The Chrysalis Read online

  The policeman raised his eyes in slight surprise but showed little more emotion than that at this possibly crucial snippet.

  “Quelle heure?” he said.

  I shrugged. “Onze… ou onze heures et demie?”

  “What colour is Moreau’s wife’s hair?” I heard him ask his companion in French.

  The other shrugged.

  “I don’t know just now. She dyes it different colours, I think. It was blonde once but it might be auburn now.”

  “Trying to keep up with his desire for change!”

  “One is never enough.”

  “Certainly not for Moreau!”

  They both smiled wryly, scribbled some notes carelessly, but seemed little concerned, unfurling themselves from the depths of my sofa soon after, and leaving. Raymond moved behind the curtains and looked out as they walked down the road to their car. I watched him from my seat, thinking how beautiful he was as a man compared to how I was as a woman. Thick black hair and broad shoulders and soft dark eyes that could express so many delicate nuances. I knew how anguished he felt inside, how turbulent these days had been for him. How much he grieved inside. I looked at him, standing there in that perfect light against fluttering voile and knew how broken he was, and how much I loved him. I would do anything for him.

  For the next two days, I waited impatiently for our flights home, roaming the flat, putting things in order. I could not wait to be gone, but even in the present circumstances I think Raymond was sad as we locked up the apartment. He always left part of himself behind in this little town when we went home. He always said he was most truly himself here. This time, as he locked the door he must have feared that it was for the last time, that we would never unlock it again.

  We had not told the gendarmes we were going. Why should we? They didn’t ask les Anglais about their plans. We took a taxi in the early morning, trundling down cobbled back streets in the rising light of a new day. At the airport, we walked past a news stand. Raymond turned slightly as we went by. “LA FEMME BLONDE,” it said, and his eyes met mine briefly.

  I felt my heart beat faster as the aeroplane engines throbbed on the runway. Now, now, now, I thought. Take off. Fly away. Raymond’s eyes were closed beside me, consumed by the loss of leaving, but I peered through the window, a last glimpse of the south of France. When I think back, it is the light I remember most, the watercolour light of a sweat-drenched landscape, an insipid sky running into hard, baked earth. The plane lurched forward suddenly, quickly building up speed, the subdued colours rolling into one another through the window, burnt orange and terracotta, cream and grey blue. Faster and faster. Then the nose of the plane lifted, and my heart lifted with it, and suddenly I was weightless, floating, the plane tilting, rising steeply into a sky that seemed to shimmer with heat haze. I looked sideways and Raymond’s eyes were closed still, his head tilted back. I might have thought he slept, were it not for a single tear that trickled from the corner of his eye and ran unabated into his hairline.

  We were gone, gone, gone, and never coming back. And we would never be the same again.

  CHAPTER THREE

  It is all so real when I recall those events in the south of France. As if it happened yesterday. I live for memories now. I cannot create new ones of any value so I run the mental videotapes of old ones. I am young. Raymond is by my side. I do not try to block out the terrible events of Saint Estelle. How could I? They shaped my life. But at least it WAS a life. It was never dull as it is now.

  The view from my window is of the care home’s back garden. It is a big, bay window, and most days I sit my chair in the light, the soft English light, and look out at the pink rhododendron bush in the corner, and the green woodland beyond, the rich greenery of trees filling the horizon. So green and lush compared to the south of France.

  Sometimes, I play my music as I sit, let it fill the space between me and the past. “A cigarette that bears a lipstick’s traces…” How I would love a Gitâne again! The events of yesterday are a little hazy but the events of long ago are crystal clear. “An airline ticket to romantic places…” My fingers tap on the chair. The heat, the dust, the passion I felt.

  It was the early autumn of 1968 when we left France that last time, a remarkable year for us but also for France - and indeed, the rest of the world. It was the year Kennedy was assassinated, and Martin Luther King. The year of riots in Peking and Mexico and Chicago and Berlin and Warsaw and Prague. That spring, before we arrived for the summer, had seen the heady days of student riots in Paris with barricades all over the Left Bank. Upturned cars, wheels spinning to the sky, were strewn across the roads, stranded like beetles that had been tossed on their backs.

  It was a cultural revolution that heralded the end of the de Gaulle era, the finale of thirty years of booming post-war prosperity in France, but it was not the politics that excited Raymond as he listened eagerly to reports about the rebellion, while the blossom rained down from the cherry trees in our small and very English village that May. The village I have somehow always returned to, despite the fact that sometimes I felt claustrophobic within its benign confines and found myself longing for distant horizons.

  No, it was because 1968 was the year after the San Francisco flower power revolution and young Parisians were challenging the conservative status quo – as indeed they did all over Europe and America – to demand increasing sexual freedom. Students wanted the right to have partners sleep over in halls of residence and it was that spirit of liberalism that so excited Raymond. That summer, he could not wait to get to France. He watched, mesmerised, as 8 million French workers joined the students in rebellion, creating the biggest industrial unrest in French history. The old certainties of society as we knew it were crumbling and Raymond wanted to stand in the rubble. But six weeks later, long before we even left for our summer break in Saint Estelle, it was all over. The workers had returned to the factories and the students were on holiday. The effects, though, lasted longer. Much longer.

