The Restoration Artist (15 page)

The entire contents of the closet went into the cardboard boxes—coats, dresses, blouses, underwear, shoes, shirts, pants, hats, gloves, scarves. What I could not throw away—the photograph albums, Claudine’s jewellery, some special mementos and souvenirs—I placed into two boxes that I shoved to the back of the bedroom closet. I taped the boxes shut and stacked them in the corridor outside the front door.

Next, I went to Piero’s room and began the same process; clothes, books and toys. One or two items had special memories and these I set aside—his favourite book called
Boo
, about the boy who was afraid of the dark; the small cast-iron model of a Citroën
deux chevaux
that Piero had won in a raffle; the sketchbooks; and the dusty wooden mobile of animal shapes painted in primary colours. When Piero’s room was cleared, I added those boxes to the stack in the hallway. At the end of my packing, all that remained was a lingering scent on my hands from handling Claudine’s clothing, faint traces of her. Only that, and the memories.

I telephoned the charity run by the nuns at the nearby church of Saint-Gervais and arranged for the boxes to be collected by them.

What would I do now? What would Claudine want me to do? I imagined her voice telling me to act, not to just turn my back and walk away. My departure from La Mouche had been sudden and without goodbyes. In a way, I’d fled from the island, just as I’d fled there in the first place. Would I be fleeing
for the rest of my life? Perhaps it had been cowardly to leave like that, without even a word to Père Caron. I wished I had never agreed to restore the painting in the chapel, or offered to make a new one. He would be very disappointed. Yet, as I thought of the island it was with longing. For the first time in ages, I’d felt alive there. The restoration of “Love and the Pilgrim” had given me pleasure and a purpose.

And Tobias, his presence, just knowing he was there somewhere on the island, had stilled a yearning that I’d thought of as permanent. But I’d failed him. Especially now. And when I thought of Lorca, and my ambition to paint something new for the chapel, I felt that I’d failed there too. They were the living, not the dead, and was there anything more than my own grief and my own needs that I could offer either of them? Perhaps.

I needed advice. The only person I could call was Serge Bruneau. I dialled his number on the phone. We spoke for a few minutes and then I asked him if he knew of a doctor in Paris who could answer some questions I had.

When I’d hung up I walked through the apartment. The place resembled that of a bachelor—a man who lived alone and always had done so. In the bathroom I washed my hands, soaping off the dust and traces of the past. For a long while I examined my reflection in the mirror, my fingers twisting the wedding band on my finger.

Who is that man? I asked myself. Who did he used to be?

I turned on the taps again and reached for the soap, lathering it up around my ring finger until I could work the wedding ring off. I dried the ring on a towel and carried it in my palm to the bedroom where I retrieved Claudine’s jewellery case from the back of the closet. From my pocket I took the gold ring I’d
placed on Claudine’s finger on the day we were married. I set it on the bed of velvet and placed my own matching ring next to it. Then I closed the box gently, put it back on the shelf and left the apartment, locking the door with a final twist of the key.

I looked at the scrap of paper on which I’d written the address Serge had given me. I had one more stop to make.

“C
AN YOU SMELL THAT?”

I lifted my chin and inhaled. “Flowers?”

Simon Grente nodded and smiled.

I inhaled again, trying to separate the scent from the diesel oil and fishy odour of the boat. “Honeysuckle?” I said.

“Right you are.” Taking one hand from the wheel, he pointed to a blur of green on the horizon ahead. “You can always smell the island before you see it. Sometimes from kilometres away.”

The smells became more intense as we drew closer, thick as perfume: the fresh loamy scent of earth, something floral, an elusive tang of wood smoke, even a hint of cow manure. And all the while the blue-green shape ahead grew, becoming land. La Mouche. Now the top of the lighthouse was visible, and the white walls of the Hôtel des Îles above the harbour.

Simon steered us towards Le Port, the harbour below the hotel, and the stone quay, where a long wooden motor launch was moored. I wondered if there were guests at the hotel.

