Paris Is Always a Good Idea (17 page)

The nonchalance with which she was dismissing the whole affair annoyed him a little. As if he were a little boy whose toy had been taken from him.

“Well, for me the matter is important,” he replied, a bit hurt. “Quite important, in fact. Even if you obviously don't understand.”

“Come on, don't be so huffy, Robert,” he heard her say. “That's not how I meant it. The matter will be cleared up quickly enough, I'm sure. And if not … my God! Nothing good usually comes of it when people dig around in old stories.” She laughed.

That's exactly what he would do, thought Robert silently. Dig around in old stories. “Would you do me a favor, Rachel?” he asked.

“Sure,” she said.

“Send me my mother's manuscript. It's still in the envelope the attorney gave me. You'll find it in the bottom drawer of my desk. Would you do that for me? It would be best if you could do it tomorrow morning—express.”

He gave her the exact address of the hotel once more and thanked her.

“No problem,” said Rachel. “The manuscript will be on its way tomorrow.”

She wished him good night, but before ending the call she suddenly asked, “And what was that about the French bitch you got to know?”

“Oh, that's just the Rosalie Laurent I was telling you about. The owner of the stationery store where I found the book and knocked over the postcard stand. But in actual fact,” he thought aloud, “she's not all that bad.”

She's actually quite nice,
he thought before his eyes drooped and he fell into a dreamless sleep.
Even if she knows nothing about Shakespeare.

 

Sixteen

The woman who knew nothing about Shakespeare had, contrary to her normal custom, gotten up early in the morning. It was Monday, and Rosalie felt that she needed to sort out her thoughts by taking William Morris for a long walk. She walked toward the Place Saint-Sulpice, passed to the right of the church with its angular white towers, and carried on along the rue Bonaparte, where all the stores were still closed, finally reaching the Jardin du Luxembourg.

She was met by the scent of a summer garden. The flowers and the greenery of the trees exuded a delicate fragrance that mingled with the dust of the paths and the morning dew. Two lonely joggers loped past her on the outer paths with extended strides: they wore little earphones whose thin white cables disappeared into their sweatshirts. Without much thought, Rosalie struck out along one of the many paths. The broad avenue she entered was still deserted. A ray of sunshine fell diagonally through the rustling leaves on the trees, bathing the path with light. The gravel crunched pleasantly under her feet, passing between rows of iron benches that lined both sides of the path beneath the trees, inviting passersby to stop and relax.

She made sure that she was on the side of the park where dogs were allowed, then let William Morris off the leash. He stormed off before stopping to sniff excitedly at the trunk of a tree.

René had already gone back to his own place earlier in the morning. When he had told her a few days before, his eyes shining, about his invitation to Zack Whiteman's seminar, she hadn't realized that he would be flying to San Diego so soon. But René had only managed to get the sought-after spot because a friend from the fitness club had had to drop out of the seminar, leaving room for him. So it was a matter of striking while the iron was hot, or losing out. He would have to leave in a few days, and René still had a lot to do. “This is a really lucky break,” he had said. “Whiteman is
the
fitness guru.”

Rosalie had nodded absentmindedly. To be honest, she had not really been on the ball since the evening with Robert Sherman. “Don't you think it's all very strange? I wonder what's behind it?” she had said as she reported her conversation with the American to her boyfriend the next morning.

“Why are you getting so worked up about other people's business?” René had asked as they sat at breakfast on the little roof terrace. “Don't get me wrong, Rosalie, but you only painted the illustrations after all. Even if it does turn out that Marchais stole the story, you're not guilty of anything. Let that crazy literature professor find out for himself.”

“Firstly, he's not as crazy as I thought—his story even seems quite credible—and secondly, it's my book, too, in a way,” Rosalie had objected. “And apart from that I don't want Max Marchais to get into any trouble.”

“Well, if everything turns out right, your beloved children's writer won't be in any trouble. Why didn't you just give Sherman Marchais's telephone number? I mean, that would have been the simplest way of dealing with it. They're both grown men—let them sort it out between themselves who sues whom.” René took a great gulp of his carrot, apple, and ginger juice and wiped his mouth. He couldn't see that there was any problem.

“Hey, listen, I can't just give someone an author's number,” Rosalie had said, laughing a bit awkwardly. “And anyway, if I know Max he'd only hang up when he heard who was on the line. When we last spoke on the phone he was already so worked up about the whole affair that he said he hoped he'd never have to meet the guy.” She took a sip of her hot café au lait and shook her head thoughtfully. “No, no, I don't think it would be a good idea for the two of them to meet. All hell would break loose. And anyway, this business is beginning to interest me. Even if I do find it a bit disturbing.”

In her mind's eye she could see a pair of azure-blue eyes looking quizzically at her, and tried not to think more deeply about what the most disturbing element of this whole mysterious story was.

“I promised Sherman I'd help him to find out the truth,” she had said, thinking of the American's hand, which had touched hers for a fraction of a second. “It would be best if I call Max again. I really can't imagine that he's lying, but I still have a feeling he's hiding something from me. But what?”

*   *   *

DEEP IN THOUGHT, ROSALIE
had reached the massive pond that glittered in the sunshine in the middle of the park in front of the chateau. She sat down on one of the iron benches and watched a model yacht that a young boy was steering over the water with his remote control. He was standing on the other side of the pond beside his father, and he shouted with joy as the boat with its white sails made a wide curve to the right.

How simple life was when you were a child. And how could such a simple life later develop into such a complicated business? Was it all the half truths, the unspoken words, all the suppressed feelings and everything you kept to yourself that clouded and so confused the wonderful clarity of childhood days, because sooner or later you realized that in life there was more than one truth?

As Rosalie looked at the open face of the boy, the untroubled play of expressions revealing every change in his feelings, she was almost a little envious.

