It’s a miracle that I’m here, inside Marguerite’s apartment. It’s a miracle that Mom and Zander went to a hotel last night and left me here, with Sylvie and émile. But they’re coming for me later. I don’t have much time.
The wardrobe doors lurch open with a small screech. Her dresses have been hung up again. The carnation silk waves gently at me, like an old friend welcoming me back. I smell the same, faint perfume I’d noticed before, but now something sparks a memory and I recognize it. It’s the scent from the bottle I found in here and threw against the wall.
Gently pushing the dresses aside, I shine my flashlight onto the back of the wardrobe. As I thought, there’s a tiny door. The silver key from the frame of Marguerite’s portrait fits perfectly into the keyhole. The key turns easily and the door pops open. Behind it is a square compartment, with barely enough room for the bundle of letters hiding there. They’re tied with a faded ribbon that must have once been blood-red.
Cara mia, the letter begins. Great. Spanish? Italian? I can’t read these! Disappointment pricks at me. But I leaf through them, fingering the faded letters, slanted and curling, so pretty as they move across the pages in lacy patterns. The papers make dry, rustling sounds as I turn them, and a faint whiff of wood smoke tinged with something sweet wafts to my nose.
Bundling the brittle papers back together, I turn to go. I shouldn’t be in here. I only wanted to try the key. And say goodbye.
Hardly breathing, I tiptoe through the ruined rooms. The chemical smell has cleared away. I don’t know who opened the windows and left them gaping wide, but I’m grateful. The apartment is quiet. Faint noises, mere whispers of sound filter into Marguerite’s home from outside. The soft whoosh of early-morning traffic, clatters and thuds as workers load garbage into a battered truck, the whir of the first tram whizzing by, all are muted and far-away sounding. Marguerite’s home is from another time, another century. It’s as if the modern world doesn’t dare intrude. Maybe that’s why I like it so much.
Turning for one last look, I say goodbye to peeling wallpaper, faded curtains, massive chandeliers and wooden-beamed ceilings. What will happen to this place? Will Mrs. T. still let her son destroy it? I hope not, but it’s not my concern. It never was. Right now, I’m mostly worried about what will happen to me. I don’t have long to wait. Mom and Zander said they’d sleep late, but they’ll be here as soon as they wake up.
And then, as I shuffle back to Ansel’s bedroom, through the dark, cramped passage, I drop the letters. The ribbon breaks and the pages scatter in a heap at my feet on the dusty floorboards. When I bend down to gather them together, my flashlight illuminates one of the papers. It’s a sketch of Marguerite, a black and white version of the portrait I’d found of her inside the wardrobe, with a name scrawled across the bottom corner.
Something tells me this is important. I want to show Sylvie, but she and émile are still asleep. Their coffeepot clock ticks softly, the only noise in the sleepy apartment. I’ll go to Mrs. Thackeray, since I need to return this key and the letters anyway, but when I creep up the stairs and knock at her door, no one answers.
Ansel. His name, his face rushes to my mind. The moment I think it, I know I have to talk to him. I never apologized for the things I said to him. This is likely my only chance.
I take the tram that heads up the big hill, because his hospital’s at the top. I hop off before it gets too close, though. Now that I’m here, doubts flood my heart. What if he refuses to see me? How will I say what I need to say? Will he understand me?
Go on, stupid. You owe him. I keep walking.
The smelly hallway is quiet. Most doors are closed and I start to relax, thinking I won’t be able to visit Ansel. As I creep along I list excuses in my head: it’s too early. I tried, but he was asleep. It wasn’t my fault. And then, when I reach Ansel’s room, the painted beach door is wide open.
I peer around the doorframe. He’s awake. He sits in his chair, intently staring at a laptop on the table in front of him. The screen is a whirl of colors. It displays what looks like the painting of a young woman walking along the beach. She holds a stick in one hand and writes letters in the wet sand. The girl has short, dark hair. As I watch, something on the screen moves. Smears of lighter brown and gold appear on the girl’s dark head, making it look as if the bright sun is shining down on her hair. Then, I read the letters the girl has written in the sand. écoutez-moi. Listen to me.
“That’s me!” I whisper.