Le Monocle

Le Monocle

Respect and thanks to Erich Maria Remarque

By

Henry Alessandroni

Marie paused at the foot of a statue. A little boy, arm outstretched, eternally reaching for the departed soul of the man with the pointed beard. Her heart welled as she studied the sculpted profile, of whom, she presumed, was the boy’s father.

A bitter-sweet accident led her to this grave, far in the depths of the Montparnasse Cemetery. She needed to rest. And somehow here she was. No living soul ventured this far, this deep in the heart of the dead. The beds of granite and stone belonged to a time best forgotten. A time of strife and confusion.

Midday light danced between leaves of a Linden tree. Illusion of movement lent life to the outstretched arm, stone fingers clawing upward, willing to touch his father’s cheek.

She empathized with the boy. Understood the pain.

She decided (or had fate?) to rest a bit, lowering herself to sitting upon the monument’s edge, spirit dampened by the memory of her past. Marie placed her memento onto the cold stone, splaying a little black book open upon its identification page. There, the man with a pointed beard, much like the man chiseled into the marble beyond the boy’s reach, stared vacantly up at her. His date of birth, citizenry and occupation penned long ago in appropriate fields by an unknown commis militaire. Inside the leather-clad notebook, between worn pages, a separate photo of the man’s wife and daughter.

Every day Marie strolled these hallowed grounds. Each a different path. Today was her favourite. She would come again. Running her fingers over the photo, she whispered enduring bereavement of loss; of solitude and lovelessness.

Grey pea gravel dust settled about the heels which stepped before her.

Marie straightened, waiting for the stranger to pass.

He did not.

A glance to a welcoming smile, Marie sharply dropped her eyes to the black patent oxfords that shifted to a ballerino fifth; recollections of childhood ballet. Poise, confidence, stance.

A man of breeding.

“Bon après-midi,” the stranger said. Soft. Gentle. Inviting.

Marie nodded politely.

An uncalloused palm, long manicured fingers, turned upward to gesture, May I?

The stranger sat across from her, straightened back, near, but respectively distant, from the boy statue. “I wonder. Was he a good man? Father? Uncle?”

Marie followed his gaze. She chose not to respond.

“I see you frequently, Mademoiselle. Strolling. Sad. Pensive. I do not know.”

Unlike the brash men in the Place de Clichy, this man appeared harmless; albeit forward.

“I too often wander these grounds; pensive. Sometimes sad. Rejuvenated before I go.”

“Monsieur, you speak as if you know me.”

“Ah, yes. A stranger. Well…to acquaintances, I am Lou.”

A sly smirk parted his lips, inviting her to confidence. “My friends call me Lulu.”

A careless giggle escaped Marie and she looked away.

“I spy you in Montparnasse from time to time. Puis-je dire votre nom?”

“Marie,” she whispered.

“Pardon?”

“Je suis appelè Marie.”

“Ah, Marie. Le nom d’un ange. I wonder, what are her thoughts? What is it mademoiselle seeks?”

A light breeze lifted the corner of her notepad. Lou glanced at the book before asking, “Does she keep count of the dead?”

Almost forgotten, unattended, Marie swept the book away.

“Mais non. You bring it tight to your breast.” He smiled warmly. “May I inquire?”

She shook her head.

He sighed with surrender. “You are a mystery, Marie. An enigma.” It was clear from her eyes that she did not understand. “I too am an enigma,” he continued. “A contradiction. A puzzle.”

“It belonged to my father.”

“Ah,” he said, leaning to one side. “Is this your papa?”

“No. Papa is not here.”

“Peaceful,” he said. “Here…strolling within the gates. There is peace. And freedom. Unburdened, unencumbered...that is what I find. And you, mon petit?”

Marie never thought much about her strolls. “I envision…the dreams of the dead.”

“Mon dieu.” He leaned forward. “Did you know – but of course you do not. I come here to share secrets. My secrets. The dead do not judge. And they listen well. When I give them my adieu, I am whole again. Aspirations of the living. They release me to life.”

Marie listened intently. This man; this boyish-faced creature. This gentle man. She was enraptured. Warm smile, inviting. Her eyes watered, hands dropping to one side. The leather clad book slipped onto her lap.

“Who are these confidants?” Lou asked, dredging her soul, holding her heart with his words. “There is a story, a book that tells the tale of Pygmalion. A very smart man, which is saying something as we all know men simply believe they are smart. He wrote of a girl who became a butterfly. Not literally, but figuratively. With her benefactor’s help, she blossomed.”

Maria smiled.

