فصل 22

chapter 22

She meets Mo at St Pancras at five thirty p.m., and at the sight of her, waving laconically, cigarette in hand outside a café, she realizes shes almost shamefully relieved at the prospect of two days away. Two days away from the deathly hush of the Glass House. Two days away from the telephone, which she has come to view as virtually radioactive fourteen different journalists have left messages of varying friendliness on her answer-phone. Two days away from Paul, whose very existence reminds her of everything she has got wrong.

The previous night she had told Sven her plan, and he had said immediately, Can you afford it?

I cant afford anything. Ive remortgaged the house.

Svens silence was poignant.

I had to. The law firm wanted guarantees.

The legal costs are eating everything. The barrister alone costs five hundred pounds an hour and he hasnt yet stood up in court. Itll be fine once the painting is mine again, she says briskly.

So whos this man were going to meet, and how does he relate to your case?

Philippe Bessette is the son of Aurélien Bessette, younger brother of Sophie Lefèvre. It was Aurélien, Liv explains, who lived in Le Coq Rouge during the years of the occupation. He had been there when Sophie was taken away, and had stayed in the town for several years afterwards. He of all people might know how the painting disappeared. I spoke to the matron of the care home where he lives, and she said he should be up to a conversation as hes still quite sharp, but that I had to come in person as hes pretty deaf and cant do it by phone.

Well, glad to help.

Thank you.

But you do know I dont really speak French.

Livs head whips round. Mo is pouring a small bottle of red wine into two plastic glasses. What?

I dont speak French. Im good at understanding general old persons babble, though. I might be able to get something.

Liv slumps in her seat.

Im joking. Jesus, youre gullible. Mo hands her the wine, and takes a long sip. I worry about you sometimes. I really do.

Afterwards she remembers little of the actual train journey. They drink the wine, and two more little bottles, and they talk. Its the closest thing shes had to a night out for weeks. Mo talks about her alienation from her parents, who cannot understand her lack of ambition or the care home, which she loves. Oh, I know were the lowest of the low, care assistants, but the olds are good. Some of them are really smart, and others are funny. I like them more than most people our age. Liv waits for present company excepted and tries not to take offence when it doesnt come.

She tells Mo, finally, about Paul. And Mo is temporarily silenced. You slept with him without Googling him? she says, when she recovers the power of speech. Oh, my God, when you said you were out of the dating loop I never thought for a minute … You dont sleep with someone without doing background. Jesus.

She sits back and refills her glass. Just briefly, she looks oddly cheerful. Whoa. I just realized something you, Liv Halston, may actually turn out to have had the Most Expensive Shag In History.

They spend the night in a budget hotel in a Paris suburb, where the bathroom is moulded from one piece of yellow plastic and the shampoo is the exact colour and scent of washing-up liquid. After a stiff, greasy croissant and a cup of coffee, they call the residential home. Liv packs their stuff, her stomach already a knot of nervous anticipation.

Well, thats torn it, says Mo, when she puts down the phone.

What?

Hes not well. Hes not seeing visitors today.

Liv, putting on her makeup, stares at her in shock. Did you tell them wed come all the way from London?

I told her wed come from Sydney. But the woman said he was weak and hed only be asleep if we came. Ive given her my mobile number and shes promised to ring if he picks up.

What if he dies?

Its a cold, Liv.

But hes old.

Come on. Lets go drink in bars and stare at clothes we cant afford. If she rings we can be in a taxi before you can say Gérard Depardieu.

They spend the morning wandering around the endless departments at Galeries Lafayette, which are festooned with baubles and packed with Christmas shoppers. Liv tries to distract herself, to enjoy the change, but she is acutely conscious of the price of everything. Since when had two hundred pounds become an acceptable price for a pair of jeans? Did a hundred-pound moisturizer really eradicate wrinkles? She finds herself dropping hangers as quickly as she picks them up.

Are things really that bad?

The barrister is five hundred quid an hour.

Mo waits a minute for a punchline that doesnt come. Ouch. I hope this paintings worth it.

Henry seems to think weve got a good defence. He says they talk the talk.

Then stop worrying, Liv, for Gods sake. Come on – this is the weekend youre going to turn it all around.

But she cant enjoy herself. Shes here to pick the brains of an eighty-year-old man, who may or may not be up to speaking to her. The court case is due to start on Monday and she needs greater firepower to go in with than she already has.

Mo.

