The Paris Time Capsule (17 page)

Cat thought fast.
“Could you tell me what hospital she is in, so I can go and see her?”

There was a heated exchange with her mother.

“Alors … is the Hospital St Louis. Down this street. I think turn left, er maybe right. No, is left. Pardon … then you go this way sometime, then you turn your right. You will not miss.” The girl looked exhausted from such a long speech.

“
Thank you so much.” Cat shook the girl’s hand. “Well done.” Thank heavens for google maps.

“
Miette Perrot, et ma fille, Jacqueline.” The woman pointed at herself, and then her daughter.

“
Madame Delfont,” Jacqueline went on. “Send our …  best wish.”

“
I will, thank you,” Cat smiled. She looked up at the high roofed building. “You have a beautiful town.”

“
Merci,” Jacqueline said, a dimple appearing on her cheek.

Cat had to restrain her hand to stop it from reaching for
her camera and taking a photograph of the mother and daughter outside their townhouse. She waved and turned away. What she was going to ask Madame Delfont was a question for which she had no answer yet.

Cat felt calm as she approached the Hospital St Louis. It was in an old building, its roof steeply pitched, a turret on its corner. One day, Cat would like to return here. One day.

She went towards the glass front doors. The nurses at the reception station looked surprised when she asked about Madame Delfont. An American, out of the blue? Cat knew she was going to have to be convincing.

“Attendez,” the nurse who understood English said to her. Wait. She reappeared ten minutes later, a young man beside her.

“
Madame,” he said. “Please. Come with me.”

Cat rehearsed and rehearsed what she was going to say to an old lady whom, it was highly likely, had no connection to Isabelle at all. But when the young man led her into a narrow, small room, furnished only with a sofa, a drab bunch of plastic flowers, and some magazines, just up the corridor, Cat knew exactly what was going on.

“There’s no need to tell me.” The room was exactly like the one in Manhattan, even the faces on the bereavement pamphlets looked eerily similar. Cat had to force herself to focus. She would not think about her parents, would not think about that time. Bonnie’s scorched body. Not now. She faced the young man.

“
You are a family friend, Madame?”

Cat nodded.
“Ah, yes.”

“
We have contacted her next of kin. He is in India.”

“
India?” Cat whispered.

“
Oui. Now, is there anything more we can do for you, Madame?”

What was there to ask?

The man turned to leave.

“
Only … wait.”

He turned around.

Cat flailed about for something. Anything. If she let this man go …

“
I don’t suppose Madame Delfont talked about … the past when she was here? The … war?”

The man looked sympathetic.
“I am sorry. I think you should perhaps avail yourself of our café. It is on the premier floor.”

“
That’s fine. I’m fine. Thank you so much.” Cat moved out of the small room, down the hospital corridor, back into the morning. The breeze had settled, but a misty rain fell now. The cobblestones were shiny. Cat drew her umbrella out of her bag, and she walked. Every now and then, she stopped, pulled out her camera, took shots of rustic laneways, lampposts dotted along their edges, a cat, winding it’s way around one of them. By lunchtime, she was starving.

She knew she was not far from Madame Delfont’s house. Knew that the only thing to do was visit her
neighbors again, see if they knew anything about Madame their neighbor’s friends, her past. It had been an effort, all morning, to push the thoughts, the feelings that swirled in her mind to one side. Loic, whom she should more than put aside, but could not, Christian, and now, Elise.

She would be in Paris with Elise first thing tomorrow morning, she supposed. But for now, Cat walked, determined, towards Madame Delfont’s
neighbors. It was her only hope.

They would probably be at work. But as she walked up the street, Cat noticed a familiar figure walking up the street ahead of her. School bag slung on one shoulder, she was wandering, in strange diagonals, up the street. She was in a reverie, Cat could tell. She strolled up behind her. Jacqueline turned around.

“Bonjour, Catherine! Er …’ello.” Jacqueline’s pretty face broke into a pleased smile.

“
Jacqueline, is your mother home now? Would it be convenient for me to talk to her, just for a few minutes?”

“
Mais oui.” Jacqueline tipped her head to one side. “You ’ave had lunch?”

