Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Four

Eve

Paris, June 1946

It unnerved me that when Kristina looked out of the taxi on our way to Inès Bonne’s apartment, she wore the expression of someone who was seeing Paris for the first time. She didn’t look at it as someone who was returning to a place where she’d spent most of her adult life and brought two children into the world. Her gaze flickered over the red-brick buildings and Baroque church of the Marais district with the curiosity of a tourist. When we arrived outside Inès’s apartment, I didn’t ask Kristina if she remembered it. I didn’t want to prompt her to have memories that weren’t her own, as that could prove disastrous under the pressure of being in court. Paris was a different city to the one she had known when she was young and in love.

The taxi driver put down our suitcases and I took Flora’s carrier from him. The rabbit looked around with curiosity while Kristina had an expression of deep concentration etched on her face.

‘Who is Inès Bonne again?’ she asked.

I was careful not to use the word ‘friend’ as it seemed to inflict pain on Kristina when she couldn’t remember someone who had been close to her. ‘She was the secretary at the gallery on Rue la Boétie.’

I had called Inès from the station in Nice to warn her of Kristina’s memory problems and to caution her not to overwhelm her. But as soon as Inès opened the door, the normally restrained secretary threw her arms around Kristina in a warm embrace.

‘You have returned!’ she said, tears pouring down her cheeks.

Kristina froze, not showing even a glimmer of recognition. It wasn’t how I’d hoped things would proceed. ‘Perhaps we should go inside,’ I said.

Inès’s apartment was a reflection of her personality – an environment of perfect housekeeping with polished floors and gleaming windows. A plate of freshly baked shortbread sat on the dining table. The place was immaculate, and I wondered how she would cope with Kristina’s rabbit, but she seemed genuinely delighted by the animal.

‘Who is this?’ she asked, looking in the carrier. ‘Hello, you sweet thing. What’s your name?’

‘Her name is Flora,’ Kristina answered with a nervous smile.

The significance of the name wasn’t lost on Inès, who flashed me a quick glance before taking the carrier and setting it on the floor. She opened the door and Flora stepped gingerly out.

‘We’ll let her explore the apartment at her own pace, shall we?’ suggested Inès. ‘I have a sandbox in the kitchen and some straw.’

I grimaced as I looked at her freshly swept carpets. Flora was a rabbit, not a house-trained cat. But then seeing my consternation, Inès said, ‘Kristina has always had such clever and well-trained rabbits. Far better behaved and mannered than most children. Except for Nadia and—’

Inès stopped herself and blushed from the collar of her dress to the top of her head. ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she said, looking mortified.

‘Of course you knew them,’ said Kristina, regarding Inès with renewed interest. ‘Do you have a photograph of them?’

Inès looked uncertainly at me. I nodded. There was no cure for Kristina’s sort of heartache, and it didn’t seem to do her any good to try and shelter her from it.

‘Yes,’ she told Kristina. ‘I have an album.’

‘I’d like to see it, if that’s all right?’ Kristina replied.

‘Of course it is. Please sit and make yourselves comfortable. I’ll put the kettle on and then go get the album.’

After the women sat down at the table and the tea was poured, Kristina stared at the cover of the album as if she were perched on top of a diving board, about to take the plunge.

‘I want to hear about my daughters, Madame Bonne. Please tell me about them.’

The older woman placed her hand on Kristina’s arm. ‘Call me Inès,’ she said, ‘and your two girls were the most beautiful children I have ever known.’

Kristina opened the album and the three of us looked at the portrait-sized photograph of a small blonde girl holding a rabbit while sitting in the lap of a pretty dark-haired girl a few years older. Kristina studied the picture with the utmost diligence while Inès desperately tried to hold back her own tears.

‘When was this taken?’ Kristina asked.

‘A short while after you all moved into your home on Rue la Boétie,’ Inès told her.

‘They look happy, don’t they?’ Kristina said.

‘They were very happy children. Clever and good-natured.’

Kristina squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. The deep sorrow on her face made me realise, perhaps for the first time, the extent of what she had lost – the most precious part of her existence. It made me want to fix every moment – good or bad – of my own life in my memory, for the loss of so much a part of oneself must be as devastating as to lose all one’s limbs.

When Kristina opened her eyes again, she turned the page to look at the next photograph. It was of Max and Serge standing in front of the gallery.

‘That’s Max!’ she said, her face brightening. Her finger hovered over the photograph for a moment, as if she would like to run it down her husband’s handsome face. Then pointing at Serge, she asked, ‘And who is he?’

Her question drove the air out of me.

‘That’s Serge Lavertu,’ said Inès.

Kristina turned to me but I couldn’t hold her gaze. It didn’t bode well that she hadn’t recognised the man she’d come to Paris to save.

*

I had wanted to go see Georges, but Inès suggested that we take a walk with Kristina to Serge’s gallery in Saint-Germain-des-Prés and then to Rue la Boétie to see if anything stirred her memory. However, the walk produced no recollections for Kristina and we returned to the apartment where Inès made us la soupe au pistou and we drank a bottle of pinot gris. The wine, along with the weariness of travel and the summer heat, caused us all to doze. Inès put us up in her guest room, and Kristina and I lay down on the narrow single beds with a table and lamp between us.

As I drifted in and out of slumber, I heard Kristina talking in her sleep. She was mumbling names: ‘Max’ and ‘Nadia and Ginette’, and then after a long pause, ‘Serge’. I sat up, watching her fluttering eyelids. It seemed to me that if Kristina could dream about them, then they must still be in her memory somewhere and we only had to find a way for her to access them.

I listened for a while longer, hoping to hear more names, but Kristina appeared to have drifted into a deeper phase of sleep. I lay back down, eventually feeling the slow tide of drowsiness wash over me. But before I lost consciousness, Kristina began to toss and turn. Suddenly she said out loud, ‘We must find Monsieur Lapin!’

I turned over and looked at her. ‘Who is Monsieur Lapin?’ I asked.

But Kristina neither answered nor stirred. ‘Lapin’ was the French word for rabbit. Was she talking about a former pet rabbit? I didn’t know. But the way Kristina had emphasised the name made it seem very important.

I settled back down into the bed. But sleep was impossible now.

Who on earth is Monsieur Lapin? I wondered. And how will we find him?