But then the conductor marched on, without ceremony—nobody clapped; this was a rehearsal after all—and raised his hands, and all these musicians I could see, hardly any distance away from me…they just started to play these strings, running up and down their violins, and it was just totally amazing. It wasn’t weird or boring at all; it was beautiful. Then the curtain went up and I gasped. Two men—including the little short arse I’d met at the flat—were in a bare, cold-looking garret just like mine. It too had a window, with a view over Paris full of twinkling lights and smoking chimneys, and through the window, although I had absolutely no idea how they did it, snow was falling. It was exquisite. Then the men began to sing and I was transported. Sami had told me the story before one night when he was hemming, and it didn’t seem necessary to watch the cold, starving men burn their books. Then the other man—who was taller and more handsome—met the beautiful Mimi, who wore a dress that was patched and faded, but still fit her absolutely perfectly, as she showed how poor and helpless she was in a voice that reached the very heights of the rafters.
Laurent didn’t take his hand off my leg the entire time, as I leaned forward, more and more transfixed. I glanced at Claire. Her eyes were half-open, her head leaning against Thierry’s shoulder. He had his arm around her. She looked awful. I felt a sudden lump in my throat.
“Are you all right?” I whispered.
She nodded. “Yes, my love.”
“And I’ll take you home tomorrow,” I said. “Richard will meet you and take you back to the boys.”
She nodded. “Yes,” she said. “I am so lucky,” she said and squeezed my hand. Thierry whispered something in her ear.
- - -
Claire could barely make out the figures on the stage. The two boys…her boys…oh where were her boys now? She wanted to see them so much. She missed them so much; the fresh smell of their hair, the way they slept, arms thrown out, spread-eagled on their bunk beds, their little arms around her neck…Thierry whispered in her ear, “Don’t go,” and she smiled. “I must,” she said. “I must go home to my boys…and to someone I should have loved better.”
Thierry kissed her bald head gently. “You couldn’t have loved me any better.”
“No, I couldn’t,” she said.
- - -
There was no interval, no pause, as the singers carried on with their scenes. But I preferred that; I didn’t want anything to break the spell, that even though these people were singing, I was with them, at the dance, which was perfect, with the sellers, and finally, as Rodolfo laid her down gently on the poor couch, kissing her repeatedly, the tears slipped steadily from my eyes. Laurent gently whispered the name of the aria they were singing, “Your Tiny Hand Is Frozen,” and my heart jumped and stuttered with panic. I turned, and straightaway, even before the orchestra fell apart and fell silent and the cast stared at us open-mouthed, and the shouting, before Sami came charging full-pelt right from backstage across the footlights toward us, his long turquoise scarf fluttering behind him, and the ambulance and the lights and the noise—I knew, I just knew. We all knew.
The elderly gentleman, clearly once very handsome, now slightly heavier, but with his bushy mustache as luxuriant as ever, pushed his way to the front of the queue with his cane. He was tall and beautifully dressed and as most of the visitors were foreigners, not French, they let him march through with his air of authority as he bought his ticket to the top.
In the lift, he stood with his hands clasped behind him. It had been a beautiful autumn. The leaves after the hot summer had burnished bright red and gold, and everyone had returned to the city rejuvenated after their summer breaks and wildly excited to hear that the great Thierry Girard had gone into partnership—with his son, no less—and was no longer relying on past glories and turning out old classics, but was turning out cutting-edge work and taste surprises. Laurent’s oyster chocolate had been talked about for weeks. And working shoulder to shoulder with Anna, who had turned out to be such a find…they looked so happy together, bickering affectionately over flavorings, forcing each other to taste some new concoction—he didn’t feel the need to go in nearly as much. He had much more time to walk, to spend time with Alice, who was less frenetic now the financial future seemed secure but still watched his diet like a hawk, to reflect on how close he came to losing everything, everything good about his life. Well, he had years now, barring accidents, years Claire had never had. He owed it to her to enjoy them, he felt. Make it up to her now.
Up at the very top, he turned left out of the lift—most people would turn right, he knew—and went right around to the east side, from where you could see the towers of Notre Dame, their little island, their little haven in the center of the world. From up here, the movements and traffic and noise felt like nothing, all the tiny business of the human world, scattering around, each carrying inside them a multitude of happiness and sorrow, all those loves lost and found.
The wind was blowing, an autumnal chill in it. He was glad he was wearing the pink scarf Alice had bought him.
He opened up the box. He had wanted so much to give it to her, had meant to, up here. But they had not had time. They hadn’t had time to…well. He was not going to dwell on it now.
Thierry took the brand new straw hat out of its white box, lifted it high in the air over the fencing, and—pouf!—let the wind carry it away, watching it dance and fly in the air, high above the chimney pots and cathedral bells and steeples, watching it twist, its ribbon flapping, until it flew up and up, into the blue sky and out of sight.
THE END