I Looked for the One My Heart Loves Read online

  Two weeks later, an unexpected event wreaked havoc on the preparations for the upcoming exhibition. Monsieur Marcellin, the attorney who had helped Amanda regain the gallery after the war, asked for a meeting. Seeing him enter the gallery, Anne was struck by how much he had changed physically. Thinner, his face ashen, his step hesitant, he was nothing like the dynamic lawyer he had once been.

  “Madame Kircher is waiting for you up in her apartment,” Anne told him.

  An hour later, Amanda came downstairs with her visitor.

  “Monsieur Marcellin would like to sell a large part of his collection,” she said.

  Anne was startled. The attorney was as attached to his paintings as to his own children.

  “Is it too late to include some of Monsieur Marcellin’s paintings in our show?” Amanda asked.

  “I could provide you with slides,” Monsieur Marcellin said. “That way you won’t have to hire a photographer, so you won’t waste any time.”

  As soon as Marcellin left, Amanda explained why he was in such a hurry.

  “He’s been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, and he wants his affairs in order.”

  Looking pensive, she added, “He looked so serene about it all. It was almost as though he were talking about someone else. …”

  The following day, Anne received Marcellin’s art pieces. At the last moment, the attorney had added to the lot the two sketches René Magritte had made in preparation for his painting The Lovers.

  “My wife doesn’t want to keep them,” he wrote Amanda in a short note. “They are a painful reminder of the enthusiasm we felt when we first acquired them. Moreover, Magritte’s recent death probably raised their value. Could you assess them for me?”

  As she took the drawings out of their wrapping, Anne let slip a gasp of admiration. She had always regretted their leaving the gallery.

  “You shouldn’t part with them again,” she told Amanda.

  “You’re right,” Amanda said. “They’re so gorgeous. But business is business! As Monsieur Marcellin said, Magritte’s death is going to whet the collectors’ appetite.”

  Not wanting to contradict her, Anne continued scrutinizing the two renderings of the couple whose identity remained a mystery. René Magritte had worked on The Lovers sketches during a stay in Paris in 1928. In the first version, the man’s face and the woman’s face were set against a bucolic landscape. In the second version, they were kissing inside a house. What expressions did Magritte imagine for them under the cloth that kept them apart? Were they dazzled by the love and desire they had for each other? Or, on the contrary, were they overwhelmed with feelings that weakened them? If Anne had been able to afford the sketches, she would have bought them gladly.

  At the end of February, Alexis submitted his typewritten text. Since Monsieur Marcellin’s unexpected announcement had come so late, Alexis hadn’t been able to mention the Magrittes. Anne was disappointed, but she had too much work to do to give it much thought. After she and Amanda decided exactly which pieces were to be hung on the walls, she began typing the labels for each piece, with the name of the artist, the title of the piece, the year it was created, and its dimensions. Then she put together the guest list and ordered the invitations. Her friend Agnès, who needed to get out of her chaotic house once in a while, offered to help out with sending the invitations. Opening night was set for Thursday, April 25, so Anne had three weeks to order food and drinks from a caterer, hire the greeters that Amanda had used before, and find valets to park the cars.

  Anne was busy hanging paintings when the phone rang. Muttering under her breath, she picked up.

  “Is this the Galerie Kircher?” a man’s voice asked.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Would it be possible to speak to Madame Kircher?”

  “She’s not in right now. Would you like to leave a message?”

  “Is this Anne?”

  “Yes …”

  “It’s Alexis.”

  “Alexis,” Anne said, suddenly breathless.

  “How are you?”

  “Good … Good … What about you?”

  “I’m going to be in Paris soon … Hello? Can you hear me?”

  “When are you going to be here?” Anne managed to utter.

  “Next Tuesday. I was asked to give a talk at a conference in Bordeaux. And so I thought I’d go to Paris for three days before the conference. I’ll be there for the opening of your exhibition.”

  “What a great idea!”

  “If you and Madame Kircher aren’t too busy, I could drop by the gallery on Wednesday. I thought it’d be more pleasant for us to meet when things are quiet.”

  Anne went back and forth between being ecstatic and worrying herself to death. In Brussels, she and Alexis had only exchanged a few words, and that felt like it had taken place a million years ago. She had grown older since then. She was now thirty-seven! Based on what people said, she looked five years younger. Still into fashion, she wore skirts that fell above her knees, close-fitting sweaters, fitted coats, and flat loafers that gave her a youthful figure. Refined and elegant, she strived to be attractive. Though people she knew kept telling her how nice she looked, she still thought she was physically ordinary. At least one of her hang-ups was a thing of the past—she was no longer embarrassed when she smiled. François had convinced her that her slightly crooked teeth weren’t a defect, despite what Anne had always thought. Better still, he said, the imperfection added to her charm, which no one could resist! At once dreamy, passionate, lively, and funny, she left no one around her indifferent.

  “There’s never a dull moment with you around,” Anne’s husband kept telling her.

