. Her gloomy disposition would have contaminated him had he not crossed paths with Anne. After she had returned to France the summer before, Alexis was shaken more deeply than he would have imagined. It took everything for him to lead a normal life again and keep on teaching. Every time he could, he visited Phil and Lizzie. With them he could talk about Anne. Though he had been cautious, he thought that Lizzie probably figured out the true nature of his affection for their French friend. For weeks, months, he had sought a solution to his problem. How could he reconcile the irreconcilable? How could he offer Anne anything decent when he was in such a horrible bind? Faced with Geneviève's bouts of anger, her threats of committing suicide, her hospitalizations, and their son's helplessness, Alexis ended up losing all hope. On top of that, Anne had decided not to write until he decided to contact her. What were her feelings toward her husband? François had left no real impression on him when they met at the gallery. Neither good nor bad. …

Alexis didn't only take care of professional matters during the day. Many times he went back to Montmartre, lingering where Anne had taken him, discovering other spots. Avoiding the tourists that gathered in and around Place du Tertre, he took side streets to find frozen gardens and rundown buildings. Without daring to knock on the door of the apartment he used to live in, he stood in the yard, memories flooding back. He remembered family dinners before the war, his mother leaving in the early evening to head for the theater after his father was gone to the front. He never minded being alone in the apartment. He listened to the radio and read comics. His only source of worry was his father. People said there was no fighting, but he knew that things wouldn't remain that way for very long. Sooner or later, the armies would clash.

When he met up with Anne at the end of each day, he told her about his walks in the old neighborhood.

“I went to the Bateau-Lavoir,” he said.

“It doesn't look much like it did back in the days of Picasso.”

“I still feel like proposing an article about it to that Lyon magazine that brought us together. You told me you had books …”

“I'll bring them tomorrow.”

“All I've done since I moved to California is teach. I miss writing!”

When Anne set down the three volumes relating to the heyday of the Montmartre bohemian life in front of Alexis, she knew that, consciously or not, he had found a excuse to immerse himself in the era while his family was still intact.

“You can keep them until you go back to California.”

That was barely forty-eight hours away. The two of them were all the more aware of that fact as they didn't know when they would see each other again.

“I don't have Phil as an excuse anymore,” Anne said, “and so I don't have any reason to go to California.”

“Amanda won't change her mind about him?”

“No. If only because she's looking for a way out of the gallery.”

“She told you as much?”

“No, but I can see that her passion for the gallery isn't what it used to be. Eventually, maybe soon, she's going to look for a buyer.”

“Are you worried about that?”

“Yes and no.”

“Have you thought about what you're going to do?”

“I'm going to cross that bridge when I come to it.”

“You think it's wise to wait until the last moment?”

“With my experience and references, I should be able to find a position somewhere.”

“Why don't you open your own gallery? You've got the know-how.”

“Yes, but not the money.”

“You should have a nice severance package.”

“It won't be enough.”

“You could borrow some money.” Noticing the look of fear in Anne's face, Alexis added, “If you lived in America, you would start a business without thinking twice.”

“Maybe. But I was raised by parents who never took any financial chances, ever. …”

They spent Alexis's last evening in Paris in the apartment. This time, it was going to be Alexis flying to another continent the following morning. The idea of going back to his life in America seemed almost surreal to him. The only thing he had missed in France was his son.

“You two get along well?”

“Yes.”

“He's actually the same age you were when I first met you, right?”

“A bit less. I was ten when I arrived in Montmartre. He's only nine.”

“What a big difference,” Anne said with a smile.

“Keep poking fun at me and you'll see what happens!”

“Oh yeah? What kind of punishment do you have in mind?”

A pillow fight ensued. They chased each other through the tiny apartment screaming like banshees. Feathers floated around the living room. But then the water jug with the now withered flowers crashed down to the floor, and that made them stop running.

As Anne was picking up the mess, Alexis thought how graceful she was in everything she did, no matter how trivial. Just looking at her gave him immense pleasure. Her hair fell on her shoulders, and she wore a nice-fitting dress that was a pleasant change from the sloppy hippy clothing that some of his students liked so much. Her shoes were elegant, and her long legs were clad in light beige tights. Once again, he admired her beautiful skin, the color of her eyes that, depending on the light, ranged from dark blue to gray. When she smiled at him, he felt invincible. He would have moved mountains for her.

