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.
CHAPTER 9
The trumpet player unleashed a whirling syncopated fanfare, a musical warning that “here it comes - brace yourself.” Fast on the heels of last fading trumpet note, the guitarist exploded into an energetic riff that simultaneously channeled Django Reinhardt and Jimmy Hendrix. The bass player stopped and looked at his fellow combo member with an expression of frozen amazement. . . or perhaps it was utter indifference. With jazz musicians it can sometimes be hard to tell one reaction from the other.
Mckenzie moved carefully to his right, surrendering his vantage point in front of the window. As he sidled down the sidewalk, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the glass. Years of his life had been wiped away. His hair was coal black again without any trace of the streaked gray he had seen in his apartment mirror. A facially youthful appearance, lacking lines or wrinkles was even more obvious. He was looking at the face of a young man free of the physical costs exacted by a life of emotional and physical exertion.
His body might have been altered, but his intellect had not. The analytical skills of an experienced police detective were all still present. Likewise, his memories, his detailed knowledge of the past few hours were unimpaired. Logically, the explanation for everything he could see, hear, and feel around him was simple. He was delirious - thrown by his injuries into a fantastical hallucination of his own creation.
This is not reality he told himself. In the real world, his wounded body was lying on a stretcher or a hospital bed in San Francisco. Drugs to ease the pain caused by the bullets embedded in his side were clouding his mind. He was seriously hurt, perhaps even dying, and his protective unconscious was trying to spare him that last agony. He had reached back into his memories and mentally transported himself to a happier time. Experiencing one universe while remembering another was unavoidably disconcerting. It was akin to dreaming while remaining fully aware that it was a dream. Mckenzie was confident, however, that he knew where reality existed.
He had to admit that as dreams or hallucinations went, this was more crisply defined, better detailed, and more physically inclusive than anything he had previously experienced. In all ways that mattered, he was on the Rue Oberkampf. The narrow twisted street lined with bars, dance clubs, and restaurants that catered more to local young Parisians than to tourists, appeared much as he recalled it from 1982. Yet some things did not seem to fit squarely with the images of his earlier visit stored carefully away in his mind. He had, on more than one occasion, walked by Chez Grenier when musicians were playing in the window. He remembered a quartet, trumpet, saxophone, bass and a drummer. He had no memory, however, of the ensemble now luring in the evening crowd.
An errant burst of wind swept along the street causing Mckenzie to instinctively pull his sports jacket tighter. That seemed odd too. Why was it cold? If he was reliving his previous visit, the early September evening should still be warm. He remembered at least one evening when he had taken off his jacket and carried it on his shoulder. All right, he thought. So my memories and my fantasies are not consistent. Maybe I’m just trying to create a little variety for myself.