THE OPENING CHAPTER

 

 of

 

     'Something Old, Something New'

 

 

                                                                           Chapter 1

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                      

                                                              2013: Pont Saint-Martial, Limoges

 

 

        Not for the first time had I encountered this unique woman near the Pont Saint-Martial in Limoges. I noticed her on a previous visit to the river a few days earlier. Perched on a wooden bench overlooking the Vienne, she cut a lonely figure, rigidly sculptured like a tiny statue. On reflection, I believe her unusual facial expression caught my immediate attention; she stared vacantly into space as though the world around her no longer existed. Concerned about the sadness of her eyes, her general demeanour or even that the individual may have been ill, I stopped, turned from the bridge and walked back towards the bench. No reaction to my presence registered in her eyes; it crossed my mind fleetingly that perhaps she was blind. Allowing my inquisitive nature to take hold, I sat alongside the impassive woman. Despite the sound of rain spattering on the leaves of the tree branches—they formed a rather inadequate canopy above—her laboured breathing indicated some semblance of life.

       “Hello,” I whispered, conscious of invading her privacy. “Are you okay?”

       Without turning towards me, she nodded almost imperceptibly. “I’m fine, monsieur. I’m watching the re-run of an old film.”

       Feeling unsure how I should reply, I smiled, even though she continued to look away. “Your film must be interesting…you seem captivated. What is it about?”

       “My life…just my life,” she sighed.

       “That seems like an extremely philosophical approach to one’s existence.”

       She wore a black hooded cape, the sort that one would expect a nun to wear. The garb evoked the image of a widow whose mourning would continue until her own demise. From the limited view of her facial features—the pallor of her skin, the heavy eyes, the hollow cheeks and thin lips—I guessed her to be into her mid to late fifties. Later, I discovered she was only forty-three years old. Yet, despite her pitiful image, she projected a hint of elegance in both her voice and demeanour.

       I decided to indulge her private fantasy. “Would you like to share the soundtrack of your film?”

       She remained silent for almost a minute. Finally, she turned slowly and deliberately towards me. “Do you like horror movies?”

       “Not particularly,” I replied, sensing from her reply that my efforts were perhaps drawing her back from some dark place in her subconscious. “I prefer films with happy endings. Does your film have a happy ending?”

       From her overall manner, I doubted the existence of any joy in this woman’s life. She seemed tormented but the fact that she had engaged with me indicated a need to talk or even a cry for help.

       Once again, she gazed into the void of her non-existent cinema screen before answering. “I’m still waiting for the ending.”

       Fearing that the poor woman may be contemplating suicide—the river flowed rapidly by a few metres from where we sat—I challenged the possibility. “How would you feel if I wait with you?”

       She turned to face me again; the tiniest hint of a smile crossed those thin lips. “You may have a long wait.”

       Holding out my hand to check the state of the inclement weather, I glanced up at an overcast sky. Surprised at my own boldness in offering to help this complete stranger, I placed myself at her disposal. “The rain’s worsening. I think a heavy downpour is imminent. Would you like to join me in the bar across the road where we could order a warm drink? We could assume it’s the interval during your film and chat about part one.”

       She withdrew to the imaginary silver screen. Raindrops visibly bounced on the surface of the river. After a slight hesitation, she interrupted her reverie. “What is your name?”

       Her tiny cold hand fell limply into mine as I introduced myself in a courteous manner. “Julian…Julian Flaubert, as in the famous writer, but I am certainly not as accomplished as one of the masters of French literature. I could perhaps enhance my standing by claiming to be a direct descendant skilled in his literary talent, but for what purpose? Even my namesake never became an immortel of the Académie française, so what chance for me? And you are?”

       “Pleased to meet you, Monsieur Flaubert. I am the witness for both the defence and for the prosecution. I hope you are a good listener with boundless patience. I have a remarkable story to tell; even the incomparable Gustave could never have conceived such an epic tale.”

       There were several bars and restaurants nearby. We chose the quietest with the least number of customers. She ordered a glass of red wine; I preferred coffee. That was how our friendship began, a simple but bizarre charade on a damp summer afternoon in Limoges.

       My new acquaintance indeed had a story to tell, a chronicle of events that she felt the world should hear. Having discovered I was a writer, her eyes sparkled, albeit briefly. Beyond the perceived mask of some kind of repressed emotional torment, I glimpsed a sincerity that the years seemed to have mercilessly ravaged and devoured.

       After our initial encounter, we arranged to meet again in the same place. I never expected her to keep the appointment, but she did. We met a few more times until her trust in me became firmly established. My expertise in researching and writing about the Second World War, the Nazi occupation of France and the famed Résistance proved a major factor in winning her confidence. When at one point, I offered to ‘ghost write’ her story, using her vivid memories and her opinions, some of the inner rancour that had gnawed at her intellect gradually dissipated, revealing the true face of an intelligent but sensitive woman.

       Retired with a private income, I offered my services gratis but she insisted that whatever revenue her biography produced, if it were published, we should share the ‘spoils’. At first, we met in café bars, and on warm sunny days, we passed many a pleasant hour or more in the botanical gardens of the Musée et Jardins de l’Evèche near the Cathédrale Saint-Etienne.

       Originally, our discussions focussed on how best to progress our joint venture. Later, when I commenced drafting the proposed manuscript, we chose to meet at my house in Saint-Pardoux or on the odd occasion, in her Limoges apartment. I asked her permission to record on tape our conversations in addition to my note taking. She seemed content with the arrangement provided she could access the drafts, and have the final say regarding the content.

       An unexpected diversion can innocently change the direction of one’s predictable path in life. Do I believe in fate? Let the reader decide as the incredible story that poured from those revitalised lips unfolds.