Seventeen

There are writers who spend days on the first sentence of their novels. The first sentence must feel right, and then everything else will follow automatically, they say. I believe that there has now actually been research into novel openings because the first sentence, the beginning of a book, is like the first glance between two people who do not know each other. And then there are writers who say that they cannot begin a novel without knowing what the last sentence is. John Irving, for example, is said to work conceptually from the last chapter back to the beginning of his books, and only then to begin writing. I, on the other hand, am writing this story out without knowing the end, in fact without being able to exert the slightest influence on that ending.

The truth is that there is as yet no ending to this story, because the final sentence must be written by a woman whom I saw one spring evening about a year and a half ago through the window of a little restaurant with red-and-white-checked tablecloths in the Rue Princesse in Paris. It’s the woman I love.

She was smiling behind the window—and her smile enchanted me so exceedingly that I stole it. I borrowed it. I carried it around with me. I don’t know if such a thing is possible—that you can fall in love with a smile, I mean. Nevertheless, that smile inspired me to write a story—a story in which everything was invented, even its author. And then something unbelievable happened. One year later on a really horrible November day, the woman with the beautiful smile was standing in front of me, as if she had fallen from the sky. And the wonderful—and at the same time tragic—thing about that meeting was that she wanted something from me that I could not give her. She had only one wish—she was obsessed with it, just like princesses in fairy tales are obsessed with the forbidden door—and it was precisely that wish that it was impossible to satisfy. Or was it? A lot has happened since then—lovely things and horrible things—and I want to write them all down. The whole truth after all the lies.

This is the story as it really happened, and I’m writing it like a soldier about to go into battle, like an invalid who doesn’t know if he’ll see the sun rise tomorrow morning, like a lover who has put his whole heart into the tender hands of a woman in the rash hope that she will listen to him.

Since my conversation with Monsignac three days had passed. It had taken three days for me to get these first sentences down on paper, but then all at once everything went with a rush.

In the following weeks I wrote as if I was being guided by a higher power; I was writing for my life, as my employer had so aptly put it. I wrote about the bar where a brilliant idea had been concocted, about an apparition in the lobby of a publishing house, about a letter to an English writer in my mailbox, a letter I tore open impatiently—and about everything else that had happened in those exciting, remarkable weeks.

Christmas came and went. I took my laptop and my notes to Maman’s in Neuilly, where I spent the holidays, and as we sat around the big table in the salon with the whole family on Christmas Eve praising the foie gras with onion confit that was on our plates, Maman was right for the first time when she said I’d lost weight and was not eating enough.

Did I eat anything at all in those weeks? I must have, but I don’t remember it. Good old Monsignac had given me leave until the end of January—on a special assignment, as he told the others—and I got up in the morning, put on any old thing, and stumbled over to my writing desk with a cup of coffee and my cigarettes.

I didn’t answer the telephone, I didn’t answer the door when the bell rang, I didn’t watch any TV, the newspapers piled up unread on my coffee table, and some days I walked through the quartier to get a bit of fresh air and to buy anything that was absolutely necessary.

I was no longer in this world, and if any disasters occurred they passed me by. I knew nothing at all in those weeks. I only knew that I had to write.

If I stood in front of the bathroom mirror I caught a fleeting glimpse of a pale man with disheveled hair and shadows under his eyes.

I wasn’t interested.

Sometimes I walked up and down in the room to stretch my stiff limbs, and when I couldn’t go on and the flow of the narrative faltered, I stuck the French Café CD into the player. It began with “Fibre de Verre” and ended with “La Fée Clochette”; all those weeks I listened to nothing but that CD.

I’d become fixated on it like someone autistic who has to count everything that they come across. It was my ritual—when the first bars rang out I felt secure and after the second or third song I was back in the story and the music became a kind of background accompaniment that let my thoughts soar high over the wide seas like a white seagull.

From time to time it flew closer to the water, and then I was listening to Coralie Clément’s “La Mer Opale” and could see Aurélie Bredin’s green eyes in front of me. Or I heard Brigitte Bardot’s “Un Jour Comme un Autre,” which made me think of how Aurélie had been deserted by Claude.

Every time “La Fée Clochette” played, I knew that another hour had passed, and my heart grew heavy—and tender at the same time—at the memory of that enchanted evening in Le Temps des Cerises.

At night I would turn out the lamp on my desk at some time or other and go to bed—often enough I would get back up because I thought I’d been struck by a fantastic idea—which next morning often turned out not to have been quite so fantastic.

The days became hours, and the days began to blur without any transitions into a transatlantic, dark blue sea where every wave is the same as the others and your gaze is directed at the thin line on the horizon where the traveler thinks he can see terra firma.

I don’t think any book has ever been written as quickly as this one. I was driven by the desire to win Aurélie back, and I was longing for the day when I could lay my manuscript at her feet.

By the final days of January I had finished.

On the evening when I laid the manuscript at Aurélie Bredin’s apartment door it began to snow. Snow is such a rare occurrence in Paris that most people are delighted.

I wandered through the streets like a prisoner on parole, I admired the displays in the brightly lit store windows, I inhaled the tempting smell of the freshly made crêpes from the little stall behind the Church of Saint-Germain, but then decided on a waffle, which I smeared thickly with cream of chestnut.

The snowflakes fell softly, little white points in the dark, and I thought about the manuscript, wrapped in brown paper, which Aurélie would find at her door that evening.

