Matton was silent for a few seconds, long enough for me to become nervous. He finally said, “Josy’s dead. She died in a car accident three years ago.”
Chapter Twenty-six
Paris and Aix-en-Provence,
Monday, July 12, 2010
Marine looked out the train’s window, thinking about Sylvie and Charlotte and the new person in their lives. Charlotte had taken the news calmly, but when Marine had hugged her afterward she could almost feel the girl’s heart pounding. Earlier, when Marine asked Sylvie how Wolfgang had taken the news that he had an eleven-year-old daughter, Sylvie bit her upper lip and quickly lit a cigarette. “Other than throwing a glass across the room, and yelling at me for about ten minutes, I think he took it rather well.”
Marine had arranged to meet Sylvie at the hotel where Wolfgang was staying, to go tell Charlotte the news. Verlaque had walked her over there, after they’d picked up some groceries, and by chance they ran into Sylvie and Wolfgang on their way back to the hotel, where the latter was planning to wait out Charlotte’s briefing. They made small talk, as locals and tourists walked past them chatting and laughing and taking photographs of Aix’s buildings, enjoying the summer dusk and mild evening temperature. Wolfgang was staying at a newly built hotel attached to Aix’s Roman springs. “There’s parking. It’s downtown. There’s a swimming pool,” he had dryly answered, in perfect French with a thick German accent, when Marine had asked if he liked it. “But the spa—it doesn’t interest me. I can think of nothing more boring.”
Verlaque had laughed, and agreed, and spontaneously invited Wolfgang over for a drink while the women spoke to Charlotte. Wolfgang shook Verlaque’s hand, saying he would gladly accept. Marine and Sylvie beamed, both grateful for Antoine’s thoughtfulness.
When Marine returned from Sylvie’s, the men were sitting upstairs on the candlelit terrace, a bottle of wine between them on the table. Another bottle, empty, sat on the floor. They both got up and greeted Marine, waiting to sit down again until she was seated. Verlaque poured her a glass of honey-colored wine, and she took a sip before speaking. “It went well, I think,” she said. “Charlotte was quiet, a bit overcome by emotions, but when I left she was happy and laughing, excited even.”
“I can’t imagine how she’s feeling,” Wolfgang said. “She and Sylvie have been a team for eleven years, and now I come along—”
“Hey, dude, it will be fine,” Verlaque said, reaching over and squeezing Wolfgang’s shoulder.
Marine looked at her husband and squeezed her hands together to stop herself from laughing; the words “hey, dude” had never before come out of his mouth. She assumed he was a bit drunk.
Wolfgang sipped some wine. “Eleven is such an important age,” he began, watching the wine swirl in his glass. “Carl Jung said he became conscious at eleven. He compared it to walking out of a fog. ‘I knew who I was,’ he said of that moment.” At that instant Marine liked, even loved, Wolfgang, and she knew that not only would everything be fine but that he would now be permanently in their lives.
She saw the water-treatment plant from the train’s window. One of the round tanks had a gigantic eye painted on its side. This was Marine’s cue that they would soon be in Paris. She was thankful for France’s high-speed trains and their wonderful efficiency, as this was her second trip to Paris in a week. She began to gather her things. Pulling out her map for one last look, she studied her route: take the RER A train to the end of the line, west of Paris at Saint-Germain-en-Laye, then a taxi to the town’s ancient forest where the private girls’ school Les Loges was located.
“If I remember correctly,” Marine said, walking along Les Loges’ covered arcade, “Napoléon founded this school, and the one in Saint-Denis.”
“Exactly,” replied her old friend Nathalie Garcia. “In 1810—for girls whose fathers, officers and knights of the Legion of Honor, were killed while fighting. Nowadays, descendants of those men are welcome at Les Loges, provided they have the grades, mind you.” Nathalie Garcia had studied law with Marine in Paris and, like her, had forsaken a life in the courts for one in education. She was now assistant director of the school.
“It’s an idyllic spot,” Marine said, looking around the vast Cour d’honneur.
Nathalie nodded. “This courtyard is normally noisy—full of laughing girls in blue uniforms. They’ll be back at the end of August. I’m around for another two weeks, organizing the new media room, and then I’ll take a short vacation myself. Now, tell me, what is it, exactly, you’re looking for? Your e-mail intrigued me.”
“The records for Agathe Barbier,” Marine replied. “Née Le Flahec. She was a student here in the early 1960s.”
“I know,” Nathalie said. “Are you researching the history of French ceramics these days?”
Marine laughed. “Not exactly.”
“Well, you are the second person to ask to look at Agathe Barbier’s records this month. But I suppose that’s not unusual, given how well known she became.”
“Who was the other person?”
“An art history scholar,” Nathalie replied. “The head librarian assisted her.”
Nathalie opened a door and motioned for Marine to go ahead. “The archives are up here,” Nathalie said, following Marine. “Turn left at the top of the stairs. We’ve just renovated.” To Marine’s relief, Nathalie, always discreet, didn’t ask any more questions about her research.
They walked through a large room lined with bookshelves. Marine pictured girls reading at the long tables that ran down its center.
Nathalie used a key to open yet another door. “This is it,” she said, motioning Marine into a much smaller room, full of filing cabinets and glass-fronted
