I Looked for the One My Heart Loves (11 page)

17

When Alexis didn't respond
to Anne's letter that had accompanied the photos, she wondered what had happened. Maybe he had already moved? And she was annoyed at the thought of the upcoming summer vacation, which would keep her away from the gallery. Amanda usually kept it closed from July 14 to September 1.

“In the fall,” Amanda said, “people will be over what happened these past few weeks. They're going to come back.”

At the end of a long courting period, Simonetta Lorenzetti finally agreed to have her work exhibited.

“It's going to be a happening! Most collectors think she's dead!”

“Do you think she's going to show up?”

“Your guess is as good as mine at this point.”

Anne met the artist for the first time in early July. Lorenzetti lived in two adjoining maid's rooms under the roof. In order to get there, you had to climb a staircase that smelled of leeks.

After Amanda and Anne reached the top floor, they walked down the hallway and stopped in front of door number 7.

A woman, tall and gaunt, opened it. In spite of the heat, she was wearing a heavy wool sweater.

“As I told you,” Amanda said, “my assistant came with me.”

Two brown eyes scanned Anne as Simonetta shook her hand.

“Please, have a seat.”

Simonetta spoke with a strong Italian accent.

“We brought some chocolates,” Amanda said, setting a box on a coffee table littered with opened packs of cigarettes.

“Thank you. That's very nice of you.”

A chaotic conversation followed between the gallery owner and the set designer, who eventually offered to make some tea. She filled a pot with water and put in on the stove. It was difficult to tell how old Simonetta Lorenzetti was, Anne thought, as she examined the woman's wavy gray hair, her stooped posture, and her face that still retained a certain freshness.

“Anne is going to accompany the couriers when they come to pick up your drawings and models,” Amanda said.

Simonetta simply nodded. She seemed so detached that it was as though she didn't care about the project that was taking form. She became involved only when the matter of pricing was brought up. What Amanda suggested seemed to scare her.

“That's unrealistic!” she kept saying. “Nobody is going to want to pay that much …”

“I bet you they will.”

Intrigued by this woman who looked like no one else, Anne looked around the Spartan environment in which she lived. There was no photo of a parent or a friend anywhere. The only heir of a rich family from Milan, Simonetta had donated her money to a slew of foundations, including the Société Protectrice des Animaux. Amanda had told Anne that the artist hadn't touched a paintbrush since November 1959. How did she manage not to do what had given her existence its meaning? In the early 1950s, Simonetta began working regularly for an opera director. Luigi Giancarlo had only one rival, Luchino Visconti. Both directed the most prestigious operatic performances in Italy. As soon as she met Luigi, Simonetta fell in love with him, and he made impossible demands of her. Devoting to Luigi all her time and talent, she had created sets that people still remembered after all those years. Her work on
La Traviata
,
Don Carlo
,
Aida
,
La Donna del Lago
, and
Turandot
had thrilled professionals and audiences alike. In order to retain the privilege of working for Luigi, Simonetta distanced herself from her friends. Night and day, she looked for colors, accessories, and sets that would, if not blow him away, at least surprise him. Rarely complimented, she lived in his shadow, that of “her” genius. This would have continued if he hadn't fallen in love with a young singer from Slovenia. Until then, Simonetta had turned a blind eye to Luigi's overnight flings. But this was something else altogether. When the woman dared criticize her sketches for
La Bohème,
Simonetta called her an amateur and threw her paintbrushes across the studio. In spite of Luigi's threats, she broke their contract and left Italy to settle in Paris. Surviving on her savings, she turned down every job offer she received. How did she feel when she learned that Luigi Giancarlo had died of a heart attack? Simonetta didn't return to Milan for the funeral. Was it rancor or the fear of making a parade of her sorrows in public? No one cared about her, until Amanda found an old program from La Fenice at a flea market. From then on, she did everything to try to find Simonetta.

Simonetta took out some of her art. Anne was dazzled by the display of imagination, originality, and skill. Feeling like she was in the presence of some great mystery, she was unable to connect the artist with her work.

During her vacation, Anne often thought of Simonetta Lorenzetti—who, because of a broken heart, had abandoned her brilliant career. … While lounging in the villa François had rented in Arcachon, she mused over encounters that sometimes brought about life-changing choices. Just before the gallery had closed for the summer break, Alexis thanked her for the photos. In early August, he was going to move to San Francisco. Anne bought a guide to learn more about the city. She flipped through the pages and looked at the pastel-colored houses, cable cars climbing steep hills, the fog across the bay. When she read the paper, she looked for articles about America. More and more, students were protesting over there, with the US Army getting bogged down in Vietnam. Right outside San Francisco, the students at Berkeley led massive demonstrations, demanding peace and justice. The campus air filled with the smell of marijuana and incense, young men and women rebelled against their parents' society. Rejecting old rules and beliefs, advocating for sexual liberation, they looked for self-realization and happiness in Eastern teachings. Anne couldn't help comparing those students to the people vacationing alongside her in Arcachon. On the beach, she looked at the very proper families walking by. After a stormy spring all over France, these people were enjoying life as though nothing had happened.

