The Remaining Voice (8 page)

“Well?” I was not going to let him get away with it that easily. He sighed.

“She was a small time actress much feted in her home town of Aix en Provence. She and Truffaut had a brief affair. Her family, her friends… she gave up everyone for Truffaut. The local newspaper ran her story for two weeks. Berthe’s name was mentioned and the Paris journalists picked up on it. Truffaut was questioned by the police, but there was no evidence of foul play. To this day Marianne Cloutel has not been found.”

“And Truffaut? You say he is still alive? Where is he now?” I frowned at Laurent. I was determined to have the information.

“He is a very old man. Very old.”

“So?”

“So he lives in a private care home.” Laurent sighed. “I can arrange for you to visit him. But there is no point. He will not tell you anything.”

“You’re still trying to put me off.” I said, angrily. “Make the call. Arrange the visit. You can come with me if you are concerned. But I will see him. Especially now.” I stood up. The diminutive archivist had disappeared. “Please thank Monsieur Baptiste on my behalf. Tell him I will return tomorrow to look through the papers. In the meantime, I have another appointment.”

I turned on my heels.

“Sophie… wait,” Laurent called out. I paused and half turned. He said: “I do not wish to anger you. I have been stupid. I should have realised you are a modern woman. You do not need a man’s protection. I was simply trying to…” He looked crestfallen.

I considered. “Call me at the hotel later. I have to visit someone… and you need not worry. I can take care of myself.”

Chapter 10 – Present Day

“I’m going to make a cup of coffee. Do you want one?” I ask Eva, easing myself up off the sofa.

“Sure, why not?” she says. She stretches her long limbs and frowns. “Why haven’t you told my any of this before?”

“I didn’t know how to,” I say. “I was scared, I guess.”

The kitchen is small, but is as clean as a new pin and has everything we could possibly need. I fill the kettle with water and find two mugs on the rack.

“It will have to be instant,” I shout, as I open the cupboard. Eva does not reply, but when I turn round, she is standing next to me.

I jump. “Oh you startled me,” I say, hand on my chest.

Eva pouts. “It sounds a bit implausible Mom. I mean, you see a ghost and you go chasing after some French crook… and this is not how you said you met Dad.”

“You have not heard the rest of it. You don’t know.”

“Uhuh,” Eva says, picking up a mug and heading back into the living room. I spoon coffee into the mugs and pour the hot water over the granules. I find myself slightly annoyed. I do not like feeling like this.

“You want milk with that?” I call out.

“No. I’m good,” she says.

I follow after her, my hands cupping the mug for warmth. These days, I have bad circulation.

“If you want we can leave it for tonight,” she says.

“There’s not much more.” I say. “Besides, I have something for you.”

I go upstairs. When I come back down I carry a small box with me. I set it on the table.

Eva eyes me cautiously. Sometimes there is friction between us – Mom and daughter stuff. I do not want to aggravate her, buy this is important.

“What’s that?” she says.

“It’s for you. It’s something I’ve kept from that time. But you cannot open it until I have finished.”

The box is tied with long-faded pink ribbon.

“It’s the letters isn’t it?”

I nod. Eva sips her coffee. I am pleased she has forsaken whiskey for caffeine.

“I find it harder and harder to fall asleep at night,” I say, and give a little laugh. “It is easier to nod off during the day. Usually after lunch.”

“Why are you drinking coffee then?”

I think she is humouring me.

“I need to stay awake. This is important.” I put my mug down next to the box. “You do believe me, don’t you? I might have been ill, but I’m not senile.”

“The thought never crossed my mind,” says Eva. “You do have an active imagination though Mom. All those stories when I was a kid, about fairies in the garden and princesses.”

“Well I seem to remember you liked them at the time. And look at you now. There can’t be anything much more unrealistic than some of those operatic stories. Everyone is always falling in love with a relative and killing themselves.”

Eva does not reply. I have annoyed her. It is high time she realised that her career is based on complete fantasy.

“What I’m telling you is true,” I say. “I’m not making any of it up. This is the proof.”

“Okay,” Eva says.

I pat her leg. “You’re a good girl.”

“Hmm.”

