First published in the United Kingdom in 2020 by Aria, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd
Copyright © Olivia Lara, 2020
The moral right of Olivia Lara to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781838933142
Cover design © Charlotte Abrams Simpson
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Welcome Page
Copyright
Dedication
Dominique: 9 December 2019
Part I: ‘Life is a long sleep and love is its dream.’ — Alfred de Musset
Zara: 9 December 1954
Leon: 11 December 1954
Zara: 16 December 1954
Leon: 16 January 1955
Zara: 4 February 1955
Leon: 14 February 1955
Zara: 24 February 1955
Zara: 28 February 1955
Leon: 9 March 1955
Zara: 14 March 1955
Leon: 15 March 1955
Zara: 16 March 1955
Zara: 28 March 1955
Leon: 28 March 1955
Part II: ‘Nothing is impossible for a willing heart.’ — Jacques Coeur
Leon: 14 June 1956
Leon: 14 June 1957
Dominique Gardiner: 15 June 1957
Leon: 15 June 1957
Dominique: 15 June 1957
Leon: 22 June 1957
Alexander Roberts: 1 September 1957
Part III: ‘Two hearts in love need no words.’ — Marceline Desbordes-Valmore
Alexander: 1 September 1960
Dominique: 1 September 1960
Part IV: ‘Try to reason about love and you will lose your reason.’ — Stanislas Jean de Boufflers
Alexander: 5 October 1960
Dominique: 1 December 1960
Alexander: 1 December 1960
Dominique: 19 January 1961
Alexander: 20 January 1961
Dominique: 20 January 1961
Part V: ‘One always returns to one’s first love.’ — Charles-Guillaume Étienne
Dominique: 1 March 1961
Dominique: 9 December 1961
Alexander: 9 December 1961
Dominique: 28 December 1961
Dominique: 9 December 1962
Alexander: 9 December 1962
Part VI: ‘We love truly only when we love without reason.’ — Anatole France
Dominique: 9 December 1963, 5 P.M.
Alexander: 9 December 1963, 7 P.M.
Dominique: 9 December 1963, 7 P.M.
Alexander: 9 December 1963, 8 P.M.
Dominique: 9 December 1963, 9 P.M.
Alexander: 9 December 1963, 10 P.M.
Dominique: 9 December 1963, 11 P.M.
Alexander: 9 December 1963, 11 P.M.
Dominique: 9 December 1963, 11.30 P.M.
Dominique: 11 March 1964
Alexander: 11 March 1964
Dominique: 22 April 1964
Alexander: 20 May 1964
Alexander: 30 June 1964
Dominique: 1 July 1964
Alexander: 6 July 1964
Dominique: 7 July 1964
Alexander: 8 July 1964, Afternoon
Alexander: 8 July 1964, Evening
Dominique: 8 July 1964, Evening
Dominique: 8 July 1964, Night
Alexander: 8 December 1964
Part VII: ‘It is love, not reason, that is stronger than death.’ — Thomas Mann
Dominique: 9 December 1964
Dominique: 11 December 1964
Dominique: 12 December 1964
Dominique: 17 December 1964
Part VIII: ‘Come back. Even as a shadow, even as a dream.’ — Euripides
Dominique: 29 June 1965
Dominique: 24 February 1966
Dominique: 15 October 1966
Dominique: 3 July 1967
Dominique: 24 December 1967
Dominique: 1 December 1969
Dominique: 5 December 1969
Dominique: 9 December 1969, Evening
Dominique: 9 December 1969, Night
Dominique: 11 December 1969
Dominique: 12 December 1969
Part IX: ‘There is no disguise which can hide love for long where it exists or simulate it where it does not.’ — François de La Rochefoucauld
Anthony Peltz: 9 December 1973
Anthony: 10 December 1973, Morning
Anthony: 10 December 1973, Evening
Anthony: 12 December 1973
Anthony: 23 December 1973
Dominique Saint Germain: 23 December 1973, Evening
Part X: ‘Nothing is real but dreams and love.’ — Anna de Noailles
Anthony: 11 January 1974
Dominique: 22 February 1974
Anthony: 12 March 1974
Dominique: 25 March 1974
Dominique: 17 May 1974
Anthony: 6 June 1974
Dominique: 13 June 1974
Anthony: 20 June 1974
Dominique: 15 July 1974
Dominique: 5 September 1974
Dominique: 9 October 1974
Dominique: 12 October 1974
Anthony: 4 December 1974
Anthony: 6 December 1974
Anthony: 7 December 1974
Dominique: 8 December 1974
Dominique: 9 December 1974
Dominique: 9 December 2019
Anthony: 9 December 2019
Dominique: 9 December 2019
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Become an Aria Addict
For anyone who ever doubted themselves:
Believe in yourself, listen to your heart and always – I mean ALWAYS – follow your dreams.
What makes people fall in love? Truly in love? What makes them believe they’ve found the one, their soulmate? And why that person and not someone else?
What draws us in and never lets us go? Is it their eyes, their smile, their voice? The way they fit into our world? Is it because our parents like them and our friends think we’d make a great couple? Or maybe they make us laugh, have a good job, and want two kids like we do?
What if it has nothing to do with that? What if it is something else entirely?
I was fifteen the first time I asked myself this question. It was then that I had my first dream that didn’t feel quite like a dream. My mother said women in our family are special. She said I should listen to my dreams, but I was young, and I didn’t believe her. Or maybe I didn’t understand.
