The Remaining Voice (7 page)

“Yes, yes,” I shouted. “I’m coming.”

I opened the front door to a windswept Laurent Daviau.

“Come in,” I said. “If you’ll wait for one moment, I have to go fetch my coat and purse.”

In that moment, I felt the building become electrically charged. I ran up the stairs, back into the apartment. I grabbed by purse, the packet of photographs, and my coat and ran back out again. I did not pause in the drawing room. I did not go through to the bedroom or the music room. I did not look at the painting, nor listen for any singing, or voices. I did not want to hear or see anything.

Laurent was waiting for me where I had left him.

“You look as if you have seen a ghost,” he said.

“That’s something of a cliché,” I replied. “But true. I have.”

He smiled. He did not believe me – but then, why should he? He had told me he did not believe in ghosts. I scowled at him.

“You ready to take a crazy woman to lunch?”

“But of course. I have somewhere very special in mind.” He opened the door and ushered me through. The wind had died some, but there was still enough of a breeze to ruffle my hair.

“I hope it is somewhere warm,” I said.

“
Bien sȗr
,” he replied.

*

On the Boulevard Des Capucines sits the grand building that is the Palais Garnier – the home of French opera since 1875. Laurent had arranged a meeting for me with the archivist Charles Baptiste. Charles, he told me, would give me a guided tour and answer any questions I might have. We took a cab and got out at the steps. The Palais Garnier rose from the sidewalk like the ultimate monument to culture; a stone-carved confection of grandeur. We entered through the central arch and I was dumbstruck by the glittering Grand Vestibule and the huge marble staircase.

“It’s astounding,” I said. Laurent led me up stairs lit by gloriously opulent chandeliers atop polished copper figures.

“Look up. Is it not beautiful?” he said.

I followed his gaze and saw a scalloped ceiling set about with paintings of Greek mythology, in the centre of which was a leaded skylight. We walked through the forward foyer, and then into the grand foyer. This room was on a scale the like of which I have only ever seen at Versailles - gilded columns and glistening chandeliers, gold panelling, and paintings - paintings on panels inset into the walls and on the ceiling a grand procession of art. I could not take it all in. Everywhere I turned artistic brilliance struck back at me.

“This is where she worked?” I said.

Laurent shrugged. “I would not call it work… and she would have spent most of her time back stage, where it less glamorous, but yes, this is where she spent much of her time. Ah, Monsieur Baptiste.”

A thin man, with a lavish moustache and swept back hair, walked towards us like a dancer. He wore an impeccably tailored suit and highly polished shoes.

“Monsieur Daviau, I assume,” he said. Charles Baptiste had an accent I was not able to place.

“And Madame Webster.” He offered his hand.

“
Oui, Monsieur
,” I said.

“Oh but it is perfectly fine for me to speak the English with you.” He twitched, curled his finger around his moustache, and nodded that we should follow him.

“This way, if you please. I have found much to interest you.”

“He is a Belgian,” Laurent whispered to me.

“Oh, that explains it,” I whispered back.

Monsieur Baptiste did not react, though I am sure he could hear us. He led us past the grand staircase and round to the auditorium. He flung the doors wide and stood back.

“
Et voilà
,” he said.

Although I had been to the Metropolitan Opera house in New York, I had never seen anywhere as fantastic as this. The Met was a dowdy country cousin by comparison.

“So,” said Monsieur Baptiste. “Here you see the work of Jean Louis-Charles Garnier, the architect who created this glorious opera house. As you see, beautiful sculptures, paintings and of course, we have magnificent music.”

I took a step inside the auditorium. Only in church had I heard the silence echo thus. My spirit was filled with a longing to be taken away from the mundane and transported into the world of make-believe forever.

“Thank you,” I whispered, to Laurent and Monsieur Baptiste both.

Laurent touched my arm lightly. “Come, Monsieur Baptiste has been most obliging.”

I smiled quizzically at Laurent, feeling very much like a little girl. Monsieur Baptiste guided us around the back of the auditorium and into another world, where bare boards, flaking plaster, and dust were the order of the day. The startling realisation that all in back was not as out front, brought me up sharp.

“This way,” said Monsieur Baptiste. “You are walking in the footsteps of your great-aunt. She would have had a dressing room down there.” He pointed. “And this is where she would have waited to be called on stage.” I peeped out through the wings and then up to the flies. It was like being inside a machine – all workmanlike and effort. It was too much to take in.

“And here we are,” announced Monsieur Baptiste.

He showed us through a door and we were instantly back in a room of glittering filigree and painted ladies, albeit the walls were set about with bookcases and the lights were dim. A long table occupied the centre of the room. Monsieur Baptiste showed us to the end where several large books lay open, together with a scattering of newspapers and photographs.

“So,” he said. “This is what I have found for you. Monsieur Daviau, I understand, has told you something of Berthe Chalgrin’s career. Here we have records of her performances and some other items I am sure you will find most revealing.” He picked up a photograph and handed it to me. “She was very beautiful, no?”

“Yes. Yes she was.” I held the photograph by the edges, afraid that if I touched the surface she might come alive. “Can I ask?” I said. “She was married to a Russian Prince?”

“Ah, yes, that is true. Here, I have a photograph of them together.” Monsieur Baptiste sorted through the papers on the table and offered me a postcard. It was sepia toned and fading, but in it Berthe sat on a chair, whilst standing by her side, a tall bearded man in a uniform rested his hand on her shoulder and looked out confidently, as if challenging all to take his prize from him.

“He was from an old family. They lived for the most part in Paris. He met her after a performance at a dinner given by some nobleman or other, I do not know who. It says somewhere. He was not very old I understand, when he died.” He looked to Laurent as much as to say ‘did I say the right thing?’

