The Remaining Voice (4 page)

It had to be a neighbour. Perhaps they were playing a record? But it did not sound like a recording, and the café owner had mentioned singing, and I had heard it when I first arrived. It was a somewhat unnerving sound. I had to investigate. I knocked on my neighbour’s door. There was no reply. I knocked again. Still nothing. Perhaps upstairs? There was just one apartment above me. I took the last flight up, knocked and waited. No one answered. I put my ear to the wood and listened, trying to work out if there was anyone inside, but it was too hard to tell. Just when I had given up hope, the door opened and a bird-like old woman poked her head through the gap. Her face twitched slightly.

“
Oui, que voulez-vous?”
Her voice was barely audible. Certainly, she was not the singer. I wondered too how she managed the stairs. Perhaps she lived with someone more able-bodied. Or perhaps Armand Pascal ran errands for her.

I replied in French: “Excuse me Madam. I am your neighbour. I live downstairs. I wonder if I might ask you… were you playing a record just now?”

“
Moi? Non. Non.”

“
I’m sorry. It’s just that it was such beautiful singing. Did you hear it
?”

“Non. Non. Allez-vous en!”
She waved me away and made to shut the door. I put my hand out to stop it closing. I did not want to be rude, but I felt compelled to ask one more question.

“
Madam, is there someone else I can talk to
?”
Perhaps she had a visitor.

“Non.”
She fidgeted and I thought her frightened of me, or perhaps my questions.
I smiled weakly and nodded, letting go my hold on the door. It closed quickly.

I took my weary body back downstairs to the foyer. I could have knocked on the Pascals’ door, and doubtless Armand would have welcomed me in, but I was tired and did not want to wrestle with either his, or his father’s, lascivious attentions, so instead I opened the front door quietly, and slipped out onto the street.

Chapter 5

At the hotel I approached the reception desk to ask if they had a quieter room than the one I presently occupied. The desk clerk consulted his book, a disdainful look on his face.

“I am sorry Madam…”

I scowled at him.

“We have no rooms, but I do have a message for you.” He reached into one of the pigeonholes behind him and offered up an envelope.

“
Merci
,” I said, turning away angrily and tore the envelope open. On a single sheet of fine white laid paper was written:

My dear Madam Webster

I have taken the liberty of booking a table at my favourite restaurant and I would very much like you to accept this invitation to dine with me tonight.

A car will be waiting to pick you up at eight.

I am at your service

Laurent Daviau

“Damn it,” I muttered, opening the door to my room. I flung my bag on the bed and kicked off my still-damp, and now very dirty, shoes. I did not want to go out…

…then again, I had to eat. I glanced at the clock. It was almost seven. I would run a bath and soak for half an hour.

*

It was both dark and smoky inside the restaurant. The
maître d’ showed me to a leather-seated booth wherein sat Laurent Daviau. He stood and kissed my hand, guiding me into my seat with practiced ease. In all probability he had a long list of women, whom he charmed in just such a manner. I would proceed with caution. After all, I was a newly single woman in a foreign land, and I was an heiress. I had to be careful.

“Thank you,” I muttered.

“No,” He said. “Thank you for consenting to join me.”

“But Monsieur Daviau, you left me little room to decline.”

“
C’est vrai.
Please call me Laurent. I am intrigued by your quest. Yes. I think that is what it is… and you of course. You are intriguing also.”

I stared straight at him, willing him to look away. I have always found directness the best policy when dealing with men. His gaze was soft, and in a face that was unlined yet difficult to read. I was loath to trust him, though he not done anything other than flirt mildly with me. I did not consider dining with him to be a ‘date’ as such. Lawyers dine with their clients all the time in New York. I assumed it was the same in France. Perhaps I was naive.

“Will you tell me what you have found?” he said.

“Of course.” I picked up the menu. I had no idea what was good here. I would have to rely on Laurent’s recommendation. He clicked his fingers for the waiter and with a nod of his head in my direction, ordered rare steaks and asparagus, together with a bottle of red wine - plain and simple tastes for a French man.

“I have come here every night since my wife died.” He let out a sigh.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” And there I was thinking he was a lothario, when all the time he was a grieving widower.

“
Non
, it is my, how you say? Cross to bear. We had three wonderful years, although she had her problems and… I suppose I had mine. And you, what of your life?”

