4
They returned to the Avenue de Saxe. Branly tried to interest Victor in other outings, but the boy, although friendly, was wrapped in his own thoughts and said he would rather stay in the house. My friend watched him wandering through the mansion, familiarizing himself with it, perhaps memorizing it, while my friend read a book in the library, whose well-fitted bookshelves eliminated the need for further decoration. Wallpaper imprinted with Greek busts, acanthus, flutes, and staffs had not penetrated here, nor bas-reliefs in which Minerva holds a protective hand over the head of Eros. Instead, there was a whispered, measured, intermittent dialogue with Balzac and Lamartine.
The volume of Méditations fell to my friend’s knees. They had tried to rouse someone. He had rapped on the beveled glass of the doors. No one came. He ordered Etienne to blow the horn. The glass panes of the door reverberated beneath my friend’s fingertips. In spite of the isolation of the Clos des Renards, they could hear the murmur of distant buses and impatient traffic. But neither the remote noises nor the immediacy of the Citroën’s horn proclaiming their presence before the pale yellow façade, my friend realized, seemed to distract Victor where he stood on a terrace guarded by two symmetrically placed, crouching stone lions.
His back to the house, the boy was staring toward what my friend then began to see — he tells me he knows now — thanks to Victor. Above the absolute contrast of woods and garden, the spirit of order that governed the garden marched toward an encounter with its denial in the woods. Order and disorder met without conflict among rosebushes, beeches, and a solitary willow, but especially in the birch grove bordering one wall of the manor house.
Branly again glanced toward the second story; what he thought he had seen was no longer there. In the sudden silence underscored by the absence of the sound of the horn, my friend heard Victor whistling a melody. As the boy walked down the front steps, his head bowed and his hands buried in the pockets of his corduroy trousers, gravel crunched beneath his feet. He walked to the end of the pebbled path and turned toward the long avenue through the woods. My friend says he could hear distinctly the transition from trodden stone to dead leaves, and only then what he is telling me now came to his mind: it was September, autumn was still some time away, yet the avenue of chestnuts and oaks was one long, uninterrupted path of dry leaves.
He still doesn’t know why he called Victor to stop, not to walk any farther on the dead leaves, to return to the automobile. You see, there’s no one here, perhaps if they came back another day they would have better luck. Docilely, Victor stopped, turned, and walked back to the automobile, where Branly awaited, holding the door open. After they returned to Paris, my friend did not insist again that they go out. Secretly, although without any reason, he hoped Victor would not be upset, that he would rather wander through the mansion on the Avenue de Saxe, the single story contained between the baroque cavern of the entrance, the courtyard of yellow stone, and the garden with its manicured lawn — unexceptional urns, and a thick sea pine placidly growing in sand that was in a certain way twin to the equally sterile asphalt of the street. My friend insists, however, that sand is a defense against the potential invasion of the street, and as proof he points out that the pine grows in sand but would be killed by asphalt.
In fact, in the moment he is now remembering, he corrects himself, he was thinking how unlikely it would be that his residence would be engulfed by the street, which would disdain the false oasis of the garden, recognizing it for what it was, a desert in disguise. But the woods of the Clos des Renards would not respect the fragility of plaster, stone, and slate of the manor house. Like the fleeting apparition at the window, there was something about the house that would not withstand aggression from its surroundings. He tried to draw comfort from the thought that, like the sand that nurtured the sea pine, his house provided protection.
Then he heard the faint murmur that penetrated as far as the library only because of the hospitable tranquillity of that September afternoon. It was as if the city, deserted during the summer, had not yet recovered its customary bustle in spite of the frenzy he had noted the previous morning at the Gare d’Austerlitz — workers coming in from the suburbs, tourists returning from vacations in Spain, and Spaniards coming to France to look for work.
He heard the striking of Antoine-André Ravrio’s clock. On the hour, the bronze figure of a woman adorned in an Empire gown played a piano gilded, like herself and the doors and draperies of the motionless salon, in an opulent, and poisonous, bath. My friend tells me that as he listened, and only in that instant — as is wont to happen with our aural memory, and especially in the case of music, which reaches our ears naked and stripped of words, nameless, wishing to be heard for itself and not because of descriptive and identifying titles that make a symphonic poem little more than the background fanfare of trumpets for a scene we must imagine before ever we hear the music — only then did he realize that the clock was playing the tune Victor had hummed that evening at Jean’s and a second voice had echoed from the venomous depths of the barranca in Cuernavaca.
He walked slowly, with no intent of stealth, he assures me, but, rather, a desire to preserve the instant, to where Victor, as when Branly surprised him on his arrival, was stroking the gilded bronze of the clock in the sumptuous music box, now striking the first hour after noon, its metallic tune ringingly marking the impalpable mathematical hours told by the hands.
Branly was again a boy in the Parc Monceau, playing with the other children, who recognized him, who loved him, who called to him because he was a child like them. And as they grew tired of playing amid the columns, pyramids, crypts, and rotundas commissioned scarcely a century earlier by the Duc d’Orléans, they all gathered together beside the pond — the imagined scene of impossible naumachiae — and sang that timeless tune they had learned in their homes, not in school, a madrigal filtered through thousands of children’s and lovers’ voices throughout history. My friend, in a voice broken by the emotion of his memory, placed a hand on Victor’s shoulder and murmured the phrases that recall the beautiful fountain with waters so clear one cannot resist bathing there: “À la claire fontaine, m’en allant promener, j’ai trouvé l’eau si belle, que je m’y suis baigné.”
He would place no obstacle before Victor’s new invitation. They dined with Hugo, but no one spoke of the game. The father seemed to have forgotten it, his thoughts on the work of the conference. The following day, my friend Branly and his young friend again set off for Enghien-les-Bains.
5
The search for Victor Heredia, Branly is telling me, was not unlike an exhausting vigil before a mirror. He asked me to imagine such a vigil, yes, he says, as he seeks my reflection in the window closed to the bustle of the Place de la Concorde, simply imagine biding one’s time before a vacant mirror, waiting for it to take on life, to regain its lost image.
“Do you mean,” I ventured, “that, besides having the same name, the Victor Heredia of Enghien-les-Bains was a physical double of the boy?”
My friend shook his shiny bald head emphatically; his brow was unusually severe in refutation. That was not what he meant to imply, not at all. No, he meant precisely what he had said, keeping a vigil before a mirror, laying siege to it, a long and unremitting siege, until it was forced to reveal its image — not the reflection of the person looking in the mirror, did I understand? No, the mirror’s own image, exactly so, its own hidden, illusive, reluctant, one might almost say coquettish, image.