13, Rue Therese - Elena Mauli Shapiro [48]
Even after the music has faded into the distance, Louise is still humming the catchy and haunting tune. She goes into the piano room, the room where she gives Garance her lessons every week, and picks out the notes from the stranger’s organ on her own instrument, with her wandering fingers.
She plays the song. She adds chords. She adds her own flourishes until the melody doesn’t sound like itself anymore. It is a new creature, and Louise goes wherever it takes her. It is like an animal pulling on its leash, humoring her human need to have a grasp on it, but nevertheless able to bolt off and away whenever it chooses. It is not domesticated; it takes her up and down the register on the piano without her planning three notes ahead. It is an errant breed, and she follows it to its quiet, melancholy little death.
When she finishes playing, she notices that she is trembling. She looks up and sees her husband leaning against the frame of the doorway, observing her silently with both hands in his pockets.
“That was quite beautiful,” he says, cocking his head at her.
“Then why do you look so puzzled?”
“Well, you hardly play like that anymore. I don’t think I’ve heard you play for yourself like that in years, actually. What made you do that?”
“I… I’m not sure. I’m just feeling a bit restless today.”
Henri laughs. “Well then, maybe you should go for a walk. I have a little bit of bookkeeping to do for the shop today anyway.”
“Henri?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t you miss me, sometimes?”
“What do you mean, Louise? You’re not leaving, are you?”
His tone is not amused now. He looks concerned, and Louise feels guilty for rattling him. “Oh no, don’t worry, darling. I will just go for a little walk, and be back in time to make us lunch.”
“All right, then. Enjoy yourself,” he says, and disappears from the open doorway, back to his work.
The melody is thus:
33
On her way out of the building to take her walk, Louise checks her mailbox on impulse. It is a silly thing to do: it is both a Sunday and a national holiday. Of course, there should be nothing. No government functionary is working today. It would be ridiculous to expect any letters.
Still, a lone envelope tumbles out into her hand when she opens the small squeaking metal door. It does not bear a stamp and is addressed only to Madame Louise Brunet. Clearly, whoever has sent this missive has dropped it into the slot directly, without the intervention of a postman. It must be an urgent message.
A burst of tingling warmth travels through her entire body and makes her vision dim for a moment. She has to brace herself against the wall. As she tears open the flap, her hands shake—have they stopped trembling since she played that strange little song on the piano?
There is only a single sheet inside the envelope. The handwriting, though quick and slanting, is perfectly legible:
Dear Madam,
Tomorrow—Monday—I will take a stroll on my lunch break in the Père Lachaise Cemetery. I will be at the southwest entrance that leads into the avenue Principale at a quarter to one sharp. You will be there also. You will be waiting for me. You will be ready for me.
As you can see, I have agreed to the expression of your most distinguished sentiments,
Sir
This is the most ghastly, the most thrilling thing she has ever read—his presumption! He knows who she is, and he has taken possession of her already. A man so brazen—it would serve him right for her not to go to this imperiously stated rendezvous. And what a lugubrious and perverted idea, to meet in a cemetery! Does he intend to enter her body in some broken, desecrated family crypt? What manner of business is this?
His panache is more than she can stand. He must be a perfect match for her. She does not know how she will prevent herself from spontaneously combusting over the course of the next day. She is convinced that flames will explode forth from her traitorous heart and her hysterical womb and consume her corrupted flesh entirely before the bastard can even lay a hand on her, secure in his ownership.