“
I … don’t want to impose.”

Jacqueline climbed the little stairway to her front door, pulled out a key.
“Is no problem. I will practice English with you!”

“
Are you sure?”

“
Oui, please. Come in. Maman!”

Cat followed Jacqueline down a long, narrow hallway to the kitchen, where Miette and a handsome man about the same age leaned over a saucepan together, laughing. Miette turned to Jacqueline, gave her daughter a kiss. There were three other children, running around the dining area, playing a game of chase. Their father joined in, laughing, catching the youngest, a small girl of about four, holding her high in the air.

“Bonjour, Catherine,” Miette smiled. She indicated towards the table. “S’il vous plait?”

“
See,” Jacqueline said, taking Cat’s hand, leading her to a spot on the table. “You can stay, you can stay!”

The conversation batted between different family members. When they had all caught up on their respective mornings, and finished the main course, a delicious crisp fillet of fish with tiny honeyed carrots, spinach and a potato gratin, Cat knew that it was now or never.

“I went to the hospital.”

“
Oui! I will translate.” Jacqueline spoke to her parents. The younger children scampered off again. Bruno and Miette looked relaxed now. Bruno took a sip of wine. He didn’t look at all as if he had to get back to work.

“
I am so sorry, but Madame Delfont died last night.”

“
Mon Dieu,” Jacqueline said, crossing herself. She told her parents. “Maman says that she was … ancient. She was very nice.”

Miette and Bruno watched their daughter.

Cat put her napkin on the table. “Did you … know her well?”

“
She used to come over for lunch, like you are, sometimes.” Jacqueline hung her head.

“
Sorry,” Cat whispered. “I should go.”

“
Is fine.” Jacqueline wiped a tear.

“
I am engaged,” Cat said.

“
Who to?” Jacqueline asked, a sudden smile lit up her face even thought it was pale with shock. She told her parents.

“
Felicitations,” they smiled, raised glasses.

Cat thought fast.

“Merci. I – the thing is. Well. It’s my grandmother’s bridal veil. Madame Delfont was a friend of my … grandmother’s, and she was a …” Bridesmaid could be going too far. “Good friend. Madame Delfont borrowed it, the veil, that is, years ago. I came all the way from New York to collect it. It meant good luck to my grandmother. And I want to wear it … too. So, I was wondering. I don’t know who has the key …”

Cat knotted her fingers together under the table while Jacqueline translated this to her parents. Bruno cleared his throat. In his deep voice, he said something to Jacqueline. She was sharp.

Cat chewed on her lip. “Actually, I am wondering,” she ploughed on. “If you ever met my grandmother? I think she visited Madame Delfont.”

Jacqueline translated this. She looked, expectant, towards Cat.

“Her name was …” Sylvie or Isabelle, which would she have used? “Sylvie-Marie Augustin,” Cat gabbled.

Jacqueline smiled at her. She turned to her parents.

“Madame Augustin visit here,” Jacqueline said.

Something shifted. Cat sat back hard in her seat. Miette barked something to Jacqueline.

“Is Madame’s housekeeper. She ’elp you.”

“
Sure.” Cat blew out a breath of relief.

“
We take you to her tomorrow. She has key. She take you into house. You find your veil. Tomorrow.”

Miette stood up. Cat stood up too.

“Non, Catherine,” Miette said, when Cat started clearing plates.

“
Jacqueline,” Cat said, catching her just before she slipped towards the doorway. “Could you, could you ask your parents if I could go and see the housekeeper today? I am in a rush … my engagement party …”

The exchange was quick, sharp.

“I take you there now, on my way back to school.”

Cat wanted to collapse on the spot. Her respect for private detective work had just multiplied beyond belief.

Miette and Bruno were in the kitchen, talking in loud voices. When Cat left, Jacqueline with her backpack lopsided again, they waved away her thanks. Miette leaned forward, kissed her on the cheek.

“
Maman “opes we will see you again,” Jacqueline said.

“
Oui. I hope so too,” Cat smiled. She waved and stepped out into the street with far more confidence than she felt. How on earth she was going to convince the housekeeper that she needed to be alone to search the house was one thing. What on earth she was looking for in the old lady’s house was quite another. The only possibilities were letters or diaries.

