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Authors: Angela Elliott
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her dress as she turned the corner ahead of me. What was she doing here? I rounded the corner.
I was the only person in the small square. The church of Saint Séverin rose black-faced hard against the sidewalk and I felt transported back in time. The sounds of the city melted away as the howling wind assaulted my senses. A magpie landed on the church’s railings.
“One for sorrow,” I muttered, and hurried past.
Tucked into one corner of the square was Jacques Le Brun’s house. It was just as I remembered it, right down to the paint-peeled shutters and black-metal lattice gate with its big brass knob and bell-pull. Whereas neighbouring houses had been made good and painted a cheerful white, Jacques’s was sepia coloured with flaky rendering and mottled signwriting announcing ‘Le Brun Antiquités’.
The curtains fluttered and an old woman peeped out and then disappeared. I heard her call out and then the door groaned open.
“Sophie! Sophie! Sophie!” Jacques exclaimed. He was small elderly man with tufted grey hair and pointed beard. He wore brown corduroy pants and a brown-chequered shirt, with velvet waistcoat, from the pocket of which he drew forth a fob watch.
“You are on time. Come in, come in.” He replaced the watch and kissed me effusively on both cheeks, before letting me over the threshold. He smelled of mothballs, a not unfamiliar aroma, as my grandfather enjoyed the same perfume.
The door shut behind us; the howling wind locked out. I felt a little easier. Jacques barely gave me a moment to get used to the dim lighting, before he shuffled off down the hallway. The woman was nowhere in sight. I could not remember if Jacques was married. I supposed he must have been, though it was not something I had knowledge of as a child.
“Come, come,” he beckoned. “It has been too long. How is your father? Well, I hope.”
“Yes,” I replied, following after him. “He sends his regards.” My father had not mentioned Jacques in many years, but I was sure that if I had told him I was visiting his old mentor, he would have wanted be remembered to him.
“Hmm, that is good. Here we are.”
We were in the parlour. Every inch was crammed with Jacques’s antiques, as was the rest of the house. The over-powering sensation was one of complete disarray, as if he was simply a hoarder and not an expert on porcelain or clocks. I knew that Jacques had everything catalogued; everything had a place. That said, his home was fuller than I remembered, and it had started to whisper. I listened carefully, trying to discern what it was I could hear, but nothing was clear; there were no definable words.
Jacques did not appear to notice and carefully freed a chair and set it in front of his own. Easing himself down, he smiled at me like a little gnome from a fairy tale.
“So… you have brought me something? N’est pas? No, do not show me yet. Tell me the story first.”
I sat back, happy to be in his company, and launched into an explanation of Berthe’s death, the two apartments and what I had found so far in her Paris home. I did not mention the ghost. It did not seem appropriate. Not yet anyway. Besides, I thought that if I talked about it, it would make it all the more real, thereby confirming my fears.
“Ah… a mysterious locked apartment… full of treasures,” commented Jacques. He clasped his hands over his belly and twiddled his thumbs.
“I wouldn’t say it was full of treasures, exactly.”
“No? But everything is old, is it not?”
“Yes…”
“So, it is treasure. Come, you may show me what you have.”
I had wrapped the cylinder in newspaper. Now I brought out and laid it in Jacques lap. He picked it up, taking care to hold only the edges.
“Ah… it is a record, you see? Wax. Very delicate. Perhaps we will hear nothing. They do not last forever. After about a hundred times… the sound is gone. We will need a phonograph.”
“Do you have one?” I asked.
“ Mais oui . Wait
I was the only person in the small square. The church of Saint Séverin rose black-faced hard against the sidewalk and I felt transported back in time. The sounds of the city melted away as the howling wind assaulted my senses. A magpie landed on the church’s railings.
“One for sorrow,” I muttered, and hurried past.
Tucked into one corner of the square was Jacques Le Brun’s house. It was just as I remembered it, right down to the paint-peeled shutters and black-metal lattice gate with its big brass knob and bell-pull. Whereas neighbouring houses had been made good and painted a cheerful white, Jacques’s was sepia coloured with flaky rendering and mottled signwriting announcing ‘Le Brun Antiquités’.
The curtains fluttered and an old woman peeped out and then disappeared. I heard her call out and then the door groaned open.
“Sophie! Sophie! Sophie!” Jacques exclaimed. He was small elderly man with tufted grey hair and pointed beard. He wore brown corduroy pants and a brown-chequered shirt, with velvet waistcoat, from the pocket of which he drew forth a fob watch.
“You are on time. Come in, come in.” He replaced the watch and kissed me effusively on both cheeks, before letting me over the threshold. He smelled of mothballs, a not unfamiliar aroma, as my grandfather enjoyed the same perfume.
The door shut behind us; the howling wind locked out. I felt a little easier. Jacques barely gave me a moment to get used to the dim lighting, before he shuffled off down the hallway. The woman was nowhere in sight. I could not remember if Jacques was married. I supposed he must have been, though it was not something I had knowledge of as a child.
“Come, come,” he beckoned. “It has been too long. How is your father? Well, I hope.”
“Yes,” I replied, following after him. “He sends his regards.” My father had not mentioned Jacques in many years, but I was sure that if I had told him I was visiting his old mentor, he would have wanted be remembered to him.
“Hmm, that is good. Here we are.”
We were in the parlour. Every inch was crammed with Jacques’s antiques, as was the rest of the house. The over-powering sensation was one of complete disarray, as if he was simply a hoarder and not an expert on porcelain or clocks. I knew that Jacques had everything catalogued; everything had a place. That said, his home was fuller than I remembered, and it had started to whisper. I listened carefully, trying to discern what it was I could hear, but nothing was clear; there were no definable words.
Jacques did not appear to notice and carefully freed a chair and set it in front of his own. Easing himself down, he smiled at me like a little gnome from a fairy tale.
“So… you have brought me something? N’est pas? No, do not show me yet. Tell me the story first.”
I sat back, happy to be in his company, and launched into an explanation of Berthe’s death, the two apartments and what I had found so far in her Paris home. I did not mention the ghost. It did not seem appropriate. Not yet anyway. Besides, I thought that if I talked about it, it would make it all the more real, thereby confirming my fears.
“Ah… a mysterious locked apartment… full of treasures,” commented Jacques. He clasped his hands over his belly and twiddled his thumbs.
“I wouldn’t say it was full of treasures, exactly.”
“No? But everything is old, is it not?”
“Yes…”
“So, it is treasure. Come, you may show me what you have.”
I had wrapped the cylinder in newspaper. Now I brought out and laid it in Jacques lap. He picked it up, taking care to hold only the edges.
“Ah… it is a record, you see? Wax. Very delicate. Perhaps we will hear nothing. They do not last forever. After about a hundred times… the sound is gone. We will need a phonograph.”
“Do you have one?” I asked.
“ Mais oui . Wait
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