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.
Ansel isn’t at all surprised to see me. He smiles and asks me to come in. Then, he places his lips on the little control I’d seen before, the one I saw him use to move his wheelchair, and again more colors are added to the image on the screen. He’s painting with a computer.
I watch for a few minutes, while Ansel adds a brush stroke here or there, erases it, and tries again. He never seems satisfied with the result. Finally, he sighs and lifts his head.
“Do you like it?” he asks.
“Yes,” I answer. “I never knew you could . . .” my words trail off and bite the dust. I don’t think he understands me, because he doesn’t answer. Instead, he uses his control to click on the corner of the screen and the painting disappears. “Could you pull that cord, there by the bed? I need to call the nurse.”
After I do, I’m completely at a loss for words. Ansel watches me, his face thoughtful, unsmiling. I can’t figure out how to say what I want to, and I’m sure it won’t sound right, anyway. I give up and pull the letters from my bag.
“Look,” I say, as I place the drawing on the table.
“The portrait of Marguerite,” Ansel says. He stares for a moment, as if he too is at a loss for words. Then he looks up at me with a gleam of laughter in his eyes. “Rosie, did you read the signature?”
“Yeah,” I say, shrugging. I’m not about to try to say the name. I still hear Gavin’s voice in my head as he mocks me for slaughtering that word.
“Antonio Grimaldi,” Ansel says, speaking in an incredulous tone. “You don’t know who he is?”
I’m tired of talking. I shrug.
Ansel laughs. “Rosie, you must learn your art history,” he says, chuckling. “Who is he? A very famous Italian artist!” He pauses to catch his breath. “I remember reading once that he was in love with a French actress. And to think, it was Marguerite! Our Marguerite, who lived right next door! Fantastique!”
I like how he says “our” Marguerite. We smile to each other for a moment. Then Ansel looks at his laptop.
“It’s true I am still able to paint in this way,” he murmurs. “But it’s not the same.” He turns to look back at me, his dark eyes holding mine. “When I first woke up in the hospital and knew I could no longer use my hands, I wanted to die.”
My eyes can’t leave his.
“I’ve always had the power to form words with my mouth, but my hands were my true voice. Do you understand?” he asks.
I nod, slowly, finally ready to speak.
“Ansel, I didn’t want to hurt you. I was upset. I’m sorry,” I say, slowly, haltingly, feeling the still-strange sounds of another language bounce around in my mouth, cursing my stupid tongue for never working right. At least the words are recognizable, if not perfect.
His beautiful smile spreads across his face. “I understand. Thank you.”
We don’t speak after that for a while, but for once, I don’t mind the silence. I know Ansel doesn’t, either. There aren’t many people who understand that every single second of an interaction doesn’t need to be filled with words. They’re a rare breed, and I can tell that Ansel is one of them.
Ansel’s screen saver goes on, and a series of photographs of Nice flash onto the screen. I smile at a picture of “the pole guys,” as I’ve come to think of them. Giant night-lights.
“The Conversation,” Ansel murmurs. He glances at me. “Did you know that’s the name of this sculpture?”
“No,” I say. “Why?”
“They speak at night when they light up. Each statue represents one of the seven continents, and when the colors change, it shows that they are talking to one other.”
“Sans mots,” I whisper. Without words.
“Oui,” Ansel whispers. His eyes meet mine. I blink hard to force away tears.
The nurse, a gaunt woman with grey strands of hair pulled into a sparse bun and the haze of a mustache on her upper lip comes in. Her eyes size me up in an unfriendly way. Knowing I’m being dismissed, I pick up the drawing and get ready to leave.
“Rosie,” Ansel says as I reach the door. “You and I have much in common. We both must find different ways to tell the world who we are. That’s what I was trying to show with this painting. When I finish it, it will be yours.”
Tears fill my eyes. This time I let them fall. I don’t trust my voice, so I smile, nod, and fly away.