dark rings around his eyes.
“Jacques? Are you okay?” I said.
“Ah,” he groaned. “I have been better. Come, come in.” He ushered me down the hallway and we took up residence in his parlour, as we had on the previous day.
“You have the photographs,” he said, coughing into a less-than-clean handkerchief.
“Yes, but what about you? Do you need a doctor?” Seeing him like this made me realise how frail he must be.
“ Non. Je serai bien.” Jacques fingered the arm of his chair, where the fabric had thinned and the horse-hair stuffing showed through spikey and brown. “It is simply that I did not sleep. I was worried about you… about your fantôme . You must tell me all if I am to help you.”
I did not know where to start. I took out the packet of photographs and handed them to him.
“You’ll find photos of the apartment in there. The three at the back… they are of the picture I told you about. The thing is…” Jacques sorted through the photographs as I talked. He grunted over a couple of shots of the drawing room and briefly inspected a close up of a large Oriental vase. He found the last three photographs in the packet and spread them out on his lap.
“But it is damaged, n’est pas ?”
“It was untouched when I took the photograph.” I hoped he would believe me.
Jacques looked mystified. “It is a good painting probably by Paul Helleu, but it is hard to tell, it is so damaged.”
“Helleu? But Berthe wrote about him in her diary,” I replied.
“You never told me you found a diary.”
“I only came across it this morning.”
“And you have not brought it with you?” said Jacques, petulantly.
“No. I couldn’t. Something happened.”
Jacques cocked his head. “What? It is your ghost?”
“She was…” I hesitated. I did not think I was meant to share Berthe’s pain with anyone, but this was Jacques. He was like family to me. I had to confide in someone. Laurent had already made his position clear. He did not believe in ghosts.
“Please Sophie. I must know. It is very important,” insisted Jacques. “You want my help? You must trust me.”
“I have heard singing… others have heard singing… in the apartment… in the building, but I think I am the only person to have seen her… and not just there, but in a restaurant, and on the street and outside here.”
“Here? Why here?” Jacques pressed. “There can be nothing for her here. Oh… but perhaps the cylinder, no? Perhaps she wants it back.”
“It cannot be. I saw her here before I gave you the cylinder. I cannot believe she followed me. Oh…” Was she haunting me, and not the apartment? Jacques nodded, as if he had thought the same thing.
“What else?” He looked at me from beneath eyebrows that met in the middle of his forehead.
“There was another woman with her. A small woman. I think it was her maid. She talks about her in the diary. Her name was Racine. They were in the bedroom. They saw me… they heard me…”
“No… it is not likely.” Jacques waved the idea away.
“But they turned to me. I bumped the wall and they turned… and now I’m afraid to go back there.”
“But you must if this is to be resolved. You must find out what it is she wants.”
“She wants to live. She keeps on showing me. There’s the cylinder, and the sheet music on the piano and… and the note.”
“Note? What does this mean?” asked Jacques
“It was wrapped around the key to the apartment. It said…I will keep you in my heart like a treasure… and that is a line from Je Veux Vivre – I want to live.”
“But she cannot. Elle est morte .”
“Yes. Yes, I know. So what do I do? What does it mean?”
Jacques shrugged, as if the answer was obvious. “You finish what you came to do. What she wanted you to do.”
“But I don’t know…” I was confused and frustrated. I knew I had to go back to the apartment, but I was putting it off.
“Tomorrow C herie is another day. You will feel
“Jacques? Are you okay?” I said.
“Ah,” he groaned. “I have been better. Come, come in.” He ushered me down the hallway and we took up residence in his parlour, as we had on the previous day.
“You have the photographs,” he said, coughing into a less-than-clean handkerchief.
“Yes, but what about you? Do you need a doctor?” Seeing him like this made me realise how frail he must be.
“ Non. Je serai bien.” Jacques fingered the arm of his chair, where the fabric had thinned and the horse-hair stuffing showed through spikey and brown. “It is simply that I did not sleep. I was worried about you… about your fantôme . You must tell me all if I am to help you.”
I did not know where to start. I took out the packet of photographs and handed them to him.
“You’ll find photos of the apartment in there. The three at the back… they are of the picture I told you about. The thing is…” Jacques sorted through the photographs as I talked. He grunted over a couple of shots of the drawing room and briefly inspected a close up of a large Oriental vase. He found the last three photographs in the packet and spread them out on his lap.
“But it is damaged, n’est pas ?”
“It was untouched when I took the photograph.” I hoped he would believe me.
Jacques looked mystified. “It is a good painting probably by Paul Helleu, but it is hard to tell, it is so damaged.”
“Helleu? But Berthe wrote about him in her diary,” I replied.
“You never told me you found a diary.”
“I only came across it this morning.”
“And you have not brought it with you?” said Jacques, petulantly.
“No. I couldn’t. Something happened.”
Jacques cocked his head. “What? It is your ghost?”
“She was…” I hesitated. I did not think I was meant to share Berthe’s pain with anyone, but this was Jacques. He was like family to me. I had to confide in someone. Laurent had already made his position clear. He did not believe in ghosts.
“Please Sophie. I must know. It is very important,” insisted Jacques. “You want my help? You must trust me.”
“I have heard singing… others have heard singing… in the apartment… in the building, but I think I am the only person to have seen her… and not just there, but in a restaurant, and on the street and outside here.”
“Here? Why here?” Jacques pressed. “There can be nothing for her here. Oh… but perhaps the cylinder, no? Perhaps she wants it back.”
“It cannot be. I saw her here before I gave you the cylinder. I cannot believe she followed me. Oh…” Was she haunting me, and not the apartment? Jacques nodded, as if he had thought the same thing.
“What else?” He looked at me from beneath eyebrows that met in the middle of his forehead.
“There was another woman with her. A small woman. I think it was her maid. She talks about her in the diary. Her name was Racine. They were in the bedroom. They saw me… they heard me…”
“No… it is not likely.” Jacques waved the idea away.
“But they turned to me. I bumped the wall and they turned… and now I’m afraid to go back there.”
“But you must if this is to be resolved. You must find out what it is she wants.”
“She wants to live. She keeps on showing me. There’s the cylinder, and the sheet music on the piano and… and the note.”
“Note? What does this mean?” asked Jacques
“It was wrapped around the key to the apartment. It said…I will keep you in my heart like a treasure… and that is a line from Je Veux Vivre – I want to live.”
“But she cannot. Elle est morte .”
“Yes. Yes, I know. So what do I do? What does it mean?”
Jacques shrugged, as if the answer was obvious. “You finish what you came to do. What she wanted you to do.”
“But I don’t know…” I was confused and frustrated. I knew I had to go back to the apartment, but I was putting it off.
“Tomorrow C herie is another day. You will feel
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