I bit my lip. I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt, but it is hard to open up to someone who is carrying more emotional pain than you are, and I did not know if he was telling me the truth.

“I have no life,” I blurted out. “My husband ran off with his secretary…. I am so sorry about your wife.”

“It was a car accident. She was… she had… too much to drink. Like I said, she had problems. It was a while ago now. I suppose I am coming to terms with it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“If you say you are sorry one more time.” He smiled gently, and in that moment I fell for him. Stupid I know. You meet someone, you do no more than make small talk and yet there is a spark of something there that goes beyond simple friendship. I looked away, embarrassed by my feelings. I did not think it appropriate to encourage him.

Thankfully, the waiter came with the wine. He offered it up to Laurent, who swilled a little in the bottom of his glass, and both smelled and tasted it before nodding that it was acceptable. The waiter poured.

“I’m…” I laughed. “Okay. Can we make a pact? No talk of our past?”

“A good idea.” He raised his glass. “To the future.”

“To the future,” I said and clinked my glass with his.

We talked for an hour or so, mostly about what I’d found so far in Berthe’s apartment, and he asked if I needed someone to appraise the antique furniture. I told him I knew of someone from my childhood who might help; thinking of Jaques Le Brun and how, if he was still alive, he might jump at the chance to root around in such a mess. I did not tell Laurent of the woman or the singing. It did not seem the right time.

At a little after nine thirty I told him I ought to be going back to the hotel. Tiredness had taken hold and I could barely keep my eyes open. I excused myself to visit the rest room and when I returned he was standing with my coat over his arm, ready to hold it open for me. But it was not Laurent that I noticed as much as the woman standing slightly behind him, with her back to us. My first assumption was that she had been sitting in the next booth, but when I reached out to put an arm in the sleeve of my coat she turned and looked me full in the face, before walking towards the door. It was the woman on the stairs – and in the picture. I knew it was. Was she flesh and blood after all? Had she followed me here?

“
Qu’est-ce que sais?”
said Laurent, following my gaze. The woman was nearly at the door, and barely visible now in the gloom of the
restaurant
.

“I… do you know her?” I asked him.

“Who?”

“That woman. She was…” Not there. She had gone. I ran to the door and out onto the street. It was dark but there was enough lamplight to see up and down both sides for a hundred yards or so. Apart from an old drunk who sat with his back against a tree, and young couple kissing in a nearby doorway, there was no one in sight. I turned back to the restaurant. Laurent had followed me outside.

“What is it?” he asked. “Someone you know?”

“No… no.” I was confused. Did I know her? Did she know me? For a moment, it was as if she was going to say something to me. “I’m not sure,” I said. “But I think… I think I’ve seen a ghost.”

*

We sat in the bar at my hotel and I told Laurent Daviau about the woman I’d seen on the stairs and then again in the restaurant… and of course, there was the singing – easily dismissed as being a neighbour or a record playing, only I didn’t think it was either of those, given what the I’d been told in the local café. The fact that I had lost the postcard photo of Berthe still annoyed me, but there was the painting. I had not yet verified the identity of the sitter but I had the oddest feeling that it was of my great aunt in her youth – and if that were so, then nothing made sense.

“And what of the difference in the way she lived?” I asked. “It was as if in London she had no identity.”

“Surely it is simply a question of an old lady living a solitary life,” said Laurent.

We ordered coffee, much against my better judgement. It was late and I just had to get a decent night’s sleep or I would be a wreck in the morning.

I sighed. “But an old lady accumulates things. It’s rare to find anyone living as empty a life as Berthe did in London. I dread to think what I’m going to find in the rooms I haven’t opened yet.”

“My dear,” said Laurent. “There has to be a simple explanation. I do not believe in ghosts, and you have been suffering from the time difference. It is an old building with old neighbours and people like to scare tourists. I would not listen to tales.”

“No. It’s not that. I know what I’ve seen. I know there is something going on and I don’t expect you to believe me, but… as crazy as it sounds, I think Berthe is haunting me. If I could definitively identify the sitter in the painting… I’d be happier. At least…” I paused. I was not sure I would be happier. “You know, I don’t think want to go back there.”

“But there is a job to do. Your grandfather is relying on you.”

“Yes but…” At that moment, I did not think I could cope with whatever may or may not be lying in wait for me.