I am eighty years old now. I don’t pretend to have all the answers. But I’ve lived through enough to know people don’t believe you until you show them. And they shouldn’t. They should make up their own minds, listen to their own hearts, and follow their own dreams.
My story, the one I’ve been waiting to tell for so long, the one I never thought I would get to share until Valerie was born – my youngest son’s daughter – will not answer questions. Not even the question. But it will ask them.
Ever since Valerie turned fifteen, I have been waiting for the day she would say, ‘Mamie, I had a dream.’ And then I would have to tell her. To show her. When she turned sixteen, seventeen, eighteen and nothing happened, I started to worry. What if I’m not around when it happens, or I am around but too senile to remember everything? That’s when I wrote it all down. That way, no matter what, she will know what happened and how it all came to be. And when the story’s done, she can make up her own mind about the dreams, the connection and what her soul is trying to tell her. She might believe me, she might not, but I have to try.
A few days ago, she celebrated her twenty-first birthday. Still no word of the dreams. But there is a young man in her life, although she’s reluctant to talk about him. I don’t know if today of all days I should ask, but something tells me it might be time. There’s a spark in her eyes. A familiar spark. I might be wrong; it might be nothing, but it might be everything.
*
‘How are things with you, darling?’ I ask as we get close to Reims. The plan is to drop her off to meet some friends at the university in Reims while I go to Paris. Every year, on 9 December, I go to Paris no matter what.
‘Fine,’ she says, too busy with her phone to look at me.
‘Anything interesting happening?’
‘No, not really.’
As usual. Either Valerie has a painfully dull life or a secret one.
‘Ugh, perfect,’ she scoffs and throws the phone in her bag. Then she picks it up again like she can’t decide what to do.
‘What’s wrong?’
Silence.
‘It might help if you talk about it,’ I say.
‘It’s nothing really. Just this guy.’
‘What guy?’
I think I already know the answer.
‘Someone I met online. We’ve been chatting every day for a while now, but for the last two days, he’s been completely ignoring me. No email, no text, nothing. I’m so naïve. It’s my fault, really, for getting worked up about a man I’ve never even seen. Isn’t it stupid?’
I smile. No, no, it’s not. Not at all.
‘He’s clearly ghosting me. This is so embarrassing.’
‘What does ghosting mean?’ I ask.
‘Ghosting? It’s when someone disappears without an explanation. I’ve sent him tons of messages since Friday and nothing. Look,’ she says, shoving the phone in my face.
‘Can’t see while I’m driving, darling,’ I say calmly.
She seems frustrated with me. ‘Anyway, my friends say he’s a catfish; otherwise, why wouldn’t he talk on the phone or Skype?’
‘First ghosts, now catfish. Everything used to be much easier when I was your age.’
‘A catfish is someone who pretends to be someone else online,’ she says.
I don’t see the connection between that and a catfish, but what do I know?
‘Online as in on the internet?’
She laughs again. ‘Everyone is on Facebook and Twitter these days. He could very well be a twelve-year-old Parisian having fun with his playmates.’
‘As opposed to?’
‘A twenty-six-year-old actor on a movie set in Sydney.’
Today is probably not the day I tell her about the dreams. Even to me, an actor who avoids showing his face seems fishy.
‘He won’t even send me a photo. All the signs are there. Why did I even think there could be something between us? This whole thing is stressing me out. I can’t eat. And ever since he stopped responding I’ve been having the strangest dreams.’
‘What are the dreams about?’ I ask. A dream can be just a dream. Even in our family.
‘Don’t know. Stupid stuff.’
‘Please, tell me.’
‘Why?’
‘Please, Valerie.’
She looks out the car window. ‘I dreamed about a man with a gun. He was pointing it at me, and I was scared, terrified. But the strange thing is, although it was me in the dream, it wasn’t me. I’m not sure how to explain it. It’s as if I saw it through someone else’s eyes.’
I slam on the brakes.
‘Are you okay, Mamie? What’s wrong?’
‘Valerie, what do you really feel about this man?’
‘What do you mean? I told you. I don’t even know him.’
‘That’s not what I asked.’
Her eyes fill with tears. ‘I feel I can’t breathe without him, that’s what I feel. Happy now? If I don’t talk to him for a few hours, I miss him. I want to share everything with him. I feel I was somehow meant to meet him. And it’s like, no matter who he is, what he looks like, I wouldn’t care because—’
‘Because you love him.’
‘That’s impossible. You can’t love someone you’ve never met.’
I take a deep breath. Of all the days. It had to be this one.
‘You will have to meet your friends some other day, darling,’ I say as I take a sharp right back onto the highway instead of driving into Reims.
‘Where are we going?’ asks Valerie and I hear the concern in her voice.
‘You’ll see when we get there.’
She keeps asking me all the way to Paris, but I don’t say a thing. I have to do this right. There’s an accident on the highway, and we get caught in a lot of traffic, but we finally make it.
‘Why are we stopping here?’ asks Valerie and follows me out of the rental car.
‘Button up your coat, darling. It’s freezing.’
I open the trunk, grab the flowerpot and tuck it into my coat.
‘Slow down,’ she says, rushing to catch up with me.
The fresh snow crunches under our boots and the wind blows through the naked trees.
‘I don’t like to keep people waiting. It’s disrespectful.’
‘You’re meeting someone in the cemetery? Mamie, are you sure you’re alright?’
They are waiting at the end of the alley.
‘Sorry we’re late,’ I say and hug each of them.
‘Who’s this?’ asks Hugo, staring at us.
‘My granddaughter, Valerie.’
