Twenty

It was like a fairy tale. Three is a magic number there, too. The miller’s lovely daughter has three chances to guess Rumpelstiltskin’s name. The enchanted princess appears to the king in the night three times. Cinderella shakes the tree over her mother’s grave three times to get a gown for the ball.

Three days after Solène Avril said to me, “Don’t worry, Alain. He will find her,” my dearest wish seemed to be fulfilled. In a fairy tale, it would probably have been a mounted courier who brought the glad tidings. In my reality, firmly fixed in the twenty-first century, it was simply the ringtone of my cell phone.

Contrary to his usual practice, Allan Wood came straight to the point. “I know where she lives!” he said, and I whooped with joy, thrust my fist in the air like a footballer who’s just scored the deciding goal, and gave a delighted leap in the air on the corner of Vieux-Colombier and the rue de Rennes.

A lady who was just leaving a jeweler’s shop with an elegant carrier bag and a satisfied smile gave me a curious look, and I felt I had to share my happiness with someone right away. “He’s found her!” I called to the astonished lady. She raised her eyebrows in amusement and in a sudden rush of humor said, “Well, that’s terrific!”

“He’s found her!” I said barely five minutes later to my friend Robert, who was just on his way to give a lecture.

“Great,” said my friend. “We’ll talk about it later.”

It was Thursday, early in the afternoon, and the world was the best of all worlds. Allan Wood, director, master detective, and my new friend and ally, had done it. He’d found his daughter, the woman I had given my heart to.

It had been quite difficult at first, but after a few tense phone calls with members of Hélène’s family on the Loire, mainly characterized by the fact that the receiver was slammed down as soon as Allan gave his name, there was a nephew twice removed who took pity on the agitated ex-lover of his deceased aunt Hélène and was ready to reveal the address of their daughter to him.

It turned out that Méla had moved back to Paris from Arles only about a year before, after the dramatic breakdown of her marriage to a southern Frenchman (the nephew was unable to give any more exact details). She was now living under her maiden name in the Bastille quarter, not far from the place des Vosges; the nephew was not exactly sure of the street name, but he was at least able to give Allan Wood her telephone number.

“I’ve already done a search,” Allan said proudly. “She lives in the rue des Tournelles. There is actually someone living there called Bécassart.”

“Wow, that’s sensational!” I shouted down the line, and the Japanese man with the big camera who was walking past me at that very moment flinched, flashing me an embarrassed smile. I was in seventh heaven, but then I thought back to my experiences in the building on the rue de Bourgogne.

I sighed. “My goodness, Allan, that’s really too good to be true. Let’s hope it’s really her this time.”

“It is her—I’ve already called.”

“What? And what did she say?”

“Nothing. I mean, just her name.” Allan Wood sounded a bit embarrassed. “I didn’t dare say anything, so I just hung up straightaway. But it is her—that was definitely Méla’s voice.”

Excitement shot through me like an electric shock. I would really have liked to take the Métro immediately and go to see her. But Allan Wood advised caution.

“Let’s not get too hasty, my friend. This is not just a one-day affair, and we need a good plan,” he said with panic in his voice, and asked me to wait till he’d finished filming in the Cinéma Paradis, because that was taking all his emotional energy. With any luck, it would be the next day. Until then, Allan Wood didn’t think he’d be up to a confrontation—the result of which was so uncertain—with his daughter.

“I understand your impatience, Al-lang, but I’d like to have a clear head. After all, it’s not just about your girlfriend, but about my daughter, too. We need to pull together in this affair, okay?”

Although disappointed, I agreed. As far as I was concerned, we could have set off immediately. But Allan implored me to remain calm and trust him. He made it clear to me that this highly sensitive situation would require a very delicate touch. There were definite reasons why Mélanie Bécassart had refused all contact with her father for years and had also stopped coming to the cinema. Strong emotions were in play, and it was reasonable to assume that the woman we were seeking wouldn’t be overcome with joy to see her father and me suddenly standing at her door.

Even though my heart was already rushing to the rue des Tournelles, my head told me that Allan Wood was right. And so we agreed to meet at my place that Friday evening to calmly discuss the best way to proceed.

