The Fragment, page 5
“These are from petrified olive wood. Hand carved.”
She felt the smooth surface, the subtle grain. The cross was suspended from a delicate silver chain. “I would like two, please.”
The woman named a price. Muriel handed over the money without protest. The woman offered profuse thanks and asked, “You wish them wrapped?”
“I want to wear one. The other is a gift that doesn’t need wrapping.”
She handed them over. “You were inside?”
“I was, yes.”
“You saw it?”
Muriel lifted her camera case. “They let me take photographs.”
The woman’s face was seamed and ingrained with what appeared to be soot. “Was it real, what they showed the people?”
“I can only say that the moment was a gift.”
She seemed satisfied with Muriel’s words. “Go with God, Mademoiselle.”
“And you, Madame.” Muriel walked back over to where Charles Fouchet stood holding her tripod. The rugged gentleman looked as drawn and fatigued by the experience as she felt. She handed him the second cross and said, “To commemorate this day.”
He accepted it and studyed the simple carving. “I shall treasure it, and this memory.”
“As shall I.”
They turned and walked toward the line of waiting taxis. Fouchet gave the driver the name of her hotel. As they settled inside, he confessed, “The invitation to a new life, a new day—this is very difficult for me.”
“I understand.”
“It means looking back. Accepting the loss.”
Muriel examined the haggard features, the dark fractured gaze, and guessed, “There was a woman?”
He nodded slowly. “And a child. A baby girl. I lost them both to the influenza.”
“What were their names?”
“Sarah. And Gabrielle.”
“I shall pray for them,” she said. “And for you.”
: CHAPTER 9 ::
The next day was divided in two. In the morning, Muriel arose from her narrow bed, alive and eager. She dressed in the clothes she had brought with her from America. They seemed drab now in comparison to the city that surrounded her. But they were familiar, and they permitted her to withdraw from the center of attention, to disappear in plain view. Which was how she had always gone through life, Muriel realized. Photography fit her like a glove sewn for her own hand. She was most comfortable standing apart and watching from a safe distance. Here she was, for the first time in her life, caught up in the world’s affairs, and still she was happiest when she could place the camera between her and events.
She saw people more clearly when she was framing them in terms of space and light and shadow. She connected with them most intimately when viewing them through the lens. The camera was not merely a window. It was the way through which she could open her heart.
Often she found herself thinking back to the moment when the reliquary was opened and the fragment revealed. She lifted the camera to capture a mother and daughter laughing over a balloon, and saw instead the Greek letters carved into the case. At such times, she would touch the cross hanging from her neck, feel the smooth olive wood, and sense a greater Presence, a true bonding with the world beyond this world.
After a lunch taken in a street-side café, Muriel returned to her room to find a note waiting for her from Senator Bryan. It was written on embassy stationery in a hand she assumed was not his own, with feminine flourishes and no signature. She was instructed to meet him at four at the ambassador’s residence. At the bottom were two additional words: Dress appropriately.
Muriel went upstairs and unpacked the boxes from Chanel, hanging them in her narrow cupboard and fingering the fabric. The colors were muted, one ivory with a hint of tan, the other a pale grayish blue. Both were made from a new fabric called muslin. Muriel had read about the cloth and the style in magazines she had never shown her mother. The dresses were both daring and extremely conservative. The hems reached her shoes, the small pearl buttons rose almost to her chin. Yet they were cut so as to accentuate her femininity. Muriel dressed and did her hair and face in the style she had been shown, then stood before the oval mirror, trying to claim this stranger as herself.
The United States ambassador’s residence stood on the Rue Françoise in the first arrondissement. During the war, it had served as the headquarters for America’s charitable relief efforts. Muriel thought the formal salons were beautiful. Tea was served in the smallest of four audience chambers, a wood-lined alcove that comfortably held the two dozen guests. Senator Bryan arrived with the ambassador, a grandfatherly figure to whom Muriel felt instantly drawn.
On the surface, it was a pleasant affair. But the afternoon was disrupted by Maurice Maunoury, minister of the interior and Charles Fouchet’s superior. Muriel had merely glimpsed the minister at the prime minister’s reception. At the ambassador’s residence, she could not escape him. Minister Maunoury proved to be an intensely cold man with a wandering eye. He captured her in the alcove by the fireplace and demanded to know what her plans were.
“My plans,” she replied, “are to serve the senator as he requests.”
“How nice.” He turned the words into a slur. “Let us hope the senator deserves such allegiance.”
“He does, Sir. Most certainly.”
“And if the senator intends to take you into harm’s way?”
“That will not happen, Sir.”
He sniffed. “Where are you headed from Paris?”
“I have not been informed.”
“I have heard the city of Constantinople being mentioned.” He crowded her further into the corner. “It is a perilous city at the best of times.”
“May I ask what business this is of yours?”
“No, you may not.” He reached toward her. “What a charming frock.”
“If you will excuse me, Sir—”
“I have not dismissed you,” he snapped.
