Читать книгу Ghosts In the Heart - Michael J.D. Keller - Страница 10

San Francisco 1982

“A pilgrimage!” Marcus sarcastically and derisively dismissed the entire idea. His characterization was expressed in the same bitter tone of disappointment that dominated his increasingly strained relationship with his son. “You aren’t going to experience culture, see the sights, or revel in the arts. Hell, you aren’t even going to chase women.” Marcus snorted as if the last alternative would have at least sounded reasonable to him. “No, you want to go walk the holy road, touch the relics, and genuflect at the shrine. You want to go feed that sick fantasy of yours.”

“Father, this really isn’t any of your business. I am not asking for your help. I have my own money saved and I can pay for the trip myself.” There was an obvious similarity in the tenor of Alex’s response to his father’s sneering observations. His reluctant conversations with Marcus routinely stretched the outer limits of civility. A search of his tone for any semblance of filial affection would have been fruitless.

“I think you two need to dial it back a bit. You are supposed to be talking not fighting with each other.”

Both Alex and Marcus turned with some surprise to look at Christie. Usually she just left the room when the latest round in the ongoing Mckenzie civil war broke out. It was something of a departure for her to intervene so openly.

Alex actually welcomed the interruption more than Marcus did. Christine “Christy” Mckenzie, nee Hager, otherwise known as Stepmother Number Two, had developed an oddly friendly relationship with her husband’s difficult off-spring. It helped that she was closer in age to him than she was to her husband. From the beginning, Alex had understood her in a way Marcus had not. Marcus saw only the flashy, spectacular endowed blonde who looked so perfect on his arm—a young woman who could stir the delicious jealousy of his colleagues while simultaneously feeding the ego and libido of an aging male.

Alex, on the other had, had seen through the well constructed veneer to the cunningly intelligent and more than a little mercenary woman who hid behind it. Christy understood both her role on the stage as well as the likelihood that the curtain would someday go down. Men like Marcus tended to replace trophy wives periodically by trading in for a newer model. Marcus had also crafted a fairly extensive prenuptial agreement that limited the financial rewards of divorce. So as the poet said “Gather ye rosebuds while ye may” or as Christy interpreted the sentiment, spend as much as you can as fast as you can.

A different son might have tried to warn his father about the financial depredations going on under his own roof. Alex choose instead to become an implicit coconspirator. He winked and grinned at Christie’s extravagances. He believed that there should be a price to be paid for being a wealthy amoral lecher and he was fully prepared to let Christie collect that bill from Marcus.

In return, Christie tried when possible to run interference for him, to shield him from Marcus’s latest angry fixations. It was Christie who dissuaded the elder Mckenzie from cutting off his son’s university tuition when Alex insisted on taking degrees in literature and philosophy.

Marcus had stormed about the house complaining loudly that Alex’s educational choices had no financial promise. “What the hell is he going to do with that kind of background - run a McDonalds?” Marcus had taken Alex’s most recent renunciation of any interest in the legal profession as a personal rejection - as an ongoing affront to his pride in being one of San Francisco’s leading trial lawyers. In that regard, Alex had squarely hit the target he aimed for.

Christie had artfully deflected Marcus’s anger by reminding him that Alex was only in his early 20's and that there was plenty of time for him to make career choices. She completed her exercise in psychological manipulation by including a physical component that created a rare mellowness in Marcus’s disposition. Later she provided Alex with an edited account of this incident ending with the pungent observation that “You owe me your senior year, sonny boy.”

“This is Alex’s graduation gift, dear.” Christie’s honey soaked words still had the power to bank the flames of her husband’s anger. She would retain that ability for almost four more years until Marcus’s wandering eye alighted on Melody, a/k/a Stepmother Number Three. At that time, Christie would gather her possessions, including her extensive jewelry collection and the pass book to her private checking account, kiss Alex on the check, and even smile knowingly at Marcus before making her uncomplaining departure. Christie knew how to make an exit.