  What he considered whimsical seemed natural to her. Was it her knack for fully enjoying life’s simple pleasures? What was certain was that nobody could enliven an ordinary day like Anne.

  Agnès, whose marriage was coming apart at the seams, would have loved for some magic wand to breathe a bit of her friend’s optimism into her. Now divorced with a twelve-year old, how was she supposed to face the future? With no training and no diploma, she would have fallen on hard times if Anne hadn’t been able to help her find a job as a clerk in a stationery shop on Rue Soufflot. She was to start on May 2.

  “For the first time in my life, I’m going to be independent,” Agnès said. “Thanks to you!”

  Would she get some money from her ex-husband? That was highly doubtful! Drowning in debt, the man was broke.

  “Who would’ve thought he’d sink so low?” Anne said to François.

  “You never really know a person. Not even the ones closest to you.”

  “You think I don’t know you?”

  “You certainly are the one who understands me the most.”

  After a moment of silence, François added, “I’m not sure I could say the same about you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “While you are very upfront about things, I know you also have your secrets.”

  “I’ve never lied to you,” Anne said.

  Anne went to work on Saturday to double-check the gallery’s lighting. She knew that for Amanda, this show was more important than all the previous ones combined. As other gallery owners began to make a name for themselves in the business, Amanda was nearing retirement. For that very reason, she wanted this upcoming exhibition to be truly extraordinary. Anne sensed that Amanda Kircher hoped to be remembered among her peers as a legend in the Parisian art world of the second part of the twentieth century. Her larger-than-life personality was also beginning to contribute to her fame.

  On Sunday evening, Anne came home shivering.

  “I think I caught a cold,” she told François, who was listening to the news on the radio.

  “Things aren’t getting any better in Prague,” he said.

  Annoyed by his lack of empathy, Anne walked to the
bathroom, opened the cabinet, and grabbed the bottle of aspirin.

  Later in the evening, she was barely able to swallow.

  “It must be strep throat,” François said.

  “It can’t be,” Anne said. “The opening is on Thursday!”

  The following day, Anne called the family doctor. Her eyes filled with tears and razor blades in her throat, she begged him to prescribe the strongest medicine he could think of.

  Never before had Anne nursed herself so much, and never had she felt so miserable. When she looked at herself in the mirror, she saw a weepy, pasty creature with dry lips. How could she let Alexis see her this way?

  But she took her antibiotics and drank rum toddies to keep her sweating as much as possible under her blanket. On Tuesday, her temperature dropped. Her head was still heavy and her limbs were stiff, but at least she could get out of bed. At nine thirty on Wednesday, she walked into the salon where she usually got her hair done. …

  14

  While Anne was home sick, Agnès had answered the gallery’s phone and held down the fort.

  “Anything special happen?” Anne asked. “Any meetings canceled?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Thank you so much for coming to the rescue like this. You’re free to go if you’d like.”

  “Someone told me about an apartment in the neighborhood. I’m going to check it out now.”

  Anne wanted to be alone to greet Alexis, who hadn’t said when exactly he’d be showing up. Several times, she caught herself standing in front of a mirror to make sure she looked okay. Her clean and gleaming hair almost compensated for the shadows under her eyes. The large gold hoops dangling from her ears brightened her face, and she wore a nice pink cashmere sweater. She wasn’t too displeased with what she saw. She tried not to keep glancing at her watch, but by six she started to worry. Had Alexis forgotten about their meeting? In a short while, she would have to close the gallery for the night. As she rearranged a vase filled with snapdragons, the door opened. Hidden behind the flowers, she couldn’t see who had come in. She quickly moved the bouquet aside.

  He was standing on the threshold.

  “Good evening,” she said, walking toward him.

  “Hello … Anne. Sorry to be so late. I had a meeting in Versailles and it lasted longer than I thought. And there aren’t many trains! I was scared I’d get here too late.”

  He was out of breath, so Anne could tell he’d been running.

  “We don’t close for another thirty minutes,” she said.

  Seeing that he was carrying a briefcase, she offered to set it behind her desk. As she tried to speak calmly and behave normally, she wondered if she was successfully hiding her nervousness.

  “It’s hot in here,” she said. “Let me take your coat.”

  While he unbuttoned his trench coat, she had time to examine him. His hair, quite long, was thinning a little. His tanned complexion led Anne to assume that he must have enjoyed the great outdoors. Maybe he was skiing in the mountains near Montreal? That would also explain his athletic figure. Alexis gave Anne a friendly look. He seemed happy to see her.

  “Would you have recognized me in the street since we ran into each other in Brussels?” she asked.

  “Honestly, I’m not sure.”

  He looked at her as though he wanted to etch her bright eyes, her perfectly proportioned nose, her generous lips into his memory. From his expression, Anne could tell that he found her pretty. It felt like a reward for the exhausting battle with her illness.

  “Here’s the exhibition’s catalog,” she said. “Your text starts on page five.”

  “What a nice cover!”

  “You should say that to Madame Kircher when you see her. It’ll make her happy.”

  “She’s not here?”