Chapter 11 - 1957

It was raining again so I took a taxi to Jacques Le Brun’s house. I was angry, but in many ways that was a good thing. I had always found that anger was a fuel for action. Laurent was a fool if he thought that his story about Truffaut and his crooked dealings were going to scare me off. I wanted to know what had happened between Berthe and the crook from Marseille. I wanted to know why she had gone to London.

I knocked on Jacques’ door and pulled my collar up, tapping my feet nervously on the flag-stone step. I glanced round to see if I had been followed. Rain had just started to dampen the sidewalk again and a woman pushing a pram hurried by, her head tucked down. I looked up at the first floor windows and then back out into the street. It beggared belief as to how a woman such as Berthe could be lured into a world of crime, but then, perhaps she had not known how Truffaut made his money. The man must have had some redeeming characteristics. Or perhaps it was that as a young widow she was vulnerable and needed a strong man to care for her. Something though, told me this was not the case. She must have loved her first husband to have married him in the first place. So what was she doing falling for man like Truffaut when she would have barely been out of her widow’s weeds? Or were things different for performers of her ilk?

The door opened slowly and Jacques peeped out. He looked sallow and had dark rings around his eyes.

“Jacques? Are you okay?” I said.

“Ah,” he groaned. “I have been better. Come, come in.” He ushered me down the hallway and we took up residence in his parlour, as we had on the previous day.

“You have the photographs,” he said, coughing into a less-than-clean handkerchief.

“Yes, but what about you? Do you need a doctor?” Seeing him like this made me realise how frail he must be.

“
Non. Je serai bien.”
Jacques fingered the arm of his chair, where the fabric had thinned and the horse-hair stuffing showed through spikey and brown. “It is simply that I did not sleep. I was worried about you… about your
fantôme
. You must tell me all if I am to help you.”

I did not know where to start. I took out the packet of photographs and handed them to him.

“You’ll find photos of the apartment in there. The three at the back… they are of the picture I told you about. The thing is…” Jacques sorted through the photographs as I talked. He grunted over a couple of shots of the drawing room and briefly inspected a close up of a large Oriental vase. He found the last three photographs in the packet and spread them out on his lap.

“But it is damaged,
n’est pas
?”

“It was untouched when I took the photograph.” I hoped he would believe me.

Jacques looked mystified. “It is a good painting probably by Paul Helleu, but it is hard to tell, it is so damaged.”

“Helleu? But Berthe wrote about him in her diary,” I replied.

“You never told me you found a diary.”

“I only came across it this morning.”

“And you have not brought it with you?” said Jacques, petulantly.

“No. I couldn’t. Something happened.”

Jacques cocked his head. “What? It is your ghost?”

“She was…” I hesitated. I did not think I was meant to share Berthe’s pain with anyone, but this was Jacques. He was like family to me. I had to confide in someone. Laurent had already made his position clear. He did not believe in ghosts.

“Please Sophie. I must know. It is very important,” insisted Jacques. “You want my help? You must trust me.”

“I have heard singing… others have heard singing… in the apartment… in the building, but I think I am the only person to have seen her… and not just there, but in a restaurant, and on the street and outside here.”

“Here? Why here?” Jacques pressed. “There can be nothing for her here. Oh… but perhaps the cylinder, no? Perhaps she wants it back.”

“It cannot be. I saw her here before I gave you the cylinder. I cannot believe she followed me. Oh…” Was she haunting me, and not the apartment? Jacques nodded, as if he had thought the same thing.

“What else?” He looked at me from beneath eyebrows that met in the middle of his forehead.

“There was another woman with her. A small woman. I think it was her maid. She talks about her in the diary. Her name was Racine. They were in the bedroom. They saw me… they heard me…”

“No… it is not likely.” Jacques waved the idea away.

“But they turned to me. I bumped the wall and they turned… and now I’m afraid to go back there.”

“But you must if this is to be resolved. You must find out what it is she wants.”

“She wants to live. She keeps on showing me. There’s the cylinder, and the sheet music on the piano and… and the note.”

“Note? What does this mean?” asked Jacques

“It was wrapped around the key to the apartment. It said…I will keep you in my heart like a treasure… and that is a line from
Je Veux Vivre
– I want to live.”