At this time, however, she still exercised her power of control. “You did promise him that trip two years ago and you can’t go back on it now.”

“Oh hell” Marcus snapped and slid a thick envelope across the table to the chair where Alex was sitting. “At least you won’t be some damn backpacking hippie in jeans and sandals. If you are going to do this, do it with some style.”

Alex opened the envelope while thinking that the backpack approach would have been fine with him. Examining the contents he could see that a better alternative had just become available. Airline ticket, first class from San Francisco to New York to Paris, a nice stack of hundred dollar bills and an American Express credit card in his name. The only thing tempering Alex’s pleasure at the prospect of his long anticipated journey was the galling realization that he would now have to express some appreciation to his father. He did not actually grit his teeth but the temptation to do so did pass through his mind.

“Thank you, Father” Alex’s voice was flat. If there was no hostility in his words neither was there any overt warmth. “This is quite generous of you.”

“Damn right it is” Marcus responded with a note of triumph. “I just hope that when you come back you will be ready to do something serious with your life.”

Well, so much for the heartfelt exchange, Alex thought. He caught a glimpse of Christie standing behind Marcus just as he was about to snap off a response. She subtly shook her head. Let it go, she was telling him. Let your father win this one.

If Marcus had known when to stop, Alex might have accepted Christie’s telepathic advice. Unfortunately, Marcus rarely knew when to stop, particularly when dealing with his son. “Hang on to some of that cash. The whores in Paris don’t take credit cards.”

Alex folded his hands, raised his forefinger to a peak and thoughtfully touched his chin as if engaged in profound reflection. “And you know that how, Father?”

Before Marcus could respond, Christie lightly cleared her throat. Startled by the sound, Marcus looked over his shoulder and then back at his son who allowed a taunting smile to flash across his face. With an incoherent rasp, part angry growl and part frustrated embarrassment, Marcus turned and stormed away. Christie looked at Alex with an air of weary resignation. She shook her head once before winking at him, following Marcus out of the room.

The verbal blows the Mckenzies, Pere et filis, threw at each other hit hardest when they struck on areas of concealed truth. In that regard, Marcus had probably won the most recent exchange. His insight into Alex’s motivation for his European excursion was far closer to reality than Alex cared to admit. Tourists of all ages went to France, everyone went to Paris. A trip of the type he was planning was almost cliche in nature. There was no reason to think it had anything to do with a personal fantasy as Marcus claimed.

Of course it did, Alex thought, as he sorted again through the contents of his . . . how should he characterize it? His graduation gift or a get out of jail free card? The trip ,as he envisioned it, was not so much a pilgrimage as an attempted exorcism. Sitting alone in his room in the dark gray shadows of a sleepless night, feeling the crushing pain of a longing that could never be fulfilled, he had more than once acknowledged to himself, if to no one else, that there was something profoundly unsettling in his continuing fascination with Mireille Marchand. Why could he not put her out of his mind? Why did she haunt him?

Finally, he had concluded that the remedy for his obsession might lie in the physical world where she had lived. He would walk the ground she had walked, touch the things she had touched, see the place where the fatal car accident had occurred, and perhaps put flowers on her grave. If he could to those things, he might transform her from a possessing spirit into just another human being. Perhaps, if he could see her as simply a lovely and promising young actress who had tragically died too young, then she might fade from his mind. The passage of time would claim her as it did all old memories. She would let go of his heart.

Except that it had not worked. If anything, strolling through the streets of the 11^th Arrondisment north of the Seine, particularly the Quartier Saint Ambroise where she had lived when she first came to Paris just after her eighteenth birthday, had only tightened her hold on him. A small wine bar on the Rue Oberkampf had photographs of her on the wall. Giles Paiget, the fashion photographer who had discovered her on an Avignon street corner and who reputedly had become her first lover had taken the pictures. He had photographed her on the narrow streets around the Quartier and in the more expansive area of the Place de Bastille. Her exquisite beauty had been there in the beginning. In the later photographs Mckenzie could sense the growing sophistication in her eyes as her days in Paris were passing. It was not cynicism, but rather a sparkling and mature reflection of her happiness in experiencing an exciting new world.