William Morris had returned to her bench, and she put him back on the leash. He sat up in front of her, looking at her with lolling tongue and an expression of devotion. She absentmindedly stroked his soft coat as she continued to watch the sailboat.

Had she told René the whole truth? Was the fact that she was the illustrator of the book or was worried about Max Marchais's reputation really the reason for her excessive interest in this story, which seemed to be attracting her like a magnet? Was Robert Sherman telling the truth? Would they find a clue in the mysterious manuscript, which was meant to be the proof that what he was saying was true? Could you be honest and still not tell the truth?

And what about Max, who also claimed the authorship of the book so vehemently? Had he perhaps been lying?

At their dinner in the Marly, Sherman had quite justifiably pointed out that the author hadn't written a book for more than seventeen years. Perhaps because his ideas had dried up? Could it be that Marchais had gone back to an old story, possibly even one that wasn't his?

And who was really meant in the dedication in the book? The whole weekend Rosalie had been trying to reach Max to ask him that vital question. But he hadn't answered. She hadn't been able to reach him on his landline or his cell phone. She'd left a message on his cell phone asking him to call her back, even saying that it was urgent, but he hadn't replied.

That Monday, too, she had tried to call Le Vésinet from early on in the morning. Every time she'd let the phone ring until the ringing tone broke off to be replaced by a hectic busy tone. Marchais hadn't even switched on his answering machine, as he usually did when he left the house.

The author seemed to have vanished from the face of the earth, and Rosalie began to have a strange feeling about it. She would have preferred to go to Le Vésinet herself to see what was going on, but that day of all days was the one where three applicants who had replied to her advertisement for some help in the store would be turning up in the afternoon.

Max Marchais had not traveled away for years, and if he'd intended to go anywhere he would surely have mentioned it. Rosalie remembered her last telephone conversation a few days ago, the unpleasant questions she'd asked Max, and how gruff and irascible the old man had finally been.

Was he mad at her? Was that why he wasn't answering his phone? Or did the American's accusations—which she had told him about—have anything to do with his disappearance?

She leaned forward, picked up a little pebble, and threw it out over the water. It plunged through the silvery surface that reflected the light like an impenetrable mirror and created a central point from which concentric circles spread out in little waves until they reached the edge of the pond.
Cause and effect,
thought Rosalie suddenly.

Every lie produced its effects, created its circles, made waves. And sooner or later its circles reached the edge. Even if the lie was as tiny as a pebble.

*   *   *

THE UNEASE THAT HAD
taken hold of Rosalie and had even spread to William Morris, who kept getting under her feet in the store so that she finally had to banish him to the apartment upstairs, bothered her for the whole of that day.

She did her shopping in a daze, dealt with some office matters, and then held the interviews, first with the pretty Mademoiselle Giry, who never stopped chewing gum, then with the misanthropic Madame Favrier, who never smiled once during the whole conversation and did nothing but complain about the terrible people on the subway, and lastly with the warmhearted Madame Morel. The decision had not been a difficult one. She chose Claudine Morel, whom she had liked from the very first moment. She was a rather well-padded woman in her early fifties with chin-length brown hair, lovely big hands, and gold-brown freckles on her arms. She had two almost grown-up children and had previously worked in a bookstore that had long since closed down. Claudine Morel was looking for a job that would provide three afternoons' work a week, and they agreed that she would start in Luna Luna the following week.

After she left, Rosalie tried Max again several times, but always in vain. She even briefly considered calling Jean-Claude Montsignac. Perhaps he would have some idea of where his author was. She already had the publisher's business card in her hand when she realized that her search for Marchais might lead to some unpleasant questions that, if answered honestly, might possibly show the author in a dubious light. No, it was not a good idea to drag other people into the affair. She would speak to Max first of all. He was her friend, and she owed him that at least. She hesitantly put the card down again.

*   *   *

THE PHONE WAS TO
ring three times that evening. Each time Rosalie snatched the handset from its cradle expecting to hear Max Marchais's voice. But the author had veiled himself in silence.

The first time it was Robert Sherman, who wanted to tell her that the manuscript was already on the way, and would probably arrive in Paris sometime in the course of the next day. The second time it was René, who told her, his voice full of regret, that he would be unable to make it to her place that evening because he still had to work out the schedule for his replacement at the fitness club, and that would take him until very late. “So I'll see you tomorrow,
chérie
! I have an appointment at the Place Saint-Sulpice in the morning, and could drop in at your place straight afterwards.”

When the phone rang for the third time, Rosalie had already put on her sleeveless white nightdress. It was just before ten, and up there in the little apartment the heat of the day was still tangible.

Rosalie had opened all the windows and had then climbed out of the window to sit with a cigarette on her favorite place on the roof. “If that's Maman…,” she muttered with a sigh, as she jumped up, stubbed out the cigarette, and climbed back into her apartment. Ten o'clock at night was her mother's preferred time for calling: the rest of the day she was far too busy to telephone.

“Yes?” Rosalie picked up the handset and waited. But it wasn't her mother. It was Max Marchais, who apologized in a strangely husky voice for disturbing her so late.

What he then told her was so hair-raising that she had to sit down on her bed in alarm.

“Oh—my goodness,” she stammered. “That's terrible. Yes … yes … of course I'll come. I'll come first thing tomorrow morning.”

After the call, which only took a few minutes, Rosalie sat on the bed for a while, her heart racing, before getting out her blue notebook.

The worst moment of the day:

Max has just called. He's had an accident and has been in hospital for three days.

A fractured thigh. Surgery. He apparently fell off a ladder and was lying helpless on the ground for hours until the gardener found him, entirely by chance. Does he really need to climb trees to pick cherries at his age? The doctors say he was very lucky.