While they were on vacation, François spent almost all his time with his daughters and godson. He had come along to Arcachon while his mother stayed in Paris because of work. With Isabelle, Aurélie, and Thomas, François went swimming, played volleyball, spent time at the amusement park. Staying in the background, Anne didn't participate in any of those activities. She felt exhausted. As she grew older, Amanda Kircher delegated more and more tasks to Anne.

“This is only going to get worse,” François predicted.

“I got a pay raise,” Anne said.

“It's no reason to work yourself into the ground.”

“Look who's talking!”

“You can't compare our careers!”

Anne chose not to argue with him about it. François thought he was working for the good of the country. Without planes, France would have no deterrent and no national defense. Compared to that, Anne's profession was a hobby.

“I'd love for you to spend more time on some major projects,” he added.

“Like what?”

“Like buying an apartment.”

“We're very comfortable in the place we live in now.”

“Yes, but we don't own it.”

It wasn't a bad idea. It actually made perfect sense. So how come Anne didn't feel like going along with it?

As soon as the vacation ended, François had to travel again, and that made him forget about moving. For her part, Anne bought herself her first car, a bottle green Austin she had dreamed of for a long time.

“Did you really need this?” her husband asked. “We have the Peugeot …”

I wanted my very own car
, she felt like saying, but held her tongue.

She used the Austin to drive Simonetta Lorenzetti, who insisted on overseeing the display of her work. For several days, Anne picked her up. Respecting the woman's silence, she simply drove. Simonetta didn't say much more at the gallery. With a cigarette wedged between her lips, she took out her paintings and pastels, and spread them out on the floor until she decided where she wanted to hang them. Anne learned more by watching the artist's every move than she had in the past ten years. Location, lighting, the matching of works: nothing was left to chance.

18

Every single piece
that
Simonetta Lorenzetti had created found a buyer during the exhibition. Her refusal to show up at the gallery and the mystery that surrounded her had not only intrigued critics, but also generated a lot of interest among collectors.

Amanda wondered what the artist would do with all that money.

“Hopefully, she's going to find herself a decent place to live in! Why does she insist on living in that dump of hers?”

“Simonetta feels like she has to punish herself,” Anne said.

“Punish herself for what?”

“Simply for being alive.”

Simonetta never talked about her private life, let alone her childhood or adolescence. What had she done with her time since she stopped working? Without a phone, cut off from the outside world, reluctant to establish relationships of any sort, indifferent toward her neighbors, what was she thinking about all day long? There were few books in her apartment, no newspapers, no radio or television.

“She should've been a nun,” Amanda kept saying. “And a Carmelite at that.”

When spring arrived, François invited Anne to spend a weekend in London with him.

“So you'll forgive me for being away so often,” he said. “Just you and me, without the girls!”

A week later, their plane landed in Heathrow, and they took a cab into town. After dropping their luggage at the Basil Street Hotel, they headed to Carnaby Street, home to many fancy fashion boutiques. Anne bought some clothing and accessories at Mary Quant's. Then François bought himself some jeans and a few shirts. In the middle of the afternoon, they stopped into a pub, where they drank beer and listened to The Who's latest album. It had been so long since they had spent any time together alone! It was almost as though they were on their honeymoon! And so it went for two days of fun and relaxation, during which Anne's every desire was satisfied. For the entire weekend, Anne did her best not to think about Alexis.

On their way back to Paris, François said, “We should do this kind of thing more often.”

But right away reality set back in, with François traveling all over the world for work, and Anne returning to her reveries. Especially since Alexis wrote the gallery at the end of April! Knowing that Amanda was always looking for talent, he talked about his own enthusiasm for the work of a painter living in Sausalito. Along with the letter, he sent some slides.

“Interesting,” Amanda said. “But I don't think I have the strength to go all the way to California.”

“I could go,” Anne suggested.

“You'd leave your daughters?”

“Well, if I could line the trip up with their vacation, it'd be possible. Isabelle and Aurélie love spending time at their grandmother's.”

“And your husband?”

“I don't think he'd be against it,” Anne said, though she felt as if she was walking on quicksand.

She brought up the topic that very evening.

“San Francisco!” François said. “Are you sure this artist is good enough for you to go all the way there?”

“What I saw of his work makes me want to meet him.”

