The Remaining Voice (5 page)

I placed the photograph from her bedroom next to those on the desk and sat on the leather-covered piano stool. My feet touched a box. I pulled it out from its hiding place beneath the piano. It contained nine short cylindrical cardboard tubes with lids, each labelled:
Cylindres Edison Moulés Sur Or
. On the end of each lid was the name Berthe Chalgrin and number. I picked a tube and pulled the lid off. Inside was a black cylinder. Could this be Berthe singing? I looked around but could not see any machinery that might play the cylinders. I would take it to Jacques Le Brun. I replaced the lid on the tube and left it on the piano next to my Leica, so I would remember to take it with me when I went.

The music stand held a score, opened on pages two and three. The lyrics were in French. I flicked the pages over gently to see the title –
Je Veux Vivre
– I want to live.

Chapter 7 – Present Day

“Oh,” says Eva, sitting up. “
Je Veux Vivre
? But I’m singing that. It’s in Gounod’s  Romeo and Juliette..”

“I know that now,” I say. “But back then, I knew nothing of opera and nothing of what Berthe sang. It was not until your father… well he wasn’t your father then of course… that would come later… it wasn’t until Laurent brought me information from the archives that we began to understand what had happened to make her want to leave her home in Paris.”

Eva rubs her head. “I’m going to have another whiskey. Do you want one?”

“No dear. Should you be drinking? I’m sure it’s not good for your voice.”

I heard her blow out her cheeks. I am interfering. I should leave well alone. She knows what she is doing – at least, I hope she does.

“You know I’ve been thinking… the words on the note…
Je te garde dans mon âme, comme un trésor?
They are from
Je Veux Vivre
too. Juliette is singing about how she wants to be young forever – about how when you get older and you fall in love, things change… your life changes completely and the sweetness of youth is gone, never to return.”

I acknowledge her words with a smile. “I came to know that it was her favourite aria.”

“So what happened next?” Eva says, sipping her drink before placing it on the table at our feet.

“Well, I was scared. I’d never experienced anything like this before. I thought ghosts were something crazy people saw, and I knew I wasn’t crazy, though Lord knows; I was beginning to have my doubts - but something happened in that apartment.” I take Eva’s hand in my own and pat it. “It was too terrible… too… oh God.”

Eva blinks and pulls her hand away.

“What are telling me?”

“When I think about it now, it frightens me even more than it did then.”

“What? What was it?”

“Promise you won’t judge me. Promise.”

“I promise,” says Eva. But I am not sure she will keep her promise – not when she has heard the rest of the story.

Chapter 8 - 1957

I took the cylinder to Jacques Le Brun that afternoon. It was not easy finding his house. I had never known the address and I could not find the right street. The rain was torrential, the sky dark and threatening. I dodged between shop doors, trying to keep dry, and failing abysmally. It was in during one of these forays that I saw her.

She was standing across the street from me, under a shop-front awning. She ought to have been drenched through but she was bone dry, her pink slip of a dress still, though the wind was blowing a gale. She was silver of face and I stared her and she back at me, her gaze unwavering, her eyes empty – seeing and yet not seeing. I shuddered and glanced down the street. I pulled my collar up against the wind. When I looked back, she had gone. I felt sick to my stomach.

I asked a flower seller if she knew where Monsieur Le Brun lived. She pointed along the Rue Parcheminerie and told me to turn right at the end. I ran down the street, afraid that I was being watched, afraid that Berthe would step out from a shop, or catch a hold of my arm and pull me up short. I leant on the wall to get my breath and saw the hemline of her dress as she turned the corner ahead of me. What was she doing here? I rounded the corner.

I was the only person in the small square. The church of Saint Séverin rose black-faced hard against the sidewalk and I felt transported back in time. The sounds of the city melted away as the howling wind assaulted my senses. A magpie landed on the church’s railings.

“One for sorrow,” I muttered, and hurried past.

Tucked into one corner of the square was Jacques Le Brun’s house. It was just as I remembered it, right down to the paint-peeled shutters and black-metal lattice gate with its big brass knob and bell-pull. Whereas neighbouring houses had been made good and painted a cheerful white, Jacques’s was sepia coloured with flaky rendering and mottled signwriting announcing ‘Le Brun Antiquités’.

The curtains fluttered and an old woman peeped out and then disappeared. I heard her call out and then the door groaned open.

“Sophie! Sophie! Sophie!” Jacques exclaimed. He was small elderly man with tufted grey hair and pointed beard. He wore brown corduroy pants and a brown-chequered shirt, with velvet waistcoat, from the pocket of which he drew forth a fob watch.

“You are on time. Come in, come in.”  He replaced the watch and kissed me effusively on both cheeks, before letting me over the threshold. He smelled of mothballs, a not unfamiliar aroma, as my grandfather enjoyed the same perfume.

