3.
The Package From Paris
Enzo visited as often as he could during the summer, finding time in the long, twilight evenings, or if his father did not require him at the clinic on the weekends. Halette was acutely aware that Enzo felt pressed for time, for the Medical Faculty in Vienna would resume in early September, yet she was in no rush to become involved with Enzo, despite the encouragement she received from her parents. She was adamant that she’d judge Enzo’s worthiness of her attention in her own time. Yet his visits soon became infrequent, for the four-mile country road leading to Baschel was a long and arduous journey for him to cycle. So, when desire rose, Halette took to visiting him when her mother didn’t need help at home. She would venture into town, making the excuse that she was visiting her father while he worked on the machines and boilers at the clinic. Most days, she would wait for Enzo outside, watching the nurses come and go, but on the odd occasion she dared to venture inside, marvelling at the ornate rococo interior of this once stately home.
Built in 1741, Baschel’s medical clinic stood imposingly atop a cliff on the northern side of the Seine as it wound its way through the town, set to one side of the only bridge connecting Baschel to the north. Constructed with dark stone, the clinic felt heavy and oppressive, but what unsettled Halette most were the rows of windows set into the bleak exterior.
The rooms on the upper level had small but grand balconies. At times, Halette wondered what it might have been like to live there, but the windows adorning the levels below looked grey and grim. They watched over Baschel, the reflective glass shielding the imprisoned faces of the sick, both young and old, who stared glumly into the world. She wasn’t sure how the building came into Enzo’s family. She was always frightened of it as a child, but the moment she stepped inside and entered the main, grand hall, it was like an adventure from her books had come to life.
As her visits become more common, the nurses soon surmised that it was Enzo she sought, not her father. She felt them snigger behind her back; their comments whispered behind shielding hands. It prompted Halette to remain in the foyer, watching through the main doors leading to the great hall if they were open, hoping to catch a glimpse of Enzo or her father. Yet, as she became hidden and forgotten, Halette couldn’t help but admire the nurses as they went about their work. They were the true heroes, she thought, for they gave relief and hope to all who waited for their loved ones, and more so to those who were here alone. Some days she would just watch them from afar, not caring if she found time to spend with Enzo at all.
“You should join them,” her father said one day, surprising her as she peered through the great hall door. Halette backed away, pressing herself against the paint flaked wall as though to hide from that very idea.
“I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
“You’re smart,” her father said. “And you’re quick to learn. I’m sure the nurses would welcome you.”
Halette shied away. She didn’t want to tell her father of the looks they gave her as she waited for Enzo.
“Perhaps in winter, when mama doesn’t need me on the farm.”
Her father laughed.
“She’ll always need you. She’d have me quit and help her too, but you must live a life of your own.”
She caught him looking at her, keenly.
“You’re here for Enzo?”
Halette nodded, then noticed a frown cross her father’s brow.
“I’m afraid he isn’t here,” he said. “Enzo needed fresh air, so I sent him on an errand.”
“I can wait,” Halette said, but her father placed an arm around her shoulder and guided her toward the door.
“Then wait for me at home while you help your mother. There’s something I want to show you both, but tell Yvette I’ll be late home.”
He glanced beyond the main hall.
“Enzo’s father needs me to look at one of the machines.”
Halette noted melancholy in his voice, but he recovered quickly, smiling as he ushered her out the door.
“Off you go. I’ll tell Enzo you came. I’m sure it will brighten his day.”
Halette stood, bemused and alone as her father closed the clinic’s main door. She stood aside as several nurses entered the courtyard, lowering her head almost to hide herself away. She watched them from the corner of her eye, admiring them in their uniforms. When all but one nurse had passed, Halette turned to leave, then she heard her name being called.
“Halette, right? I’ve seen you here before.”
Halette looked up and saw a blonde nurse in her late twenties. She was pretty, Halette thought, with sleek eyes. Halette waited for the other nurses to enter the clinic, then she nodded.
“I come to see my father.”
“Your father?” the nurse said, slightly amused. “It seems you come to see him quite often.”
Halette faltered under the nurse’s inquisitive gaze. Wondering if she was really talking about Enzo, Halette kept quiet, wanting instead to just leave.
“Look. You can’t just linger in the hallways,” the nurse then said. “If you’re interested in work, we could always use an extra pair of hands.”
The sudden offer appealed, and Halette nodded.
“My father thinks I’d enjoy it.”
“It has its moments, although I’m not sure there’s too much to enjoy,” the nurse said. “If ever you want to see if nursing is right for you, come find me. I’m Nurse Aubert. I’m here almost every day.”
Halette watched Aubert walk away. Just as she entered the clinic, Aubert gave her a smile then closed the door. Halette contemplated waiting for Enzo, but there were clouds gathering from the north, so she unlocked her bicycle and began the journey home.