‘This is the first time in fifty-five years Dominique has brought someone along,’ he says. ‘How in God’s name did you convince her?’
‘I’m not sure I did,’ says Valerie.
‘Shall we?’ I ask. I lead her through untouched snow, to a row of identical stones. The names and the dates of birth are different, but the date of death is the same.
9 DECEMBER 1964
Valerie steps closer. ‘Mamie? Who are all these people and why are we here?’
I caress her face. ‘In the beginning, they all came. Over a hundred people. Through the years, some died, some moved away, others just couldn’t make the trip anymore. It’s only the eight of us now, and I can’t abandon them.’
The group spreads out, each of them stopping in front of a stone. I do the same.
‘I don’t understand. Why do you all come here and whose grave is this?’ she asks, reading the name engraved on the stone. ‘Who is Alexander Roberts, did you know him?’
I clean the snow off and carefully place the small pot of lilies.
‘I dreamed about him once.’ I smile. ‘Now, let’s go home. We’ll make hot cocoa, and I’ll read you a story.’
‘I’m too old for stories, Mamie.’
‘You’re never too old for stories. Definitely not for this one.’
‘You’re very mysterious. Does Grandpa know about this story of yours?’ she asks.
‘Your grandfather and I have no secrets.’
*
A few hours later, we’re sitting on the couch, our feet warm under a plush blanket.
Sixty-five years to the day. I feel a hand on my shoulder and my heart smiles.
‘What is the story about? Is it about this man? This Alexander Roberts?’ asks Valerie.
I open the leather-bound notebook. ‘It is about the three identical paintings on the wall you’ve been asking about and the book with lilies on the cover. It’s about dreams and taking chances. Missed opportunities and mistakes. Loss and sacrifice. But above all, it is about love. The kind of love that survives time, distance. Even death. The kind of love I wish for you.’
I take a deep breath, clear my voice and start reading.
The guard pushed a metal cart through the museum’s main gallery and into the minuscule art library. He took a piece of cardboard out of his pocket and wrote something on it before placing it on one of the many empty shelves. Zara squinted and counted. ‘One, two, three… seven.’ The last time she had seen that many new art books in Colmar’s library was over a year ago when Madame Martin, the lonely old lady on Rue Rapp, passed away. As much as she lived for the days when new books arrived, she hoped nobody had died this time.
When the cart’s wheels screeched again on the hallway’s marble floor, she sneaked out of her hiding place and rushed to the shelf. The note said ‘December 1954. New,’ and the books were all about architecture, sculpture, and art restoration. All except for one book with no visible title. A big, shiny tome with water lilies on the cover. She was sure she had never seen it before, but somehow it looked familiar. It felt familiar, and she was drawn to it, inexplicably.
Zara went back to her safe place, in the east corner of the library, holding the book tight, and carefully opened it. Monet’s Impressionism. Limited First Edition. 1954. On the inner cover were two initials in ink: ‘L.P.’ Below, two more: ‘A.P.’
*
‘Whose story is this? I thought maybe you’d tell me all about your past since you’ve always been so secretive. But who’s this Zara girl? I’ve never heard you mention her. And what does she have to do with the cemetery and 9 December 1964 and that Roberts man?’ asks Valerie.
‘You have to wait. And listen. Above all, listen. And when your ears get tired, listen with your heart,’ I say before turning the page.
*
Zara wondered what it was about that book that got her so interested. Inside there were lilies, more lilies, tens of variations, trees, forests, a thousand angles.
She flipped a few more pages, and her eyes rested on a ghostly painting. A lonely boat in the middle of the ocean, a red ball of fire in the sky. She stared at it; hypnotized. Impression, Sunrise. Claude Monet, 1872.
The dream she had the night before. The reason she was there that afternoon, looking for the first time for an art book about paintings, rather than sculpture, architecture, and art restoration. She closed her eyes, trying to remember all the details in the dream.
It was a room full of people. The men were dressed in nice suits and the women in long, sparkly dresses. And she was standing right in the middle of them all. They had glasses of champagne in their hands and talked loudly. Music played quietly in the background. Someone said something to her, but she didn’t understand. Or maybe she didn’t hear. Where was she? It seemed to be her museum in Colmar, but different. Bigger, brighter. The walls were covered in paintings. Paintings she knew so well. But how and why did she know them? She had never cared for paintings.
Zara walked towards the corner of the room and found herself in front of a mirror. Who was that woman looking back at her? It wasn’t her. Not the ‘her’ she knew. She was old, well, not old but her mother’s age perhaps. Her hair was long and wavy. She never wore her hair like that. A tiara-like headband? A long, flowy emerald-green dress and high heels? It could only be a dream. A fantasy. She would never look like that, no matter how many years passed.
She closed her eyes and started humming Edith Piaf’s ‘Hymne a l’Amour’, almost unwillingly. When she opened her eyes, in the mirror, behind her, she saw someone. A man. Her pulse quickened, her legs felt weak, and she had to hold on to a chair, afraid she would fall. She couldn’t see his face, yet she knew what he looked like. She knew who he was. She just knew.
‘I don’t know if in this life or maybe in my dreams,’ she heard. It was him, wasn’t it? His voice. Almost like a whisper.
Zara turned around, but he wasn’t there. She turned to her right, to her left. He was gone. Like he’d vanished. That’s when she saw it. Covering an entire wall. More impressive than all other paintings. Breathtaking. The Monet.
Yes, the painting in the dream was the painting in the book. She had found it. Now what? What did it all mean? Who was the woman in the mirror? Was it her? What about the man?