J
acqueline waited with Cat at Madame Delfont’s housekeeper’s front door. The house was in one of the old lanes that snaked behind the main streets of the town: another, less visible life.

The housekeeper answered the door almost straight away. When she saw Jacqueline, she waved them into her entrance hall. There was a short conversation in French. The housekeeper knew that her employer had died. She hugged Jacqueline, patted the young girl on the head.
Jacqueline told her, rapid fire, about Cat. The woman made a face, threw her arms around her head as if to make a veil, and shook her head.

After what seemed like a terrible pause, during which Jacqueline appeared to be pleading with the woman, and the housekeeper folded her arms and took Cat in, the thin woman finally nodded her head.
“I take you to the house, in few days. I am in shock. You will understand.”

“
Thank you, Madame, but …”

Jacqueline looked at her watch, squealed and ran out Madame’s front door.

Cat waited until the sound of the young girls footsteps had retreated into the afternoon.

“
Madame, you see, it is delicate. I am pregnant. I need to go home to America as soon as possible. Or my wedding will be a complete disaster. I will show. My fiancé’s family is … very strict. I will have horrible life. If you could take me to find the veil today … well.” Cat looked down at her nineteen forties pumps.

Madame huffed
and folded her arms. She took a lap around the room. Then, she appraised Cat. “Wait. I will get my bag.”

“
Thank you, Madame. Merci.” Cat’s biggest smile.

Madame Delfont’s house was high and narrower than Miette and Bruno’s house next door. There was a stairway just inside of the front door. The housekeeper stayed tight-lipped. She led Cat to the kitchen, settled herself at the kitchen table, and folded her hands on her lap.

“
Je vous attende ici,” she said. I will wait for you here.

“
I can look upstairs?” Cat waved a hand up the stairway. She felt as if she were a burglar.

“
Oui.”

Cat wiped her hands, which had become slightly damp, on the sides of her dress. The first floor was tiny, just a landing, with two rooms off
it. One was a bedroom, a polished wooden double bed sat hard against the wall, its bedspread white, fresh looking. There was a dressing table, an armoire. Everything was in its place. It was as if Madame Delfont’s spirit had not quite left.

The room next to this was a small sitting room
, its faded red sofa covered with Aztec patterned cushions. The walls were lined with bookshelves, history books, and politics. Cat moved towards the coffee table in the middle of the floor. An old television guide lay open, the television remotes arranged neatly next to it. Several ornaments sat on the windowsill that looked out onto the street. It all seemed well kept, organized.

Cat moved back to the
small, empty landing. She looked up at the ceiling. A manhole. So, an attic. Madame Delfont could well have corresponded with Sylvie-Marie Augustin. Cat’s only hope was that she had done so in writing.

There was a
n upholstered chair by Madame Delfont’s bed. As quiet as she could, Cat carried this out to the landing, placed it under the manhole, then, taking off her shoes, she stood on it, pushed the manhole open, peered into the roof cavity.

But it was just a roof, musty with the dust that hovered in the light that formed yellow strips in the otherwise dark space. Cat peered,
swiveling slowly on the chair, supporting herself with her elbows on the lip of the manhole. No boxes. Nothing.

Cat slid the manhole back into place, climbed off the chair, put it back.

The housekeeper cleared her throat downstairs, a great harrumphing noise that echoed through the house, causing Cat to jump. She looked at the armoire, and tiptoed over to it, shoes still off. The door was locked. Cat closed her eyes: the housekeeper should know where the key was. But if the woman caught her searching for papers … Cat wiped a hand across her forehead.

She moved across to the dressing table, as silent as possible, opened the top drawer. Cat set herself against the wave of feeling that swept into her as she looked at the so recently dead woman’s things. There was an old brush, lined up, soldier style, with three lipsticks, their lids peppered with escaped streaks of pink and red, a compact powder, and a small pot of
moisturizing cream. The drawer was lined with thin brown paper. Cat lifted this up; a piece of it almost fell away in her hands as it cracked with the fineness of age. Cat shut the drawer again.