I Looked for the One My Heart Loves Page 23

  As they headed back to their hotel, Anne asked, “Have you found a place to stay?”

  “Yes, but I didn’t want to talk to you about it.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Not very far from where Freud used to see his patients.”

  “I’d like to see the street and the building. It’s not a question of voyeurism. I only want to know what your environment is going to be like. That way, I can imagine you leaving home, taking the streetcar, arriving at the school …”

  While they were packing, Alexis took a large box out of the closet.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I couldn’t find a smaller one …”

  “What is it?”

  “You’ll find out in Paris. I was thinking about your gallery when I chose it.”

  “You sneak! When did you buy it?”

  “The day before yesterday, between my meeting at the school and buying the tickets for Così. I couldn’t resist. …”

  “I can’t wait to see what it is.”

  “You have to wait until you’re in Paris. That’s the deal, madame!”

  35

  Back home, Anne opened her present. It was a superb crystal vase from the Bohemian region, with an “A” engraved in it.

  A note came with it:

  When I saw this in the antique shop, I knew you had to have it.

  Inspired by the vase’s sophistication, Anne examined it for a long time and then hid it in a closet. She would have to wait until the end of the renovations before taking it to the gallery.

  Anne had left Alexis just a few hours before, each of them taking a different plane. Ever since, she had felt disoriented, almost lost. Trying to make herself feel better, she phoned Agnès. Aurélie and Isabelle were spending the Easter break in Saint-Claude.

  “The girls can’t come to the phone,” Agnès said. “They’re at the neighbors’ playing Ping-Pong.”

  “How’s everything?” Anne asked.

  “They’re having a good time. How about you? How was your trip?”

  When she hung up the phone, Anne realized that she had to do something with herself or she’d break down and cry. She headed for the Galerie Kircher.

  “I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow!” Amanda said.

  “I thought you might need me,” Anne replied.

  “That’s so nice of you … but there’s not much left to be done.”

  Before leaving for Vienna, Anne had filed away the archives, the administrative documents, the letters, the contracts, and the press clippings in metallic boxes, which she had sent up to Amanda’s apartment. Same for the photo albums and the catalogs. There was nothing left in either the gallery or the storeroom. More talkative than ever, which betrayed her intense restlessness, Amanda told Anne about her problems with the new owners, who seemed to know nothing about manners.

  “My godson had to slam his fist on the table during our last meeting to get them to stop making unreasonable demands.”

  At the end of the day, Anne went upstairs to the apartment with Amanda. The atmosphere had changed little since she had first set foot at Madame Kircher’s. Apart from Laurel and Hardy’s absence—the two had died of old age—and a new piece of furniture or two, everything was the same. The odor produced by the scent burner mixed with the Miss Dior perfume that the owner of the place still wore. The statue of Buddha was still there, greeting whoever entered the apartment. There were still paintings of Old Masters on the walls.

  “I’m going to get rid of those one of these days,” Amanda said.

  “You could take them down with you to the Riviera.”

  “It’d be too risky. There are a lot of break-ins down there.”

  Sitting on a couch, Amanda added, “Besides, with age I feel like letting go of things. I started by selling the gallery. Why not keep on going? Some of the paintings in here should be in a museum.”

  The arrival of her godson Roland interrupted her. In order to take her mind off things during this difficult period of transition, he and Caroline were taking Amanda out to dinner.

  “Why don’t you come with us?” Roland asked Anne.

  “That’s very nice of you, but I just came back from Vienna and I have to go home and unpack.”

  François came home only shortly before midnight. Anne had waited up for him, watching a movie on TV, and then the news.

  “You’re not in bed?” he asked.

  “I wasn’t sleepy.”

  “Did you have a good trip?”

  “Not bad.”

  “Did you find some artists?”

  “The Czech painter’s work is interesting.”

  Now an expert at lying, she had no difficulty talking about someone who didn’t exist. While listening to her, François opened a bottle of beer. Then he went into the bathroom to take a shower.

  Anne noticed that he had barely listened to her. Had her mind and heart not been elsewhere, her husband’s attitude would have worried her. Any woman in love would have asked for an explanation. She did nothing of the sort. Actually, François’s behavior was fine with Anne, as she dreaded joining him in bed, especially after having spent the last few nights with Alexis. Deep down, she hoped that François was having an affair so he would stay away from her. …

  The renovations began on Rue Guénégaud, and soon afterward, Amanda left Paris. For many weeks, all Anne saw was the chaos of construction in her gallery. Then things began to take form. At the end of June, she decided to show it to her daughters.

  “We’re going to have lunch there,” she said, “and I invited someone else.”

  “Who?” Aurélie asked.

  “Signora Lorenzetti. She’s a famous decorator,” Anne replied.

  She had been very surprised when Simonetta accepted her invitation.

  Anne brought some food to the gallery, as well as juice and some champagne. As she walked into the gallery, Isabelle glanced at the walls, which still had not been painted. Then she walked over to the second room. Rays of sun poured in through the skylights.

  “It’s much smaller than Amanda’s gallery,” Isabelle said.