The door shut behind us; the howling wind locked out. I felt a little easier. Jacques barely gave me a moment to get used to the dim lighting, before he shuffled off down the hallway. The woman was nowhere in sight. I could not remember if Jacques was married. I supposed he must have been, though it was not something I had knowledge of as a child.

“Come, come,” he beckoned. “It has been too long. How is your father? Well, I hope.”

“Yes,” I replied, following after him. “He sends his regards.” My father had not mentioned Jacques in many years, but I was sure that if I had told him I was visiting his old mentor, he would have wanted be remembered to him.

“Hmm, that is good. Here we are.”

We were in the parlour. Every inch was crammed with Jacques’s antiques, as was the rest of the house. The over-powering sensation was one of complete disarray, as if he was simply a hoarder and not an expert on porcelain or clocks. I knew that Jacques had everything catalogued; everything had a place. That said, his home was fuller than I remembered, and it had started to whisper. I listened carefully, trying to discern what it was I could hear, but nothing was clear; there were no definable words.

Jacques did not appear to notice  and carefully freed a chair and set it in front of his own. Easing himself down, he smiled at me like a little gnome from a fairy tale.

“So… you have brought me something?
N’est pas?
No, do not show me yet. Tell me the story first.”

I sat back, happy to be in his company, and launched into an explanation of Berthe’s death, the two apartments and what I had found so far in her Paris home. I did not mention the ghost. It did not seem appropriate. Not yet anyway. Besides, I thought that if I talked about it, it would make it all the more real, thereby confirming my fears.

“Ah… a mysterious locked apartment… full of treasures,” commented Jacques. He clasped his hands over his belly and twiddled his thumbs.

“I wouldn’t say it was full of treasures, exactly.”

“No? But everything is old, is it not?”

“Yes…”

“So, it is treasure. Come, you may show me what you have.”

I had wrapped the cylinder in newspaper. Now I brought out and laid it in Jacques lap. He picked it up, taking care to hold only the edges.

“Ah… it is a record, you see? Wax. Very delicate. Perhaps we will hear nothing. They do not last forever. After about a hundred times… the sound is gone. We will need a phonograph.”

“Do you have one?” I asked.

“
Mais oui
. Wait one moment.” He placed the cylinder on the table and disappeared behind some shelving. “
Cherie
, I have found it. But I…”

I squeezed behind the shelves and there, balanced precariously on pile of boxes, stood Jacques. He had the phonograph in his arms, but could not get down from his perch.

“I will give it to you,” he said. “Wait.”

I reached up and took the instrument from him, fearful that he might fall.

“Be careful,” I said, and watched as he clambered down. For such an old man he was surprisingly agile.

“Come, come. Let us hear what it has to tell us.” He groped around in a box, pulled out the trumpet shaped speaker, and fitted it onto the machine.

“Now, we put the cylinder on the mandrel like so… place the needle… and we turn the handle.
Et voilà.
”

At first we heard nothing. Then, through the crackles and hissing came the voice I had heard several times since first arriving at Berthe’s Paris apartment.

“
Je veux vivre, dans le rêve qui m'enivre. Ce jour encor! Douce flame. Je te garde dans mon âme comme un trésor!”

Although the cylinder had degraded with time, and the musical instruments sounded tinny and unreal, the voice filled the room with its resonance.
When it finished I sat with my mouth open, blinking away tears.

“I want to live,” I whispered. “That’s what the words mean. I will keep you in my heart like a treasure.”

“Beautiful,” said Jacques. “But you must not cry. This woman… she is your great-aunt?”

“Yes, she is.”

“Very few opera singers were recorded. For it to have survived… well. It is a miracle - and you have more?”

“Yes, a box of them.  Jacques, can I ask you something?”

“Oui.”

“Do you believe in ghosts?
Fantômes
?”

Jacques face creased with a thousand wrinkles.

“
Cherie
, I have lived with ghosts all my life. You hear them, don’t you?” He smiled gently. “They will not harm you. They worry over their belongings. They argue with each other. They did not expect to be thrown together in such a way.” He glanced around his parlour. It was like being a child again; I was ready to believe anything he told me. I wanted so very much to tell him about my ghost, about the singing, and about the painting, but could not find the words.

Jacques went on: “They are all around us,
tout le temps
– all the time. There is something else?” he asked, sensing my uncertainty. “You have seen a ghost? It is her is it not?”

“There is a painting. I need you to see it. Only…” I remembered the photographs I had taken. “I have some pictures, but I will have to get them developed. It may take a few days. Could you come to the apartment, if I got you a taxi?”