“He helped her see the hope that lay beyond her world.”

Another breeze swept through the Linden tree, animating the statue with its shadow. The boy danced as if he would break his bonds.

“May I see your book?” Lou asked.

Uncertain, but polite, Marie yielded. Her fingers brushed the weathered cover as it was drawn from her lap. She touched his hand in caution before it receded.

Lou read.

“Gerard Duval. Born 13th of September, 1884. Paris. Occupation, typesetter.”

“He died in the Great War,” Marie offered.

“And you come here to talk to him?”

“Yes. And no. He is buried somewhere on the Western Front. I come,” Marie stumbled, “to the dead…should they find him, to tell him he is missed.”

The Linden stilled. The statue settled.

“My family are all gone. Maman died. Left me this: Papa’s identification de l’armée.”

Lou sensed the inner conflict, but remained silent.

“Before maman’s death, a woman sought us out. She brought this book to us.”

Marie hesitated.

“A German woman.”

She waited for judgement.

“Her brother fought in the war. Against our France. Against my father. I do not understand, monsieur. He made a promise to an enemy. My fathers only trésor during the fighting.”

Lou did not stir. The world’s wound was deep. Many French had yet to heal.

“This man confided to his sister before returning to the front. This man, this enemy, my father’s foe. Together they rest in the dirt. Mais pourquoi?” She wiped away a tear. “Pardonnez-moi, monsieur. I do not wish to burden you…”

“Ma, non. The living have burden. You honour me with honesty.”

“Monsieur…”

“Lulu,” he corrected.

Marie smiled through her sadness. “What burden would you carry, monsieur? You do not have such disquiet.”

“Oh, if that were true. We all must bear the weight of the living. Which is why I stroll these grounds. Amongst the dead, I share my weight.”

She gazed at him quizzically, besotted by this fragile man of stature; of comfortable life.

“Do you have money,” he asked abruptly.

Marie recoiled.

He chuckled. “Not to rob you. Money is not what I ask of you.”

Marie exhaled.

“I wish to make a proposition.”

Lou chuckled once more, recognizing his poor choice of words. “Please do not misunderstand. I wish to propose employment. Full, legitimate; of good wage. Suiting and benefitting a lady of moral.”

Marie thought him sincere. He did appear to be a man of gentleness.

“All walks of life have their burdens,” he continued. “You shall be my Pygmalion. War is over. The people joyous. Unsheathe our inhibitions. Let us live. Freedom…from anger. From hate and hurt.” He reached for Marie’s hand and drew it close. “Your father died, as did this man, for a cause that was not theirs. Beneath the uniform, they were only men.”

Marie allowed him to pull a hand onto his chest. He led the fingers beneath the tuxedo jacket, placing it firmly upon the mound that rested there. She was surprised, but did not pull away. Sweeping her hand to the other side, she cupped its twin.

“I consider you my friend,” he said.

She did not run. Did not wish to. She felt safe. Comforted. At peace.

“This is my burden. And my redemption. I am Lulu; Lulu de Montparnasse.”

He took her hand away from his chest and held it gently within his own.

“I have created a place of freedom. Of expression with no judgement. To be whomever, whatever, you are or wish to be. You will find this place at 60, Boulevard Edgar Quinet, Montparnasse.”

“This place?”

Lulu smiled warmly. “Le Monocle.”

“To be in your employ?”

“If you wish.”

“Or to play?”

“If you wish.”

Marie wanted to look away. “I am not as you are…”

Lulu cupped her hands. “Be whomever or whatever you wish. But be true to oneself.”

“Why are you so kind?”

“We are all the same. Beneath our uniforms. I wish to show you a world that escapes you – which escapes us all.” He sighed a debt that was long overdue. “Do not allow the world to dictate who you must be.”

“Should I say no?”

“Then I shall leave you in sorrow.”

They held each others gaze.

“Le Monocle. 60, Boulevard Edgar Quinet, Montparnasse.” Lulu turned to leave, but stopped short. He lifted a hand to her cheek and added, “Join me. Come to the Rue Jolivet. I know of a café where we may speak further.”

Marie felt his soul whispering the dreams of the dead.

“I shall introduce you to Brassai,” he said. “A talented man.

Marie remained transfixed.

“He shall take your photograph. Capture this sadness, before it disappears.”

A foreigner to a world she never might imagine.

“Brassai will show you the orphan beauty that I see.”

Marie inched forward. Hesitated. Kissed her benefactor on the cheek. Behind them, a boy with an outstretched arm reached upward. The love of the living, eternally lost beyond his grasp.

The End