The Lost Carousel of Provence Read online

  “The drinks are on me,” she said to Jean-Paul. “You’re a business expense.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  PRESENT DAY

  PARIS

  Cady

  Jean-Paul was a charming—and knowledgeable—tour guide. He had insisted on carrying her heavy camera bag as he led her into the Métro, along the avenues, and through the woods that housed the carousel. As they strolled through the Bois de Vincennes, he explained that the vast green space was a former hunting preserve. At the turn of the twentieth century an experimental tropical garden had been established at the far eastern end of the park, where rubber trees, coffee trees, banana trees, and other tropical plants were grown and studied.

  “And during the First World War, the Dutch spy Mata Hari was imprisoned here in the fortress of Vincennes before being executed by firing squad. According to legend, she blew a kiss at the firing squad.”

  “That’s some weighty history for a children’s carousel.”

  Jean-Paul smiled. “With history comes drama, and tragedy.”

  After so many days of navigating the city by herself, it was fun to explore with a handsome, courteous escort. Still, Cady couldn’t figure out what Jean-Paul was doing here, much less what he wanted from her. Was he after Gus? Could the rabbit be valuable after all?

  Or was she just being paranoid? Cady was painfully aware she often perceived threats where there were none, while—in the next moment—trusting the wrong people. Maxine had called it her “curse.”

  “I don’t know much about history,” Cady said. “Even the World Wars. My education was sort of . . . unorthodox , I guess you could say. Was your family involved in the war?”

  “Of course. Many of my uncles and cousins fought. The son of Yves Clement, Marc-Antoine, went to combat in World War I at the age of sixteen; and his son, Fabrice, was only fifteen in World War II.”

  “He fought at the age of fifteen?”

  “Not as a soldier. But he was involved. I’ve never been clear in exactly what capacity; as I’ve said, he’s a recluse and doesn’t like to talk about himself. And here we are: the Bayol carousel.”

  The carousel was very simple, especially compared to some of the others Cady had been photographing, with their wedding cake frothiness, gold-gilt curlicues, and double-decker platforms.

  But what it lacked in extravagance it made up in charm. The sweet faces of the child-sized figures—cats, dogs, rabbits, pigs, and horses—tilted up toward the audience expectantly, not smiling but still inviting. The tails and manes were intricately sculpted from wood, not made of real animal hair as in some carousels. Graceful, curved necks tapered to toy-like heads with bright, open eyes and upright ears.

  Studying the precious faces of these genuine Bayol-carved animals, and knowing Gus as well as she did, Cady realized that the appraiser at the antiques show, and then Madame Martin, had been correct: Gus-the-rabbit had not been crafted by the same hand.

  Cady fought self-consciousness as she unpacked her cameras and tripods, speaking with the young woman running the merry-go-round, and approaching parents for permission to take photographs of their children. Though these were all the usual things she did when shooting a locale, it felt different under Jean-Paul’s watchful gaze. She walked around the apparatus several times, searching for the best light, the most interesting angles.

  Finally, picking up her Leica camera, Cady focused on framing the world through the lens—and felt herself relax. She lost track of time, then was startled by a loud, delighted squeal.

  She looked up to see a little girl hooting in victory after having speared a ring.

  “We don’t see that very often in the States,” Cady said to Jean-Paul.

  “You mean the rings? Catching the ring is the best part of riding. I was very good at it.”

  “It’s probably an insurance issue. Kids leaning out could fall off and get hurt.”

  Jean-Paul gave a subtle shrug. “Falling off and getting hurt is part of childhood.”

  “Tell that to the insurance companies. Not to mention the parents of the kid with the broken arm. There are a few around, still—there’s a Looff carousel in Santa Cruz with the original ring machine.”

  “That’s near you, in California?”

