My dear Antoine, Marthe wrote as she pulled out her stationery. Over the years, she had written countless letters of correspondence on the paper with the gold embossed butterfly, but now she paused as to what to write next. She ran her hand over the heavy bonded paper. She pressed her finger to the butterfly. This one needed to be drafted with particular care.
I am not sure if you will remember me, as so many years have passed since we last saw each other. Then, you were a young major, and I have since learned you are now a general. I write not because of our mutual love of art and painting, but because of something even more personal. I do not like to ask for favors. It is also not my nature to interfere with the government or matters that concern men of power. But if you remember that evening we spent in front of my Boldini portrait, our discussions of your mother’s art andtalent, and that one night we shared thereafter, you will recall that what fueled me both then and now as an old lady, are the things in life that keep our hearts aflutter and our blood warm. And so you must realize, I am writing about love...
She continued crafting the letter, her pen rolling over the paper as smoothly as a skate on ice. Her words were well chosen, and her emotions pressed deeply into every sentence. She remembered how powerless she had been to save Charles. But her heart was now flooded with a different type of emotion. It wasn’t the physical, amorous love that besotted the young. She instead saw herself on the outside, a voyeur to both her granddaughter’s burgeoning happiness and the potential for it to be destroyed.
She did not know if the letter would reach the officer, or if what she wrote would ultimately have any effect on what she was attempting. But she wrote anyway. For even when he had been a young major, Antoine d’Angelis had surprised her with his sensitivity, and she knew she had to try. She had to believe that even if their connection was brief, it had been unique. She had even sent him a wedding gift when she read in the newspaper that he was engaged.
That afternoon, Marthe did not ask Giselle to post the letter. She vowed to do it herself. As her fingers let go of the envelope in the mailbox, she turned to hear some rustling in the linden trees behind her. There on the branch were two stock doves, their beaks pecking at each other playfully. She took it as an auspicious sign. All her life, something in the constellations changed for the better whenever she was in the company of birds.
42.
Solange
March 1940
Time became a form of currency. We counted days, hours, even minutes together as though they were precious coins.
He told me he had written a letter to his father and one to me should he not return.
“Don’t think like that,” I told him. “You will come back.”
“I am hardly a soldier,” he said. His eyes were bloodshot. “And even if I were, the Germans have the superior army.”
“You haven’t slept. You’re not thinking clearly,” I insisted.
“I am not worried about myself. It’s my fear for you and my father that keep me up at night.”
“We will be fine. Perhaps my grandmother will let your father come live with us, too,” I said, hoping to soften his angst with humor, a trick I had learned from him.
I succeeded in making him smile.
“Nowthatwould be worthy of a novel.” He laughed, and I realized at that moment, the sound of his happiness restored me.
We reached for each other’s hands again. The touch of his skin. The warmth of his blood. Our fingers searched for each other, the roots of two trees entwined.
“Let’s get lost again today,” he urged, looking at his watch.
I thought of my grandmother. First, her life in the shadows with Charles, and now still ensconced in an apartment where time stood still. How I wanted to shut its doors and retreat there from the world with Alex by my side.
“Yes, let’s... ,” I whispered to him. I yearned for the security of the shadows. I didn’t want either of us to ever be found.
***
In those five days, we had become experts in finding the most secluded wooded areas in Paris. In every garden that had once belonged to a courtier, we found the hidden canopies and discovered each other with our hands and lips.
I now knew the language of caresses, the music of escalated breath. I understood that kisses could leave their own imprint. That skin retained the memory of a lover’s touch, like a fossil pressed into stone.
When he left, I felt his fingers still around me. His palms that had mapped my thighs. His warm mouth on my neck. I discovered his fragrance in the perfume of freshly cut grass. His voice was always in my ear, even after he had departed. It was like a song I carried inside my head.
***
When I returned to my grandmother’s apartment, my face betrayed my anguish. Two days remained, and then Alex would be gone.
I went straight to my room. I had brought Marthe’s radio to mybedside so I could listen to the news reports at night. And now I wanted to smash it to the floor. I hated the war. I hated how little control we had over our lives. I flung myself on the bed and began to cry.
***
“Please invite Alex and his father for dinner tomorrow night.” I sat at the long dining room table with Marthe. She was wrapped in her dressing gown, her face without makeup. She looked almost translucent, as her weight loss had made the angles of her face more pronounced. Her eyes were hard upon me.