Mm? Mo is holding up a black silk dress. She keeps looking up at the security cameras in a faintly unnerving manner.

Can I suggest somewhere else?

Sure. Where do you want to go? Palais Royale? Le Marais? We could probably find a bar for you to dance on, if youre doing the whole finding-yourself-again thing.

She pulls the road map from her handbag and begins to unfold it. No. I want to go to St Péronne.

They hire a car and drive north from Paris. Mo does not drive, so Liv takes the wheel, forcing herself to remember to stay on the right-hand side of the road. It is years since she drove. She feels the approach of St Péronne like the beat of a distant drum. The suburbs give way to farmland, huge industrial estates, and then, finally, almost two hours later, the flatlands of the north-east. They follow signs, get briefly lost, double back on themselves and then, shortly before four oclock, they are driving slowly down the towns high street. It is quiet, the few market stalls already packing up and only a few people in the grey stone square.

Im gasping. Do you know where the nearest bar is?

They pull over, glancing up at the hotel on the square. Liv lowers the window and stares up at the brick frontage. Thats it.

Thats what?

Le Coq Rouge. Thats the hotel where they all lived.

She climbs out of the car slowly, squinting up at the sign. It looks as it might have done back in the early part of the last century. The windows are brightly painted, the flower boxes full of Christmas cyclamen. A sign swings from a wrought-iron bracket. Through an archway into a gravelled courtyard, she sees several expensive cars. Something inside her tightens with nerves or anticipation, she is not sure which.

Its Michelin-starred. Excellent.

Liv stares at her.

Duh. Everyone knows Michelin-starred restaurants have the best-looking staff.

And … Ranic?

Foreign rules. Everyone knows it doesnt count if youre in another country.

Mo is through the door and standing at the bar. A young, impossibly handsome man in a starched apron greets her. Liv stands to the side as Mo chats away to him in French.

Liv breathes in the scents of food cooking, beeswax, perfumed roses in vases, and gazes at the walls. Her painting lived here. Almost a hundred years ago The Girl You Left Behind lived here, along with its subject. Some strange part of her half expects the painting to appear on a wall as if it belongs here.

She turns to Mo. Ask him if the Bessettes still own this place.

Bessette? Non.

No. It belongs to a Latvian, apparently. He has a chain of hotels.

Shes disappointed. She pictures this bar, full of Germans, the red-haired girl busying herself behind the bar, her eyes flashing resentment.

Does he know about the bars history? She pulls the photocopied picture from her bag, unrolls it. Mo repeats this, in rapid French. The barman leans over, shrugs. Hes only worked here since August. He says he knows nothing about it.

The barman speaks again, and Mo adds He says shes a pretty girl. She raises her eyes to heaven.

And he says youre the second person to ask these questions.

What?

Thats what he said.

Ask him what the man looked like?

He barely needed to say. Late thirties or so, about six foot tall, sprinkling of early grey in his short hair. Comme un gendarme. He leave his card, the waiter says, and hands it to Liv.

Paul McCafferty Director, TARP

It is as if she has combusted internally. Again? You even got here before me? She feels as if he is taunting her. Can I keep this? she says.

Mais bien sûr. The waiter shrugs. Shall I find you a table, Mesdames?

Liv flushes. We cant afford it.

But Mo nods, studying the menu. Yeah. Its Christmas. Lets have one amazing meal.

But –

My treat. I spend my life serving food to other people. If Im going to have one blow-out, Im going to have it here, in a Michelin-starred restaurant, surrounded by good-looking Jean-Pierres. Ive earned it. And, come on, I owe you one.

They eat in the restaurant. Mo is garrulous, flirts with the waiting staff, exclaims uncharacteristically over each course, ceremonially burns Pauls business card in the tall white candle.

Liv struggles to stay engaged. The food is delicious, yes. The waiters are attentive, knowledgeable. It is food Nirvana, as Mo keeps saying. But as she sits in the crowded restaurant something strange happens she cannot see it as just a dining room. She sees Sophie Lefèvre at the bar, hears the echoing thump of German boots on the old elm floorboards. She sees the log fire in the grate, hears the marching troops, the distant boom of guns. She sees the pavement outside, a woman dragged into an army truck, a weeping sister, her head bent over this very bar, prostrate with grief.

Its just a painting, Mo says a little impatiently, when Liv turns down the chocolate fondant and confesses.

I know, Liv says.