*   *   *

On Saturday morning at half past seven, the Marais was deserted. The sidewalks were wet, a light drizzle was falling on Paris, and the sky over the city was leaden. It was the perfect morning to sleep in after partying through the night.

Two men in raincoats were sitting behind the misty window of a little café not far from the Bastille Métro station, discussing something over an espresso. Then they fell silent and exchanged conspiratorial glances. Beside them on a black wooden bench lay two gigantic bouquets of flowers. It was not hard to guess that these two men were up to something. They obviously had a plan. Nor is it hard to guess who those two men were—but for the sake of completeness, let us mention at this point that the two men were Allan Wood and I.

I was just saying, “Perhaps it would be better if you went first, Allan.” In a very few minutes we’d be ringing the doorbell of Mélanie Bécassart’s apartment in the rue des Tournelles, and I was feeling sick with excitement.

“No, no. No way—if she sees me, she’ll slam the door in our faces straightaway. You have to go first.” Allan Wood rattled his empty espresso cup nervously on its saucer. “Don’t lose it now, Al-lang, we’ll do it exactly as we discussed yesterday.”

Our plan was brilliant, as only the plan of two men who are trying to win back the love of a woman can be. We had done what men always think of doing first. We’d bought flowers. Smiling indulgently, the lady in the flower shop had tied masses of roses, lilac, baby’s breath, and hydrangeas into two gigantic bouquets. “Who’s the bouquet for?” she had asked, and Allan and I had answered simultaneously, “For my daughter” and “For my girlfriend.” The flower seller then asked if it was for a birthday. We had both shaken our heads but had given her to understand that we were totally determined to spend the price of a small car on the two bouquets. “They need to be overwhelming,” Allan had said.

And so they were—overwhelming. We could hardly lift the bouquets, but the flowers in their pink-and-blue paper wrapping nevertheless drew benevolent glances from all the female passersby we met. And that was a good sign to begin with.

We’d discussed the matter thoroughly that Friday evening when Allan—somewhat exhausted but happy—returned from the Cinéma Paradis, where the last scene had been shot that afternoon. We’d considered a large number of factors and come to the conclusion that early Saturday morning offered the best-possible chance of finding Mélanie Bécassart in her apartment. When she opened her door, I was to be standing in front to offer her the flowers and say something like “Please forgive me, and give me just a minute. I have to talk to you.” Then Allan Wood would appear from behind his bouquet. Allan had said that it was always good to ask a woman for forgiveness.

At nine o’clock, hearts thumping, we were standing at Mélanie’s door. We might have found another way of getting in, but fortunately there was a concierge in the grand building on the rue des Tournelles. That extremely friendly lady had readily let us into the building when she saw our flowers and we ingenuously explained that it was Mademoiselle Bécassart’s birthday that day and that we wanted to surprise her. Obviously, no one suspects men with flowers of evil intentions.

In the hall, it was peaceful and quiet. The whole building seemed to be still asleep as we climbed the softly creaking wooden stairs. We stopped on the third floor.

I looked at my bouquet, thinking that I’d never bought a woman so many roses before. Then I reached for the bell. Three melodious notes rang out. I listened as they faded away, hardly daring to breathe. Behind me, Allan’s flowers were rustling. We waited in a state of high tension. How often in recent weeks had I stood at strange doors and rung the bell. This was going to be the last time.

Nothing moved behind the heavy, dark wooden door.

“Oh, shoot! She’s not there!” I hissed.

“Shhh!” said Allan. “I think I hear something.”

We listened. And then I heard it, too: footsteps and the creak of floorboards. A key turned in the lock, and then the door opened a crack, revealing a petite shape with disheveled hair, standing there in a blue-and-white-striped nightdress and bare feet, rubbing her eyes.

“Good grief, what’s this?” she said as her astonished gaze fell on the sea of flowers at her door and the two men behind them.

The script dictated that I should say my line at this point. But I said nothing. Instead, I just looked at her, and felt the ground giving way beneath my feet. Then, as if from a great distance, I heard Allan Wood’s voice. From behind his blue hydrangeas, he could only blurt a single word: “Méla!”

“Papa!” said the woman in the nightdress, too surprised to be angry. “What are you doing here?”