As he stood before the house and surveyed the swooping crescent, the poplar trees, the neatly trimmed square, he imagined De Chauffant and Miriam strolling hand in hand, she all in white and he dressed all in black, drawing admiring glances from neighbors and passersby. In his imagination they stepped in unison and giggled, heads bowed and touching. Then they kissed on the threshold before disappearing into the house.
Arthur dug his hands in his pockets and surveyed his ridiculous blue trousers, his sturdy walking sandals, his nylon rucksack with a compass. Glamorous he was not. If Miriam had stayed with the French writer she could have lived a life of luxury and creativity, rather than plumping for domesticity with a boring locksmith. Her kids could have been privately educated and wanted for nothing. Arthur had often refused to buy toys for Dan and Lucy because they were too expensive.
But not once had his wife made him feel like he wasn’t good enough. He was doing that to himself.
His knees shook as he ascended the stairs. He took hold of the black iron door knocker, which was the shape of a lion’s head. Straightening his back, he stood in readiness for the door to be opened by an aging, raven-haired French love-god.
He had already decided that De Chauffant would still be wearing his tight black trousers and turtleneck jumper. It was his trademark, Arthur was sure. He would be barefoot and have a pencil tucked behind his ear. How would he answer the door—with a flourish, or with a sigh because his latest masterpiece had been disturbed?
Arthur rapped as assertively as he could. He waited for a few minutes, then knocked again. He felt nauseous, as if he had just stepped off a train after a long journey. His head told him to about-turn, to leave and forget about this silly mission. His heart told him to stay, that he had to carry on.
There was a rattle behind the door, the sound of chains being removed. The door opened by a few centimeters. He saw a flash of pink clothing. An eye pressed to the gap.
“Yes?”
He couldn’t tell if the voice belonged to a man or a woman. It wasn’t the voice he had granted to his love rival.
“I’m here to see Fran?ois De Chauffant.”
“Who are you?”
“My name is Arthur Pepper. I believe that my wife was a friend of Mr. Chauffant.” The door remained ajar so he added, “She died a year ago and I am trying to trace her friends.”
The door opened slowly. A young man, in his mid-to late twenties, stood there. He was very thin and wore jeans that hung off his hips. Led Zeppelin, his T-shirt said. It was short enough to display his navel, which was pierced with a red glittery stone. Hollow navy eyes blinked through his spiky, powder-pink hair.
“He won’t recognize her, your wife.” His accent was soft, Eastern European.
“I have a photograph.”
The man shook his head. “He is not good at recognizing anyone.”
“I have reason to believe that he and my wife were close. It was a long time ago. In the sixties...”
“He has Alzheimer’s.”
“Oh.” This was unexpected. Arthur’s vision of a cocky beatnik dressed in black vanished, not replaced by anything else.
The young man looked as if he was going to close the door, but then he said, “Would you like to come inside? You look like you could do with a sit-down.”
It was only when he said this that Arthur realized that his ankle was threatening to lock up. He had been walking since he had met the man with two girlfriends at the café. “That would be most kind.”
“My name is Sebastian,” the young man said over his shoulder. His feet made a sucking noise as he padded across the mosaic tiles in the hallway, leaving prints that vanished after a few seconds. “Please. Make yourself at home.” He waved toward a door. “Would you like tea? I don’t like to make it for just myself.” His eyes were wide, full of longing.
“I would love tea.”
Arthur opened the door and went into the room. Each wall had floor-to-ceiling shelves stacked with books. A long stepladder was propped against a wall. The furniture was made from heavy dark wood with worn velvet-padded seats and cushions in shades of ruby, sapphire, gold and emerald. The ceiling was painted indigo blue and specked with silver stars. Wow, Arthur thought. He stood on the spot and turned. The room was like a film set. He didn’t want to sit down. He wanted to circle this room and reach out to touch the books. There was a large oak rolltop desk positioned in the bay window, looking out into the street. On it sat an old typewriter with a piece of paper, ready for De Chauffant to conjure up another masterpiece, or plagiarize. Arthur moved closer to see if there were any words on the crisp white sheet. There were not. He felt a brief wave of disappointment. He wasn’t artistic or creative himself, so it intrigued him that people could earn a living through painting or writing.
It was only after a while that he noticed that the sideboard was coated in dust. Mugs were dotted around the parquet floor. Chocolate bar wrappers poked out from behind the cushions on the sofa. All was not as glossy as it first seemed. Arthur selected a chair upholstered in chartreuse velvet and sat down.
Sebastian came back into the room. He carried a red-and-white polka-dot plastic tray upon which sat two chintzy teacups and matching teapot. He set the tray on a coffee table, pushing a pile of magazines onto the floor. Arthur reached out, picked them up and put them on another chair.
Sebastian didn’t acknowledge this, as if it was normal to create a mess as he went along. “Here we are,” he said. “Shall I be Mother, and pour? That is how you say it, yes?”
“Yes.” Arthur smiled. He stopped himself from reaching out to help when he saw the young man’s hand trembling.
“So.” Sebastian handed Arthur his cup and saucer. He pointed his finger in turn at chairs dotted around the room, then picked the largest one, which had stuffing poking out from the corner of the faded teal upholstery. He tucked up his feet. “Tell me about your wife. Why are you here?”
Arthur explained about the bracelet and how he was tracing the story behind the charms, so he could learn more about Miriam before they met. “I am learning more about myself, too,” he admitted. “With each person I encounter, with each story I hear, I feel as if I am changing and growing. And maybe others benefit a little from meeting me also. It’s a strange feeling.”
“It must be exciting.”
“It is, but I feel guilty, too. I am living but my wife isn’t.”
Sebastian gave a small nod as if he understood. “I felt alive once, too. I was here, I was there, I was excited. Now I am here. Trapped.”
“You’re not really trapped, are you? I mean, you can leave here when you want...?”
Sebastian waved his hand dismissively. “Let me tell you about my life, Arthur. While you are discovering yours, mine is dying. This may sound dramatic, but it is how I feel. Fran?ois and I were together for a couple of years before he forgot who he was. It started with small things—he forgot to turn off the lights, he lost his spectacles. Everyone does these things, yes? It is easy to put the breakfast cereal in the coffee cup cupboard, or lose your shoes under the bed. You come upstairs and forget why, or buy a bottle of milk when you have some in the fridge. Except Fran?ois nearly burned the house down.” His eyes grew watery with emotion. “He went upstairs for his afternoon nap—always between two and four. I leave him alone during these times, so he can regain his strength before he starts to write again. I came into the bedroom to wake him and the bed was on fire. Flames, reaching almost as high as the ceiling. Fran?ois just sat looking out of the window. He didn’t even notice that he was in danger. I ran like a gazelle, took a blanket into the bathroom and ran the shower to dampen it. Then I used it to smother the flames. The mattress was black, smoking. And still Fran?ois he said nothing. I took his shoulders. ‘Are you okay?’ I asked. But he stared at me blankly. It was then that I knew that his mind was gone. He would never be brilliant again.”