After my arrival in Paris, I allowed myself to be swept up by dance. There was nothing else to give myself over to, and unless I wanted to wallow in heartbreak, I had to find an escape. That escape was dance. Which was an ironic sort of irony. It was easy to lose myself to something familiar. During the times that my mind was allowed to wonder, Brando consumed my thoughts.
I couldn’t seem to help the tears that fell in the middle of the night when the world slept. The first time I saw him, out in the snow, haunted me, and so did the day we went our separate ways. And every time in between. And the future.
If I had stayed, where would we be?
Sitting side by side in his truck, bouncing to the diner to grab a bite to eat. Visiting with Violet and Mick and their children, Peter and Paul. Decorating the house on Snow. College would’ve been close to done for me, my teaching degree not far off. Preparing for the rest of our lives.
The yearning to marry him and claim our always burned as hot as the day I wanted always with him. In fact, if I were being honest, it burned even hotter. Nothing had changed for me but my address.
Unless I wanted to cry in front of a dozen or more people in this café, I had to ignore the thoughts.
Pushing Maggie Beautiful’s letters to the side, I pulled forth another sheet of paper, an article with an old black and white photo ingrained on the fibers. Emory Snow had sent it to me not long after I had arrived. Included in the package were rose petals that he had asked me to deliver to Àstrid. He sent me the name of the cemetery and I wrote back and promised him that I would.
I had.
I found Àstrid on a cold January morning, her headstone worn down by time and elements. I had scattered the petals Emory Snow had sent to me. I had considered putting them in a glass jar, something to keep them together, but then thought better of it. The idea of bottling them up seemed as sad as the idea of her life being cut short.
For some reason, when the petals took flight on the wind, I felt satisfied knowing they had twirled away. It seemed like this would please Emory Snow; perhaps that’s why he had sent them in the first place, instead of a bouquet of flowers.
Père-Lachaise Cemetery, or known more formally,Cimetiere de l’Est(Cemetery of the East) was one of the most well known in Paris. It was noted for its famous patrons, Edith Piaf, Oscar Wilde, and Jim Morrison being just three of them. It had grand mini chapels down to forgotten simple headstones. Though it was one of the most visited cemeteries, it still held on to its sense of great peace. With trees and hills all around, it made for a picturesque resting place.
I sat with Àstrid for a while, thinking about the picture Emory Snow had sent with the article of her. It had touched on her dance career. She had never reached her full potential, but the potential had been there nonetheless. Her star had burnt out before it was set ablaze.
Using a finger, I traced over the French writing on her massive stone.
A star was born and the heavens rejoiced.
Hers was a light that did not burn in vain.
Dancer. Daughter. Mother.
Àstrid Manon Nemours
Dancer. Daughter. Mother.The words seemed to swirl with the dead leaves, the petals caught in a whirlwind just beyond her stone, and through my mind.
Mother.
Àstridhad been a mother. She had had a child.
The information both disturbed and warmed me. Was it Emory Snow’s child? Did he know? If he did, why did he only claim his daughter from his wife?
Àstrid’s life, or what it stood for in my eyes, had always frightened me. Her life was the stuff my nightmares were made of. I had spoken to Emory Snow in person only once, and once was enough to send me running from the man every time I saw him coming. He had come to the house on Snow to warn me—unfinished stories have a way of waking up from a restless slumber when a similar relationship presents itself.
Ours was a love story like theirs.
This new information intrigued me. If she had a child, a little reminder of Emory Snow, then perhaps her life was not totally incomplete. Perhaps their love was not wasted in vain. But Emory Snow had also mentioned another man, the man she was engaged to before she fell in love with him.
The mystery grew deeper and my curious nature grew even more intrigued.
I refused to write to Emory Snow, or anyone in Natchitoches, about what I had found. I had only mentioned it in passing to Maggie Beautiful. It was thethis and thatmentioned in our letters. If there was one thing I learned about Maggie Beautiful, it was that she had a memory as young as her personality. Magpie not only chattered on and was attracted to shiny things, but she also collected bits and pieces of information. I couldn’t chance it if Emory Snow didn’t know the truth about Àstrid’s life.
In between my dance schedule and the times I spent walking aimlessly through the streets of Paris, I started to ask around and do some research. None of the women I danced with seemed to know of her.
The curious thing about the Paris Ballet, or the ballet in general, is that it is old, but also young. It has a history as long as the cemeteries in Paris are thick, but a dancer doesn’t usually dance beyond her forties.
Hence, Àstrid’s time had come before anyone that I had spoken to. I looked up the Nemours but the name yielded too many results. I called a few that were listed and then gave up after that.
Colette had been cleaning house one day when she found the list. “Nemours…Nemours…Nemours…Euh…” She stuck her pointer finger to her lip, thinking. “I do not know this name. Or do I?”
