Free The Remaining Voice by Angela Elliott

one moment.” He placed the cylinder on the table and disappeared behind some shelving. “ Cherie , I have found it. But I…”
    I squeezed behind the shelves and there, balanced precariously on pile of boxes, stood Jacques. He had the phonograph in his arms, but could not get down from his perch.
    “I will give it to you,” he said. “Wait.”
    I reached up and took the instrument from him, fearful that he might fall.
    “Be careful,” I said, and watched as he clambered down. For such an old man he was surprisingly agile.
    “Come, come. Let us hear what it has to tell us.” He groped around in a box, pulled out the trumpet shaped speaker, and fitted it onto the machine.
    “Now, we put the cylinder on the mandrel like so… place the needle… and we turn the handle. Et voilà. ”
    At first we heard nothing. Then, through the crackles and hissing came the voice I had heard several times since first arriving at Berthe’s Paris apartment.
    “ Je veux vivre, dans le rêve qui m'enivre. Ce jour encor! Douce flame. Je te garde dans mon âme comme un trésor!”
    Although the cylinder had degraded with time, and the musical instruments sounded tinny and unreal, the voice filled the room with its resonance. When it finished I sat with my mouth open, blinking away tears.
    “I want to live,” I whispered. “That’s what the words mean. I will keep you in my heart like a treasure.”
    “Beautiful,” said Jacques. “But you must not cry. This woman… she is your great-aunt?”
    “Yes, she is.”
    “Very few opera singers were recorded. For it to have survived… well. It is a miracle - and you have more?”
    “Yes, a box of them.  Jacques, can I ask you something?”
    “Oui.”
    “Do you believe in ghosts? Fantômes ?”
    Jacques face creased with a thousand wrinkles.
    “ Cherie , I have lived with ghosts all my life. You hear them, don’t you?” He smiled gently. “They will not harm you. They worry over their belongings. They argue with each other. They did not expect to be thrown together in such a way.” He glanced around his parlour. It was like being a child again; I was ready to believe anything he told me. I wanted so very much to tell him about my ghost, about the singing, and about the painting, but could not find the words.
    Jacques went on: “They are all around us, tout le temps – all the time. There is something else?” he asked, sensing my uncertainty. “You have seen a ghost? It is her is it not?”
    “There is a painting. I need you to see it. Only…” I remembered the photographs I had taken. “I have some pictures, but I will have to get them developed. It may take a few days. Could you come to the apartment, if I got you a taxi?”
    “Oh, but I cannot leave my fantômes .” He gestured, expansively.  “What will they do without me?” I thought he was joking. I pressed him harder.
    “Please. I need your help.” I was sure he would know who the artist was, and, if truth be told, I wanted someone with me the next time I went to the apartment.
    Jacques hung his head. “I have not left my home in many years. Madame Bechart cooks for me. I have all I need. People come here. I look after my collection. My ghosts. They look after me. I look after them. That is all. Bring me the photographs. I will tell you what you want to know.”
    I had not realised he had a fear of the outside world, but it made sense. He had no need to venture any further than his front door. Everything he needed was right here.
    “I’m sorry. I will try and find a good photographer who can work fast.”
    Jacques’s face lit up. “That is good. I will be here on your return.” He reached out and I held his hand.
    *
    I walked for an hour or more after that, losing myself in the narrow streets. A couple of times I imagined I was being followed, but I put it down to paranoia. I found a photographer’s studio and left the rolls of film with him - then I hailed a taxi and directed the driver back to my