Earlier, after I’d arrived in Saint-Alban on the mainland, I had gone down to the harbour, hoping to hire someone to ferry me over to La Mouche. As luck would have it I found Simon drinking a coffee in the little café next to the harbourmaster’s office. He was in town to collect the weekly mail. I didn’t volunteer any information about where I’d been and Simon asked no questions.

“Do you want to stop here,” he asked now, nodding towards Le Port, “or go on to LeBec?”

“Take me home, please.” Realizing what I’d just said, I smiled to myself.

He manoeuvred the boat past the opening to the harbour. Looking up at the hotel where the tricolour fluttered on its pole above the blue shutters of the upper floor, I picked out the room that had been mine. A few minutes later when the boat swung wide to the east, bringing the chapel of Notre-Dame de la Victoire into view like a white schooner anchored against the coast, I felt a warm sense of recognition, of welcome.

The boat glided into the shade of the steep rocky shore that was dotted with low shrubs of gorse, flowers of yellow and purple, dark pines. We rounded a bend in the shoreline and there was the simple stone quay, a few boats tied up at buoys, the scattering of cottages. LeBec. A gull sitting on a lobster pot took to the air squawking indignantly as the boat bumped against the quay. I walked up to La Minerve with my bag and parcels. Nothing had changed in the days I had been away. I made myself a cup of black coffee and sweetened it with two cubes of sugar, then carried it out to the little garden at the back.

On the journey down from Paris I had questioned myself many times about my reasons for coming back. And when La
Mouche appeared on the horizon, I’d re-examined my motives again. I had tried to be clear-headed in my thoughts, and even if my feelings were complex, I hoped I was being honest with myself. But even so, I still had doubts.

One thing I did know was that this was my life in the present tense, this island and the people on it. I did not want a parallel life, I wanted the here and now.

I had come back for Tobias. I had come back for Lorca. I had come back for Père Caron. At the very least, I owed them all an apology. But I had also come back for the painting in the chapel. Not “Love and the Pilgrim” but the new one I was now determined to make. I swallowed the rest of my coffee down and carried the cup to the sink. I wanted to go to the chapel immediately. The barrenness of the room on rue du Figuier had made me realize how much I now thought of the chapel as my studio. I wanted to see my sketches, I wanted to touch my brushes and smell the oil and turpentine. I wanted to see that big expanse of canvas with the outlines of a boy, a woman and a building. I ought to see the priest first, though, and explain my sudden departure, for I’d left everything in the chapel as is, without a word of farewell, and Père Caron must be wondering what had happened. I might very well find that all my equipment had been removed.

Although it was almost evening, I set out along the route des Matelots. But as the chapel came into view I saw the band of blue water surrounding it and realized I had forgotten the tide, which was now full, cutting off the chapel. Frustrated, I stood looking across the sheet of water. I even considered swimming across. It wasn’t deep and the evening was warm. If only I had a boat. Come to think of it, why hadn’t I arranged for one a long
time ago? I had been at the whim of the tides often enough. Just a little skiff and a pair of oars would do. Tomorrow, first thing, I would ask around.

Rather than return to the cottage, I struck off along the route de la Croix towards the priest’s house, where I hoped to find Père Caron. If he wasn’t home, then there was always the Hôtel des Îles, where I might as well have a drink and dinner, since the pantry at home was quite bare.

To the west, above the treetops, the sky was turning cerulean blue and rose. The day’s warmth lingered, rising from the ground. Crickets thrummed in the tall barley. Where the path neared the junction with La Garenne, I caught the scent of wood smoke again, but this time carrying with it the aroma of grilling meat. Realizing how hungry I was, I turned my footsteps towards Manoir de Soulles. I hadn’t eaten anything for hours other than a stale sandwich in Saint-Alban. Ester Chauvin often cooked something for the bachelors on the island and I hoped there might be a couple of lamb chops available for me to take home. I grew hungrier by the minute as the aroma of grilled lamb grew stronger.