“I am not yours to dismiss. Now excuse me!” Muriel used volume to push the man away. When that did not work, she ducked down and slipped away from him.
Charles Fouchet found her fuming by the windows overlooking the rear garden. “Is everything all right?”
“How can you stand to work for that man?”
“He and my father were at school together. His son and I were the closest of friends. He has offered me a chance most men could never dream of having.” He studied her. “The minister said something inappropriate?”
“He…” She decided there was nothing to be gained by criticizing his sponsor. “He said we were going to Constantinople.”
Charles sighed. “That was not his news to share.”
“So it’s true.”
“It is what I have heard. I’m sorry, I am most reluctant to discuss rumors.”
“Why did he mention it?”
“The minister of the interior is also responsible for the police and the state’s internal security forces.” He spoke very carefully. “The position carries with it the power of holding secrets.”
“I don’t understand.”
Charles studied her with frank admiration. “No, and that is one of your most endearing traits.”
She felt warmed by his gaze. “I don’t know what you are talking about, but thank you just the same.”
“Would you care for more tea?”
“In a minute. Can I please share with you a secret of my own?”
“I would count it a great honor.”
“Perhaps it is nothing. But I think I am being followed.”
He tensed. “What makes you say that?”
“A man keeps showing up. Only for an instant, then vanishing.”
“When did this happen?”
“The first time was when we emerged from Saint Denis. I noticed him because he was so different from the others around us. Their faces were filled with the sense of peace and joy. His…”
“Describe him.”
She was tempted to say, “He looked just like you do now. Cold and as focused as a rifle barrel.” But instead, she described, “Not as tall as you. Narrow features, dark clothes. Gloves. That was another thing. The afternoon was warm, and he was the only man wearing gloves that I noticed. And a hat, a narrow-brimmed homburg, slate gray with a black ribbon. Very hard eyes. He stared straight at me, then turned away and vanished.”
“So you saw him only briefly.”
“One glance and then he was gone.”
“Yet you observed with a photographer’s eye for details. When did he next appear?”
“Outside Notre Dame. I saw him when we left the stalls and walked toward the taxis. And then today. I think. He vanished inside a shop. If it was him.”
He reached for her arm. “We must tell the ambassador.”
“No, please. What if I’m wrong, and it was nothing?”
He looked at her, and she saw then the other man he was. The soldier, the warrior, the survivor. All he said was, “Come.”
• • •
The next morning when Muriel came downstairs, she discovered Charles Fouchet there waiting for her. He bowed stiffly and announced, “I am instructed to accompany you.”
“You couldn’t possibly.”
“It would either be me or a guard who neither knows you nor cares.”
Muriel felt her face grow warm. “Then let it be a guard.”
Charles frowned. “Do you mean that truly?”
“All this makes me out to be far more important than I am. You are the minister’s private secretary—”
“And the minister has instructed me to accompany you to Constantinople.”
“I couldn’t ask.…What?”
“This morning, the senator’s journey was officially confirmed and the minister has ordered me to go, to see, and to report.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Nor do I. But one thing I can tell you for certain, Miss Muriel. There is more at stake in the French government’s eyes than a reliquary. Even if this one is real.”
She felt eyes upon them from every corner of the hotel lobby and the adjoining restaurant. “What am I supposed to do?”
He indicated the sunlit world beyond the entrance. “I am not here to dictate a schedule. The day is yours until you meet the senator at four this afternoon. I am merely to escort.”
“So the man I saw…”
“Might or might not have been an adversary. But everyone agrees it is a chance we cannot take.”
She felt a small thrill. “I did not mean to suggest that I wasn’t happy to see you, Monsieur.”
“Please, now that we are to be companions upon the road, I must insist you call me Charles.”
“Since you are coming, would you mind helping me with my equipment?”
He truly had the loveliest smile. “I should be honored to serve as your willing beast of burden.”
They traveled to one of the oldest of the many bridges linking the two banks of Paris. The Pont des Invalides had originally been set in place by the Romans, who treated the city as a warehouse for the fodder grown in the verdant Seine pasturelands. The bridge was slightly humped, so it rose and fell like a stone hill above the city’s flowing heart. With the sun behind her, Muriel set up the tripod and the Graflex camera where the bridge joined the broad promenade. She fastened the cloak into place so that she could vanish. The pedestrians crossing the bridge toward her faced the sun, making it difficult to see the camera in any case. The sky was perfect, a pleasant mix of cloud and sun, light and shadow. The other side of the river was decorated by mansard roofs and church spires. She raised the tripod as far as it would go, but she still needed to bend over to frame the shots. Her back was beginning to ache when she heard a voice from beyond the cloak say, “Here, Muriel. Sit.”
She lifted the cloak to discover a stool standing beside her. “Where did this come from?”
“The café across the street. The proprietor asks only that you come and take a photograph of his wife when you are done.”
“Thank you!” She retreated back behind the cloak and gave herself over to the joy of taking pictures.
