I Looked for the One My Heart Loves Page 11

  “You turn off the light at ten, okay?” Anne reminded the boy before kissing him on the cheek.

  “Can I listen to the radio?”

  Knowing that he loved rock music, she said yes.

  Lying on the living room couch, Anne let herself daydream. Since Alexis had left, she was trying to find moments of peace and quiet so she could think about him without being disturbed. Twice, she had gone back to “their” bistro, and she’d sat at “their” table. That’s where she had looked at the photos of the opening. A courier had brought pictures to the gallery in the morning, and Anne decided to wait for lunchtime to give them a look. She was moved seeing Alexis in conversation with Amanda, with Agnès, with other people. In the pictures taken with the Marcellins, he was looking at her with an affectionate smile. In the background was Magritte’s couple. Suddenly, it dawned on Anne! Why did she love those sketches so much? That woman and that man with their faces covered by cloth? Did their representation take her back to December 1939, when two little ghosts had stood onstage?

  The realization bewildered her. And so she had kept in her memory an image that only now came back to her. She remembered how she had urged Amanda to buy the sketches back from Monsieur Marcellin, and how relieved she had felt when her boss agreed. What would happen now that she was in contact with Alexis again? Since returning to Montreal, he had written the gallery a thank-you letter. To Anne, he had sent a postcard of the lake where he spent his summers. If she had been lucid for just a minute, she would have accepted that pipe dreams had no place in either of their lives. And so how much time would it take for her to heal, to not suffer from his absence anymore? A tangible fact kept tugging at her. Not once had she missed François since he had left for Japan. Days were passing without her thinking about his return, and the two times he had called, she had handed the phone to her daughters. Through the opened window, she could hear the laughter of people leaving the restaurant next door. What was Alexis doing right now? For him, the afternoon was coming to an end. What did he do with his weekends? In reality, she knew little about him. Only what he had told her. Anne had read and heard that you couldn’t love someone whose true nature you didn’t know. Otherwise, you only projected your own desires or fantasies onto that person. But what she felt was not love at first sight or some sexual attraction. Rather, she had the impression that an invisible force was creating a powerful bond between the two of them. Did Alexis feel the same way? Nothing in his behavior had indicated that he felt anything but friendship toward her. Sure, he had asked her to dinner and walked her home from Amanda’s, but wasn’t she the only person he knew in Paris? As for his wife, he had said almost nothing about her. Out of modesty? Because he wanted to protect his privacy? Anne wondered how she was. Was she beautiful? Was she brilliant?

  The following day, the newspaper headlines were all about the riots that had broken out overnight. Twelve-foot high barricades had been dismantled by the police. Demonstrators and police officers had both been injured. Dozens of cars were set on fire. Toward the end of the morning, Agnès showed up at Anne’s with her arm was in a sling.

  “Mama!” Thomas said when he saw his mother injured.

  “It’s okay,” she said, kissing him. “It’s nothing.”

  To Anne, she explained, “The shop’s window was smashed. Shards of glass all over the place! On the street, cars were flipped over and set on fire.”

  “What happened to you?”

  “I slipped and twisted my wrist when I hit the ground.”

  When they were alone, Anne asked, “Were you with the protestors when you fell?”

  “Yes. But I don’t want Thomas to know about it.”

  Until she fell, Agnès had been taunting the police along with the students and other demonstrators. As she told Anne about the insane night she had lived through, her eyes shone with pride.

  “Just make sure you don’t get arrested. It wouldn’t sound so good during the divorce hearings. …”

  In the afternoon, the unions joined the students in calling for a general strike in two days.

  “Nothing is going to stop them,” Amanda said.

  Since the opening, the gallery had made several major sales. Those transactions would have to make up for the sluggish business because of the explosive circumstances.

  “Some people I know are getting scared,” Amanda continued.

  Anne’s in-laws were among those who thought a revolution might result from the events.

  “Thank God we live away from that craziness!” her mother-in-law said.

  When the factory workers went on strike, the old woman worried for her son, who was soon coming back from Tokyo.

  “They shut down production at the Renault plants,” she said.

  As Dassault Aviation also went on strike, François wound up in the middle of the unrest. The workers abandoned the production lines, so they were playing cards and pétanque.

  “I just hope they don’t take you hostage,” Anne said.

  “I’m not the one they’re eyeing,” François said.

  Traveling in Paris and elsewhere in the country was becoming more and more difficult. In addition to a shortage of gas, train and subway workers had stopped working. Every segment of French life was soon impacted: the postal service, radio, television, the trash collectors. By May 20, some ten million people were on strike. … The business community feared that the French franc was going to collapse. Friends of Amanda tried to transfer some money abroad, but it was too late!

  It was against that background that Monsieur Marcellin died. Though she had expected the news, Amanda took it badly.