  She nodded. “Our local merry-go-rounds inspired me to start photographing carousels in the first place.” She thought back to the carousel at Tilden Park, in Berkeley; Cady had returned to it again and again over the years, trying to capture its elusive magic. “There’s a quote about human nature being revealed in the way children on a carousel wave at their parents as they go past, every time, even though they’re just going round and round—and the parents always wave back.”

  “Of course they wave; they are children.”

  “Yes, but they do it every time, and then the parents do it back. Every time.”

  “What else would the parents do?”

  Cady gave a humorless laugh. “I think it’s a comment on faith, or the ridiculousness of the relationship, or . . . something.”

  “I suppose the children need to check in with their family and know that they’ll always be there, even if they seem to disappear momentarily.”

  “I’m guessing you had the kind of parents who took you to carousels.”

  “Didn’t you?”

  Cady tried for that Parisian non-response shrug at which Jean-Paul excelled. She doubted she’d pulled it off, but he didn’t ask again. Instead, his eyes settled on her, searching.

  “Do you ever ride?” he asked after a moment.

  “Pardon?”

  “You photograph the carousels, but do you ever go for a ride yourself?”

  She laughed, again feeling self-conscious. She hadn’t actually climbed aboard a carousel since the Tilden Park merry-go-round, when she was a kid, still cute and adoptable.

  Still hoping for a family.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  1993

  BERKELEY, CALIFORNIA

  Cady, Age 5

  The forest was no place for a city girl.

  Cady’s world was made up of gray concrete walls, rough to the touch; sidewalks smelling faintly of urine and uncollected garbage; alleys promising escape routes; chain-link fences topped with barbed wire to keep her in—or out.

  Dread vied with excitement as she gazed out the bus window at the strange, alienating landscape of tall trees and thick underbrush. The social workers had described the redwood groves as beautiful, but to Cady they inspired a vague, unnamed terror. Surely the twisty road snaking its way through the mountains would eventually deliver the busload of children to a dark forest that sheltered the stuff of nightmares: bears and mountain lions, the bogeyman or Bigfoot.

  The gruesome possibility that no one would want her.

  But she wouldn’t—couldn’t—let herself think about that.

  A mean boy sitting across the aisle made a face, hoping to pick a fight, but Cady looked away, refusing to engage. The rules were very clear, the stakes unimaginably high: No one wanted a bad girl.

  She smoothed the name tag sticker—C-A-D-Y, with a daisy drawn next to it—on the chest of her favorite orange T-shirt, shut her eyes, and sang to herself: The ants go marching one by one. . . .

  Cady’s eyes flew open at a sudden squawk of air brakes as the bus pulled to a stop. Ms. Ulmer stood at the head of the aisle and repeated the instructions she had already drilled into the fidgety children: Do not leave the area, do not go into the woods, no pushing, no shoving, no bad words. Don’t be shy. Talk to the grown-ups. Remember to let your inner light shine. Be your authentic self. Be good.

  But what if her “authentic self” wasn’t good? Cady didn’t mean to be bad, but she often was. People told her so.

  Tinny, raucous music greeted the twenty or so children as they climbed down, one by one, and went to line up beside the bus, where Ms. Ulme
r directed them. Heat radiated from the parking lot blacktop, where every space was taken up by big Suburbans and sleek compacts, shiny and new-looking. A light breeze carried the scent of the park’s golden grasses and eucalyptus trees, so much nicer than the cloying pine-scented air freshener in the social worker’s office bathroom.

  Cady took the deepest breath she could, hoping to make the aroma a part of her, replacing the institutional smell that seemed to cling to everything. The forest might be scary, but it sure smelled good.

  And in front of them: the Tilden Park carousel.

  It was colorful and raucous, whirling round and round, the music blaring, light and color seeming to reach out for her. If she stared, everything seemed a blur: the painted murals on top, the Baroque mirrors, the menagerie of animals, the children’s laughing faces. Cady spied a rooster, a frog, a bunch of brightly painted horses, and also some kind of sea creature. Some figures went up and down, others remained with their hooves planted firmly on the circling platform. A round seat shaped like a giant teacup spun around. A sleigh with room for four tipped back and forth but never quite pitched over. She spotted a goat, and a zebra, and a pig. Her mind raced. Which did she like best? Could she ride any one she chose?

