The Remaining Voice Read Online Free PDF Page B

others been, did not give readily, and I tugged on the boards, creating a miasma of choking dust in the process. I prised it open a couple of feet.
    I had stepped into Aladdin’s cave.
    It was on one of my father’s trips to Paris, that he took me to a small house tucked away down a back street on the Left Bank. It was run by an old friend of his by the name of Jacques Le Brun, who had whiskers that curled up from his face like an over-sized smile, and who wore dog-tooth trousers and a red velvet waistcoat. I was nine and although the Second World War had just started, we Americans were as yet immune from its effects. From the moment I stepped inside Monsieur Le Brun’s home I was caught up in a fantasy. Never had I seen such an amazing collection of artefacts and all of them old beyond belief and each with fantastic stories that wove their magic spell over my childhood so that I wanted only to live in my imagination and nowhere else. The light was golden with enchantment and the dust-weathered collection a precious jewel to be cherished and loved back to life. I spent three charm-filled hours there, playing in the grime of yesteryear, while my father caught up with the news from his old friend. Monsieur Le Brun had been a circus high-wire artiste, a knife swallower, a brush salesman, and a con-artist, but his passion was antiques. He collected them avidly, not caring to collate or order them in any way, not bothering if spiders wove webs over them, or if they were correctly stored. “It is all about the patina,” he would say. “Everything should be allowed to age naturally. I do not care for science.” He was a curious man, out of time with trappings of modern life.
    I had not thought about Monsieur Le Brun in many years, but here I was, entering a very similar realm to his. I had not been afraid when I was a child. I was excited, and intrigued, but mostly I was entranced. Berthe’s apartment was a perfectly preserved time capsule, and far from being devoid of her belongings, it was chock full of them. I could not believe that it had survived two wars, when all around it was so badly abused. It was as if Monsieur Le Brun had been keeping a watchful eye so that one day he could offer me another fantasy to explore.
    “I will keep you in my heart like a treasure,” I whispered, again. The apartment was like a newly opened treasure chest, full of wonder and glory. Was this what Berthe was referring to when she wrapped the key in paper and placed it inside the envelope and deposited it with Fletcher Kingston?
    I could not move without bumping into furniture, or piles of books. Every chair was laden with miscellany - paintings being the most obvious items in evidence after boxes filled to the brim with paper and crockery, trinkets and… well, just plain junk mostly. A great fireplace, surrounded by ornate mantle and topped with huge vases the like of which I had only ever seen in museums, faced me. On the chimney breast hung a painting of a woman, looking very glamorous in a pink satin ball gown. In front of the fire was a chair with gilt legs and threaded gold satin cushions, on top of which rested a violin, a china cup with rose design and a shoe with a broken heel.
    It was going to take me a lifetime to sort through this. Not to mention the cleaning. I noticed another door and wove between the furniture towards it. Beneath my feet was, what must have been at one time, a quite beautiful Turkish carpet, and on the walls, soft silk moiré paper, peeling and blackened with mould. I removed a wooden crate containing musical scores from the chair that was set against the door. I could not find anywhere to put the box, save to balance it precariously on top of another behind me. I pulled the chair forward and found there was nowhere to put that either. So I simply left it and squeezed behind. The door knob turned quite easily, but I could not open it more than a few inches.  I peered into the gloom beyond. Another hall.