  “He was a friend. A real friend! I didn’t know how to say to him that I was going to miss him terribly. We should tell the people close to us how we feel about them. They should know how much they mean to us. …”

  The funeral was held at the Basilica of Sainte-Clotilde. Anne was unable to pray during the ceremony. On the other hand, she noticed how truly sad the people around her seemed to be. Expressionless, Madame Marcellin sat straight in the first row. Seeing her so frail, so dignified and so lost, Anne felt her throat tighten. When the bells began to toll, Anne walked outside the church. Many people crossed themselves as the casket went by them. The pallbearers then put it in the hearse. Doors slammed. The hearse’s engine started, and Anne felt Amanda’s arm around hers.

  “Let’s leave,” she said, “before people come to talk to me.”

  As they took a side street, Amanda said, “I need a pick-me-up. Let’s go to a bistro.”

  The first one they spotted was on Boulevard Saint-Germain­. Sitting on the terrace, they were soon deafened by police cars speeding past with sirens blasting.

  “There’s some more fighting,” the waiter said as he brought Anne and Amanda their cognacs.

  “Why don’t we go check it out?” Amanda said.

  Thirty minutes later, they were at the intersection of Boulevard Saint-Germain and Boulevard Saint-Michel. The smell of smoke filled the air.

  “Move along,” police officers ordered. They stood in the way of journalists and onlookers.

  Amanda, not one to be told what to do, led Anne toward the Musée de Cluny. A crowd was shouting on Rue des Écoles, and the police fired tear gas at them. Their faces filled with tears, Amanda and Anne tried to move forward. The street was strewn with paving stones and burned-out cars. Slogans were painted on the buildings’ walls: “Power to the Imagination.” “Summer Is Going to Be Hot!” “It Is Forbidden to Forbid.” All the stores were closed, as well as the cafés and restaurants. About a hundred yards down the street, a group of hyped-up students were marching, holding large banners.

  “We should head back,” Amanda said with a cough.

  It was almost impossible to breathe now, and the crowd grew louder. More people were pouring into the street. Since Amanda couldn’t run, Anne grabbed her by the ar
m and forced her to press her back against a building’s facade. The group of students was fast approaching. Their faces masked by scarves, they no longer tried to throw rocks but were running away from the riot police who were after them, armed with batons. Two students were caught and dragged to the sidewalk, kicking and screaming. Police officers slammed the cuffs onto them, and then shoved them into a paddy wagon.

  Amanda would have insulted the riot police if Anne hadn’t stopped her.

  “What a bunch of bastards,” she muttered. “Roughing up kids like that …”

  François was far from having the same view of the situation. Exasperated by the strikers at Dussault Aviation and the difficulty getting to and from work, he was furious at the “scumbags” paralyzing the entire country. The fact that he was still jet-lagged from his trip to Japan didn’t help matters. At night, he was tossing and turning in bed. Pretending to be asleep, Anne wondered if she was going to be able to spend the rest of her life with him. For the first time since they had married, she had difficulty imagining a future with François.

  As weeks went by, the social unrest settled down. After seemingly losing control of the situation, General de Gaulle dissolved the National Assembly, and elections were planned for the end of June. Parisians who supported the president organized a gigantic march down the Champs-Élysées. François was there and came back home galvanized. With his colleagues and friends, he had sung “La Marseillaise,” hoping that the Communists and Maoists would accept defeat. Slowly, things settled back to normal in Paris. Gas stations were supplied, and public transportation got going again. More than anything else, what pleased Anne was that the postal service was back on track. Finally, she would be able to communicate with Alexis. She mailed him an envelope containing the photos taken at the gallery. …

  17

  When Alexis didn’t respond to Anne’s letter that had accompanied the photos, she wondered what had happened. Maybe he had already moved? And she was annoyed at the thought of the upcoming summer vacation, which would keep her away from the gallery. Amanda usually kept it closed from July 14 to September 1.

  “In the fall,” Amanda said, “people will be over what happened these past few weeks. They’re going to come back.”

  At the end of a long courting period, Simonetta Lorenzetti finally agreed to have her work exhibited.

  “It’s going to be a happening! Most collectors think she’s dead!”

  “Do you think she’s going to show up?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine at this point.”

  Anne met the artist for the first time in early July. Lorenzetti lived in two adjoining maid’s rooms under the roof. In order to get there, you had to climb a staircase that smelled of leeks.

  After Amanda and Anne reached the top floor, they walked down the hallway and stopped in front of door number 7.

  A woman, tall and gaunt, opened it. In spite of the heat, she was wearing a heavy wool sweater.

  “As I told you,” Amanda said, “my assistant came with me.”

  Two brown eyes scanned Anne as Simonetta shook her hand.

  “Please, have a seat.”

  Simonetta spoke with a strong Italian accent.

  “We brought some chocolates,” Amanda said, setting a box on a coffee table littered with opened packs of cigarettes.

  “Thank you. That’s very nice of you.”

  A chaotic conversation followed between the gallery owner and the set designer, who eventually offered to make some tea. She filled a pot with water and put in on the stove. It was difficult to tell how old Simonetta Lorenzetti was, Anne thought, as she examined the woman’s wavy gray hair, her stooped posture, and her face that still retained a certain freshness.

  “Anne is going to accompany the couriers when they come to pick up your drawings and models,” Amanda said.

  Simonetta simply nodded. She seemed so detached that it was as though she didn’t care about the project that was taking form. She became involved only when the matter of pricing was brought up. What Amanda suggested seemed to scare her.