  How many years have passed since then? Thirty? Forty? More? However long it is, I can conjure those times, those emotions, inside me at will. They never abate completely. I live them over and over, swapping today’s reality for yesterday’s. I turn them down at times, like a volume switch, but the melody is there in the background, always.

  Outside, some of the pink blooms from the rhododendron bush have fallen to the grass. The summer is flying past. The time of year we would have begun planning our trip, booking our flights. “These foolish things remind me of you.”

  “A wee cup of tea, Marie?” The trolley trundles into the room.

  My name is Marianne.

  “A wee cup of tea, pet?”

  I do not look at her, but shake my head. They do not expect me to speak. They shout, as though I am deaf or senile. I let them think it. It suits me. They leave me to my own thoughts which is the way I prefer it.

  “Not want one, Marianne?”

  I turn in the direction of the voice and smile as Zac bends down at the side of my chair.

  Zac is my favourite nurse, the only one in here I have any time for. He lives in a small town close to here, the town where my law practice used to be, but his mother, he has told me, is French, with a mixture of French and Spanish blood on her side of the family. With his dark hair and eyes, Zac has inherited more of the Spanish look of his maternal grandmother than the French side.

  Our mutual interest in France has led to many conversations between us over the last couple of years about French ways and customs. Zac’s French is, like mine, good rather than perfect but we amuse ourselves sometimes by holding conversations over what we laughingly call café au lait - cheap instant granules from the cash-and-carry mixed with powdered milk that ends up looking like dirty water from the washing up bowl - and speaking in French so that nobody else understands.

  “Pâtisserie?” Zac will say, handing me a dry digestive.

  “Merci, monsieur,” I reply graciously.

  It is our secr
et world.

  The plane touches down in light, grey rain after we leave the south of France that last time. There is a feeling in me of reaching a place of safety, the other side of the barrier. I like the feeling of the rain because it is here - not there - and my spirits lift a little. Raymond sits silently in the taxi, brooding. A light has gone out in him that I know will never switch on again. If I am honest, I am glad of that. It makes him more docile. Before, he was like a bird fluttering against the wire cage. I was too scared ever to leave the door open. Now he will sit on the perch and swing, perhaps mournfully but at least without actively trying to escape. He will content himself to ring the cage bell, and watch his reflection in the mirror, and splash a little in the water bath. And I will feed him and water him and stroke his feathers and admire him.

  Such beautiful coloured feathers.

  “I will look after you,” I say, when we reach the house.

  “I do not want to speak about it. Not ever.”

  “We won’t.”

  It is a pact. Our pact.

  “The police will not come here.” I hold him, feel the smooth, muscular line of his back beneath his shirt. He is strong, Raymond. But there is something else, a flutter of emotion that ripples through his body. I rub my hands gently up and down his back, soothing him.

  “There is no need to feel fear,” I whisper. “I will not let them get to you.”

  Zac has taken my hand. I look down at his young fingers curling round my old hand and wonder how one turns into the other, when it was that my veins first began to stand out so prominently. Zac’s hands are soft, the blood pulsing strong and warm. He must be early twenties, certainly no more than 25. My skin is thin, tears like paper, as though it is not strong enough anymore to contain what bursts from beneath. I hold his hand in mine and look out at the swaying branches of the trees.

  “What do you think, Marie?” says the woman. “There’s some biscuits too.”

  There are some biscuits, she means. Ignoramus. She is shouting. I glance briefly at her sorry assortment of pink wafers and digestives and turn back to the window without answering. That scent in the apartment stairway. Remember? Young legs that took the stairs two at a time. Running from Raymond, laughing. Cardboard boxes and paper ribbon. Tarte au citron, sweet and tangy, crumbling pastry rich with butter. Éclairs chocolat. Croissant aux amandes oozing warm marzipan. My mouth waters at the memory. Zac squeezes my fingers gently then lets go. I look down at my hands. Ordinary hands that did ordinary things. That’s the thing about life. Being ordinary does not prevent you from being caught up in extraordinary things.

  “I will come back when I can,” Zac says.

  “You are wasting your time with her,” the other one mutters, pushing the trolley from the room. It is all the insight you can expect from a woman who peddles pink wafers for a living.

  I dream of Raymond still. His lips on mine. The smell of his hair, the taste of his skin, the heat of us together when we first met. The sight of bottles of French aftershave glowing amber on the glass shelf above the sink in the bathroom, the scent lingering in the air after he had showered there in the morning. It is a mistake to think old age and passion are mutually exclusive. Sometimes I wake and reach for him automatically, hungrily, as if he is still here, as eager for him as I was when I was 30. My hand reaches out to touch the warmth of him and I feel only the cold sheet, and I remember. And then I ache.

  When we returned from France, he shut himself away for hours on end in his art studio. I would stand outside, wondering whether to interrupt him, hearing the music from the radio drifting into the hall. ‘Hey Jude’ dominated the chart for months that autumn and I listened to McCartney’s nasal whine on the other side of the door.

  “The minute you let her under your skin,

  Then you begin, to make it better.”