Laurent sensed my reticence and said: “I will come with you. There is nothing to be afraid of. I am sure we can put your ghost to rest.” He let out a laugh. He was not taking it seriously. It was a game to him. When all was said and done, he was a lawyer and lawyers seldom do anything without recompense. Like as not he would hit me with a big bill for his services. He was probably getting a percentage of the estate anyway, for handling the legalities in France.

“No. I will go alone. If I need you, I will telephone your office.” I doubted I would ask him for anything. Although I found him hugely attractive, I could not allow myself to be taken in by his charm.

“I’m very tired now. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Thank you for the meal. It was… well, it was delightful.” I did not want to appear ungracious, and the meal had been good. If circumstances had been different…

I sighed. Circumstances were not different.

Laurent pursed his lips and observed me in the way that way that older men sometimes reserve for younger women; it was not so much lustful as fatherly.

“Please. I can help you. You say Berthe Chalgrin was an opera singer. No?”

“Yes. Yes, that is correct.”

“Then I will make enquiries. There are extensive archives for the Opera. I will find what I can and let you know. Do you agree?”

“That’s very kind. Thank you.” I had not realised there might be documentation of my great aunt’s career. “If it’s not too much bother.”

Laurent nodded. “No, no. No bother. I will come when I have something to tell you.” He took my hand, and smiled wistfully. “Au revoir,” he said.

I pulled my hand away quickly, and bade him goodnight.

Chapter 6

I was determined to sleep. I persuaded the kitchen to let me have a glass of hot milk and I downed it together with a shot of Courvoisier before turning in. It did the trick and I woke the following morning with a slight headache, which dissipated in the steam of the shower. At least I felt a little more human and the veil of uncertainty about the apartment seemed to have lifted somewhat. I had made some decisions. If he was still alive, I would consult with my father’s old friend, Jacques Le Brun. He knew more than anyone about antiques. If I could recruit his help, then things might go a little more swiftly. The last thing I wanted was to be fleeced by an avaricious dealer when the time came to sell. Jacques, I was sure, would act on my behalf.

A bouquet awaited me at the front desk. I pulled out a card and read: “Beautiful flowers for a beautiful woman. Laurent.”

What was I to do? I handed the bouquet to the receptionist.

“Could you put these in water please?”

“
Mais oui Madam
.”

I would deal with Laurent later. I asked for a directory and the use of a telephone. It was a long shot but I hoped that Jacques Le Brun had a telephone. I imagined it buried beneath a pile of disparate artefacts, and thought it likely that even if he heard it, he would not answer. I was wrong. He picked up on the second ring.

“
Oui
,” came his gruff voice.

“
Monsieur Le Brun
?

“
Oui
.”

“It’s Sophie, Sophie Chalgrin? Do you remember me? You were friends with my father, Marc Chalgrin.” I did not bother with my married name. I thought it would confuse him.

“
Ah oui
, Sophie. Yes. You were a little girl, and now not so little I think.”

“That’s right. We used to visit you. I remember your house with such fondness. Do you mind if I ask… are you still there?”

“
Oui
. But of course. Are you in Paris? It would be marvellous to see you.” It had to have been fifteen years at least. I could not say if my father had kept in touch with him.

“May I?” I said. “Only I’ve something that might interest you.”

“Is it… dare I ask… is it a wonderful piece of porcelain? I am in love with porcelain. The feel, the colour, even the smell…”

“No. No. Better than that.”

“Better than that? A painting. No, no let me guess… a piece of jewellery.”

“No, better still. When can I come?”

“Whenever you wish. An old man like me does not go out much, you know. This afternoon at three? It will give me a chance to have a wash.” He chuckled. He might be old but he had not lost his sense of humour.

“This afternoon then, at around three.”

“That would be wonderful. I look forward to seeing you.
A bientôt cherie.”

I replaced the receiver. I should take him something – a small gift, but what? What do you give a man who has dedicated his life to objets d’art? It came to me in a flash. Of course, I would take him something from Berthe’s apartment. Something portable and yet enticing. I wanted him to see the painting, but I could not very well take it off the wall and put it in a taxi. It was simply too big – and in any case I wanted Jacques to have something he could keep. I did not think either my father or grandfather would mind, provided the object had little worth but much to tell by way of a story. That was what Jacques Le Brun loved most about his antiques – the story. Well, I thought. If he likes a story, I’ve got that.

