La Mort des Apparences

“We have plenty of time,” Zelda said, reaching across the space betwixt her and her husband of eighteen years. She lovingly caressed his forearm in an attempt to assure him that his despondent thoughts were due to nothing more than the gloomy weather that had filled this rainy day in Paris.

“We have plenty of time to go all the places and see all the things your heart desires, Jacques. Life is still young and full of possibilities. Why in heaven’s name are you speaking as though your world has suddenly screeched to an unexpected stop and will never resume?” Zelda asked.

Jacques threw her a meek smile of reassurance, but she could still see the sadness deep in his beautiful green eyes – sense the melancholy that had invaded his being for some unknown reason as if it were something tangible and palpable.

“You are right, my sweet,” Jacques said in his thick, French-laced accent as he patted Zelda’s hand. “We have plenty of time,” he repeated absentmindedly as he stood and walked across the room to the small tabletop bar. “Would you care for a drink, Zel?” he asked, pouring himself a generous glass of the rich, amber-colored whiskey.

Zelda eyed him a bit dubiously and shook her head. It was not like Jacques to drink whiskey, especially so early in the afternoon. He usually preferred his French wine.

She rose and walked over to place a kiss upon his cheek. “None for me, my dear. I will have my usual glass of wine instead,” she said, heading to the kitchen. Pausing and glancing back, she added, “Besides, wine helps me cook better, and we must eat after all. Would you please put on some music while I prepare dinner?”

Jacques did not respond, but it was not long until the lovely strains of Beethoven filled the early evening air, albeit a bit louder than normal. Surprise filled her with his selection of music. Jacques must definitely be in some kind of strange mood if he was playing Beethoven. He normally was partial to the soft, lilting music of such composers as Chopin opposed to the strength of such pieces as those written by Beethoven.

“Would you turn that down a bit, Jacques? Our neighbors will be complaining,” Zelda called from the kitchen as she poured herself a glass of wine, but the volume of the music did not alter.

“Jacques? Dear?” No response from the other room. Zelda sighed and gave up. It was likely the music was so loud Jacques could not hear her anyway.

Zelda busied herself in the kitchen as she chopped vegetables and prepared the salmon steaks for baking. As her long, lean fingers and knife meticulously performed the tasks, her mind touched worriedly on Jacques. What was going on with him? It had been months since he had last seemed to genuinely smile or laugh. Sure, he would sometimes attempt such emotions as if to reassure her he was fine – or possibly, more to reassure himself - but she knew the joy was not coming from deep within. She had been so sure that he would snap out of it one day and return to the way he normally was, but now she was not so sure.

His words this late September afternoon had left her perplexed, worried, and unsure how best to proceed. The truth was that she was a bit stunned by his declaration that he felt incomplete and at a standstill, going nowhere and with nothing to offer. He said his heart and soul longed for something beyond understanding, and within him was a depth of feeling that left him feeling bereft and misplaced. The crushed look on her face must have registered with him as he heard her sharp intake of breath as he spoke those words. There was a dawning realization, and fear, that Jacques was not as fulfilled by her as she by him. Jacques was her everything. How could he possibly not feel the same? It was inconceivable, especially after so many years together.

He had suddenly stopped speaking for a few moments and intently studied her with those penetratingly vivid, emerald green eyes before he had softly spoken again. “It’s not you, Zel. You are wonderful and by far the best part of me. There’s just so much I’d like to do and share with you, and I’m afraid that there won’t be time.”

Zelda had internalized a huge sigh of relief with his words, thus replying, “We have plenty of time, Jacques.” However, had that been the right thing to say? She did not know. From the look in his eyes, it had not seemed to squelch the sadness. From that point, despite her assurances to herself, a deep-seated doubt that he was all right had taken root within her being.