He walked over to Anne, took the flowers away from her, and wrapped his arms around her.

“I'm in love with you.”

The words spilled out of his mouth.

Anne looked at him. “Well …”

“That's all you have to say?” Alexis said, pretending to be hurt.

He had said little about his love life. What would he have said anyway? Like anybody else, he'd had his share of serious and not-so-serious relationships before Geneviève. As well as a few inconsequential ones since his marriage had begun to collapse.

“I'm not the type to get attached,” he said. “But, with you, it's different.”

When Anne got ready to leave the apartment, a feeling of helplessness overwhelmed Alexis.

Anne, for her part, had a hard time putting up a serene front.

“I'll find a way to come back soon,” Alexis promised. “My mother could be a perfect excuse.”

“Promise not to wait too long. We've lost enough time as it is since we've known each other!”

He walked Anne to her car and gave her a long kiss before letting her sit behind the steering wheel. In a few minutes, she would be back to the existence she had made for herself, in which he had no place. Would they always have to remain on the outskirts of the other's life?

As soon as she opened her eyes, Anne decided there was no way she was getting out of bed. The thought of the first day without Alexis was unbearable. But the sound of her daughters' voices in the adjacent room forced her to get up. Dressed, their hair combed, their school bags ready, all they had to do before leaving was eat breakfast.

Anne went with them to the kitchen, heated some milk and put pieces of bread in the toaster.

“Thomas has already left?” she asked.

“He slept over at his mom's.”

“That wasn't planned!”

“He says you're too strict with him,” Isabelle said.

“He actually told you that?”

“Yes,” Isabelle said, looking upset. “He said he didn't want to be treated like Aurélie and me. He said we're just kids. Just because he's fifteen doesn't mean he should act like he's better than everybody else. …”

“Have you ever met his friends?”

“No.”

Once at the gallery, Anne phoned Agnès.

“What's going on with your son?” she asked straightaway.

“He'd like to live with me all the time from now on. I'm not against it. As long as it doesn't affect his grades.”

“Since you both agree, there's no problem. Just tell him that our door is always open if you guys change your mind.”

Anne hung up and shut her eyes for a couple of seconds, her head buzzing. Then she glanced at her watch. Only ten thirty. Alexis's plane had taken off two hours ago. She sighed and sat in an armchair. What was she going to do?

She was startled when Amanda stormed into the gallery. One of her friends had decided to buy a Juan Gris painting.

“He's going to pay in three installments,” she said. “Please prepare the contract.”

Looking at her assistant, she added, “Are you okay? You look tired.”

“I think it's my trip to Bruges. …”

Anne had told no one about Alexis's visit. Amanda might have wondered about them or said something about Alexis in François's presence. Her secret made her feel even more lonesome. Who could she turn to for a bit of comfort? Strangely, Simonetta's face came to her. Of course, there was no way she would confide in her. She simply wanted to have a good time. She took out a piece of paper and, in a couple of sentences, invited Simonetta to lunch.

Aurélie had a dance class, and so Anne returned to find Isabelle alone in the apartment. As she began telling her daughter about Thomas's decision, she saw her pained expression.

“You mean he's not going to live with us anymore?” Isabelle asked.

“Not as often as before.”

“Why would he do something like that to us?”

“Put yourself in his shoes. He wants to live with his mom.”

“Yeah, right. He wants to go to parties and hang out with his friends.”

“That's normal.”

“After all you and Papa did for him?”

Surprised by Isabelle's reaction, Anne stared at her daughter. She always used to take Thomas's side. With the passing years, her tomboy side had vanished almost completely. Rather tall, thin, and blonde, she still hadn't found her own style. Her gestures were brisk, her laugh nervous. She was entering adolescence clumsily, with a naïveté and an idealistic view of the world that was bound to be crushed with time. “He kept saying that we were his real family!”

“So he saw you as his sister?”

“No, not his sister!”

“What, then?” Anne asked. She knew the feelings Isabelle had for Thomas. Seeing her daughter blush, she added in a soft voice, “We have to let him do what he has to do. You'll see, he'll come back to us.”

“You really think so?”

François's arrival interrupted them.

“Papa!” Isabelle shouted, running to him.

Anne followed her.

François kissed his wife absentmindedly.

“I'm bushed,” he said, “but happy to be home.”

“Did things go well down in Toulouse?”

“Everything is fine. That is, until the next crisis.”