Just as the farm’s chimneys came into view a shift in the evening breeze brought the strains of music to my ears. Not just one instrument but what sounded like a number of musicians playing a lively jig. La Mouche was generally a silent place, with only the sounds of birds and livestock and the occasional boat disturbing the peace, so the music was something unusual.

Hearing a clarinet among the fiddles made me think of Lorca, and then something occurred to me. What if she had left the island too? All the optimism I’d felt on returning evaporated. A cloud of smoke and noise and aromas enveloped me
the moment I rounded the corner of the big stone barn and entered the courtyard behind the farmhouse. Figures moved in the haze while others sat at the tables and at the far end under coloured lanterns a group of musicians were adding to the festive atmosphere. It all looked like one of those celebrations painted by Bruegel.

A number of tables had been set out on the cobblestones and off to the left a long iron grill laden with cuts of lamb was the source of the grilled meat aroma. A figure waved and called my name. I made out Père Caron at a nearby table on which tall green cider bottles stood. An elegant white-haired woman was seated next to him.

“Leo! Come and join us.”

I walked over and shook hands with him. He was wearing his usual dark blue linen jacket, but tonight he also had on a tie. His moustache had been trimmed, I noticed. The woman, who wore cluster pearl earrings and a Spanish shawl draped over her shoulders, was introduced as Jeanette DuPlessis. I remembered that the owner of La Maison du Paradis was a Madame DuPlessis. I wondered if that was her motor launch in the harbour. Judging by her elegant clothes it could very well be.

I recognized a number of other villagers at the nearby tables, including Linda and Victor from the hotel, but there was no sign of Lorca.

“So you are back,” Père Caron said.

“I’m sorry I didn’t let you know I was leaving. It was a sudden impulse. And then there was no time to wait for the tide.”

“Yes, Simon told me. I assumed something important called you away. But I knew you would be back since your work in the chapel isn’t finished.”

Turning to the woman, whom I judged to be in her late sixties, the priest said, “Leo is the painter who is making a new picture for Notre-Dame de la Victoire.”

“What a good idea,” she said. “The chapel could certainly use something other than that dark old picture that hangs over the door.”

“And Leo is the man to do it,” the priest said. “He is going to surprise us with something magnificent.”

“What’s the occasion tonight?” I asked. “Someone’s birthday?”

“It’s a celebration for the arrival of the
moules de bouchot
. We have it every year at this time, on the full moon.” Père Caron pointed, indicating a brick outdoor stove on which two enormous copper pots rested over the flames. The woman tending the stove used her apron to remove a lid and reached through the steam with a long wooden spoon to give the contents a stir. Then two men lifted the pot and carried it to a table, where Ester Chauvin began to spoon heaps of steaming mussels into bowls.

Jeanette DuPlessis, who had been regarding the festivities with a look of fondness, now spoke up. “Ah, here are our musicians. Just in time for dinner.”

A dignified man with wavy white hair, dressed in a beige linen suit and holding a violin, appeared at the table.

“Bravo, Armand,” Madame DuPlessis said, clapping.

“The praise should go to my talented accompanist.” The man stepped aside and made a mock bow towards the woman behind him. Lorca.

I couldn’t help giving a start—of surprise and pleasure. Our eyes met, and I tried, unsuccessfully, to read her expression. She wore a low-cut dress with a single black pearl on a silver
chain around her neck. Her lipstick was red and so were the thin leather straps of her sandals. She had fastened one side of her hair up with a tortoiseshell comb and over her shoulder she’d draped a black crocheted shawl. She was holding her clarinet.

Madame DuPlessis said to me, “I believe you’ve met Lorca already, but not her husband, Armand.”

The man leaned across the table, stretching out a hand, gold cufflinks showing on his white shirt. I saw the thin gold wedding band on his finger, identical to the one Lorca wore. His name had come as a shock, but I had enough composure to stand and shake Armand Daubigny’s hand.

“Leo Millar,” I said.