  Cady fixated on the sea monster. She would have to beat out the others if she wanted to claim it. She was a fast runner. She could do it.

  But then she glanced over at the long tables and booths set with food and displays for the fair. Milling about the offerings were the smiley, eager grown-ups. Cady’s heart flipped, it felt hard to breathe, and she had a sudden need to pee.

  “Prospective parents” is how Ms. Ulmer and the other social workers referred to the grown-ups. Every child alighting from the bus, every orphan, every discarded girl and boy—even a bad one—dreamed of finding a match. Of being chosen.

  Of becoming part of a family.

  Prospective parents. For weeks, Cady had rolled the phrase around in her mind, whispering it in bed at night like a prayer. She liked the feel of the words on her tongue: mother, father, mommy, daddy, mom, dad . . . She imagined walking into school and telling the teacher she had a note from her parents. Every day after school she would enter the same house and sit down to dinner with her mother and father. They would be in the audience on Back-to-School Night; Cady would use her best manners when she introduced them to her teacher: “Ms. Mendez, this is my mom and dad.”

  Mom and Dad.

  It made her too nervous to look at the grown-ups. Instead, Cady joined the jostling throng of kids waiting for their turn to ride the merry-go-round. It slowed, then finally stopped, and the riders got off. Cady shoved her way to the front of the crowd and raced to claim the sea monster. The mean boy from the bus noticed her interest and yelled, “I call dibs!” But Cady was determined. The sea monster was hers. She got there first and quickly threw one leg over the saddle, grasping the center pole and hoisting herself up, flashing a triumphant grin at the mean boy.

  A man in a stained T-shirt came by and buckled a leather strap—a humiliating leash—around her waist. “No belt, no ride,” he responded to her protest before moving on to the next child.

  It took an eternity for the carousel to start up again, lurching forward with a jerk. Old-fashioned organ music filled the air, the world just beyond the carousel whirled by faster and faster, and Cady sat up as straight as she could. The faces in the crowd became a blur as the carousel reached full speed.

  Cady was a princess on her steed, a mermaid astride her sea creature. The tinny music was her theme song. She was beautiful and free, going up and down, round and round, the eyes of the prospective parents on her.

  One day she would have someone to wave at as she flew by on the carousel.

  Cady felt a thrill, so deep, so fundamental, so visceral that years later she would still recall the sensation, would liken it to the breathless excitement and furtive anticipation of falling, headlong and desperate, in love.

  Round and round she went.

  Round and round.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  PRESENT DAY

  PARIS

  Cady

  “I . . . No,” Cady stammered, starting to pack up her cameras. “I photograph carousels; I don’t ride them.”

  “Why not?” Jean-Paul asked as he came over to help.

  “Thanks,” Cady said, putting her hand out to stop him. “But I have a very particular way of doing it.”

  He nodded and backed off, his gaze still on her. She busied herself with her packing—each camera had its own case, its own place within the larger bag—and to her relief he let the subject go.

  Afterward, they headed back across the city. The Jardin du Ranelagh’s carousel was another simple design, this time with diminutive horses on a green structure that enthralled small children.

  Cady once again went through her rituals: unpacking her cameras, framing her shots, and finally snapping a series of photos with one apparatus after another.

  “It’s a lot of work,” Jean-Paul said when, at long last, Cady packed up her equipment again.

  “It is. But I like it. It keeps me grounded.”

  “Do you see things differently through the lens?”

  “I do,” she said, wondering if he was implying that she kept herself distant from the world by standing apart, breaking it down into scenes and angles, and recording life for the future. It was a common theme among those who didn’t understand the art of photography, who had never been swept away by the shifting images of the world as seen through different frames and lenses.