“And Robert Truffaut?” I looked from Monsieur Baptiste to Laurent and back again.

Monsieur Baptiste let out a long sigh. “He is more difficult.” He fiddled nervously with a ring on the forefinger of his right hand.

“What do you mean?” I asked. I sensed there was something they did not want me to know.

As if he could read my thoughts Monsieur Baptiste said: “You may look through everything here. We have no secrets.” He drew himself up to his full height. He was not very tall and eager to appear manly. I had the sense that, despite his offer, he was still trying to hide something. I stared at the young Berthe – so soft of face; so innocent. Her looks had not yet been ravaged by time. I tried to bring to mind the photograph that her neighbour in Hampstead had given me. I must have it somewhere. I searched in my purse. Had I lost it, just as I had lost the one old Michel Pascal had given me? I could not find it. Perhaps it was back at the hotel.

“What can you tell me about
Je Veux Vivre
?” I asked, placing my purse on the table.

“Ah… you know it was her favourite?” Monsieur Baptiste replied.

“No. I know she was going to play Juliette, and I found the cylinders. She was singing it on one of them.”

Monsieur Baptiste cut me off. “You have recordings?”

I looked at him blankly: “Yes. A box of them.”

“
Oh,
mon dieu
! But you must take very great care of them. They are very valuable.”

“I’m not sure they are,” I said, hesitantly.

“
Oui
, but they are. To me. To lovers of opera.”

“Then you can have them,” I said in a spontaneous act of generosity.

“My dear, I do not think you should give anything away until we have finalised the matter of the estate, and it is all in the possession of your grandfather,” said Laurent. “Of course I am sure he would agree.”

“Yes, yes I’m sorry Monsieur Baptiste. It will have to wait. I will take care of them in the meantime. If my grandfather agrees, then they will be donated to the Opera House for your archives.” I did not dare say that Jacques Le Brun had one of the cylinders. I would have to try and get it back off him.

“Oh, Madame. That is very gracious of you.” Monsieur Baptiste clasped his hands together in prayer. “Please, spend some time looking through the record. Anything you want, I will try and help. Anything.”

I looked hard at Laurent. “I want to know about this man Truffaut. I want to know what it is you are hiding from me.”

Laurent pursed his lips and drew in breath. “Very well. Monsieur Baptiste. Tell her.”

Charles Baptiste threw up his hands. “Oh… but this man Robert Truffaut, he was a businessman. There is nothing to tell.”

“But she had an affair with him? She was going to marry him?”

“She was?” asked Laurent.

“Yes… it’s in her diary.”

“You’ve found her diary?”

“Yes, and letters. Letters he wrote her. I haven’t read them all yet but I gather he didn’t want her to continue singing and there was something about another woman.”

“Another woman?” asked Laurent. “What was her name?”

“Ah… I’m not sure… Marianne something, I think.”

“Marianne Cloutel?” asked Laurent, forcefully.

“Yes, yes that was it. I haven’t read everything I found, but I’m sure when I do I will get to the bottom of it. How do you know her name?”

Laurent scowled at me.

“What is it? What?” I stared at him and then at Monsieur Baptiste. He threw up his hands as if to say ‘don’t ask me’. 

“Laurent, what is going on?”

Laurent walked over to the window and stared out. I shuffled the papers on the table. I would need more time to read them. I turned to Monsieur Baptiste.

“I will need a couple of hours to look through everything here. Perhaps tomorrow?”

Laurent interrupted me. “Robert Truffaut was linked with an actress by the name of Marianne Cloutel. She disappeared on the Riviera in 1906 and was never seen again. It was in the archive here because of his link with Berthe. I asked Monsieur Baptiste to withhold the information because…”

“What?” I shouted, angrily. “Because what? You were trying to protect me? From finding out something bad about Berthe? From finding out she was involved in something unpleasant? What?”

“Truffaut was born in Marseille.”

I shrugged. I did not know what Laurent was getting at.

“Oh Sophie,” he sighed. “You claim to have French ancestors but you do not know anything about us. You especially do not know anything about Marseille.”

“So tell me,” I replied, and folded my arms. I did not appreciate begin spoken to like a child. Monsieur Baptiste backed off. He was trying to slip away.

“Marseille has always had a reputation for crime. Truffaut was part of an organisation that took advantage of cheap labour and foreign workers… mostly Italians. Always, he maintained a veneer of respectability.”

“That’s it? He was a businessman who took advantage of poor people? That’s all you’ve got on him.” I was felt exasperated.

“No, there is more. He handled stolen goods, ran an extortion racket, and trafficked women, most of whom went to various establishments throughout Marseille as prostitutes.”

Laurent drew up a chair and sat down next to me. He stared into my eyes and I saw a great sadness come over him.

“Sophie, you must be careful. You must finish what you have to do in the apartment and go home.” He took my hand and kissed it, lightly. “I would not want anything bad to happen to you.”

I pulled my hand away.

“I don’t understand,” I said. “It was all a long time ago.”

“This is true, but my dear… Truffaut is still alive and he has a long memory and some say fingers in many puddings.”

“Pies. You mean fingers in many pies,” I sulked.

“Yes, pies.” replied Laurent. “He is not a good man.”

“But if he can tell me about Berthe? If he can help me understand her? Then I have to talk to him. Where does he live?”

“I…” Laurent hesitated.

“Oh don’t tell me you don’t know. Of course you do. This changes everything. What about this girl Marianne? Who was she? Did she end up in a brothel? Is that what you think? Is that why you won’t tell me? You think I need to be protected against women like that?”

“Ah… you test my patience,” said Laurent. “It is not a matter of…” He shook his head.