The song gave me goose bumps. The lyrics were so simple: about a little lamb. Childlike, and yet with the deep, low notes it became profound. It was utterly beautiful and transcendent. It was the last line that floored me. I knew the song. I had heard it sung in London, with Agathe. I think in the early 1980s.
Léa ended her song, and we held our breath. Outside there was no sound, as if the world had stopped. No ghosts, past or present. Sandrine began clapping, and I followed. Léa stood there, grinning, and curtsied.
“What was that song?” I asked. My heart was pounding.
“A piece by John Tavener,” Léa answered. She frowned, frustrated, as the composer’s name was difficult for her to pronounce. That was it. John Tavener’s “The Lamb.” Agathe and I had seen its world premiere. “Our teacher chose it for us. She said that it was difficult to sing, even if the lyrics looked simple.”
“Do you often sing in the chapel?” I asked.
She nodded.
“It does feel very nice in here,” Sandrine said.
“That’s what I mean,” Léa said. “It feels good. Like at my house. Most of the time I don’t have a problem singing at the conservatory, except in one room, on the top floor. My teacher says I don’t have to sing there anymore.”
Sandrine looked at me and then at the girl. She asked, “What happens in that room?”
Léa rubbed her neck. “I can’t breathe,” she said. “And I get too hot.”
“Like what happened at my house,” I suggested, immediately regretting it.
“Until I started singing the lamb song in your house,” Léa said, unbothered. “Since then, I feel fine, even in the attic.” She then called out, “Papa! Papa!” and ran out of the church.
Sandrine and I looked at each other, and I shrugged my shoulders. “I’ve heard her singing up there, in the attic,” Sandrine whispered. We followed Léa outside, which was all stillness and quiet. Not even a bee buzzed. But suddenly dust gathered on the dirt road, a low rumbling sounded, and Bruno Paulik’s ancient Range Rover came into sight.
Chapter Sixteen
Paris, Friday,
July 8, 2010
All is well with the world,” Verlaque said, unfolding his starched linen napkin and putting it on his lap. He leaned back and closed his eyes.
“The world is going to hell in a handbasket,” Marine answered. “But you are so happy when we’re in Paris, and we’re in one of your favorite restaurants.” She looked around at the ancient tiled floor, carved wooden bar, and gilt mirrors on the walls, so diners who faced the wall could see the rest of the restaurant and, more important, the other diners.
The TGV had arrived in Paris just before noon, and a taxi had whisked them—along the river—to the restaurant. Marine had a vague idea where they were—not far from the Elysée Palace and the British embassy and Place de la Concorde. It was the kind of restaurant where Antoine felt at home: good old-fashioned food, expertly prepared. And one paid highly for that quality. She knew, from articles in Le Monde and in Sylvie’s Elles, that younger, more international restaurants were the rage in Paris—their staff and clients both young, and usually tattooed, the interiors all blond wood and bare lightbulbs. This was not one of those places, and Marine felt relieved. A middle-aged woman wearing a white blouse as starched as the tablecloths and napkins took their drink orders and moments later came back with their aperitifs and a plate of thinly sliced peppery saucisse. Two men and a woman at the next table—for the tables were very close together, naturally—discussed the minister of education’s current bill in a way that made it clear they not only knew him but worked for him. Marine took a sip of her ten-year-old port and asked, “Who is first on your list of interviews?”
Verlaque replied, “Ursule Genoux. Valère Barbier’s private secretary. She’s retired and lives not far from here. After that, I’m going to the 16th to visit the publisher’s wife, now a widow. Are you off to the Bibliothèque Nationale?” Marine usually did research on Sartre and Beauvoir in France’s national library, located in four gleaming towers in the east of Paris.
“No, not this time,” Marine answered. “But I will go to Montparnasse and visit their graves; then I’m going to Sèvres.”
“Sèvres? The leafy suburbs?”
“To the ceramics museum,” Marine said. “I called ahead, and they’re letting me look at Agathe Barbier’s archives.”
“Did you tell me that already, and I’ve forgotten?” Verlaque asked. He leaned back so that the waitress could set a breast of duck in front of him.
“No,” Marine said, laughing. “I forgot to tell you—that’s all.” She pointed to his plate. “You copied me, by the way, by ordering the duck.”
“I did not! I had decided on it as soon as I walked into the restaurant.”
“Even though you hadn’t yet read the specials?”
“A good restaurant like this always serves duck breast,” Verlaque argued. He cut into the meat. “Perfectly rare. Bon appétit.”
No. 7 rue de Surène, Ursule