Zara felt even now that sensation she couldn’t describe. In the morning, she woke up with tears in her eyes and now she was almost crying again. What in that dream had made her so emotional?
The lights in the library flickered for a moment then went off. It wasn’t the first time the old museum had had a total blackout. Zara checked the pockets of her cardigan for her flashlight. It wasn’t there. She’d been in such a rush when she left the house, she must’ve forgotten it. That dream had completely dazed her.
Never mind. With or without her flashlight, she could return the book to its place, then sneak out like nothing happened.
She got up when the wall clock chimed loudly six times in the main gallery. Six o’clock? Was the museum closing? Had she really been staring at the painting for that long? What would she do now? Every day, five minutes after six o’clock, the museum’s guard and curator – the watchdog as she’d nicknamed him – always did his rounds.
‘Oh, no, this is bad.’ It was bad. The watchdog had warned her mother time and time again to keep her out of the rare books section of the library, or she’d lose her job: ‘This is for scholars only. Fifteen-year-old girls should read Jules Verne and Alexandre Dumas, not art history. There is a kids’ section in the town library, a couple of streets away. Go there,’ he’d said to her a few months before when he caught her browsing through an eighteenth-century tome. ‘This is your last warning.’
That’s when she decided to hide. What else could she do? She had already read all the books about Frédéric-Auguste Bartholdi and Eugène-Emmanuel Viollet-le-Duc she could find. There was nothing left for her in the public library. But here, inside the rare books section, she had discovered a hidden treasure. Albums, notes, drawings and photos of their work, even le-Duc’s own books. Facsimiles of their handwriting. Bartholdi’s drawings and plans for the statue. She had to see them. This was all she had been interested in for years. While other kids were outside playing, she was sitting in her room reading. Teaching herself art. Hiding inside the museum was the least she could do for her passion.
Why did I do this? It was just a dream. I wasn’t supposed to be back here until Saturday morning. None of this would’ve happened if I had just let it go.
Footsteps. Coming her way, echoing through the empty hallway. They closed in then slowed down until they stopped right next to her. She couldn’t see anything. It was pitch black. She held her breath, pressing her back against the wall while trying to tuck the book behind her. ‘Hello?’ she heard next to her.
It wasn’t the curator. Zara didn’t move a muscle and held her breath.
He repeated. ‘Hello?’ and this time it sounded even closer.
‘The museum is closed,’ she said bravely.
‘It wasn’t closed when I walked in. What happened to the lights? Can you turn them on?’
He was trying so hard to sound French, she snickered.
‘I wish. The power went out.’
‘I don’t really know what I’m doing here,’ he said in a low voice.
‘That makes two of us,’ said Zara. ‘I wasn’t even supposed to be here today.’
‘Is this your museum, mademoiselle?’
Zara burst into laughter.
He was quiet for a moment, and Zara felt terrible for laughing at him. She knew better.
‘I’m sorry. My French isn’t so good. I’m trying to find a painting. It might not even be here but, for some reason—’
‘Which painting?’ she interrupted.
‘Monet’s Impression, Sunrise.’
Zara gulped. The one in the dream. The one in the book. She got so flustered, she forgot she was holding the book and let go. It fell to the floor with a loud thump.
Startled, she stepped to the left but stumbled onto something, losing her balance. Just as she almost hit the floor, he caught her with a strength she didn’t expect. He let go of her arms and their hands touched accidentally. Her heart beat fast. She wasn’t scared of him or the dark. It was just a strange sensation. Zara pulled back, embarrassed. What she felt in that moment for this boy she couldn’t even see, this boy she didn’t even know, was quite impossible and it both scared and fascinated her. A familiar, warm sensation. A tingling in her fingers, a fluttering in the pit of her stomach. Why was it familiar if she had never felt it before?
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Are you alright? I was just trying to help.’
‘I’m f-fine,’ she stuttered.
‘I found it,’ he said, a moment later. ‘What book is this? It’s so heavy.’
She hesitated. ‘Monet’s Impressionism.’
‘Really? Now that’s what I call a coincidence. I have the exact same book. Well, I used to. My father gave it to me, but unfortunately, I left it on the train when I returned to school in September. I think there are only fifty copies in the entire world, and they’re all numbered, and every sale is recorded. It’s a pretty special book. How amazing you have it too, right?’
‘I guess,’ she said.
‘So, you like Monet?’
‘I don’t know anything about Monet.’
‘Why do you have the book then? Do you like art?’
‘I like Bartholdi and Viollet-le-Duc if that counts.’
‘Never heard of them,’ the boy said in a low, timid voice.
‘I’m not surprised. They’re not as famous as painters are, for instance.’
‘Yes, I love painters. Well, I mean I love paintings. Mostly by Monet. I like Cezanne too. Degas, sometimes. Pissarro. Manet less. Renoir is okay too. And Toulouse-Lautrec—’
He spoke so fast. She stopped him. ‘Can I have it back now?’
‘What?’
‘The book.’
‘Oh, sorry, of course.’
Zara stretched out her arms just a bit and felt the edges of the book. He let go of it.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘You’re not from around here, are you? Your accent—’
‘I’m from New York. But I go to school in Switzerland.’
Apart from Paris, New York was her favorite city in the whole world even if, just like Paris, she had never seen it. She knew everything about it. New York was every artist’s dream. The skyscrapers, the fantastic architecture, the bridges, the statues, the parks. She had read many books about the city and even more about the statue.
