Haunting Paris Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 by Mamta Chaudhry

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Nan A. Talese/Doubleday, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York, and distributed in Canada by Random House of Canada, a division of Penguin Random House Canada Limited, Toronto.

  www.nanatalese.com

  DOUBLEDAY is a registered trademark of Penguin Random House LLC. Nan A. Talese and the colophon are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Cover design by Emily Mahon

  Cover photograph: Paris © Roger Viollet/The Image Works

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Chaudhry, Mamta, author.

  Title: Haunting Paris : a novel / by Mamta Chaudhry.

  Description: First edition. | New York : Nan A. Talese, [2019]

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018031772 | ISBN 9780385544603 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780385544610 (ebook)

  Classification: LCC PS3603.H386 H38 2019 | DDC 813/.6—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/​2018031772

  Ebook ISBN 9780385544610

  v5.4

  ep

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Chapter 90

  Chapter 91

  Chapter 92

  Chapter 93

  Chapter 94

  Chapter 95

  Chapter 96

  Chapter 97

  Chapter 98

  Acknowledgments

  A Note About the Author

  For Daniel

  Il me reste d’être l’ombre entre les ombres…

  For me all that remains is to be a shadow among shadows…

  —Robert Desnos, poet and résistant, born July 4, 1900, Paris; died June 8, 1945, Theresienstadt concentration camp, Czechoslovakia

  They call us revenants, those who return. Restless for this world, we pass each other in mute recognition, for to be silent and solitary is our essential condition. But death doesn’t end our thirst for a human touch, a human voice calling our name.

  And so I haunt these familiar quays, this familiar river. Music drifts down from Sylvie’s window and I linger until it comes to an end. The scent of lilacs on the breeze stirs dormant phantoms to life, but music is sorcery more potent; though bound to time’s measure, it exists on a plane beyond time, where there is no past and no future, there is only the present in which the dead revisit this world.

  Night after night I wait until the last notes fade away and Sylvie comes to the window at last. I retreat into the shadows as one after another the beautiful mansions along quai d’Anjou spring to light, transforming those in the gloom below into a throng of ghosts. Occasionally a passing figure pauses in a pool of lamplight, to light a cigarette or glance at a watch.

  Squandered time! The most enduring of regrets. In the end, a lifetime is not enough, the heart yearns for more. Who can reason with desire?

  The heart has its reasons that reason cannot know.

  Sylvie stirs uneasily in her sleep. Hearing a noise next door, she thinks it must be Julien working late, trying hard not to wake her though he knows she can sleep through anything. The sleep of the just, he says. Chéri, she calls out. Coco barks and she realizes of course it can’t be Julien, it must be the Americans. Though her body wakes into the present, it takes her mind a few moments longer to absorb the shock of knowing that she will never hear Julien’s voice again.

  So the Americans are here finally, much later than expected. A good thing she had left the key downstairs with Ana Carvalho; the concierge is agog with curiosity about them. Sylvie herself plans to stop by in the morning, see that they’re properly settled in. Not too early, though, they must be tired after the long flight from Florida, how long did Fabienne say it was, nine hours, ten? It never seemed to bother her friend, but then Fabienne was a force of nature. She had pushed Sylvie to divide the large apartment in two, and before the paint was even dry she had located Sylvie’s first renters, a couple of professors from her college. With Fabienne nothing is moderato, everything always presto, prestissimo.

  At one time Sylvie would have panicked at the prospect of dealing with strangers, but now her shyness seems the relic of a vanished self. When she was a child, her parents often acted surprised that they had produce
d someone with her shrinking temperament, and Fabienne said if schoolgirls had sobriquets like kings, she would be Sylvie la timide. The nickname had stuck to her through school, but when she mentioned it to Julien, he smiled and said that on the contrary, to him she was Sylvie, coeur de lion.

  Sighing deeply, Sylvie turns over in bed. Seeing her unconcerned about the intruders, Coco tucks his head down into his paws. Sylvie has a harder time going back to sleep and wishes now she hadn’t thrown away the pills that brought her respite from the sleepless nights when she paced the apartment till dawn. During the nuits blanches of the past winter, she had considered visiting Fabienne in America, had even booked a ticket at her urging. But in the end she had backed out because she couldn’t bear to leave Julien behind. Not so lionhearted after all.

  Yes, you are, Julien insists, encouraging even in death.

  For so long she had felt as if the brightly lit banquet of life was being carried on behind closed doors, and she was entitled only to crumbs from the feast, not to a place at the table. She had felt it again at the house on rue de Bièvre, when Isabelle had seated her next to Julien. Then one day Isabelle’s husband had risen from that table because of her.

  Julien’s love had turned her life into a vista of open doorways, like the grand enfilade at the neighboring Hôtel de Lauzun. Sylvie could not remember what her life had been before him, nor imagine what it would be after. But she no longer has to imagine it, she lives every day with his absence.

  Even the smallest thing is a painful reminder that she will never see him again. A few days ago, when she and Ana Carvalho were moving Julien’s desk from his study, they jostled open a secret drawer and a folder fell out to the floor. The concierge was beside herself with excitement about the discovery, but the shock of it hit Sylvie like a blow. She could not explain why she felt there was something fateful about it, though it looked no different from the stacks of such folders with his case notes filed away at Maison Chenizot. But when she opened it, she found a checkbook from an unknown bank and a sealed envelope with the initial M. Without a word, Sylvie quietly replaced the folder in the desk.

  Opening the envelope or going through the checkbook feels like a trespass, something forbidden, as if Julien has sealed off part of the life they inhabited together and left her forlorn outside.

