Love Letters from Montmartre Read online

  **An ELLE Book of the Month**

  “Enchanting. Reading Barreau is like having me-time with your best friend.”

  —Nina George, author of The Little Paris Bookshop

  “Heartbreaking . . . touching and magical until the very last page.”

  —ELLE

  “Exquisitely romantic, without being burdened with the usual tired cliches. Now, once more, Nicolas Barreau is writing about love, soft and magical.”

  —Cosmopolitan

  “Nicolas Barreau is the master of the romantic comedy.”

  —La Stampa (Italy)

  “Close the curtains—and let every heart open.”

  —Brigitte (Germany)

  “Stunningly witty, seductive, sharp, and romantic. Parisian joie de vivre and the search for happiness. A novel imbued with tenderness from cover to cover.”

  —Christine Westermann, Westdeutscher Rundfunk (Germany)

  PRAISE FOR PARIS IS ALWAYS A GOOD IDEA

  “Endlessly charming. Barreau creates a delightful, sparkling yet still relatable heroine. [His] distinct style is a genuine pleasure. A perfect gift for a Francophile, or just anyone else who is looking for a charming good time.”

  —Library Journal

  “Nicolas Barreau is a master who knows what to bring his readers and make them stand in awe.”

  —Manhattan Book Review

  PRAISE FOR ONE EVENING IN PARIS

  “Barreau has written an enchanting story of love lost and found in the world’s most romantic city. With charming characters, a beautiful location, and perfect pacing, Barreau’s latest is part romance, part mystery, part travelogue, and a satisfyingly good read.”

  —Booklist

  “The twists and turns in the novel leave the reader frantically turning the pages. This book is a perfect read for anyone who appreciates classic cinema, a good mystery, and a love story set in Paris.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  PRAISE FOR THE INGREDIENTS OF LOVE

  “A frothy exposé of the perils of book packaging, seasoned with a soupcon of culinary courtship . . . Lovers of Paris and voyeurs of the French publishing scene will find much to relish.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “These are The Ingredients of Love: a delightful heroine, a mysterious hero, romance, Paris, and beaucoup de charme!”

  —Ellen Sussman, New York Times bestselling author

  of French Lessons

  Also by Nicolas Barreau

  The Ingredients of Love

  One Evening in Paris

  The Secret Paris Cinema Club

  Paris is Always a Good Idea

  Copyright © 2019 by Nicolas Barreau

  First published in the United Kingdom by Piatkus, an imprint of Little, Brown Book Group.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Arcade Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

  First US Edition 2020

  Arcade Publishing books may be purchased in bulk at special discounts for sales promotion, corporate gifts, fund-raising, or educational purposes. Special editions can also be created to specifications. For details, contact the Special Sales Department, Arcade Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018 or [email protected].

  Arcade Publishing® is a registered trademark of Skyhorse Publishing, Inc.®, a Delaware corporation.

  Visit our website at www.arcadepub.com.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2020932856

  Cover design by Erin Seaward-Hiatt

  Cover photo credit © Zefart/Getty Images (Montmartre image); © Tetiana Lazunova/Getty Images (postmark)

  Print ISBN: 978-1-950691-52-4

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-950691-58-6

  Printed in the United States of America

  To my mother who first showed me the grave of

  Heinrich Heine at the beautiful cemetery of Montmartre

  Come, my love,

  be mine again

  like once in May

  Contents

  Prologue

  1 The world without you

  2 Everyone needs somewhere they can go

  3 No man should be on his own for long

  4 King Arthur of the Round Table

  5 Confit de canard

  6 Cleaning closets

  7 The woman in the tree

  8 All kinds of weather

  9 Could you please hold me?

  10 Lost certainties

  11 Good spirits

  12 More things in heaven and earth

  13 Feeling better and worse at the same time

  14 He loves me, he loves me not

  15 At the forest’s edge of memory

  16 The shut door

  17 Orphée

  18 The map of my heart

  19 Discoveries

  20 The long silence

  21 Secret heart

  22 The Courtyard of the Conservators

  23 I had so hoped it was you

  Epilogue

  Postface

  Prologue

  Montmartre – that famous hill on the northern edge of Paris, where tourists cluster around the street painters on the Place du Tertre as they create artworks of dubious quality, where couples ramble hand in hand through the lively springtime streets before sinking down a little breathless on the steps of the Sacré-Cœur, to gaze in amazement across the city shimmering in the final gentle rosy glow before nightfall – Montmartre is home to a cemetery. It is a very old cemetery, complete with dirt paths and long shady drives that meander under lindens and maples. It even uses names and numbers, which make it seem like a real town – a very silent town. Some of the people resting here are famous. You can find graves ornamented with artistic monuments and angelic figures in flowing stone garments, their arms gracefully outstretched, eyes fixed on the sky.

  A dark-haired man enters the cemetery, holding the hand of a young boy. He stops at a grave known only to a few people. No one famous slumbers here. No author, musician or painter. This isn’t the Lady of the Camellias, either. Just someone who had been deeply loved.