The idea had come to her late at night, the way to photograph the people so that the city became a component of their character. The Seine was more than a liquid divider between the Left and Right Banks. It was the magnet that drew the populace. They came and they strolled and they shopped and they bonded with the city’s nucleus. The river barges chugged past, drawing the attention of the children and their mothers. Muriel captured one shot after another, revealing the vivid emotions of people who thought their lives went unnoticed.
A mother stood by the railing with a pair of young girls who laughed joyfully at a boat passing beneath their feet. The mother’s face created a portrait of contrasts, for she looked at her children with a sadness so complete she did not need to cry.
A pair of young lovers embraced, framed by an elderly couple who smiled in wistful remembrance as the lady laid her husband’s hand upon her withered cheek.
A young boy danced into view, playing a game all his own with the balloon he held, while his mother laughed and called and tried to catch hold of the human balloon who danced just out of reach.
A pair of shopgirls came into view, walking arm in arm. They caught sight of Charles and began a flirtatious dance. But Charles did not see them. It did not appear that Charles saw anything at all. Muriel captured the moment the girls threw back their heads and dismissed him with shared laughter.
And then she focused upon Charles.
Like all professional cameras, the Graflex showed the photographer a precise replica of what the lens captured. The rear image was the exact size of the photographic negative, only it was upside down. Professional photographers learned to right the view in their mind’s eye.
Charles had seated himself on one of the stone benches lining the bridge. He faced across the bridge so that he could keep an eye on everyone who passed—only Charles was not watching the pedestrians or the street. His vision was clouded by some distant memory, one so powerful he had aged twenty years, thirty, a hundred. He bore the flinty countenance of a man forced to endure things that no human should ever know.
Muriel took his picture. Then she stopped in the process of changing the negative plate and slipped from beneath the cloak. Charles showed no awareness as she left the camera and walked over. She seated herself beside him, hesitated, then reached over and took his hand. Charles turned toward her, but it seemed to Muriel that he did not actually recognize her.
He took a deep breath, blinked, drew the world into focus. Breathed again. “I was…away.”
“I understand.”
“My life since the Armistice has been…”
“Frantic.”
“Desperately so. And I want it that way. But now, I was thinking...I was not there when they buried my wife and daughter. The news missed me in Verdun and again at the base where I was decommissioned, and then I returned home, and…”
“I’m so sorry.”
“I could not bring myself to go to their graves. For a week, I puttered about our home. And then one night I woke up and found myself wanting to set the place alight, burn it down with me inside it. And I knew if I stayed, I would perish. So I forced myself to the cemetery at dawn, said my farewells, and came here, only to discover the minister had been looking for me as well. Since then, I have been running. I have volunteered for every duty, no matter how small. This is the first time I have allowed myself to stop, to think, to…”
Muriel was still searching for the proper words when she saw him.
“Charles.”
“I must apologize for disturbing you with such—”
“I see him.”
“Eh, what?”
“The man who followed me. He’s here.”
Charles made no motion. His gaze remained directed at the river and the boats. But Muriel felt him tense. The hand she held turned as hard and cold as his voice. “Don’t stare.”
“I spotted him and instantly turned away.”
“Good. Now tell me precisely where he is.”
“The café across the street. He is standing to the right, so the shadow of the awning hides him.”
“But you’re certain it was him?”
“He shifted and drew into the light. That was when I noticed him.” She found herself shivering. “It is the same man.”
Charles rose slowly, turned, and smiled down at her as he released her hand. Taking his ease. Only the hard cast to his features revealed the transformation. “Wait here.”
She dared not breathe for a long moment after he left. The day’s colors faded, the people no longer held her. She stared at the cloud-flecked sky and the sparkling waters and the passing boats. But all she saw was the whirl of mystery.
Charles returned and slipped onto the bench beside her. “He’s gone.”
: CHAPTER 10 ::
That evening, Muriel dressed in her fine Chanel gown and descended the central stairs to the hotel lounge. Charles Fouchet was there waiting for her, his dove-gray formal cutaway as stern and striking as a general’s uniform. He bowed at her arrival and escorted her outside, where the elderly porter greeted her formally and held open the carriage door.
They traveled the short distance to the Place de l’Opéra, where they joined the long line of carriages waiting to deposit their charges. Muriel said, “Can we walk?”
“But of course.”
The evening was cool and the air filled with fragrances from the neighboring vegetable market. The stallholders paused in their sweeping and dismantling to watch Muriel and Charles pass. Muriel felt separated from them in a way that was far from pleasant. When she photographed, she felt as though she was creating a portal through which she could observe and bond and remain safe. This isolation of luxury did not suit her.
The opera house’s palatial foyer was a swirling mass of gay chatter and brilliant colors. Muriel felt eyes on her as she passed, and forced herself to walk as she recalled Madame Chanel had done, with shoulders back and eyes aimed at the horizon. The ambassador saw her first and pointed the senator around. He gave a stiff little bow and kissed her hand. “My dear, you look ravishing.”