  For a while now, the adolescent had been doing her best to antagonize her mother every chance she got. Anne managed to remain calm about it.

  “Mama is not as rich as Amanda,” Aurélie told her sister.

  Simonetta’s arrival put an end to the exchange.

  “At last I get to meet these young ladies,” she said. “I’ve heard so much about you two. You’re Isabelle, right? And you’re Aurélie.”

  Anne noticed that Isabelle was eyeing the Italian woman with confusion. With her singsong accent and her volubility, Simonetta was a bit of an oddity to the girl.

  Simonetta raised her head and said, “They did a good job with the suspended ceiling.”

  Interested, Aurélie began asking questions: “What color would that wall be? And what about the carpeting? What’s the gallery going to look like once it’s finished?”

  “I’m not sure yet,” Anne answered.

  Simonetta took out her sketchpad and a pencil.

  “I’m going to show you.”

  Within seconds, she drew the contours of the exhibition room, put some paintings on the walls, produced a table, seats, a bouquet of flowers, a telephone. Then she added the silhouette of visitors.

  Isabelle and Aurélie asked Simonetta more questions. As she took the food out of the basket, Anne listened to the three of them. She never would have guessed they would hit it off so quickly.

  Nobody wanted to leave after lunch. Simonetta grabbed her sketchbook once more. She seemed to enjoy the act of drawing again, and she did a portrait of her two young admirers.

  “Wow,” Aurélie said as she examined her portrait. “You made me so beautiful!”

  Anne finally told the girls that they had to leave.


  “When are you going to come to our place?” Isabelle asked her new friend.

  “I don’t know. …” Simonetta said. “Maybe after your mother’s gallery opens?”

  Instead of renting a seaside villa, François and Anne accepted Gilles and Agnès’s invitation to spend their vacation in Saint-Claude. This way, François and Anne wouldn’t have to be alone in each other’s presence. Their relationship remained lukewarm at best. They lived under the same roof and put up a good front for the girls’ sake, but they both knew that things between them were over. More and more frequently, François didn’t come home for dinner, and for a while now, he paid more attention to his appearance, buying nice clothes for himself … Anne witnessed the changes without jealousy. She felt so distant from him!

  Back from their vacation in the Jura region, François went on a business trip. The girls spent the rest of the month of August at their uncle’s in Cormery. Since becoming a father, Bernard found he had more patience with his nieces. Alone in Paris, Anne worked on setting up her gallery. When the renovations were finally complete, she bought a modern-looking desk, comfortable armchairs, and glass displays for drawings and small objects. Looking at the furniture once it was arranged, she was glad she had gone for a simplicity that would highlight the works of art. Only one thing was missing at this point! She placed the vase that Alexis had bought her on her desk. Since Vienna, they had talked on the phone and written each other. To know that they would soon be on the same continent thrilled them both. They would find ways of meeting each other as often as possible. Since Alexis planned to come to Paris before heading for Vienna, Anne made sure that their special room in the gallery was all ready. Apart from the workers, Amanda, and Simonetta, no one knew about its existence. She set up a large bed, a pedestal table, a stereo to listen to music, and some of her favorite albums and books. On one of the walls, she hung up the René Magritte’s drawings, and in a pretty jewelry box she put souvenirs, photos of her and Alexis, as well as letters they had written each other over the years.

  Anne experienced a strange sensation as she walked around the space that belonged to her.

  “The Galerie Anne Chastel, she whispered to herself.

  François still didn’t know that her maiden name would be the one that would appear on the gallery’s sign. No doubt he would see the choice as yet another act of hostility on her part. Would he come on opening night, or would he find a way to be on some business trip? As she asked herself those questions, Anne felt a pang of guilt. She was the one who had distanced herself from him. But it would have been impossible for her to do otherwise. Her relationship with Alexis being nonnegotiable, she was willing to live with the consequences.

  For the poster of her very first show, Anne chose the representation of a sumptuous bed with rumpled sheets after a night of lovemaking. The image was at once elegant and evocative. Looking at the poster, Anne once again wondered about her Italian friend’s past.

  “Only someone who experienced true love could produce such a moving work of art,” Anne said to Simonetta.

  “If that were true, only criminals would be able to paint bloody scenes.”

  After a moment of silence, Simonetta added, “Physical love always scared me.”

  Thinking about this confession and the way Simonetta had led her life these past many years, Anne was convinced that something tragic had happened during her friend’s youth. Rape? Incest? Either one would explain the attachment she had felt toward a homosexual director. She had nothing to fear from him, apart from being betrayed in the exercise of her art.

  “When I see you with your daughters,” she said, “I regret never having had any children. I take solace in the fact that I probably wouldn’t have been able to raise and protect them properly.”

  “You never had any nephews or nieces?”

  “I was an only child.”

  “No cousins.”

  “I cut all ties with my family as soon as I became an adult.”

  36

  It was pouring rain when Alexis ran inside the gallery. Not caring that his clothes were drenched, Anne threw herself at him and wrapped her arms around his neck.