When they finally get back to their hotel, she takes the file of documents into the plastic bathroom and, as Mo sleeps, she reads and reads by the harsh strip-light, trying to work out what she has missed.

On Sunday morning, when Liv has chewed away all but one of her nails, the matron calls. She gives them an address in the north-east of the city, and they drive there in the little hire car, wrestling with the unfamiliar streets, the clogged Périphérique. Mo, who had drunk almost two bottles of wine the evening before, is subdued and tetchy. Liv is silent too, exhausted from lack of sleep, her brain racing with questions.

She had been half expecting something depressing some 1970s box in liverish brick with uPVC windows and an orderly car park. But the building they pull up outside is a four-storey house, its elegant windows framed with shutters, its frontage covered with ivy. It is surrounded by neatly tended gardens, with a pair of tall wrought-iron gates and paved paths that lead into separate closeted areas.

Liv buzzes the door and waits while Mo reapplies her lipstick.

They stand in Reception for several minutes before anybody pays them any attention. Through glass doors to the left, quavering voices are raised in song, as a short-haired young woman plays an electric organ. In a small office, two middle-aged women are working through a chart.

Finally one turns around. Bonjour.

Bonjour, says Mo. Who are we here for again?

Monsieur Bessette.

Mo speaks to the woman in perfect French.

She nods. English?

Yes.

Please. Sign in. Clean your hands. Then come this way.

They write their names in a book, then she points them towards an antibacterial-liquid dispenser and they make a show of rubbing it thoroughly over their fingers. Nice place, Mo murmurs, with the air of a connoisseur. Then they follow the womans brisk walk through a labyrinth of corridors until she reaches a half-open door.

Monsieur? Vous avez des visiteurs.

They wait awkwardly by the door as the woman walks in and holds a rapid-fire discussion with what looks like the back of a chair. And then she emerges. You can go in, she says. And then I hope you have something for him.

The matron said I should bring him some macarons.

She glances at the expensively wrapped box Liv pulls from her bag.

Ah, oui, she says, and gives a small smile. These he likes.

Theyll be in the staffroom before five oclock, Mo murmurs, as she leaves.

Philippe Bessette sits in a wing-backed chair, gazing out at a small courtyard with a fountain an oxygen tank on a trolley is linked to a small tube taped to his nostril. His face is grey, crumpled, as if it has collapsed in on itself his skin, translucent in places, reveals the delicate tracings of veins underneath. He has a thick shock of white hair, and the movement of his eyes suggests something sharper than their surroundings.

They walk around the chair until they are facing him, and Mo stoops, minimizing the height differential. She looks immediately at home, Liv thinks. As if these are her people.

Bonjour, she says, and introduces them. They shake hands and Liv offers the macaroons. He studies them for a minute, then taps the lid of the box. Liv opens them and offers him the tray. He gestures to her first, and when she declines, he slowly chooses one and waits.

He might need you to put it in his mouth, Mo murmurs.

Liv hesitates, then proffers it. Bessette opens his mouth like a baby bird, then closes it, shutting his eyes as he allows himself to relish the flavour.

Tell him we would like to ask him some questions about the family of Édouard Lefèvre.

Bessette listens, and sighs audibly.

I can speak English, he says.

Did you know Édouard Lefèvre?

I never met him. His voice is slow, as if the words themselves are an effort.

But your father, Aurélien, knew him?

My father met him on several occasions.

Your father lived in St Péronne?

My whole family lived in St Péronne, until I was eleven. My aunt Hélène lived in the hotel, my father above the tabac.

We were at the hotel last night, Liv says. But he doesnt seem to register. She unrolls a photocopy. Did your father ever mention this painting?

He gazes at the girl.

Apparently it was in Le Coq Rouge but it disappeared. We are trying to find out more about its history.

Sophie, he says finally.

Yes, says Liv, nodding vigorously. Sophie. She feels a faint flicker of excitement.

His gaze settles on the image, his eyes sunken and rheumy, impenetrable, as if they carry the joys and sorrows of the ages. He blinks, his wrinkled eyelids closing at half-speed, and it is like watching some strange prehistoric creature. Finally he lifts his head. I cannot tell you. We were not encouraged to speak of her.

Liv glances at Mo.

What?

Sophies name … was not spoken in our house.

Liv blinks. But – but she was your aunt, yes? She was married to a great artist.

My father never spoke of it.

I dont understand.