As she cooked, Zelda’s mind drifted to happier days when they were young and had first become acquainted. Theirs had been a whirlwind love affair that had seemed to leap from the pages of a novel, written by the greatest of romance authors. Zelda had met Jacques in 1958 at, of all places, the Eiffel Tower, while she was a student in Paris. Could anything have been more romantic? She had immediately been smitten with his kind, loving spirit, as well as those gorgeous green eyes and the sensual French accent. After dating for one year, they had been married in a small French chapel in the countryside. It had been a beautiful spring day that she would never forget, filled with delicious French food, excellent wine, and good friends. Living in Paris with Jacques had brought Zelda much fulfillment and happiness. She worked as a secretary for the Louvre and enjoyed it even though it was not the center of her life; she found that fulfillment in Jacques. The two were able to live a good life in the heart of gay Paris thanks to Jacques’ job as a banker. He often said that he might surprise her, and up and quit his job one day to pursue a life of painting. Did a life of poverty suit her, he had teased. He had assured her it would only be temporary until he achieved worldwide fame. He had laughed and said that one day she would come to work at the beautiful Louvre Museum to find his painting hanging front and center. Each time he suggested such a chain of events, Zelda wondered how many artists had begun their careers as bankers, but it also gave her pause to wonder if Jacques was happy with his work. Did he secretly long for life in Paris as an artist, full of passion, creativity, and the unknown? Being a banker was not usually a precipice to life as an artist, but who knew? Jacques did like to express himself through painting and drawing, but she had always thought it more a hobby than a passion. Thus, this is what she had always thought but now she wondered about it all.

The buzzer on the timer sounded, distracting Zelda from her thoughts. She hurriedly removed the salmon from the oven. Delicious aromas of lemon, sage, and other spices moved throughout the room. She filled two plates with portions of the fish and vegetables before placing them on the tiny table. As she poured the wine, she looked out the large window. Living on the twenty-fourth floor afforded them a stunning view of the Southern side of Paris. The distant sunset this evening was beautiful, boldly hinting at hues of blue, pink, and yellow. She mused it was definitely worthy of the finest artist’s brush, but was that Jacque’s brush? Turning, she completed the table’s setting with a basket of crusty French bread and a plate of softened butter before heading back into the living area. Zelda immediately went to the stereo, turning down the volume of the music to a softer level. As she did so, she could clearly hear the subtle noises of the city below, including resounding sirens. Looking to her left, she realized had left the balcony doors open once again as their curtains swayed in the soft breeze.

“Jacques, dinner is ready,” she called, assuming he had gone into the bedroom.

Before she could walk across the room to close the balcony doors, the doorbell rang. A bit surprised, she stopped before reaching the balcony, her attention diverted by the impending visitor. She answered the door and found her neighbor, Suzette quietly standing in the hallway. Zelda noted that, as usual, there was no hint of a smile on her face. It had to be the music, she thought; it had been far too loud. Yes, she was here to chastise them about the loud music. She was always complaining about something.

“I’m so sorry about the music, Suzette. You know how much Jacques enjoys his Beethoven.” Zelda rushed in and managed an apologetic smile. Suzette was not a pleasant person generally speaking, and Zelda was expecting a sarcastic retort. Instead, something in Suzette’s face gave her pause, and she hesitated, unsure what else she could say in response to Suzette’s silence. What was it she saw in Suzette’s eyes? Was it akin to pity? They were talking about the music. Why in heaven’s name was Suzette looking at her like that?

Suzette seemed nervous as she silently looked down at her feet. After a few moments, she hesitantly stepped aside and allowed a tall, lean police officer to fill Zelda’s doorway.

Zelda’s mind raced. What was this? Was Suzette so angry about the loud music that she had called the police? Seriously? This was unbelievable! Suzette was a bit eccentric, but she had never done anything like this before. Zelda cleared her throat as she attempted to think of something to say, but the officer spoke first.

“Mme. Dubois?”

“Oui,” Zelda replied, keenly aware she had forgotten to remove her apron before answering the door. She fidgeted nervously with the rickrack trim along its edge. “I’m so sorry about the loud music. It won’t happen again.” Jacques was never going to hear the end of this. What in the world would the other neighbors think? Where was he anyway? She looked over her shoulder anxiously, hoping to see him emerging from the bedroom, but there was no sign of him.