  “The cab driver dropped me at the end of the street,” Alexis said. “The two minute walk left me looking like a wet dog. …”

  Laughing, Anne said, “Come on, take off your jacket, and give me your shirt.”

  Alexis found a towel in the restroom, and he dried his face and hair. As he did, Anne locked the gallery’s door.

  “Give me the grand tour,” Alexis said.

  “It won’t take long,” Anne said, laughing again.

  As Alexis congratulated Anne on how things looked, she gazed at him, filled with pride.

  “Ah,” he said, “you didn’t forget about the vase.”

  Anne couldn’t wait to show him the surprise she had for him. She grabbed his arm and guided him to the stairs that led to the mezzanine floor. They entered a closet, and Anne pushed aside the clothes hanging on hangers and told Alexis to follow her.

  “Ta-da!” she said. “This is our place. Nobody knows about this little refuge.”

  Away from everything and everyone but his lover, Alexis felt as though he was in paradise. The rain had stopped falling, and Anne opened the window. Fresh air filled the room. While Anne was busy in the kitchenette, Alexis got up, put on his boxers, and walked over to the bookcase. There were contemporary novels, but also books from Anne’s childhood and adolescence. Then he turned to a pile of records: Elvis, The Beatles, The Who, The Beach Boys, Elton John. Without hesitating, he took “Your Song” out of its jacket and put it on the record player.

  “When I hear that song,” Anne said, “I always think of you.”

  She set the tray next to the bed where they had just made love. For once, they weren’t in some hotel room or someone else’s place. If Alexis couldn’t stay on Rue Guénégaud all the time, at least they could be there, all alone, when the gallery was closed.

  “This spot of ours is absolutely wonderful,” Alexis told Anne.

  After their escapade in Vienna, Alexis had returned to San Francisco and his students. As the school year wound down, none of them managed to impress him with their intellectual curiosity or aptitudes. Then he got busy with preparations for the move. To Alexis’s astonishment, Geneviève helped him pack up their things. He hadn’t seen her looking so healthy in a long time. Alert, smiling, almost cheerful, she was thrilled by his transfer. Out of obligation, he had spent one month with her and their son on a vacation in Quebec. Alexis also hoped that the trip might bring Guillaume around. He wasn’t at all happy to leave California and his friends. In order to keep from being completely cut off from Anne, he went to the post office twice a week to either send her a letter or give her a call. Today, in this room, with her at last, Alexis felt both happy and fragile. Anne had become vital to him, to the point where he couldn’t imagine the future without her.

  Had she read his mind? Was it to reassure him that she got to her feet, walked over to the jewelry box, and brought it to the bed?

  “Look …”

  And he saw the photo of the two little ghosts bowing to their public, then those they had taken in San Francisco, Carmel, Vienna … The box also contained some of his letters, the catalog in which he’d written the text for Amanda’s exhibition, the postcard of Klimt’s The Kiss he’d bought for her. Their entire history was there.

  “How late can we stay together?” Alexis asked.

  “I should go home around midnight,” Anne said.

  He didn’t dare ask if her husband suspected anything. Since the beginning of their affair, they had talked as little as possible about their spouses. To hear them speak, it was almost as though they were single. But in order to enjoy their moments of freedom, Alexis did have to take advantage of any occasion that presented itself. This time, he had waited until Ge
neviève and Guillaume were sufficiently comfortable in Vienna to take a flight to Paris. His house in Evian had found a buyer, and he had to go there to sign the papers.

  “I thought you sold it a long time ago,” Anne said.

  “I kept it, thinking that my mother would want to go there once in a while. But she only ever went twice!”

  “What about you? You weren’t attached to it?”

  “No.”

  “You could’ve kept it for your old age,” Anne said, joking.

  Alexis got up to put on another record and turn on a lamp. Every time she found herself in Alexis’s presence, Anne was bewildered by how much she was attracted to him. She loved the way he walked, the grace of his movements, the elegance of his wrists and hands. She loved his tanned skin, as well as the inflections of his voice, which became tender when he talked about the two of them.

  They were together practically every moment over the next thirty-six hours. In each other’s company, they visited the medieval abbey of Saint-Germain-des-Prés and went to bookstores and antiquarian shops, as well as reputed art galleries.

  On their last afternoon together, they went to La Palette, a café where artists and gallery owners hung out. Instead of sitting on the terrace, they went inside, where old mirrors reflected the bouquets of white orchids that the owner of the place loved.

  “I adore this café,” Anne said. “I come here for lunch every time I’m at the gallery. And I know I’ll come back every day after the gallery is open.”

  The renovations had taken less time than planned, so Anne had changed the opening date to the last Thursday of September. Alexis wouldn’t be able to attend for two reasons: he couldn’t leave Vienna at the very beginning of the school year, and there was no way he could be in the same room as Anne’s friends or, moreover, François.

  “You’re going to tell me all about the opening, right?” Alexis said.

  “Of course. … Do you think people will come?”

  For the first time, she expressed doubts.

  “Everything is in place for a great success,” Alexis said. “Your experience, the location, Simonetta. The synergy is perfect.”