“But she cannot.
Elle est morte
.”

“Yes. Yes, I know. So what do I do? What does it mean?”

Jacques shrugged, as if the answer was obvious. “You finish what you came to do. What she wanted you to do.”

“But I don’t know…” I was confused and frustrated. I knew I had to go back to the apartment, but I was putting it off.

“Tomorrow C
herie
is another day. You will feel differently in the morning.” He waved one of the photographs of the painting at me. “This… this is most unusual. If it is true that it was undamaged when you photographed it, but now it is destroyed… then something very strange is happening in that apartment. You must go back. You cannot let this frighten you. She cannot harm you. It is only your own fear that is dangerous. I think you will have your answer before long.” He smiled, kindly.

*

Laurent was sitting in an armchair in the foyer of the hotel, waiting for me to return. I tried to walk straight past him, but he dogged my progress to the elevator. Impatiently, I pushed the call button.

“Sophie, I am sorry,” he fawned. I said nothing. “I am not used to women like you.”

“Like me? What does that mean?” The elevator arrived. Laurent stepped in after me.

“I am older than you,” he said.

“Not by much,” I replied. I did not like to be reminded of my youth. No one who thought me young, ever took me seriously.

“No… no of course. Not by much.” There were fifteen years between us. At that moment, it seemed like more. “The point is,” he went on. “I have found the location of Truffaut. If you like, we can visit him.” He was trying to be cheerful.

The elevator reached my floor. The doors opened, but I did not step out. I just stared coldly at Laurent.

“Truffaut? You’ve found his address? That’s very fortuitous,” I said sarcastically.

The elevator doors closed. I pushed the button to go back down to the ground floor.

“Where are you going?” Laurent asked, clearly confused.

“I have to do something,” I replied. The elevator came to a halt and this time I stepped out. We were back in the foyer. I heard Laurent sigh.

“I can take you there tomorrow,” he said.

“Good,” I replied. “Be here at ten o’clock sharp, and we better not be on a wild goose chase.”

“Wild goose?” he remarked.

I did not wait to explain. I simply sailed out of the hotel, my head held high.

*

I had not expected to visit the apartment at night, but Laurent’s mention of Truffaut and the idea that I might actually meet the man, had me wanting to read his letters to Berthe. Impetuously, I decided I would go fetch them.

The streets were wet, but at least the rain had stopped and the wind died some. Instead of taking a taxi, I walked, and by the time I reached the Rue Tronson Du Coudray I felt invigorated and ready for anything. Adrenalin pumping, I took the stairs two at a time. All I had to do was enter, go fetch the box of letters from the bedroom, and come straight back out again. I did not need to hang around, or check anything out. It was a simple in, out, thank you. How stupid I was.

First off, there were no lights. This was not something I had prepared for. I had always been here during the daytime. I had assumed the apartment would have electricity. The rest of the building did, but of course this was the one apartment that had not been kept up to date. That said, the chandelier, the wall lights and the lamp were all electric, though wired in at a time when electricity was in its infancy. I imagined twisted old brown wires covered in cloth insulation buried deep in the walls.

“Damn it,” I muttered. There were probably candles somewhere, but I had no matches nor lighter with me. I ran back down the stairs and knocked at the Pascals’. I felt impatient and annoyed. I did not want to be doing this now.

Armand opened the door. He had a spoon in his hand and wore a greasy apron tied round his ample belly.

“
Ouai
?” he muttered. “Oh you. What you want? I’m busy.”

“There are no lights. Can you turn on the electricity?”

Armand grunted. “You think it’s going to work after fifty years? I’ll give you a torch.” He disappeared down the hall. I stood listening to the sound of a lid rattling on a pan.

“
Armand, Qu'est-ce que tu fais
?” Michel Pascal called out.

Armand did not reply. Probably, he ignored his father as much as possible. Thinking the old man might need some help, I pushed open the door to his bedroom.

“Monsieur. How are you today?” I asked, cautiously. Michel Pascal was propped up in bed, a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth. He took a long drag and blew out the smoke before replying.

“You do not visit me when I ask, and now… now you think you can walk in and make conversation with me?” He stubbed the cigarette out in an overflowing ash tray.