  Nonetheless, the angel on the bronze tablet attached to the marble gravestone is one of the loveliest here. The woman’s face – earnest, perhaps even serene – gazes out, her long hair billowing around her face as if being tossed by a wind at her back. The man stands there while the child scampers around the graves, stalking colourful wings.

  ‘Look, Papa. A beautiful butterfly!’ he cries. ‘Isn’t it wonderful?’

  The man gives an almost imperceptible nod. Nothing is beautiful to him any more, and he stopped believing in wonders long ago. There is no way he can know that here, of all places, something wonderful is going to happen, something that will actually come close to being a wonder. At this point, he feels like the unhappiest person on earth.

  He had met his wife in this same Cimetière Montmartre, five years ago at Heinrich Heine’s grave. It had been a sun-drenched day in May, as well as the start of something that had been irretrievable for some months now.

  The man casts one last look at the bronze angel with the familiar features. He is writing secret letters, but he is unprepared for what will happen, just as unprepared as anyone can be for the arrival of happiness or love. And yet both of them are always there. As a writer, he actually should know that.

  The man’s name is Julien Azoulay.

  And I happen to be Julien Azoulay.
/>   1

  The world without you

  I had just sat down at my desk to fulfil my promise and to finally, finally, write to Hélène, when the doorbell rang. I decided to ignore it, and instead unscrewed my fountain pen and straightened my piece of white paper.

  ‘Dear Hélène.’ I stared rather helplessly at the two words that stood there just as lost as I had been feeling for the past year.

  How do you write to a person you love more than everything, but who no longer exists? I had suspected back then that I was crazy to make this promise, but Hélène had insisted, and like every other time my wife got something into her head, it was hard to argue against it. She always came out on top in the end. Hélène was very strong-willed. The only thing she’d been unable to defeat was death itself. Its will had been stronger than hers.

  The doorbell chimed again, but I was already far away. I smiled bitterly and could still see her pale face and green eyes, which seemed to widen above her sunken cheeks with each passing day.

  ‘After I die, I want you to write me thirty-three letters,’ she had said, her eyes boring deep into mine. ‘One letter for each year of my life. Promise me this, Julien.’

  ‘But what good will it do?’ I replied. ‘It won’t bring you back.’

  At that point, I was out of my mind with fear and anguish. I sat day and night beside Hélène’s bed, clinging to her hand, unwilling or unable to imagine a life without her.

  ‘Why write letters when I won’t ever get an answer? What would be the point?’ I continued quietly.

  She acted as if she hadn’t heard my objection. ‘Just write to me. Describe what the world is like without me. Write about yourself and Arthur.’ She smiled as tears gathered in my eyes.

  ‘It will have a point, trust me. I’m sure that when all’s said and done, there’ll be an answer for you. And wherever I happen to be, I’ll read your letters and be watching out for both of you.’

  I shook my head and started to weep.

  ‘I can’t do it, Hélène. I just can’t!’

  I didn’t mean the thirty-three letters, but rather just everything. My entire life without her. Without Hélène.

  She watched me with a gentle gaze, and the pity that shone from her eyes broke my heart.

  ‘My poor darling,’ she said, and I could feel how much effort it took for her to squeeze my hand encouragingly. ‘You have to be strong now, so you can take care of Arthur. He needs you so much.’

  And then she said what she had said so many times over the past few weeks since that devastating diagnosis. Unlike me, this admission seemed to give her the strength to face the end with serenity.

  ‘We all have to die, Julien. It’s completely normal and part of life itself. I’ve just reached this point a little earlier than expected. I’m not happy about it, believe me, but it’s just the way it is.’ She gave a helpless shrug. ‘Come here and kiss me.’

  I brushed a coppery curl back from her forehead and pressed my lips gently against hers. She had grown so fragile over these final months of a life cut far too short. Every time I gingerly hugged her, I was scared I might break something, even though pretty much everything was already destroyed. Only her courage stayed intact, and it was much stronger than my own.

  ‘Promise,’ she ordered once more, and I caught a little glint in her eyes. ‘I bet that by the time you’ve written the last letter, your life will have taken a turn for the better.’

  ‘I’m afraid you’ll lose this bet.’

  ‘I promise you I won’t.’ A knowing smile flickered across her face, and her eyelids fluttered. ‘And when that happens, I want a giant bouquet of roses from you – the biggest in the whole damned Cimetière Montmartre.’

  That was Hélène. Even in the lowest of moments, she managed to make you smile. I cried and laughed at the same time, as she held out her frail hand. I shook it and gave her my word.

  The word of an author. In any case, she never specified when I should write those letters to her. So October turned into November, which then slipped into December. One sad month followed another. The seasons might change their plumage, but for me, everything remained the same. The sun had plummeted from the sky, and I lived in a pitch-black hole devoid of words. In the meantime, we had reached March, and I still hadn’t written any letters. Not a single one.

  It wasn’t that I hadn’t tried. I wanted to keep my promise. It was Hélène’s last wish, after all. My waste basket was overflowing with crumpled pages sprinkled with sentences I couldn’t seem to end. Sentences like:

  My most beloved Hélène, since you’ve been gone, there’s been no . . .