*

I took a taxi to the Rue Tronson du Coudray. The wind was blowing from the north-east and the clouds threatened more rain. I thought I had managed to slip through the front door without being noticed by Armand Pascal, but when I was halfway up the stairs I heard his voice in the foyer.

“Madam… Do you have a moment?”

I stopped in my tracks. “Damn it,” I whispered. “Not really,” I shouted back at him.

“Oh, that is a shame. My father asks after you.”

“Tell him… tell him I will be down later. I am busy right now.”

“Huh…
si vous le dites
,” I heard him groan. The rest of his utterances were lost in the well of the stairs. I carried on up. It would be useful to hear what the old man had to say, if only because he had actually known Berthe – but then there was the singing and I wanted to know about that too. I would choose something to give to Jacques and then I would go see what Michel Pascal had to say for himself.

There is nothing quite like entering somewhere where no clock ticks, no faucet drips, and there are no foot falls on the parquet floor from other occupants. So desiring was I for distraction that I almost wished the singing to start up. I left my coat on the stand in the hall and took up my apron. Fastening it around my waist, I entered the drawing room. I wanted to move the big chair away from the far door so that I could get through into the rooms beyond. Somehow, during my cleaning and collating session on the previous day, I must have pushed the chair back against the door. I struggled for a couple of minutes, until I thought I had made enough space to slip through the gap. Until that point I had not looked at the painting over the mantle, nor made any particular observations save that the shutters were open, and the box of crockery and books were stacked, as I had left them…

…but the painting had been slashed from top to bottom.

Horrified, I reached up to finger the torn canvas. It had definitely been intact when I left the day before. Someone had been in and vandalised it. I instantly thought of Armand Pascal and his father. They must have a key. It could not be the old man. He surely could not manage the stairs. But Armand…

I practically flew down the stairs and hammered on their door.

“
Oui
,” said Armand, opening the door. He had a mouthful of baguette and spluttered out crumbs as he spoke.

“Have you seen… have been up… do you…?” I could not get the words out, I was so mad.

Armand held his hand up, as if to ward me off.

“
Ce qui se passe
?

I pushed him aside.

“Do you have a key? Of course you do. Have you been up there? Have you seen what has happened?”

“What do you say?” He shoved his thumbs under his belt and hitched his trousers.

“There is a painting. A very big, probably valuable painting… and it has been rendered completely worthless. Someone has cut it.”

“Why do you come to me? I have not been in there for many years. Not since the problem with Madam Guinard’s
salle de bain.”

“But you have a key?”

“
Mais oui
… and it is here.” He shuffled into the kitchen and pulled open a drawer, lifted the key with its label on a string, and handed it to me.

“
Voilà
. You can keep it. It is rusty.
Non
? But the same as yours.” He sneered at me and wiped his mouth the back of his hand.

It was true; the key was exactly the same as the one I had.

“Then someone broke in,” I said, enunciating clearly and as calmly as I could muster. I had not thought to check the windows. Was there a fire escape? Could someone have entered that way?

“If you want, we call the police.” Armand shrugged. “If not… I do not know.”

“No. No police. Not yet.” I had to think. I needed to check if anything was missing, or if anything else had been damaged, and that was going to be difficult because I had not inspected enough of the apartment to know of its contents in full.

I ran out of the Pascal’s apartment, taking the stairs two at a time.

“
Mon père…”
Armand shouted after me.

“Later,” I shouted.

“
Toujours plus tard. Américains. Phhh
,” he spat.

*

I shut the door to Berthe’s apartment and leant back against it. First things first. Check the windows. The ones in the hall were locked tight. Those in the kitchen too. I had had the presence of mind to bring my camera with me this morning. I would photograph the painting and then try to get through into the other rooms.

In the hall I tried the locked door again. It did not give. I went into the kitchen and rummaged around for a key that might fit, but found nothing. I went back to the door and kicked it hard. Damn it, but I would have to get a crowbar or something. No matter. I took my Leica and took a few shots of the hall, and then the drawing room before framing the painting in my viewfinder.