  “No. She was called to appraise some paintings before they’re auctioned. You’re going to meet her tomorrow. In the meantime, you can take a look around if you’d like.”

  They stopped in front of three oil paintings by Giorgio de Chirico, representing an empty arcade, a train, and a landscape so odd it was disturbing.

  “De Chirico and his Metaphysical art started surrealism,” Alexis said. “I love the incongruities in his work, the discrepancies.”

  He continued walking and then examined the two Yves Tanguy paintings that Anne loved so much. In the adjoining room were the René Magritte ink sketches. Alexis went over to them.

  “I know the paintings that came out of those studies,” he said. “1928,” he added, leaning toward the label. “Unless I’m wrong, he did a few paintings that year of characters with their heads covered by a piece of cloth.”

  “Madame Kircher and I were wondering who those lovers might be. Magritte and his wife?”

  “Why not? He often painted himself and his wife.”

  “But why would they hide under a hood this time?”

  “They’re kissing. That’s very intimate.”

  “But the cloth keeps them apart!”

  “It could mean that, even in a relationship, each party keeps their own identity, their own mysterious side.”

  “And so unity is impossible?”

  “Something like that.”

  As they headed for the front of the gallery, Anne apologized for having to close for the night.

  “We could get a drink somewhere,” Alexis said. “Unless you’re busy.”

  “A drink! Why not?”

  She went over to the phone and called Edith, who promised to stay with the girls until she or François came home.

  They settled in a café next to the Comédie-Française. Anne would have ordered a gin fizz, but she was afraid to mix alcohol with the meds she was taking. She went for a tea instead.

  “What about you?” she asked Alexis.

  “I think I’m going to have a glass of port. And some olives.”

  Sitting face to face, they were able to look at each other as much as they liked. Alexis hadn’t changed much since Brussels. He still had that youthful, rebellious expression.

  “I don’t know Paris well,” he said. “When I was a kid, I almost never left Montmartre.”

  “We went to the Louvre once, remember?”

  “Right. The ancient Egyptian wing.”

  “You were fascinated by it.”

  “Maybe that explains why I wanted to get a job in Cairo.”

  After a moment of silence, he said, “You know, since the two of us have been talking, I realize how much I’ve repressed my memories of the prewar years. It’s as though I decided I didn’t have the right to think about those happy times.” He lost himself in his thoughts for a while and added, “You’re the only one I can talk to about the old neighborhood. And it seems like you haven’t forgotten anything.”

  With a smile, Anne began reminiscing about the Montmartre of their childhood, the streets, the people, the celebrations …

  Not knowing he was about to open a wound, Alexis interrupted her: “When was the last time we saw each other? Do you remember?”

  “Just before the exodus,” she muttered. “You were pumping your bicycle tires …”

  “Right …”

  She was going to mention the promise he’d made to her, then changed her mind. She didn’t want to embarrass him.

  “It took us twelve days to make it to Evian,” Alexis said. “My mother injured her heel on her bike pedal. Thank God, we arrived before the Boches set the demarcation line.”

  “And you lived at your aunt’s …”

  Looking surprised, Alexis said, “How did you know that?”

  “You told me in Brussels.”

  “Gee, you really do have an amazing memory!”

  She smiled again.

  “After that horrible trip, my aunt’s kindness and her beautiful house almost made us forget
about the war. My bedroom window opened on Lake Geneva. At night, I could see the lights of Lausanne on the opposite shore. When my father finally met up with us, I thought that nothing would ever separate us again. Huge mistake! As soon as he was able, my father joined the Résistance. After his death, I didn’t want to hear about the heroes who’d helped to liberate France. I hated them all for taking my father away from me!”

  Alexis’s voice was now very low, and Anne had to lean forward to hear him.

  “No doubt that’s why I chose to live abroad. Egypt, Canada … and soon the United States.”

  “You’re planning on moving?”

  “I just got a job in San Francisco.”

  California! Anne thought of the distance between them being even greater and felt guilty for it, the reaction proving to her that nothing had changed. The fascination and attraction she had for this boy who had become an adult had remained intact. Alexis corresponded perfectly to the image she had kept of him. And she felt close to the man he had become as well.

  “I was offered a teaching position at a Franco-American high school.”

  “And you feel like moving to California?”

  “My wife does.”

  Even though Anne had prepared for such a revelation, the word wife made her shudder. Before he had said it, she had noticed that he wasn’t wearing a wedding band.

  “You’ve been married long?” she asked.

  “I met Geneviève in Montreal, two years after I arrived there. She’s French Canadian, which explains why she wants to get away from winters that never end.”

  “Do you have kids?”

  “A son. Guillaume.”

  Alexis said his name with pride.

  “What about you?”

  “I have two daughters.”

  “Do they look like you?”

  “The youngest one does.”

  Talking about Isabelle and Aurélie reminded Anne of her responsibilities. She knew she ought to be getting back home. Seeing Anne glance at her watch, Alexis asked the waiter for the bill.

  “I took too much of your time,” he said. “I should’ve called ahead to ask you out to dinner. …”