“Mme. I apologize, but it is not the music. I am here to inform you of some very unfortunate news. We have asked your neighbor, Mme. Lyon, to come and sit with you while we speak,” he nodded at Suzette. The officer’s English, though stilted, was fluent enough that Zelda had no difficulty understanding him.

Surprise flickered across Zelda’s face before she quickly stepped aside. “Where are my manners? Please come inside. I’ll get my husband.” She turned to call Jacques, but Suzette had quickly taken her by the arm and was steering her toward the sofa.

“Zelda, please sit with us for a minute,” she said, pity now a fully recognizable emotion within Suzette’s dark brown eyes. Still, she avoided looking directly at Zelda.

A feeling of dread began to spread in Zelda’s chest, permeating her entire body. What was happening? Why would Suzette not let her get Jacques from the bedroom? What unfortunate news did the officer have? Her eyes darted across the room and spied the open balcony doors as she slowly lowered herself to the sofa next to Suzette. Sirens echoed from the busy streets below. Fear and a fervent denial took firm root in her mind as a horrible thought crept forward to taunt her like an insidious snake silently slithering into a beautiful garden.

The officer removed his hat and took a seat directly across from her. His brow creased and his lips pursed, as he seemed to grapple with the necessary words that were not easily forthcoming.

“Mme. Dubois, is this your husband’s wallet?” He handed her a brown leather wallet that she quickly recognized, although it appeared slightly more worn than when last she had taken note of it. What on earth? Jacques was never without his wallet.

Zelda hesitated and then shook her head affirmatively, words refusing to leave her lips as she took ahold of the wallet, her fingers clutching the worn leather with a sense of dread.

The officer cleared his throat, uneasily looked at the floor, and then at Suzette before his somber gaze returned to Zelda. “Mme., I regret to inform you that we believe your husband leapt from your balcony to his death only a little while ago. We are in the process transporting the body taken to the morgue for further inquiries. We will require you, unfortunately, to identify him. I am deeply sorry, Mme.”

There was a loud, overwhelming buzzing that filled Zelda’s ears and her breath caught in her chest. This could not be right; the officer must be mistaken. Jacques had just been here, in the apartment, with her, listening to Beethoven.

Zelda shook her head in denial and rose to go to the bedroom, tears streaming down her cheeks as she repeatedly murmured Jacques’ name. Suzette followed her every step, words of comfort softly issuing forth as she walked with Zelda about the rooms of the small apartment. A chill invaded Suzette. Jacques was not there. It must be true. This was a nightmare, and she fervently wished to awaken to learn that had only been a dream.

Riddled with unspoken shock and dazed, Zelda reluctantly took a seat on the sofa again. Lowering her head into both hands, she wept profusely, not caring whom else was there. Suzette’s palm patted her back as she sought to comfort Zelda. Unbeknownst to Zelda, the officer rose and walked about the apartment, taking note of the dinner table set for two, the half-drunk glass of whiskey on the bar, and the note that lay atop the desk with Zelda’s name boldly scribbled on it. Picking it up and reading the hand inscribed note, he quickly confirmed his suspicion that the body below belonged to Jacques Lyon. Walking out on the balcony, he peered over the wall to view the chaos below before he returned and resumed his seat across from Zelda. Nothing looked suspicious or out of order. It was all too apparent this was a most unfortunate incident and an obvious suicide. Such a waste, he thought to himself.

“Do you have someone you can call, Mme. Dubois? Any family?” he quietly asked. “You should not be alone, Mme.”

Zelda looked up through tear-filled eyes and nodded. She would have to call both of their families. She was not sure how she would tell them, but she must. Suzette handed her a little delicate, lace-trimmed handkerchief. Distracted for a moment, Zelda took note of the irony in its unblemished beauty. How could something appear so delicate and pretty amidst this horrific and unbelievable set of circumstances? It was like an oxymoron: a beautiful rose in an otherwise prickly, weed infested garden. Looking up, Zelda thanked her through tear stained eyes as she accepted the handkerchief.

“Very well, Mme. Dubois. We will need you to come down to the morgue in the morning, s'il te plaît, and to the station for further inquiries into your husband’s death, but for tonight, you should call your family and attempt to rest. Again, I am most sorry for your loss.”