‘You’re lucky. I’ve always wanted to visit New York. Maybe one day. I’m fascinated with Liberty Enlightening the World,’ she said in one breath.
‘Enlightening what?’ he asked tentatively.
‘The statue. The Statue of Liberty. That’s what it was initially called. Did you know the mastermind behind it lived here, in Colmar? The old town is filled with his sculptures and fountains. They’re magnificent.’
‘No, I didn’t know that,’ he said.
‘Yes, Colmar is not just a pretty small town on the Alsatian wine route. But let’s keep it between us because if word gets out, this place will be swarming with tourists.’
He chuckled, and her heart fluttered. She tried imagining what the face of a boy with such beautiful laughter looked like. She wondered if you could like someone without seeing them, without knowing anything about them. There was something about him. Something that made her feel things she’d never felt before.
‘Too late. I’m a tourist, so your secret is out. Tell me about this man who built the statue.’
‘He didn’t build it; he designed it. You know who built it? Gustave Eiffel, the same man who made the Eiffel Tower in Paris. Don’t feel bad, not a lot of people know this.’
‘But you do,’ he said. ‘Hey, you never answered my question.’
‘What question?’
‘The painting. Is it here?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ she said. ‘In Paris, perhaps. Like I said, I am not that good with—’
‘Paintings,’ he said and chuckled. ‘Apparently neither am I.’ He sounded disappointed. ‘Well, at least I tried.’
‘Did you come all the way from Switzerland for this? What’s so special about it?’ Maybe there was something about Impression, Sunrise that would explain her dream.
‘It belongs to my family.’
‘Really? Then how come you don’t know where it is?’
‘It’s complicated.’
‘My mother says that everything worthwhile is at least a little bit complicated. Besides, I’m in no rush. Tell me,’ she said, sitting on the floor next to him.
She forgot about the watchdog, about getting caught. It didn’t seem to matter anymore.
‘Alright then. Claude Monet made four identical Impression, Sunrise paintings. One he signed, the other three he kept secret and gave to his closest friends – among them, my great-grandfather. Years later, during World War II, the painting was stolen from our family’s house in Newport.’
‘And someone told you it might be in Colmar?’ asked Zara.
‘Not exactly. No. I just – I felt I had to come here. Not sure why. I saw the signs pointing to the museum, and here I am.’
‘I’m sorry you didn’t find what you were looking for,’ she said.
‘I…’ Silence.
‘Yes?’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that,’ he said quietly.
Zara’s pulse quickened.
‘Well, now you know why I am here. What about you? Why are you hiding in the dark?’
‘My mother works for the museum, but I’m not allowed inside. Not in the art library at least. You must be an adult and even then, you need the curator’s permission.’
‘What does she do? Is she in charge of the collections? Is your father into art too? They sound like my family – collectors of everything, keepers of nothing. Paintings, drawings, sketches, sculptures. Anything they can get their hands on. Our summer house in Newport is filled with them. And our apartment in New York.’
He was speaking very quickly again, not even stopping to take a breath.
‘I doubt our families are alike, although yours sounds lovely. My mother cleans the museum. Sometimes she also takes care of the books. Puts them all back on shelves, in order. Back in Romania, she was a literature teacher at the university,’ she said.
‘You lived there too? My father went there once; he said it’s pretty.’
‘I wouldn’t know. I was born in Romania but only lived there for a few years.’
‘Why?’
‘My father died when I was little, and then we moved here.’
Talking about it always made Zara feel sad, although she barely remembered him.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know.’
‘Not your fault. Not anybody’s fault, I guess. Well, except for the war.’
‘Why isn’t your mom a teacher in France too?’
‘For years now, she has been trying to go back to teaching, but it’s hard to do that in a small town like Colmar. There are plenty of universities in Paris though, and she just took her last teaching exam so now she can get a job there. I really hope it will happen soon. She wants this so much.’
‘I hope so too. Paris is amazing. Or so I’ve heard.’
She chuckled. ‘You’ve never been to Paris?’
‘Not yet. You?’
She shook her head then remembered he couldn’t see her.
‘Me neither.’
‘Is that why you’re into art? Because your mom works in the museum?’
‘Not really, no. I think that’s from my great-aunt, my grandmother’s sister. She was the artist in the family.’
‘Was?’ he asked.
‘Unfortunately, she died a few years ago. But when I was young, I used to stay home with her while my mother was at work. She was in her nineties and could barely see, but she still found her way around the house, and I remember her gathering a huge pile of art books every morning and making me read them to her. Page by page. And in the afternoons, she would take me around town to show me the sculptures we had just seen in the books and tell me their stories. I didn’t understand much, but I was fascinated. When she died, I kind of carried on her passion and I continued reading and learning. And when I finished all the books in the public library, I discovered the museum.’
‘I’m sorry to hear she passed away. She sounds amazing.’
‘Thank you. She was.’
‘Now it’s just the two of you alone here?’
‘Pretty much. Alone, but not lonely. Colmar is a special town.’
‘I believe you,’ he said. ‘Too bad I didn’t get a chance to see much of anything in Colmar. Like those sculptures.’
‘I could show them to you later. It’s not a big town and it won’t take us long. And not just the sculptures. There are a few places unlike anything you’ve ever seen.’
‘Like what? Tell me.’
‘I could take you to see the winding waterways and the medieval streets to understand why Colmar is called “Little Venice”. Then there’s my favorite bakery that sells kugelhopf and the best croissants in all of France. And the little Statue of Liberty – yes, we have that too. The French Neo-Baroque and German Gothic architecture, which I can’t let you miss. And you must see three fountains that have Bartholdi’s statues as centerpieces. Words can’t describe them. Colmar is just—’
‘Magical.’