By the time it was finished there were 280 pages, and I’d thought long and hard about what title I was going to give the story, the novel that I hoped would win me back the girl with the green eyes forever.

I wrote down many sentimental, romantic, even kitschy titles, but I deleted them all from my list. And then I named the book, simply and poignantly, The End of the Story.

No matter how a story begins, no matter what convoluted turns and paths it takes, in the end only the ending is important.

My profession entails reading a lot of books and manuscripts, and I must admit that I have been most fascinated by novels that have an open or even a tragic ending. Well, you think about books like that for quite a while, whereas you forget those with a happy ending quite quickly.

But there has to be some difference between literature and reality, and I confess that as I laid the little brown package on the cold stone floor outside Aurélie’s door I abandoned all intellectual pretensions. I addressed a quick prayer to the heavens, asking for a happy ending.

An open letter was included with the manuscript, in which I wrote:

Dear Aurélie,

I know that you have banished me from your life and do not wish to have anything further to do with me, and I respect that wish.

Today I lay your favorite author’s new book at your door.

It is a completely brand-new, unedited manuscript, and it has as yet no proper ending, but I know that it will interest you, because it contains the answers to all your questions about Robert Miller’s first novel. I hope that this will make at least some amends for the things I have done.

I miss you,

André

That night I slept deeply and well for the first time in weeks. I woke up with the feeling that I’d done everything I possibly could. Now all that was left was to wait.

*   *   *

I wrapped up a copy of the novel for Monsieur Monsignac and then made my way after more than five weeks to the publishing house. It was still snowing, snow lay on the roofs of the houses and the sounds of the city were muffled. The cars on the boulevards were not driving as fast as usual and even the people on the streets slowed their pace somewhat. The world, it seemed to me, was in a way holding its breath, and I myself was strangely filled with great calm. My heart was as white as if it were the first day of creation.

In the office I was welcomed extravagantly. Madame Petit did not just bring my mail (there were heaps of it) but a coffee as well; a red-cheeked Mademoiselle Mirabeau popped her head round the door and wished me a Happy New Year (I noticed a ring glinting on her finger); Michelle Auteuil greeted me regally when we met in the lobby and even condescended to offer a “Ça va, André?”; Gabrielle Mercier sighed with relief, saying it was good that I was back because the boss was driving her crazy; and Jean-Paul Monsignac pulled the door shut behind us as we went into my office and said I looked like an author who had just finished a book.

“What do they look like, then?” I asked.

“Completely wasted, but with that very special glint in their eyes,” said Monsignac. Then he looked at me searchingly. “And?” he asked.

I handed him the copy of the manuscript. “No idea if it’s any good,” I said. “But it contains a lot of my heart’s blood.”

Monsignac smiled. “Heart’s blood is always good. I’ve got my fingers crossed for you, my friend.”

“Oh well,” I said. “I only finished it last night, so nothing’s going to happen that quickly … if at all.”

“You might just be wrong there, André,” said Monsignac. “I’m looking forward to reading this anyway.”

The afternoon crept by. I looked through my mail, and answered my e-mail. I looked out of the window, where thick flakes of snow were still falling from the sky. And then I closed my eyes and thought of Aurélie and hoped that my thoughts would reach their goal even with closed eyes.

It was half past four and already dark outside when the telephone rang and Jean-Paul Monsignac asked me to come into his office.

As I went in he was standing by the window staring out at the street. My manuscript was lying on his desk.

Monsignac turned round. “Ah, André, come in, come in,” he said, and swayed back and forth as his custom was. He pointed to the manuscript. “What you’ve written there”—he looked at me severely and I pressed my lips nervously together—“is unfortunately very good. Don’t let your agent get the idea of going to other publishers and starting an auction, or you’ll be out on your ear, do you understand?”

“C’est bien compris,” I answered with a smile. “I’m really very pleased, Monsieur Monsignac.”

He turned back to the window. “I bet that what’s out here will please you even more,” he said, and pointed to the street.

I looked at him inquiringly. For just one second I thought that he meant the snowflakes that were still floating around outside the window, then my heart began to beat faster, and I could have hugged old Monsignac.

Outside on the street, on the side opposite Éditions Opale’s office building, a woman was walking up and down. She was wearing a red coat, and kept looking at the publishers’ door as if she was waiting for someone.

I didn’t even take the time to put on a coat, but just rushed down the stairs, pulled open the heavy front door, and ran across the street.

And then I was standing in front of her and for a moment I was almost unable to breathe.

“You came!” I said softly, and then I said it again and my voice was quite hoarse, I was so glad to see her.

“Aurélie…” I said, and gave her a questioning look.

The snowflakes were falling on her and catching in her hair like little white almond blossoms.

She smiled, and I reached for her hand, which was wrapped in a brightly colored woolen glove, and felt myself suddenly becoming quite lighthearted.

“You know what? I actually like Robert Miller’s second book a bit better than the first one,” she said, and her green eyes gleamed.

I laughed softly and took her in my arms.

“Is that going to be the last sentence?” I asked.

Aurélie shook her head slowly. “No, I don’t think so,” she said.

For a moment she looked at me so solemnly that I nervously looked for an answer in her eyes.

“I love you, you dope,” she said.

Then she put her arms around me and everything melted into a soft, carmine-colored red woolen coat and a single kiss that never wanted to end.

Of course I would have found this sentence a little conventional in a novel. But here, in real life, on this little snowy street in a great city that is also called the city of love, it made me the happiest man in Paris.