“Maybe we could go together. …”

Anne's throat tightened.

“When would you go?” François asked.

“July,” Anne said. “Unless the artist isn't free then.”

“July … That's not good for me. There's this big project I'm working on …”

Anne felt great relief at those words. And she hoped that Alexis would be free in July as well.

The telegram he sent put her mind at ease. He had signed a contract to give a series of courses over the summer, so he wouldn't be leaving town.

All Anne had to do now was obtain Amanda's consent. She was still hesitant.

“If you really like his work, we're going to have to organize a show for him. … Is it really worth it?”

On Monday, June 16, 1969, Georges Pompidou succeeded General de Gaulle as president of the French Republic. All day long, Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré was closed to traffic. Knowing that few people would come to the gallery, Anne worked on the upcoming show. She didn't share Amanda's interest in Serge Sakalov. With his unpredictable temper and gigantic ego, the painter had a knack for turning a normal conversation into a confrontation. As Anne considered how she would display the paintings, Sakalov phoned for the third time that day. His slurred speech told Anne he was drunk.

“I want to take some of my paintings back,” he said.

“You're going to have to talk to Madame Kircher about that. She's the one in charge.”

“Don't tell me you have no say in decisions.”

“I'm sorry to …”

Sakalov hung up before she could finish her sentence.

Back home, the atmosphere was just as charged. As soon as she opened the front door, Aurélie came running toward her.

“It's horrible!” she said.

“What? Something bad happened at school?”

“No. It's Thomas.”

“What about Thomas?”

“His mother is sending him to boarding school.”

“I saw Agnès yesterday. She didn't say anything to me about that.”

“She didn't dare.”

“I don't understand. Thomas is doing pretty well …”

“She said she doesn't have time to take care of him. Isabelle hasn't stopped crying since she heard the news.”

Lying face down in her bed, the teenager was sobbing.

“Don't be so upset,” Anne told her gently.

Her words only made her daughter cry more. Anne sat next to her.

“I hate her,” Isabelle said.

“Who told you about this?” Anne asked.

“Thomas! He's so sad!”

Anne arrived first at the Rostand. She ordered a mint tea. From the café's terrace, she had a view of the Jardin du Luxembourg. Children playing with a ball, students studying for exams, old folks sitting in the sun—all were enjoying the late afternoon's beautiful weather. Ten minutes later, Agnès showed up. With her hair cascading down her shoulders, her plunging neckline, her skin tanned by daily swims at the Piscine Deligny, Agnès had become prettier since her divorce.

After some idle chitchat, Anne decided to get to the heart of the matter.

“My daughters told me that you're sending Thomas to some boarding school.”

“That's what I intend to do, yes. …”

“Why? He's no trouble at all …”

“It's impossible for me to look after him after school,” Agnès said. “I never leave the shop until seven …”

“And you'd like to go out every night,” Anne said.

“I felt trapped for so many years!”

Since she'd started working at the stationery shop, Agnès was leading the life of a student: going to the movies, sleeping with men left and right. In that context, Thomas was a fifth wheel.

“What does your son think of the idea?” Anne asked.

“He's not happy. Especially since he's only going to come home on holidays and for summer vacation.”

“You're not going to let him come home on the weekends?”

“I found a boarding school that's not too expensive in the Limousin region … That's pretty far away from here!”

“I just don't understand you,” Anne said.

“If you put yourself in my place, you wouldn't judge me. My ex-husband has pretty much vanished. He doesn't give me a cent. I work all day … And I don't think I have the strength to look after my son all by myself.”

“We've always been there for you.”

“I'm not saying otherwise.”

“Thomas was just getting used to his new life! You're going to impose something totally new on him now?”

“What do you suggest?” Agnès asked, annoyed.

“That you pay attention to him. Something you haven't done much since you guys moved.”

“You're the one who wanted him to stay over all those times.”

“François is his godfather, and I'm his godmother. Of course we wanted to help you out.”

“Nobody can help me!”

“Why do you say that?”

“I married the wrong man. I have a job that I don't care about and that barely allows me to pay the bills. I'm a mediocre mother …”

“You're an overwhelmed mother,” Anne said.

“And I'm exhausted.”

Seeing that Agnès was weakening, Anne said, “If Thomas was a problem child, I'd understand why you'd want to send him away to boarding school … Don't ruin your relationship with him just so you can have a bit of fun.”

Agnès sighed.

“If I'm hearing you correctly,” she said, “you want me to sacrifice everything for him.”

“We will support you anyway we can, whenever you want. We would be willing to transform the laundry room into a bedroom. It would be small, but he would have his own space.”

“I've already imposed on you guys so much …”

“If the tables were turned, would you let me down?”

“Of course not.”