‘Magical.’
They were both quiet for a few moments.
‘Why the Monet book?’ he asked suddenly.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Why were you holding the Monet book earlier? Why that one of all the books?’
She took a deep breath. ‘I – I’m not sure. I really don’t know anything about painting.’
‘Really?’ he said. ‘Let’s see. Do you know, for instance, who the most prolific painter is?’
‘Dead or alive?’
‘Whichever.’
‘Picasso?’
‘Seriously? You said you don’t know anything about painting.’
‘It was just a lucky guess. Try again.’
‘Fine. Do you know the name of the town in Starry Night?’
‘In what?’
‘Vincent van Gogh’s Starry Night. The blue and yellow painting.’
‘Oh, yes, wait. I know this. The mayor visited the town. It’s in France.’
He was quiet.
‘Remy? Saint-Remy?’
He scoffed, amused. ‘You’re making fun of me.’
‘No, why? Am I right?’
‘Of course you are right.’
‘It was just a coincidence.’
‘I don’t believe in coincidences.’
‘Try again.’
‘Last time. Do you know why some painters are called Impressionists?’
‘Because they painted their impressions of… no, I don’t know.’
‘Finally, something you don’t know.’
They both chuckled. ‘Because of Monet and his most famous painting. The one I am looking for. Impression, Sunrise. Get it? Impression. Impressionism.’
‘See? You know things I don’t.’
‘Barely. Truth is, I never met anyone interested in art before. Anyone my age, I mean.’
‘How do you know we’re the same age?’
‘I don’t know, you just sound my age, I guess. How old are you?’
‘Fifteen.’
‘I just turned sixteen,’ he said and paused. ‘You and I, I think we’d make a great team. Maybe you could help me find the Monet.’
‘What will your father do with the painting after you find it? Is it worth a lot?’
‘Millions. But he’d never sell it. I’m sure he’ll donate it to the Monet museum in Paris.’
‘There’s a Monet museum in Paris?’
‘Yes. The Marmottan.’
‘I don’t know many people who would give up millions of francs.’
‘Millions of dollars you mean. That’s a lot more than francs. It’s probably worth a few houses in Paris, yachts in Newport and then some change to last someone a lifetime. He doesn’t need it though. He’s a successful businessman in New York. I hope one day I’ll be just like him.’
‘Like him, how? Rich? Successful?’
He laughed.
‘I bet if I told him I met you and you’re going to help us find the painting, he’d be excited. Maybe one day we could both go to Paris and look for the painting. Or to Giverny. That’s where Monet lived. My great-grandfather visited him there often. He used to go with him by the entrance to the forest and watch him as he painted. Isn’t that something? Le Havre too. I know all the places where he lived and painted. We could do a tour.’
‘I would love to—’ she started, but was interrupted by the guard’s baritone voice from a way away.
‘You can call for him, but I seriously doubt he’s here. The museum has been closed for over an hour. I was just doing my final round before locking up for the night.’ There was a metallic noise then silence. ‘What did you say his name is?’
Another man responded. ‘It’s alright, I’ll do it.’
‘Suit yourself,’ said the watchdog.
Zara didn’t move. They sounded close. Probably at the library’s entrance. She could see the light from the guard’s flashlight.
‘Leon, I know you’re in here. Vincent saw you running this way. If you’re not back at the bus in ten minutes, I’m calling the police. You give me no choice. You hear me?’ he bellowed.
‘Leon? Is that your name?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who is the man looking for you?’
‘My teacher. We’re all on a field trip here. At the public library. I kind of sneaked out.’
‘Then you’re in trouble. You should go.’
‘Big trouble probably. It was worth it though,’ he whispered.
Zara wasn’t used to such directness and didn’t know how to react at first. What she did know was that without her help, he’d get caught.
‘Come on, I’ll take you out. Where’s the bus parked?’ she asked.
‘In the town square.’
‘Alright. If you make a run for it, you’ll get there before him. When you exit, take the first street to your left then run all the way to the end and turn right. That’s the square.’
‘Uh huh,’ he said, sounding a bit lost and unconvinced.
‘Let’s go,’ she said.
‘Where? I can’t see anything,’ he grumbled. ‘Give me your hand.’
The moment their hands touched, this time on purpose, she felt that sensation again. It was more powerful now. Almost like a bolt of lightning went through her body.
They tiptoed out, walking carefully along the walls and stopping at corners. She saw the light from the guard’s flashlight going up the stairs. Here was their chance. ‘Let’s run,’ she said when they arrived at the exit sign before she realized she was still holding the Monet book.
‘I can’t. I wish I could, but I have to put the book back, or I’ll be in trouble too.’
‘I’ll wait for you,’ he said.
‘Don’t. You have less than five minutes to get back. You heard your teacher.’
He moved in closer. Their faces were inches away. ‘I don’t want to go.’
She didn’t want him to go either.
‘I wish we had more time. I wish we could talk more.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Could I maybe write to you when I get back to Switzerland?’
She gulped.
‘You want to write to me?’
‘If you want me to, of course. But if you don’t, and you think I’m—’
‘I’d like that very much,’ she said, not letting him finish. Her face was on fire.
Heavy footsteps. The watchdog was coming.
‘You have to go,’ she said shortly.
He turned to leave, then stopped short.
‘Where’s my head? How can I write to you if I don’t know where to send the letters?’ He chuckled. ‘I never asked you what your name is. Silly me.’