“Oh, but I cannot leave my
fantômes
.” He gestured, expansively.  “What will they do without me?” I thought he was joking. I pressed him harder.

“Please. I need your help.” I was sure he would know who the artist was, and, if truth be told, I wanted someone with me the next time I went to the apartment.

Jacques hung his head. “I have not left my home in many years. Madame Bechart cooks for me. I have all I need. People come here. I look after my collection. My ghosts. They look after me. I look after them. That is all. Bring me the photographs. I will tell you what you want to know.”

I had not realised he had a fear of the outside world, but it made sense. He had no need to venture any further than his front door. Everything he needed was right here.

“I’m sorry. I will try and find a good photographer who can work fast.”

Jacques’s face lit up. “That is good. I will be here on your return.” He reached out and I held his hand.

*

I walked for an hour or more after that, losing myself in the narrow streets. A couple of times I imagined I was being followed, but I put it down to paranoia. I found a photographer’s studio and left the rolls of film with him - then I hailed a taxi and directed the driver back to my hotel. The rain had cleared and the wind had died some, but it was still wet underfoot and I had earache. My day’s exertions had tired me and I wanted nothing more than to sit down with a coffee and recoup my energy, before venturing out to find a restaurant. I saw no more of the ghostly woman I had decided must be Berthe, though how and why she was appearing as a young woman, and not the elderly lady she was when she died, I did not know.

On arrival at the hotel, I asked at the front desk for any messages. The receptionist gave me a wry smile and handed me a folded piece of paper. On it was written: “I am in the bar.”

“Damn you,” I said to Laurent as I sank into the sofa opposite him. “What are you doing here?” I was secretly pleased to see him, but eager not to show it.

“I have no way of contacting you other than to come here myself.” Laurent threw up his hands and shrugged, as only a Frenchman can.

“Well, I’ve been busy,” I said. I signalled the barman and asked for a coffee.

“I too have been busy,” Laurent said. He was all business and no charm tonight. “I have been to the archive and I have found something that may interest you.”

He flicked open a foolscap wallet on the coffee table, shuffled through the papers inside and handed me a sheet on which he had written, in his precise lawyer’s hand, a list of dates and corresponding events.

“What is this?” I asked, waving the sheet of paper at him. I was slightly annoyed to see the extent of his organisational skills. At that time in my life I lacked any kind of systematic approach to problems. I just blustered my way through situations, hoping for the best, and usually experiencing the worst.

“Berthe Chalgrin,” Laurent said. “Born in 1876, studied voice and sang for the first time at the Palais Garnier in 1897. In 1899 she married a Russian Prince, Nicolai
Vladimirovich.”

“Wait – she was married?” I sat up straight. “And to a Prince? Why did I not know this?”

“Possibly because they were only married for a brief time before he died. He was in the Imperial Russian Navy. In 1904 his ship was blown up during the Russo-Japanese War. It seems Berthe simply immersed herself in her career. They kept apartments in Paris, Moscow and Berlin. The only one remaining is that in Paris. I assume she sold the others. Possibly, his family took them. I don’t know. We can check I suppose, if it is important.”

My coffee arrived and Laurent paused while I added sugar and stirred, thinking all the time about the importance of this new information and how it might affect the way I dealt with the estate from now on.

“But a Russian?” It did not seem possible.

“Oh, but there were so many Russian noblemen at that time – and all calling themselves Prince this or Count that. There were no children from this union, so…”

“Go on,” I said, tentatively.

“Well, Berthe’s career blossomed after her husband’s death. She sang many times in Paris and also Monte-Carlo, and one time with the Metropolitan Opera in New York.”

“She was in New York?”

“Oh yes. It is all here in the archive… the songs she sang, the cast she travelled with. We know much. Even the name of her maid.”

“Her maid? She had a maid?”

“Of course. She was, however briefly, nobility. She had a maid. Everyone had a maid.”

“Okay. So what next?”

“She sang with Caruso in 1905 and returned to Paris. There is a long list of performances, but in the winter of 1907 she left the Paris Garnier and never returned. There are no records after that. I did find a newspaper cutting of her with a man by the name of…” Here Laurent pulled out another sheet of paper. “Robert Truffaut. It seems they had a liaison – announced their engagement, and she said she may retire. That is all.”

“Robert Truffaut? Who is he? Is he still alive?”

Laurent shrugged. “I have some recollection of a Truffaut who was a… how do you say in America? Hood? I can try and find him if you would like, but he is probably dead.”

“Maybe. Married? Wow.” I stared at the notes Laurent had made, thinking of the photograph I had found on Berthe’s nightstand, and the other photographs in, what I had decided to call, the music room. I wondered if any of them were of her husband, the Prince, or this man Truffaut – the ‘hood’. I rested my head on the back of the chair and closed my eyes.