Reluctantly, he moved on to the TGV high speed train to Lyon. Racing through the French countryside on this sparking new innovation - the Paris to Lyon line had only opened in 1981, he experienced the intoxicating sensation of flying without leaving the ground. He could have actually flown if he had chosen - fly to Avignon or to Marseille but Lyon was to be the starting point for his driving excursion. After renting the car, he started south on the A7, the principal highway to Avignon. At Valence, he turned east and followed the road toward Grenoble for almost twenty miles before turning south again.

It was only a short drive from there to St. Aubert. At another time, he might have found it worth further exploration. The hand-carved stones of a medieval castle dating from the late 14^th century rose up on the outskirts of the village. The streets were narrow and joined at a picturesque cobblestone square in the town center. A few art galleries and restaurants bespoke an interest, but not an obsession, in attracting tourists.

She had started her last trip from here. According to the newspapers, she had left at approximately 3:00 a.m. driving south. The fatal crash had occurred nearly 45 minutes later. Now he was retracing her steps following her toward that final rendezvous with an unkind fate. The beams, bright from the bright September sun, were only slightly deflected by a few random clouds in the deep blue sky. The road twisted and turned, rose and fell as it snaked through a rich variety of olive groves, vineyards, forests and well-tilled farms. As lovely as it was, Mckenzie could not free himself from a gnawing curiosity. Why had she come this way? Why drive this curving road in the dark? If she was in a hurry to return to Avignon to catch a morning flight, why not go back to Valence and pick up the main highway?

The questions in his mind grew when he reached the point where her rented auto had spun off the road. He might have missed it if he had not been carefully monitoring the accumulation of kilometers on his car’s speedometer. The press accounts had been sufficiently specific and detailed. This undistinguished spot on a minor rural roadway had been the scene of her death.

Mckenzie stopped his car beside the road and got out. On one side of the highway a hay field rolled up to the edge of the pavement. There was no height variance on that side. A car leaving the road in that direction would simply have ground to a stop in the soft soil of the field. Her car, however, had gone off on the other side. The land there was unimproved and almost raw in appearance. It sloped precipitously down into a small valley-like depression. A twisted collection of trees, bushes, untamed weeds and rocks had apparently dissuaded any effort to exploit this area for agriculture. It had been left as little more than wasteland.

He stood on the roadside looking down into that tangled morass and shuddered. His plan to go down to find the resting point of her car was abandoned. He simply could not generate the will, could not force his body to walk down that slope.

Why here? The road approaching this point had been winding and twisting but a quarter of a mile back it suddenly uncurled into a long stretch of perfectly straight highway. This segment continued for almost another quarter of a mile ahead before it began a long swooping curve to the south. She had been traveling for less than an hour. She shouldn’t have been overly tired or sleepy. She had driven in the dark past other places where a loss of control would have been much more likely. Why here?

The Cemetery of Saint-Martin on the western side of Avignon was to be his last stop - the one he postponed as long as possible. Unfortunately, he had run out of time for delay. He had already turned in his rental car at the local agency. A flight back to Paris left at 5:00 p.m. and it was nearly 2:00 p.m. when he entered the front gate. To an American, cemeteries like Saint-Martin felt like small towns dedicated exclusively to death. The tree-lined lanes passed mausoleum after mausoleum, each more ornate than the last. The dates and inscriptions reached centuries back into history. Some names resonated more than others. Writers, priests, English expatriates and French nobility all rested together in the unique democracy of the grave, while preserving their earthly stature in the expansive monuments that encased their remains.