‘Zara. My name is Zara Ionesco.’
‘Zara,’ he repeated.
She loved the sound of her name coming from his mouth.
‘24 Rue des Jardins. That’s my address.’
‘I’ll write as soon as I get back. Promise.’
A door opened then closed. Two sets of footsteps were approaching. They were now dangerously close. ‘We can look here as well if you want,’ said the watchdog.
‘I have to go. I’ll be seeing you, Zara,’ Leon said and ran towards the door.
Standing in the middle of the pitch-black corridor, ignoring all sounds and shadows, she watched him leave and wondered if he was right. If she would ever see him again.
They’d missed the play in Strasbourg because of him. The teacher had almost called the police. And on their way back to La Rolande, on the school bus, everyone gave him nasty looks. Some even said nasty things. Vincent, who would jump at any opportunity to just be Vincent, shoved him and pushed him to the back of the bus. Leon would’ve pushed back under any other circumstances, but now he didn’t care. His mind was elsewhere. Busy with her. And how interesting she was, so unlike anyone else he ever met. How he would’ve listened to her talk about green beans if that was what she was interested in because she made everything sound like a story, a fairy tale almost. Magical.
And it was magical, wasn’t it? He’d seen the sign for the museum and felt drawn to it, not knowing why. Then he’d run faster and faster like he was running for his life, desperate to get there. But what he found wasn’t at all what he expected. A small museum and no sign of the Monet. And then darkness. And in that darkness, magic happened when he heard her voice. When their hands touched. When they sat next to each other on the cold floor, in the dark, and time stood still. He had never felt that way before. She smelled like jasmine, and her laughter was the most beautiful thing in the world. Leon closed his eyes, trying to picture what she looked like, how she smiled. He wondered if she had blonde hair and blue eyes like his best friend, Nicole. Even her name was unique. Zara. Zara and Leon. Leon and Zara. Magical.
*
Back at school, Leon ran to the girls’ dorm and up the stairs to Nicole’s room. Luckily there were no teachers around to see him and tell the headmaster. He was in a lot of trouble anyway because of what had just happened in Colmar. One more stunt like that – not his words – and he would get detention and lose his privileges for all eternity. But he had to tell Nicole what happened. They always told each other everything.
He knocked on her door and when she opened, he lunged forward and pushed her in, quickly closing the door behind them.
‘Sit down. No, let’s both sit here,’ he said in one breath as he pulled her by the hand and pushed her shoulders down until she sat on the bed.
‘What’s going on?’ she asked. ‘I haven’t seen you this agitated since you told me about your father’s Monet. I hope it’s not something about that.’
Leon ignored her snarky remark because he was too busy smiling from ear to ear. Nothing could dampen his happiness. He got up and walked to the window then back and, stopping in front of her, slapped himself on both cheeks. Not hard, but hard enough to make them red probably. He could feel them burning now.
‘What’s gotten into you? Are you okay?’
‘I’m just – I can barely sit still.’
‘Obviously.’
Now it was her turn to pull him by the hand and force him to sit next to her.
‘Tell me,’ she said as she was holding both of his hands in hers.
‘I met someone.’
‘You met someone. Okay. That sounds interesting. Who is this someone?’
‘Her name is Zara and she’s just – oh God, Nicole, I don’t know how to explain. She’s like me… but a girl. No, I’m lying. She’s better than me. She knows so much about art. She’s so interesting and—’
Nicole let go of his hands and slowly pulled hers back and placed them in her lap. She looked down for a moment.
‘What?’
‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘Go on, tell me. Where did you meet her? Who is she?’
Without stopping to breathe, he told Nicole every detail of his one hour with Zara. When he finally looked up, Nicole looked like she wasn’t even listening to him. Absentmindedly playing with her fingers, she seemed totally disengaged, staring out the window.
‘Am I boring you?’
She didn’t respond.
‘Nicole,’ he said a bit louder.
Almost startled, she turned to him. ‘Yes. I’m listening.’
‘You’re not saying anything. What do you think?’
‘About what?’
‘What do you mean about what? About Zara. Isn’t it incredible?’
‘Yes. Incredible,’ she repeated.
‘Hey, I listen to all your Vincent stories,’ Leon said, frowning. ‘And I never complain, though you know what I think of him.’
Nicole tilted her head to the side and looked at him for a moment. ‘What does she look like? Is she pretty?’
‘I don’t know what she looks like. Have you been listening to me? I couldn’t see her. But I’m sure she is. I’m sure she’s the prettiest girl ever.’
Nicole snarled. ‘But she could very well be a three-headed monster with hairy legs and a big wart on her nose, couldn’t she?’
‘That’s not funny,’ he said, stung by her tone.
‘It is, in a way,’ she said. ‘You’ve been talking nonstop about a girl you haven’t even seen. I find that funny. Ridiculous, even.’
Leon and Nicole had shared everything through the years, with one condition: he didn’t judge her and she didn’t judge him. That was Vincent’s job and he had been doing it impeccably since they were kids. Perhaps Nicole had been spending so much time with Vincent lately, she was turning into him.
‘Does it matter what she looks like? I like her for who she is, not how long her hair is or how blue or green her eyes are.’
She looked away.
‘This all sounds—’ She suddenly stopped.
‘What?’
‘I don’t know. Childish.’
Leon got up. He was hurt. ‘Why childish?’
‘Because only kids have fixations like this. You barely talked to her, you don’t know what she looks like, and you’re acting like she’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you. You did the same with that silly quest of yours. It was childish then and it is childish now.’