  “That’s unrealistic!” she kept saying. “Nobody is going to want to pay that much …”

  “I bet you they will.”

  Intrigued by this woman who looked like no one else, Anne looked around the Spartan environment in which she lived. There was no photo of a parent or a friend anywhere. The only heir of a rich family from Milan, Simonetta had donated her money to a slew of foundations, including the Société Protectrice des Animaux. Amanda had told Anne that the artist hadn’t touched a paintbrush since November 1959. How did she manage not to do what had given her existence its meaning? In the early 1950s, Simonetta began working regularly for an opera director. Luigi Giancarlo had only one rival, Luchino Visconti. Both directed the most prestigious operatic performances in Italy. As soon as she met Luigi, Simonetta fell in love with him, and he made impossible demands of her. Devoting to Luigi all her time and talent, she had created sets that people still remembered after all those years. Her work on La Traviata, Don Carlo, Aida, La Donna del Lago, and Turandot had thrilled professionals and audiences alike. In order to retain the privilege of working for Luigi, Simonetta distanced herself from her friends. Night and day, she looked for colors, accessories, and sets that would, if not blow him away, at least surprise him. Rarely complimented, she lived in his shadow, that of “her” genius. This would have continued if he hadn’t fallen in love with a young singer from Slovenia. Until then, Simonetta had turned a blind eye to Luigi’s overnight flings. But this was something else altogether. When the woman dared criticize her sketches for La Bohème, Simonetta called her an amateur and threw her paintbrushes across the studio. In spite of Luigi’s threats, she broke their contract and left Italy to settle in Paris. Surviving on her savings, she turned down every job offer she received. How did she feel when she learned that Luigi Giancarlo had died of a heart attack? Simonetta didn’t return to Milan for the funeral. Was it rancor or the fear of making a parade of her sorrows in public? No one cared about her, until Amanda found an old program from La Fenice at a flea market. From then on, she did everything to try to find Simonetta.

  Simonetta took out some of her art. Anne was dazzled by the display of imagination, originality, and skill. Feeling like she was in the presence of some great mystery, she was unable to connect the artist with her work.

  During her vacation, Anne often thought of Simonetta Lorenzetti—who, because of a broken heart, had abandoned her brilliant career. … While lounging in the villa François had rented in Arcachon, she mused over encounters that sometimes brought about life-changing choices. Just before the gallery had closed for the summer break, Alexis thanked her for the photos. In early August, he was going to move to San Francisco. Anne bought a guide to learn more about the city. She flipped through the pages and looked at the pastel-colored houses, cable cars climbing steep hills, the fog across the bay. When she read the paper, she looked for articles about America. More and more, students were protesting over there, with the US Army getting bogged down in Vietnam. Right outside San Francisco, the students at Berkeley led massive demonstrations, demanding peace and justice. The campus air filled with the smell of marijuana and incense, young men and women rebelled against their parents’ society. Rejecting old rules and beliefs, advocating for sexual liberation, they looked for self-realization and happiness in Eastern teachings. Anne couldn’t help comparing those students to the people vacationing alongside her in Arcachon. On the beach, she looked at the very proper families walking by. After a stormy spring all over France, these people were enjoying life as though nothing had happened.

  While they were on vacation, François spent almost all his time with his daughters and godson. He had come along to Arcachon while his mother stayed in Paris because of work. With Isabelle, Aurélie, and Thomas, François went swimming, played volleyball, spent time at the amusement park. Staying in t
he background, Anne didn’t participate in any of those activities. She felt exhausted. As she grew older, Amanda Kircher delegated more and more tasks to Anne.

  “This is only going to get worse,” François predicted.

  “I got a pay raise,” Anne said.

  “It’s no reason to work yourself into the ground.”

  “Look who’s talking!”

  “You can’t compare our careers!”

  Anne chose not to argue with him about it. François thought he was working for the good of the country. Without planes, France would have no deterrent and no national defense. Compared to that, Anne’s profession was a hobby.

  “I’d love for you to spend more time on some major projects,” he added.

  “Like what?”

  “Like buying an apartment.”

  “We’re very comfortable in the place we live in now.”

  “Yes, but we don’t own it.”

  It wasn’t a bad idea. It actually made perfect sense. So how come Anne didn’t feel like going along with it?

  As soon as the vacation ended, François had to travel again, and that made him forget about moving. For her part, Anne bought herself her first car, a bottle green Austin she had dreamed of for a long time.

  “Did you really need this?” her husband asked. “We have the Peugeot …”

  I wanted my very own car, she felt like saying, but held her tongue.

  She used the Austin to drive Simonetta Lorenzetti, who insisted on overseeing the display of her work. For several days, Anne picked her up. Respecting the woman’s silence, she simply drove. Simonetta didn’t say much more at the gallery. With a cigarette wedged between her lips, she took out her paintings and pastels, and spread them out on the floor until she decided where she wanted to hang them. Anne learned more by watching the artist’s every move than she had in the past ten years. Location, lighting, the matching of works: nothing was left to chance.