The Girl You Left Behind

minute, then taps the lid of the box. Liv opens them and offers him the tray. He
     gestures to her first, and when she declines, he slowly chooses one and waits.
    ‘He might need you to put it in his
     mouth,’ Mo murmurs.
    Liv hesitates, then proffers it. Bessette
     opens his mouth like a baby bird, then closes it, shutting his eyes as he allows himself
     to relish the flavour.
    ‘Tell him we would like to ask him
     some questions about the family of Édouard Lefèvre.’
    Bessette listens, and sighs audibly.
    ‘Did you know Édouard
     Lefèvre?’ She gets Mo to translate, waiting.
    ‘I never met him.’ His voice is
     slow, as if the words themselves are an effort.
    ‘But your father, Aurélien, knew
     him?’
    ‘My father met him on several
     occasions.’
    ‘Your father lived in St
     Péronne?’
    ‘My whole family lived in St
     Péronne, until I was eleven. My aunt Hélène lived in the hotel, my father
     above the
tabac
.’
    ‘We were at the hotel last
     night,’ Liv says. But he doesn’t seem to register. She unrolls a photocopy.
     ‘Did your father ever mention this painting?’
    He gazes at the girl.
    ‘Apparently it was in Le Coq Rouge but
     it disappeared. We are trying to find out more about its history.’
    ‘Sophie,’ he says finally.
    ‘Yes,’ says Liv, nodding
     vigorously. ‘Sophie.’ She feels a faint flicker of excitement.
    His gaze settles on the image, his eyes
     sunken and rheumy, impenetrable, as if they carry the joys and sorrows of the ages. He
     blinks, his wrinkled eyelids closing at half-speed, and it is like watching some strange
     prehistoriccreature. Finally he lifts his head. ‘I cannot tell
     you. We were not encouraged to speak of her.’
    Liv glances at Mo.
    ‘What?’
    ‘Sophie’s name … was
     not spoken in our house.’
    Liv blinks. ‘But – but she was your
     aunt, yes? She was married to a great artist.’
    ‘My father never spoke of
     it.’
    ‘I don’t understand.’
    ‘Not everything that happens in a
     family is explicable.’
    The room falls silent. Mo looks awkward. Liv
     tries to shift the subject. ‘So … do you know much about Monsieur
     Lefèvre?’
    ‘No. But I did acquire two of his
     works. After Sophie disappeared some paintings were sent to the hotel from a dealer in
     Paris; this was some time before I was born. As Sophie was not there, Hélène
     kept two, and gave two to my father. He told her he didn’t want them, but after he
     died, I found them in our attic. It was quite a surprise when I discovered what they
     were worth. One I gave to my daughter, who lives in Nantes. The other I sold some years
     ago. It pays for me to live here. This … is a nice place to live. So – maybe I
     think my relationship with my aunt Sophie was a good one, despite everything.’
    His expression softens briefly.
    Liv leans forward. ‘Despite
     everything?’
    The old man’s expression is
     unreadable. She wonders, briefly, whether he has nodded off. But then he starts to
     speak. ‘There was talk … gossip … in St Péronne that my
     aunt was a collaborator. This was why my father said we must not discuss her. Easier to
     act as if she did not exist.Neither my aunt nor my father ever spoke
     of her when I was growing up.’
    ‘Collaborator? Like a spy?’
    He waits a moment before answering.
     ‘No. That her relationship with the German occupiers was
     not … correct.’ He looks up at the two women. ‘It was very painful
     for our family. If you did not live through these times, if your family did not come
     from a small town, you cannot understand how it was for us. No letters, no pictures, no
     photographs. From the moment she was taken away, my aunt ceased to exist for my father.
     He was …’ he sighs ‘… an unforgiving man. Unfortunately the rest
     of her family decided to wipe her from our history too.’
    ‘Even her sister?’
    ‘Even Hélène.’
    Liv is stunned. For so long, she has thought
     of Sophie as one of life’s survivors, her expression triumphant, her adoration of
     her husband written on her face. She struggles to reconcile her Sophie with the image of
     this unloved, discarded woman.
    There is a world of pain in the old
     man’s long, weary breath. Liv feels suddenly guilty for having made him revisit
     it. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she says, not knowing what else to say. She sees
     now they will get nothing here. No wonder Paul McCafferty had not bothered to come.
    The silence stretches.