Not everything that happens in a family is explicable.

The room falls silent. Mo looks awkward. Liv tries to shift the subject. So … do you know much about Monsieur Lefèvre?

No. But I did acquire two of his works. After Sophie disappeared some paintings were sent to the hotel from a dealer in Paris this was some time before I was born. As Sophie was not there, Hélène kept two, and gave two to my father. He told her he didnt want them, but after he died, I found them in our attic. It pays for me to live here. This … is a nice place to live. So – maybe I think my relationship with my aunt Sophie was a good one, despite everything.

His expression softens briefly.

Liv leans forward. Despite everything?

The old mans expression is unreadable. She wonders, briefly, whether he has nodded off. But then he starts to speak. There was talk … gossip … in St Péronne that my aunt was a collaborator. This was why my father said we must not discuss her. Easier to act as if she did not exist. Neither my aunt nor my father ever spoke of her when I was growing up.

Collaborator? Like a spy?

He waits a moment before answering. No. That her relationship with the German occupiers was not … correct. He looks up at the two women. It was very painful for our family. If you did not live through these times, if your family did not come from a small town, you cannot understand how it was for us. No letters, no pictures, no photographs. From the moment she was taken away, my aunt ceased to exist for my father. He was … he sighs … an unforgiving man. Unfortunately the rest of her family decided to wipe her from our history too.

Even her sister?

Even Hélène.

Liv is stunned. For so long, she has thought of Sophie as one of lifes survivors, her expression triumphant, her adoration of her husband written on her face. She struggles to reconcile her Sophie with the image of this unloved, discarded woman.

There is a world of pain in the old mans long, weary breath. Liv feels suddenly guilty for having made him revisit it. Im so sorry, she says, not knowing what else to say. She sees now they will get nothing here. No wonder Paul McCafferty had not bothered to come.

The silence stretches. Mo surreptitiously eats a macaroon. When Liv looks up, Philippe Bessette is gazing at her. Thank you for seeing us, Monsieur. She touches his arm. I find it hard to associate the woman you describe with the woman I see. I … have her portrait. I have always loved it.

He lifts his head a few degrees. He looks at her steadily as Mo translates.

I honestly thought she looked like someone who knew she was loved. She seemed to have spirit.

The nursing staff appear in the doorway, watching. Behind her a woman with a trolley looks in impatiently. The smell of food seeps through the doorway.

She stands to leave. But as she does so, Bessette holds up a hand. Wait, he says, gesturing towards a bookshelf with an index finger. The one with the red cover.

Liv runs her fingers along the spines until he nods. She pulls a battered folder from the bookshelf.

These are my aunt Sophies papers, her correspondence. There is a little about her relationship with Édouard Lefèvre, things they discovered hidden around her room. Nothing about your painting, as I recall. But it may give you a clearer picture of her. At a time when her name was being blackened, it revealed my aunt to me … as human. A wonderful human being.

Liv opens the folder carefully. Postcards, fragile letters, little drawings are tucked within it. She sees looping handwriting on a brittle piece of paper, the signature Sophie. Her breath catches in her throat.

I found it in my fathers things after he died. He told Hélène he had burned it, burned everything. She went to her grave thinking everything of Sophie was destroyed. That was the kind of man he was.

She can barely tear her eyes from them. I will copy them and send this straight back to you, she stammers.

He gives a dismissive wave of his hand. What use do I have for them? I can no longer read.

Monsieur – I have to ask. I dont understand. Surely the Lefèvre family would have wanted to see all of this.

Yes.

She and Mo exchange looks. Then why did you not give it to them?

A veil seems to lower itself over his eyes. It was the first time they visited me. What did I know about the painting? Did I have anything to help them? Questions, questions … He shakes his head, his voice lifting. They cared nothing for Sophie before. Why should they profit at her expense now? Édouards family care for nobody but themselves. It is all money, money, money. I would be glad if they lost their case.

His expression is mulish. The conversation is apparently closed. The nurse hovers at the door, signalling mutely with her watch. Liv knows they are on the point of outstaying their welcome, but she has to ask one more thing. She reaches for her coat.

Monsieur – do you know anything about what happened to your aunt Sophie after she left the hotel? Did you ever find out?

He glances down at her picture and rests his hand there. His sigh emanates from somewhere deep within him.

She was arrested and taken by the Germans to the reprisal camps. And, like so many others, from the day she left, my family never saw or heard of her again.