Free I Looked for the One My Heart Loves by Dominique MARNY Page A

to the third floor. Everything seemed more dilapidated to her … sadder. The building’s facade was covered with soot, and some of the windows were cracked. A woman with a scarf on her head was sweeping the sidewalk. It wasn’t the landlady of her childhood. Anne started walking toward the square. Seeing young boys playing marbles, she remembered that today was Thursday, which meant that her old school was closed. It also meant that catechism classes were being taught to children. A slew of images and sounds came back to her. She saw herself wearing her school uniform, carrying her schoolbag and extra apron that, in spite of all the washings, still had ink stains all over it. A popular Dalida tune wafted through the opened door of a café. She’d already walked down a stretch of Rue Lamarck when she realized that she was making her way to Rue Becquerel. A black iron gate stood in place of the old green gate. As Anne neared it, a dog began to bark. An old man opened his front door.
    â€œWhat are you looking for?” he said.
    â€œMadame Messager. She used to live here. …”
    â€œNever heard of her.”
    Walking away from Rue Becquerel, Anne realized that once again she had hoped for a miracle. And what if it had taken place? What would she have done? She was overwhelmed with guilt, telling herself over and over again that she was married and that she shouldn’t stir up the past. Out of breath, she headed for Rue Norvins, where the painter lived.
    He greeted her in a studio that reeked of old tobacco.
    â€œYou’re here for my watercolors?” he asked.
    The studio was spotless and white canvases hung on the walls. A finished watercolor was drying on a wooden easel. As soon as she saw it, Anne was captivated by its luminosity. The abstract painting featured a sort of iridescent and translucent cloud. It was breathtakingly beautiful. She would have loved to comment on the painting, but she was too shy to do so—she wasn’t always comfortable with artists. How do you talk about their creation in the appropriate terms, without being boring or sounding ridiculous? She envied Amanda Kircher’s ease. Amanda could express exactly how she felt in a few brilliant sentences.
    Nonchalantly, her host ambled toward a bulky package.
    â€œEverything is ready,” he said. “You came in a cab?”
    â€œI let it go.”
    â€œIt’s heavy!”
    â€œI’m used to it.”
    Knowing that most artists didn’t like to be disturbed, she hurried around a table overflowing with fixatives, brushes, and tubes to grab the paintings.
    â€œI can walk you to the taxi stand if you’d like. …”
    â€œNo, no! Everything is fine!”
    In reality, nothing was fine after Anne went to Rue Becquerel. All day long, she was overcome with nostalgia and guilt, to the point where she couldn’t concentrate during her driving lesson that evening.
    â€œYou’re not listening to me,” her instructor said as he tried to give her a few pointers before entering a traffic circle.
    â€œYou’re right,” Anne said. “I have a migraine.”
    Once home, she took a painkiller and then collapsed on the couch. A few piano notes floated up from the downstairs apartment. What had possessed her to try to reconnect with the past? All around her, photographs served as reminders of all the happy days she had shared with François: swimming in the Indre River, a classic car rally they had participated in, a charity ball they had attended. How much time passed before she heard the key? Her husband’s silhouette appeared in the entrance hall lit by a ceiling fixture. She saw him take off his coat and head for their bedroom.
    â€œI’m here,” she said.
    At the sound of her voice, he turned toward the dark living room.
    â€œWhat’s going on? Are you sick?”
    â€œJust a little tired. Nothing to worry about.”
    François walked over