  On their side of the apartment, Will throws open the door to the terrace. Alice is already under the covers, but he stays up for a while to shake off the irritations of travel—a delayed flight, a damaged suitcase—and wonders how Alice remains unruffled by it all.

  At least the apartment on Île Saint-Louis has turned out better than he expected, none of the ghastly patterned wallpaper the French seem to love. But Fabienne had assured him it was a bonne adresse, one of the best in Paris, on the very street where Baudelaire created his imaginary paradise, luxe, calme, et volupté. She had also confided her hopes that their being on the premises would draw Sylvie out of her shell; she’s become quite reclusive since Julien’s death last fall.

  Will wonders how exactly she expects them to lead a stranger out of her grief. They’ll do what they can, of course, for Fabienne’s sake, if nothing else. Amazing the way she had arranged the trip for them, even scoring some coveted tickets for the bicentennial parade. His misgivings suddenly vanish as he steps out to the terrace and sees the lights of the city spread before him, brightness rising like mist off a river.

  My curiosity about the Americans is too mild to make me linger in their company. It’s only by coming into Sylvie’s orbit that they have attracted my attention at all. But she is now asleep and I hasten away, lest I trouble her dreams.

  As a professional interpreter of dreams, there was one I encountered repeatedly: “All of a sudden I came across an unfamiliar door in my house, and my heart was beating loudly as I pushed it open and discovered a whole new wing, a secret part of the house where I had lived all this time unknowing, unsuspecting.” Though I never had that particular dream myself, it’s what death felt like to me, an unfamiliar door in a familiar house, which I pushed open to find myself forever outside.

  In this twilight world between the living and the dead, I walk till the sky lightens from black to cobalt, my favorite hour, the blue hour, when the blur of mystery still clings to things, a mystery that the sun will burn off soon enough to reveal them as plain as day. I am tired, yet it is not fatigue, for the ailments of the body have been shrugged off like a cumbersome garment. But weariness does not belong to the body alone, and it is then, when I am past caring or thinking or feeling, that the buildings around me dissolve into ruined castles on a hill and the haze over the city is like the burning vines in winter, while far off I hear the mournful howl of wolves.

  At the sound of footsteps behind me I spin around and find myself ambushed. Familiar faces transformed by hatred spit out the age-old curse: Sale juif! Then a rock strikes me sharply across the temple and blood gushes from my eye. I am shocked by the taste, warm and coppery. But when I raise my hand to touch my face, there is no blood. Yet the pain, I feel it still under the cobalt sky, where for a moment the centuries stay their ceaseless glissade. Then the sun resumes its unrelenting course as I look around to find castles and fires and wolves all fled, and I am alone again, no longer a man but a ghost in a ravishing city where all that remains of what was once my life are some spectral ruins, which I try to piece together like the vanishing fragments of a dream.

  Though it’s not yet light outside, Sylvie forces herself to get up, to boil water, measure coffee into the press. She closes her eyes, and Julien comes up the stairs with a brioche from the boulangerie. Chérie, he says, and she holds out her arms, but there’s no one there, no warm and steady hand, no aroma of fresh bread. Blinking away tears, she pours the coffee, which she has made too bitter. She swallows it with a grimace, reminding herself to stock up on provisions; she doesn’t want another scolding from Ana Carvalho about how poorly she eats.

  She goes downstairs with Coco trotting ahead, his tail wagging excitedly, as if the morning walk is an unexpected treat instead of a daily occurrence. Watering the plants in the courtyard, the concierge calls out, “So your Americans have come, Madame Sylvie.”

  Your Americans. Sylvie smiles and shrugs. The Taylors are people she has never seen before, and after this summer will likely never see again. Perhaps there will be a thank-you note, then a Christmas card, then silence.

  Sylvie is disappointed that Fabienne herself won’t be coming this summer. At the faculty concert someone told me, “Break a leg,” which I promptly did, she’d wired, but luckily the cello suffered no damage, the insurers say it’s worth a lot more than I am. She wishes Fabienne had never moved to America. Now, more than ever, she feels the need of her friend’s presence, someone who knows her so well that she can offer comfort just by being there, without saying a word.

  Returning from her walk, Sylvie goes up to her landing and draws a deep breath. Best to get it over with sooner rather than later. Fabienne had assured her the Taylors were both sympa, but nice or not, Sylvie doesn’t expect to see much of them after this; she has put in a separate entrance so they can come and go as they please. She knocks on their door, and as soon as it opens, Coco trots into the apartment, sniffing the room with a proprietary air. His black eyes glint with interest at the strangers. The first human touch the dog had known was a man trying to drown him, but he does not hold that against people in general, considering them for the most part capable of kindness. He goes right up to Alice and rests his wiry head trustfully against her knee, puzzled at first by the different layout of the room. Madame’s piano is not in its accustomed place, nor Monsieur’s desk. But Coco is philosophical about change. He knows that as long as there is a table, scraps will fall.

  Sylvie notices the delicacies she had put out for them—pastries from Gérard Mulot, confitures from Mariage Frères—are untouched. Not fond of sugar, the Americans. Well, she’ll know better
next time. After a few pleasantries, Sylvie leaves them to their breakfast and returns to her own side of the apartment. She waits until she hears the Taylors go out, then sits down at the piano, the music on the stand turned to Schubert’s last sonata. The beautiful opening melody ripples like light on water, but then an ominous trill sounds the dark undercurrent of loss. The notes blur before her eyes and Sylvie plays on from memory, tears rolling down her cheeks until Coco can bear it no longer and jumps on the stool to lick her face.

  Making her way up to Sylvie’s, the concierge encounters the Americans on the landing and stops to size them up in the broad light of day, her curiosity unsatisfied by a brief glimpse the night before. At least the man speaks fluent French, what a relief, she needn’t break her jaw with English.