  Darling, I’m so weary of all the pain. I find myself asking more and more if life is even . . .

  Dearest, yesterday I found the little snow globe from Venice. It was stuck far back in your nightstand, and I couldn’t help thinking about how the two of us . . .

  Dearest person in the whole world, I miss you every day, every hour, every minute. Do you have any idea . . .

  Dear Hélène, yesterday Arthur declared that he doesn’t like having such a sad Papa and that you’re having fun with the angels . . .

  Hélène, mayday, mayday! This is an SOS from a drowning man. Come back, I can’t . . .

  My angel, I dreamed about you last night and was bewildered when you weren’t next to me when I woke up this morning . . .

  My greatly missed darling, please don’t assume that I’ve forgotten my promise, but I . . .

  I had simply been unable to set onto paper anything more than this helpless stammering. I would just sit there, overwhelmed by despair, and feel the words slip away from me. I hadn’t written anything – not exactly a good thing for a writer to admit – and that was also the reason there was now a storm brewing outside.

  With a sigh, I set my pen back down on the desk, stood up and walked over to the window. Down on Rue Jacob stood a small, elegantly dressed gentleman in a navy-blue raincoat. It was obvious he had no intention of removing his finger from my doorbell any time soon, and my fears had come true.

  The man glanced up into the damp spring sky, at the clouds skittering in front of the driving wind. I jerked my head back.

  It was Jean-Pierre Favre, my publisher.

  Ever since I can remember, I have moved through a world of beautiful words. I started out working as a journalist, then as a screenplay author. I eventually wrote my first novel, a romantic comedy that struck a nerve and surprised us all by becoming a bestseller. People always say that Paris is the City of Love, but that doesn’t necessarily apply to what interests Parisian publishers. Back then, I received one rejection after another, when I received any response at all. But then one day a small press contacted me, one located on the Rue de Seine. While his fellow publishers focused on literary and intellectual fiction, Jean-Pierre Favre, the publisher at Éditions Garamond, was fascinated with my amusing little romance packed with all sorts of tragicomedic entanglements.

  ‘I’m sixty-three years old, and not much can make me laugh at this point,’ he explained during our first meeting at Café de Flore. ‘Monsieur Azoulay, your book made me laugh, and that’s more than can be said about most books these days. As you get older, you laugh less and less anyway, believe me.’ With a deep sigh, he sank back into the leather bench in front of the window on the second floor where we had found a quiet table. He raised his hands in mock despair. ‘I often wonder where the authors who can write really good comedies have gone? Something with heart and wit. But no! They all want to write about hopelessness, decay, grand drama – drama, drama, drama.’ He struck his palm against his forehead, where his grey hair had begun to thin, the strands combed elegantly back. ‘Urban depression, murderous nannies, visions of horror, terrorism . . . ’ He brushed a few breadcrumbs from the table. ‘Everything has its place, but . . . ’ He bent forward and gazed hard at me with his pale eyes. ‘I want to tell you something, young man. A good comedy is much harder to write than people think. The ability to conjure up someth
ing wonderfully light but without platitudes, something that leaves us with the feeling that life is worth living despite everything – that is true art! I, at least, am too old for stories where after reading them you think you’d best locate the nearest skyscraper to jump out of.’ He ripped open three packets of sugar before shaking them into his freshly squeezed orange juice and creating a small whirlpool with his spoon. Then he switched mental gears.

  ‘Or films! Don’t get me started on those!’

  He paused for effect, and I waited eagerly for what would come next. This man was a brilliant conversationalist, that much I already knew.

  ‘Nothing except tristesse and ambitious convolutions. Everyone today wants to be one thing in particular: unique. But I want to laugh, does that make sense? I want something that will make my heart pound.’ He grabbed a handful of the sky-blue waistcoat he was wearing underneath his suit jacket and took a large gulp from his juice glass. A youthful grin stole across his face.

  ‘Did you see that film about the Japanese butcher who falls in love with his pig? The one that ends with them committing double suicide through hara-kiri? I mean, who comes up with stuff like that?’ He shook his head. ‘People have lost their minds. I really miss the filmmakers like Billy Wilder and Peter Bogdanovich. Their heads were screwed on right.’ He tsk-tsked in confirmation of this. ‘Trust me, Monsieur Azoulay, life isn’t one big walk in the park, which is why we need more books like yours.’ He brought his fiery speech to an end and held out his Montblanc fountain pen for me to sign the contract. ‘I believe in you.’

  That had been six years ago. My novel became a bestseller, and Garamond offered me a three-book deal, which gave me financial security for the next few years and granted me the luxurious freedom of writing full-time. I met auburn-haired Hélène, who loved the poetry of Heinrich Heine and sang Sacha Distel songs in the shower. She became a teacher, got pregnant, and married me. We became the parents of a little boy who, Hélène always insisted, was lucky to have inherited my dark blond hair and not her fiery tresses.