Père Caron said to Daubigny, “Leo is a painter from Paris. He’s staying over in LeBec while he works on a new picture for the chapel.”

Further conversation was forestalled by the arrival of Ester Chauvin bearing a large tray. The bowls of mussels were passed around the table, a basket of roughly cut baguette chunks was distributed and our glasses were replenished with foaming cider.

“
Bon
appétit
!” Ester told us, bustling away.

I used an empty mussel shell as a set of pincers to remove the flesh from a large specimen. The taste was garlic and onion, cream, with something fruity underlying the tang of the sea.

“You haven’t had our moules
de bouchot
before, have you, Monsieur Daubigny?” Père Caron asked.

“Never. And they are truly sumptuous.”

“See, the flesh is orange.” He extracted a plump morsel from its shell. “And they are smaller than the usual mussels. But you will never find any as flavourful. The secret is the cider
and Calvados. You splash a bit of both in when you add the mussels to the broth. More cider than Calva, of course.”

The dusk had faded to a deep blue darkness and someone brought a big wrought-iron candelabra to the table. Père Caron used his matches to ignite the candles, and a warm yellow light bathed our faces. My eyes kept returning to Lorca. Her black hair was lost in the blackness of the surrounding night, her eyes were pools of shadow, her cheekbones sharply defined. I watched an orange mussel being raised to her lips, her white teeth taking it, the mouth closing, the tip of her tongue licking away the creamy sauce from her upper lip. I looked away.

One of the farmhands trundled a wheelbarrow from table to table, tipping in the empty mussel shells. The bowls and cider bottles were cleared away, to be replaced by
pichets
of red wine. Cuts of grilled lamb were served with small boiled potatoes.

“I enjoyed the music,” I said, addressing the space between Lorca and Daubigny. “In fact, it drew me here, from across the fields. I had no idea there was a fête in progress. I’ve just returned from Paris.”

“It was composed by Lorca,” Armand Daubigny said.

“It’s nothing,” she replied. “A variation on
Un premier amour
. Which is not my composition at all.”

“I thought there was something familiar to it,” I said to her. The song had been a big hit for a while, sung by Isabelle Aubret and played on radios everywhere.

“But you are composing other things, my dear,” Jeanette DuPlessis commented, leaning forward into the candlelight. “Important things.”

Daubigny smiled at Lorca. “And you have made some progress, haven’t you,
chérie
? That’s why you came here, not so?”

“Do we have to talk about it now? It’s bad luck to talk about something before it’s finished.”

“As you wish.” Daubigny sat back and withdrew a cigarette case from an inside pocket. He offered it around. Lorca and Père Caron each took a cigarette.

I wondered if Madame DuPlessis was referring to that music I’d heard coming from Lorca’s cottage.

“It doesn’t even have a title yet, anyway,” Lorca said.

“What about
Nocturne
?” Jeanette DuPlessis suggested, waving her hand to encompass the night around us.

Lorca was silent. Then she said, “Yes,
Nocturne
. Why not?” Leaning forward into the glow she lit her cigarette from a candle flame. “A
Nocturne for Lovers.”
Then she sat back, her face claimed by shadow again.

The way she had said this, almost harshly, left a moment of uncomfortable silence. I remembered the music she’d been playing when I arrived at her cottage, how melancholy and inward it had seemed.

“Well now,” Père Caron said. He took the
pichet
and topped up the wineglasses.

Daubigny sipped and then said, “This wine is very suitable. Although, for lamb generally, there is nothing better than a Coteaux du Languedoc. Lamb is essentially a southern meat, so you need the Spanish influence in the wine.”

For a moment I was reminded of Serge Bruneau, who also liked to make pronouncements at dinners, but in no other way did this man remind me of my friend.

I studied Lorca and Daubigny. They didn’t seem like a married couple at all, yet neither did there seem to be any ill feeling between them. But there was some kind of tension. So why was
Daubigny here? For a reconciliation? Questions and doubts rushed through my mind. I had to talk to her alone.