The painting was whole. There was no sign of the slash through the middle. I reached up and touched where I’d felt the cut, but no… there was definitely nothing wrong with it. I could not believe it. Was I going mad? I used half a roll of film in an attempt to catch the picture just right. Then I took hold of the frame at the bottom and lifted it carefully off the wall, letting it slide down in front of me until it came to rest on the floor. I inspected the back of the canvas. There was a label, which I photographed, but no damage of any kind. I leaned the painting up against a chair and stood back.  I imagined the artist telling the sitter to turn a little, to spread out the folds of her dress, and to delicately touch her shoulder with her fingertips, while at her feet a drift of flowers dusted the floor with impressionistic petals.

I let out a long sigh and whispered: “I will keep you in my heart like a treasure.”

I used the rest of the roll of film on the contents of various boxes – mostly silver ware and crystal. I had a second roll in my bag and when I went to retrieve it heard the faintest of voices, singing softly, dreamily almost. I looked out onto the landing, and listened with cocked head, but the singing was even quieter here. I shut the door and followed the sound through the drawing room, past the painting (still entire) to the door on the far side. I fitted myself behind the chair and squeezed through into the hall beyond. It was much as I had first found the apartment: bathed in ghostly shadows and thick with dust. I heaved open a shutter and the glowering sky cast its half-light into the room. The singing faded away.

There were two doors to my left, both slightly ajar. At the end of the hall was another, but this was closed. I pushed the first door open and crossed quickly to the window. I opened the shutter, noticing the Juliet balcony outside, and rotten window frame. The rain had stopped but the sky was still an oppressive grey. When I turned…

… I heard her breathing. I could not see her, but she was there all the same. The bed was unmade, the covers pushed back as if someone had just gotten up. I stood transfixed by the sound…

Eventually, I plucked up the courage to say: “Berthe?” No one replied. I listened, and after a while I could not be sure anymore if it was my breathing I had heard, or that of my ghostly companion.

I fitted the new roll of film in the camera and took a few pictures. The dressing table mirror was opaque with dust, and the bottom drawer was missing. To one side stood a small chair and next to that a heavy walnut armoire. When I opened its doors I found a row of faded calico clothing bags hanging inside, and peeping out from the bottom of each, a drift of moth-eaten silk.

Her clothes were still here. Everything was still here.

I photographed the contents in situ. I could not bring myself to open any of the bags. That would have to wait. Her shoes were lined up in a row. I dared to lift one out. She had such small feet. I put it back in place.

On her nightstand by the bed I found a glass, a bottle of pills, and a silver-framed photograph of the same woman as in the painting, arm in arm with a hard-faced man in a hat. She was staring up at him adoringly, but he had eyes only for the camera.

“Berthe,” I whispered again. I took up the frame and crossed to the window to get a better look. Yes, it was one and the same. I clasped the picture to my breast. So… if this was Berthe, if the painting was of Berthe, if the ghost was Berthe…

But she had been an old lady when she died, and I doubted that ghosts could choose at what age they haunted. I laughed nervously at myself. It sounded ridiculous. Perhaps what I needed was not so much an antique expert as a clairvoyant - or maybe even a priest.

I took the photograph with me into the next room, which contained a brown-stained bath, sink and water closet. The piping was intricate, like something from a Victorian insane asylum. At any minute I expected white coated attendants to enter and hustle me into the bath for ‘treatment. I shuddered and shot a couple pictures, shutting the door when I had done.

Behind the closed door at the end of the hall, I found a room containing a grand piano, and as much, if not more furniture than the drawing room. When I opened the shutters to let the light in I noticed that one wall had a huge, ornately framed mirror hanging on it and opposite, a glass-doored bookcase that ran floor-to-ceiling. A long-dead brown-curled aspidistra occupied a pot on a stand next to a chair, on which was a small box, bound with a faded pink ribbon. Spider webs drifted down from a chandelier, once glittering with light, now hazed with dirt. There was a stuffed penguin, a Chinese-painted cabinet, a card table, a chaise longue, a rolled up carpet, a gilt bird cage, an oil lamp with delicate glass shade, a carved armoire, and a writing desk on which stood a group of silver-framed photographs: Berthe with an older woman, both in costume; Berthe with a very smart young man in uniform; Berthe posing, much as I remembered the postcard picture Michel Pascal had given me; Berthe and the man from the photograph I had found in her bedroom; Berthe and a small boy – in this one she was bending down to look at something he was playing with; Berthe and what looked to be the cast of a show – all in costume; Berthe and a small woman who had moved during the taking of the shot, so that she was blurred; Berthe and a very stately looking man in evening dress.