‘You’re wrong! I thought you of all people would understand. You’re my friend. I thought you’d care,’ he said, his voice raised. ‘You want to see childish? I’ll show you childish,’ he said and stormed out of the room.
‘I do care—’ Leon heard her say but he didn’t turn around.
He was mad. So mad, he didn’t talk to her at all for two whole days, which was the longest they’d ever stayed away from each other since they first met.
*
In the summer of 1945, when Leon was seven, his father, Leonard Price, moved his family from a small house in the suburbs of New York City to the Upper West Side, in one of the three apartments on the top floor of Manhattan’s most coveted and newest high-rise: ‘The Diamond Tower.’
The other two apartments were occupied by the D’Angers – Jean Jacques, Demetria and their seven-year-old daughter, Nicole – and the Saint Germains. Leon didn’t know anything about the Saint Germains, but he knew Jean Jacques D’Angers, his godfather and his father’s best friend; Jean Jacques had visited them many times on his way back home from his travels, always bearing gifts.
While his parents were busy unpacking, Leon wandered out into the hallway and from there to his godfather’s apartment, where he was invited in by a blonde girl with pigtails and a sparkly red dress.
‘I’m Nicole,’ she said as soon as he walked in. ‘You’re Leon, aren’t you? Papa told me you were coming. Come to my room – I have lots of toys. Want to play with my dollhouse?’
Leon wasn’t sure he wanted to play with dolls, but he was happy to finally have a friend. Where he’d lived before, the kids were older, and he had been spending most of his time alone.
That same afternoon, Vincent Saint Germain, the boy next door, showed up too. He was eight, taller and stronger than Leon. And because he had met Nicole before Leon did, he seemed to think he had some sort of right over her.
Vying for Nicole’s time and attention seemed to be a constant in their lives, even now, nine years later, although one thing had changed: their group’s dynamic. In time, Leon and Nicole became best friends, while Vincent was now her boyfriend.
Nicole and Vincent made sense as a couple and Leon had known from the beginning he was the odd one out. Even when they were small, he was merely ‘accepted in their world’; he didn’t truly belong. His family was ‘new money’, not like the Saint Germains and the D’Angers, whose noble names carried a lot of weight on both sides of the Atlantic.
In 1946, Demetria D’Angers died of influenza, leaving JJ a young widower with a small child. Taking pity on him, Vincent’s parents, Margaux and Francois Saint Germain, sometimes allowed Leon and Nicole to play with their son in their apartment.
Soon though, both Leon and Nicole regretted accepting the invitation, especially after overhearing Margaux Saint Germain talking to her friends about JJ.
‘He says he’s grieving, and his work is the only refuge he has… but traveling the world and leaving the girl alone for months on end is preposterous. Poor child. Can you imagine? What she must be feeling knowing her father doesn’t love her and wishes she didn’t exist! How can you not feel sorry for her?’
‘Don’t listen to her,’ Leon comforted Nicole when she started to cry. ‘Your father loves you. He works a lot and he’s sad because your mother died. It’s hard for him. I would be sad too.’
But the damage had been done, and Nicole never forgot what she had heard that day. Or how she felt. And that was only confirmed one year later when her father informed her he’d made arrangements for her to live in Europe. Without him.
JJ and Francois had both studied at La Rolande, Europe’s most prestigious school, so it came as no surprise to anyone – except for the children, perhaps – when they both made plans to send Nicole and Vincent to Switzerland when they turned ten, the minimum age to be accepted into the elite establishment. Vincent left first, and then, a year later it was Nicole’s turn. Afraid it might jeopardize their status in New York’s high society if Leon attended a regular private school, Leonard proceeded to enroll his son at La Rolande too, despite his protests.
Now, six years later, La Rolande was the children’s second home. It was where they lived and learned, laughed and cried, celebrated their birthdays and even their Christmases.
And while Vincent and Leon, too fundamentally different to bond as friends, were never close and didn’t even try to pretend they liked each other, they were still part of each other’s lives because of their relationships with Nicole.
*
Two days after their fight, Nicole knocked on Leon’s door.
‘Are you still mad at me?’
Leon opened the door and leaned against the frame. ‘It depends. Are you going to apologize?’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.’
He let her in.
‘I missed you. Let’s not fight again,’ she said earnestly.
‘I missed you too. I got bored of talking to myself.’
She laughed, then looked around at his messy room and picked up a crumpled piece of paper. ‘What is this?’
‘Nothing,’ he said, yanking it out of her hand.
‘I thought we didn’t keep secrets from each other.’
‘We don’t,’ he said, ‘but I don’t want you to start again.’
‘Start what?’
‘It’s a letter to Zara.’
Nicole rolled her eyes.
‘See? I knew it!’
‘Is that what you’ve been doing for the last two days, locked up in your room?’
He nodded, feeling a bit embarrassed.
‘How about we do something together instead?’
Leon looked at her blankly.
‘Everyone is going skiing,’ she said in a singsong voice. ‘You know how much you love skiing.’
‘I don’t want to go,’ he said stubbornly.
‘Why not? So you can continue scribbling notes you’re not even sending?’
Leon shrugged.
‘Fine. If this is what you want, I’ll leave you to it,’ she said, walking to the door. ‘I’ll go see where Vincent is. I bet he won’t say no.’
‘Don’t go,’ he pleaded. ‘I don’t know what to write. Please help me! What do I say?’
‘You want me to tell you what you should write to another girl?’
‘Why not?’
She crossed her arms. ‘Because.’