  I never heard any movement from inside, though sometimes I heard Raymond sing softly.

  “Remember to let her into your heart,

  Then you can start, to make it better.”

  I had the strong feeling that he was not painting, but simply escaping.

  Let me in, I’d think, standing alone in the hall. Let me in.

  “Pardon?”

  Oh. I have said it aloud, not just in my memory. “Let me in.” I look up into Zac’s dark eyes.

  “Pardon?” he repeats.

  I wave my hand. Nothing.

  “There is to be a sing-song downstairs. A group of musicians. Would you like to come down?”

  “No, I would not,” I say crossly.

  Zac smiles.

  “Sure?”

  “Very.”

  “A walk then?”

  “Yes, a walk.”

  “In a little while.”

  “Why not now?”

  Zac smiles.

  “So impatient!” he scolds gently. “I need to take some of the others downstairs before I can escape outside for a few minutes. When they’re having the sing-song.”

  I say nothing. A breeze is stirring the pink rhododendrons, rippling through the blooms, the petals raining down softly on the lawn.

  Zac’s hand pats my shoulder.

  “We will escape together,” he whispers, and though I do not respond, I smile a little inside.

  What is it about Zac?

  I do not know, I told myself for the first year that I knew him, while all the while my brain screamed, “You do, you do!” The instinct about him was there from the start but I only acknowledged it gradually.

  He fastens my scarf carefully around my neck, a soft, lilac cashmere with a hint of creamy check.

  “It is so soft,” he says, “such a pretty colour.”

  “You always notice colours, textures,” I say. “Unusual in a man.”

  He blushes.

  “You have a good eye for clothes.”

  “My father doesn’t think so!” Zac smiles lightly.

  “You remind me of someone,” I say, watching his face closely. Zac’s features are very feminine, full of delicate arches and graceful precision.

  “Do I?”

  He is not really paying attention. Old people’s words, like children’s, are to be humoured rather than engaged with. I won’t say any more.

  His hands still for a moment, as if he understands that I have retreated.

  “Who?” he says.

  “Who, what?” I retort, as if I do not understand.

  Zac does not challenge my moods. He wheels my chair to the outer doors which spring open as we approach. The air is not cold exactly, but it rushes towards me, and after the suffocating heat of the home, it feels fresh. It finds the gaps at my neck and I pull the scarf tighter and fasten the top button of my jacket clumsily. Zac pushes my chair down the path to the bench by the rhododendron bushes.

  “Do you want to stand?” he says. “A few steps?”

  I nod.

  He takes my arm and hauls me up, his youthful strength easily overcoming my infirmity. How I envy him.

  “I’ve got you,” he says.

  I lean on him, tottering slowly for a few steps before finding my balance. He is surprisingly strong. I look around.

  “Escape,” I say.

  He looks at me, almost as an equal this time, and grins.

  “Escape,” he agrees. He inclines his head towards the bench. “Shall we?”

  I nod.

  “So who do I remind you of?” he asks as he helps me lower myself gingerly onto the bench.

  “Raymond. My husband.” Zac has black hair and soft dark eyes, just like Raymond had.

  “Oh that’s nice, Marianne. Thank you. I know how much Raymond meant to you.”

  Zac’s black swept fringe is falling into one of his eyes a little. These modern haircuts. Very arty. Androgynous. But very annoying, I would think, to have your hair constantly falling into your eyes like that.

  “How do you get those on?” I ask, pointing to his feet.

  “My shoes?”

  “No, the jeans. The holes
don’t look big enough to get your feet through.”

  He laughs.

  “They are called skinny jeans, Marianne.”

  “Skinny all right,” I say. I look up at him. “Lanky long legs.”

  We both smile.

  “Raymond used to wear shoes with pointed toes like that.”

  “Is that why I remind you of him?”

  “Oh no.”

  My answer is so definite, so piercing, that I can see it unnerves him. He doesn’t want to ask.

  “You have a girlfriend?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hm.”

  “What do you mean, ‘hm’?”

  Zac does not look at me.

  “What’s her name?”

  “Abbie.”

  “What does she look like?”

  He shrugs.

  “Pretty.”

  “Yes, she would be.”

  Zac says nothing.

  “Blonde?”

  “Yes.”

  I laugh softly. Trophy femininity.

  “Blue eyes?”

  “Yes.”

  Zac bends down to the path and picks up a pink bloom that has been blown from the bushes.

  “Are you happy?”

  I can feel his discomfort.

  “Yes! Well, sometimes. Who is happy all the time?” he says, pulling the petals from the bloom and dropping them onto the path.

  He refuses to look at me.

  Raymond would have said the same.

  “Why do I remind you of your husband, then?” he says. “If it’s not the shoes…”

  “You transmit something.”

  Zac’s face infuses suddenly with colour, pink as the rhododendron blossoms.

  “What?”

  “I don’t know. But I recognise it.”

  He glances sharply at me.

  “You have eyes like an eagle,” he says, almost accusingly.

  He is not talking to me like an old lady now. I feel a rush of satisfaction, as if for a moment I really have escaped.

  “Are you frightened of me?”

  “Should I be?”