Evening fell. In the failing light, Halette was enjoying the mid-summer warmth, reading in one of the garden chairs, when her father finally came cycling up the driveway. He gave her a kiss on the cheek and leaned his bicycle against the large tree beside the barn. Halette took his hand, expecting him to follow her through the gate and into the house, but instead he reached into the saddle attached to the side of his bicycle.
“All the way from Paris,” he said, pulling out a neatly sealed, brown A4 envelope. “Enzo was collecting it from the pharmacy when you came.”
Halette took the package when he offered it and ran her fingers over the stamp. It depicted a likeness of Jean Mermoz, the French aviation hero who had disappeared at sea soon after leaving Senegal at the end of the previous year. Halette had heard tales of him through her father, an adventurous explorer, a pilot and pioneer. Wondering what was inside, Halette ran toward the front door.
“Don’t open it until I find your mother,” her father called out. Halette gestured toward the barn, and he laughed. Even at this late hour, she was looking after the farm.
Inside, Halette laid the envelope on the table, sitting impatiently while she waited for her parents to enter. When they came at last, she was made to endure further torment as her mother washed her hands, before joining them at the kitchen table.
“I don’t know what they’ll be like,” her father humbly said. “Just promise me you won’t laugh.”
“Just promise me I won’t cry,” her mother joked. “You take far too many.”
Her father smiled.
“Then I hope you see in them what I see in you both.”
Halette suddenly realised. Her father’s photos. One by one he pulled them out. Halette was amazed. They were the first printed black and white photographs she’d ever held. Her father passed over the image of Halette standing by the front door, staring out across their small farm. She was, for the most part, silhouetted against the bright light, yet enough light had spilled onto her face, exposing the longing in her eye.
“You looked like you’d taken the first breath on a new dawn,” her father said, gazing at the picture from over Halette’s shoulder. “I look at it now and wonder what you were thinking.”
“That you’re crazy?” Halette sharply replied, but she couldn’t keep her amusement in check for long. Catching her mother’s eye, they both started laughing.
“You promised,” her father said, feigning indignation.
“We did not,” her mother replied. “Henri, what is this.”
Her mother picked up the next two images. One was the photograph Halette had taken, of her mother emerging from the barn just as the sun spilled through the clouds, the harsh light where the sun struck in stark contrast to the muted tones beyond, but it was the other photo her mother was gazing at. It was what her father had taken moments after, of her milking the cow.
“I’m quite proud of that one,” Halette’s father said. Halette took it from her mother. Once again, he’d captured a moment of her mother lost in thought. Soft light wrapped around her cheek bones, shadowed only by thin wisps of hair fallen free from her scarf.
“I look a mess,” her mother said, but Halette disagreed.
“You look beautiful.”
“Exactly how I see you,” her father said, smiling. Her mother blushed at her father’s comment. She reclaimed the picture, examining it closely this time.
“Well, you did get my good side.”
Halette saw her mother’s joy and her father’s pride. She reached out for the others prints. There were several of her mother on her own, most of them by the river. Some were simply of her in the kitchen, framed by light cascading through the square, wooden windowpanes, and one upstairs as she read by the window. None of the images were posed. Halette found two of her with her mother. In one, her head was resting on her mother’s lap as they lay underneath the weeping tree down by the stream. She remembered her mother having just made a joke. Halette was laughing, her smile unbridled. Seeds and pollen were floating in the air, backlit by the morning sun. It looked like a dream.
The last image her father took from the envelope caught her eye. It was one she remembered taking, of her parents sitting in the old wicker chair in the garden. Her mother was sitting on her father’s lap, wearing a light, summer dress. Her father was still suited, with his jacket off, having not long come home from the Saturday market. They weren’t looking at the camera, they were lost in each other’s gaze. Halette remembered waiting for that moment, for to her, it wasn’t about her own connection as they looked at her through the lens. The moment they turned, their gaze entwined, Halette saw a bond that would never break, a love that would stand for all time. She’d instinctually clicked the shutter.
Looking at the photo now, the love her parents shared remained between them. It was perfect. There was no invitation for the viewer to be involved.
“We should get this one framed,” she said. Her mother took it from her, smiling as she remembered the moment.
“A memorable day, for when we’re old and grey.”
Her mother placed the photo upon the mantlepiece against the small transistor radio. Turning it on, Lucienne Boyer’s Parlez-moi d’amour crackled softly through the speakers, transmitted from Paris-PTT. Halette smiled. It was one of her mother’s favourites. As Lucienne’s soft voice filled the room, Henri rose and took Yvette by the hand. Smiling, Halette’s mother nestled gently against her father’s chest and Halette watched with admiration and love as her parents danced into the evening, caring for nothing more than what they had in this room.