The most recent internments had taken place in a new section in the northern quarter of the grounds. Here the stones were simpler, more austere, but no less heartrending. The space devouring mausoleums of an earlier age had been excluded. It took him only a few moments to locate her stone. The Marchand family had acquired a contiguous area and there were markers for people who had been her relatives. Her stone was the newest in that portion of the grounds and the inscription was simple. Her name, the dates of her short life, and the words “Beloved Daughter and Sister.” Nothing more.

He knelt before the white marble of her tombstone and gently placed the small vase of roses on the ground before it. It was an utterly impractical offering. Cut flowers of that type would not last long in hot Mediterranean climate of Southern France. Nevertheless, he had read, on more than one occasion, that roses had been her favorite flowers. While still on his knees, he reached out and tenderly placed his hand on the stone, as if he were caressing it. “Rest in peace my love, my heart.” He whispered the words so softly that they did not carry to the older man who was silently approaching from behind.

Slowly, Mckenzie pushed himself back up into a rigidly upright stance. This was supposed to be the moment of closure. Now, he would walk away. Now, he would finally put aside his questing desire for a woman he had never known, that he would never know. Now, Mireille would surely let him go. As he wiped the tears from his face, he knew he had failed. It had not ended; the exorcism had not succeeded.

Turning away from the grave, Alex flinched with surprise as he found himself face to face with the man unexpectedly standing behind him.

“Bonjour,” the man smiled slightly, a wan apologetic response to Mckenzie’s startled reaction. He was older but not truly old. He looked to be in his mid 50's, his face chiseled into fine lines from exposure to the sun and physical exertion. He wore a jacket and necktie but he appeared uncomfortable in them. He had evidently been compelled to don a costume he would have preferred not to wear. His hands had a rough leathery appearance, the hands of a man accustomed to hard demanding labor tenderly held a container of flowers. The flowers were roses.

“Bonjour, Monsieur Marchand.” It was the man’s turn to look startled.

“Do I know you?”

“No,” Mckenzie replied. “But I have seen your photographs in the newspapers.” From the older man’s expression, Alex knew he did not have to say when he had seen those photographs.

“Did you know my daughter?”

Once again Alex shook his head. “No, sir. I never had the chance to meet her. But I have seen all of her films and she has touched me.” Alex paused and took a deep breath before continuing. “She still touches me.”

Marchand stepped beside Alex and laid his large powerful hand on his shoulder “It would give her pleasure to know that. All she ever wanted to do was share the joy she found in life with others.”

For a long moment, Alex stood side by side with Mireille’s father, two strangers united in an impromptu brotherhood of grief. The spell was broken when Marchand knelt by the grave and carefully placed his floral offering beside Alex’s. Without turning his head, he spoke in a hoarse aching voice that directed itself more to the world itself than to Alex personally.

“Our greatest failing as human beings is that we do not tell those we love of our feelings when we have the chance.”

Suddenly, Mckenzie felt like an intruder, an interloper, an unwelcome presence in a moment when a father was reaching out for his beloved daughter.

“Au revoir, Monsieur Marchand.”

To his surprise, Marchand turned his head toward him and softly replied. “Au revoir, Monsieur. May we both find peace.”

On the long flight back across the Atlantic, Alexander Aneiren Mckenzie mercilessly took stock of his life. The questions he had accumulated on the trip lay open before him. Monsieur. Marchand’s blessing would be wasted unless he could answer them. There would be no peace for him. He realized that while he did know how to search for the answers, there were skills that would help. If he chose, there was a way to acquire those skills. A defined course for his life abruptly became visible. He only had to follow it.

Two days after his return, he sat quietly at the dinner table with Marcus and Christie. He waited until his father in his most expansive mood was sipping an obscenely expensive Cabernet before casually commenting “By the way Father, I forgot to mention that I have applied for admission to the policy academy.” As Marcus choked on his wine, Christie rose and hurried from the room. Alex smiled triumphantly.