  Normally she would have let the subject drop, but his eyes were still on her, and for some reason she felt compelled to explain.

  “It’s hard to describe, but when I look through the lens, it’s like I can be a different person. I can enter a world that is calm, and knowable, and sort of . . . magical, but safe at the same time. Even though I’m seeing the same thing others do with the naked eye, it makes more sense, somehow. There’s no noise, no unnamed desires, no strife. It’s just . . . beautiful.”

  “Such beauty came across in the photographs you showed me of your rabbit.”

  “Oh, I wish!” She scoffed. “My goal, always, is to convey those feelings by way of my photographs, but I rarely succeed. Why are you looking at me like that?”

  He smiled. “I enjoy hearing you talk about your work. There’s passion in your words; your eyes flash.”

  Cady could feel herself blushing, and was glad for the distraction when a bell rang loudly and children started to laugh and run.

  “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “The marionette show will start in a few minutes.”

  “A marionette show?”

  “You are surprised?”

  “I am. Paris is so cosmopolitan on the one hand, but so old-fashioned on the other.”

  “Perhaps that is why everyone falls in love when they are here,” said Jean-Paul.

  Cady slung her heavy bag over her shoulder, declining Jean-Paul’s offer to carry it for her.

  “This marionettiste is very good,” he said. “If you have never seen the show, we really must go to it. But this time I insist upon paying.”

  “But—”

  He held up his hand to stop her protest. “Not only is it my duty as a Parisien, but it is also very, very inexpensive.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  1944

  PARIS

  Fabrice Clement

  When Fabrice was a young child, he liked nothing more than to watch his father, Marc-Antoine, carve. His heart would fill with admiration and wonder, and a fervent desire to be just like him: to bring forth a figure where once there was none.

  Now, Fabrice felt frustration. Embarrassment. Even disdain.

  His father’s chisel never stopped as he whittled a small piece of butternut wood to repair the chunk blown out of the cro
wn of the four-foot-tall Madonna on the workbench in front of him. Once that was complete, he would turn to re-creating her missing left hand.

  “After all, how can she pray for us with only one hand?” Marc-Antoine had said when she first arrived in the shop. “We need all the help she can give us.”

  The Madonna had been an innocent bystander, caught in a skirmish between Nazi soldiers and a small Résistance cell outside of Dijon. Somehow a local farmer knew to bring her here for help, to Marc-Antoine Clement’s workshop in the cinquieme arrondissement. An aroma of onions lingered about her; she was covered in the bulbs while being smuggled to Paris in the back of a delivery truck. Fabrice’s mother, Germaine, was busy laundering and patching the Madonna’s singed royal blue velvet robes; though the sculpture had carved wooden skirts, she seemed almost naked without her luxurious textiles.

  Fabrice watched his father’s skilled hands hover above the gap in the crown, hitting rhythmically in a tink tink tink, bits of wood flying like tiny paper airplanes with each tap.

  “Papa, I want to contribute to the war effort,” said Fabrice.

  “You are too young. We’ve gone over this.”

  “But you were only sixteen when you left your family to join the fight in the First World War,” Fabrice said, struggling against the humiliating sensation of tears burning the backs of his eyes. “That’s only a year older than I am now.”

  “An important year; a crucial year. I was a young man; you are still a boy,” said Marc-Antoine. He picked up a piece of fine-grit sandpaper, carefully ran it along the rough-hewn edge he had just chiseled, lifted the piece into the light, and blew. Wood dust flew through a shaft of orangey late-afternoon light, the particles looking like specks of gold, a miniature fireworks display like those they used to set off over the Champs-Élysées on Bastille Day, before the Nazis marched into Paris and the bans went into effect. Fabrice had read that the Free French Forces still marched every Bastille Day in London; the image of brave, exiled soldiers celebrating the beloved national holiday abroad filled his chest with a disorienting mix of pride and rage.