Zelda watched the officer rise, don his hat, and leave. Suzette followed behind him and quietly closed the door. Zelda’s senses had gone into overdrive, and she became innately attuned to every fleck of dust on the side table, every minute noise that rose from the streets below and every attempt at drawing breath that her body made.

“I’m going to make you a pot of very some strong coffee, my dear,” Suzette said as she made herself at home and headed toward the kitchen.

Zelda marveled that Suzette seemed very much at ease with her newly assigned caretaker and friend role. Despite the fact that she and Suzette had never been close, she was quite thankful for the neighbor’s presence at this critical time. She would never look at the woman in the same harsh light again. She did not wish to be alone. Yes, it was definitely odd that she was finding comfort in the hands of someone she had never befriended or trusted. Then again, tonight was proving to be a night of many surprises and contradictions. Life was not as it had so seemed only an hour before. Indeed, life right now seemed much like a carousel that went round and round, no matter how anxious Zelda was to disembark and escape its repeated circling.

As Suzette busied herself with making the coffee, Zelda looked around and picked up the wallet that lay on the coffee table. She gazed at it as if seeing it for the first time and then slowly lifted it to inhale of its musky smell. It smelled like Jacques and tears stung her eyes anew. Overwhelmed with the essence of Jacques, she was unable to fathom that he was gone. How utterly and undeniably sad. How could he have ended his life? What immense pain had filled him so that he must do this? Her heart was broken, and guilt filled her as she remembered her inability to make him feel better only a short while earlier. She should have done more, said more, helped him more; and she should have loved him more. She should have known what to say to him and been there for him even when he had pushed her away. Doubt, grief, and guilt consumed her, and she wept again with greater intensity as she realized that her life had changed inexplicably.

Finally, she steadied herself and reached down to smooth the delicate, lace handkerchief that lay in her lap. Again, she pondered the stark contrast of it and the ugly truth of Jacques’ act. Lightly, she traced its edges and felt the softness of the Belgium lace. Her life would never be like the soft, pretty lace again, and she would never look at things in the same way again.

It would take a great deal to repair herself and live after Jacques’ death. She had created a life of illusion where everything appeared easy and beautiful in all aspects, but in actuality, it had been anything but. With a deep-seated, profound regret, Zelda knew that appearances were nothing more than a façade created for the weak, and she chose to be strong from this point onward. Jacques’ death instilled in her a fierce determination not to hide behind weak or false appearances again for it had been far too costly. The illusion of appearances had been no friend to her. Life as she had known it was now tarnished by a surreal turn of events, and she only wished to view it from this point forward through new eyes to ensure this sort of thing never happened again to anyone she loved. She would confront life’s situations, including those riddled with pain or doubt, with a strong dose of reality and a renewed force. She would never fall short of the mark again for those whom she loved or for herself.

Slowly, Zelda opened the doors and made her way out on the balcony. She knew she was retracing Jacques’ final steps, and it nearly shook her resolve. Determined, she made her way to the wall and peered to look over at the street below, now nearly cleared of the commotion of Jacques’ final action. Her heart ached as she thought of Jacques perched upon the balcony in his final moments. He must have been so sad and felt so hopeless to do such a thing. Resolutely, Zelda clutched the dainty handkerchief tightly within her grasp for a moment and again, her eyes filled with tears. She had been so foolish.

She was keenly aware of the wind that whispered her regret in the early evening, and it seemed to spur her onward. Lifting her slender arm and draping it across the balcony’s ledge, she dangled the delicate handkerchief and let it dance in the wind. With determination borne of pain, she released it and watched as the beautiful handkerchief lifted to fly across the Paris skyline. She watched until she eventually lost sight of it, and only then did she allow a huge sigh of relief to escape her lips. Today had been a day of awakening and reckoning, but somehow she would to persevere and live, to move on beyond the guilt and regret she felt so profoundly. Life was no longer an illusion, and just like the handkerchief, all of its fantasies had been carried away with the wind. Life’s false bravado was as dead this night as Jacques, disappearing into the moonlight along with the beautiful lace handkerchief.