Mme Proust and the Kosher Kitchen (3 page)

T
HE MANUSCRIPT ROOM
in the old Bibliothèque Nationale smells of leather and dust. The buttery scent of literature wafts out from shelves of thick, calfskin-bound volumes arranged all the way down one long wall. A sharp whiff of history blows up from behind the decorative grilles that hide creaking iron radiators from both the eye and the broom. The one lush, the other acrid, the two odours meet and mingle, filling the narrow space with a single elusive perfume.

A reader, lifting his nose to the air, might savour the scent and puzzle, for a fleeting moment, over its origins. But none does. Here, heads are bowed to their reading, bodies hunched over the long tables, minds occupied, and senses inattentive. Smells go unsmelled and the sunlight is not missed in the odd
half-darkness of this room. On the wall facing the bookshelves, high windows would let in the poignant sunshine of a September day to bathe the scholars’ tasks in a pure bright glow were there not canvas blinds hanging down from each frame. Precious documents are thus protected from rays that would fade them, while the readers themselves turn delicate pages with white-gloved hands.

In fact, the leather books that surround them are something of a fraud, or at least an irrelevancy, row upon row of out-of-date catalogues, and seldom-consulted nineteenth-century annuals stored here for want of other space: the heart of the
salle des manuscrits
lies elsewhere. Its pages are unpublished and unbound, yet all the more closely guarded for that, secured in the stacks hidden behind this room. I imagine a vault filled with a scaffolding of metal shelves on which cardboard containers the size of big shoeboxes and portfolios as large as kitchen tabletops are balanced. Secreted in this storehouse, watched over by dutiful librarians who will expose their precious charges only to those who can show good reason why they should be permitted to behold them, are tons and tons of paper, parchment and vellum—diaries, notes, letters, recipes, typescripts, illuminations, Bibles, psalters, account books, chapbooks, books of hours, books of days.

These are the literary treasures of France. It is these manuscripts that the scholars have come to consult and admire. It was from this collection that a precious copy of Froissart’s
Chronicle
, a manuscript scrupulously copied out by some anonymous hand more than six hundred years ago, was carefully removed to be placed in front of Voltaire, waiting somewhere in this same building, working in what was then a rather new library. It was from here that Voltaire’s original
notes for his eighteenth-century histories of Charles XII and Louis XIV were brought forward to be shown to Michelet, who was seated in this very room, then just recently constructed. It was here that Zola, who used to position himself at that far table, waited to consult Michelet’s manuscript for his
Introduction to Universal History
(1831). You can imagine the great novelist over there, his coat tidily folded on the chair beside him, and his head bent so low to decipher Michelet’s scrawl that his beard almost touches the table. And it is here that you, in turn, if your credentials pass muster, can examine Zola’s manuscript for his 1885 novel,
Germinal
.

But mind that you arrive at the library early. The regulars snag the best spots, and if you tarry, you may be placed near the reserve counter, where the comings and goings will disturb your concentration. Soon, the Bibliothèque Nationale will move to giant new premises over on the Quai François Mauriac, where four book-shaped glass towers will be stuffed with computers and the manuscript room will be a windowless vault with low light and strict humidity controls. But for now, this is the place.

I do not belong here. My white shirt is crisp, my grey flannels freshly pressed. A cashmere sweater thrown over the shoulders with a deceptive casualness and a few well-chosen pieces of jewellery soften the plain clothes, while on my feet I wear the Italian leather loafers favoured by generations of well-dressed Parisians. My accent is impeccable, without trace of the Canadianisms that so incense the French. My letter of introduction, quickly faxed across the Atlantic by an obliging friend at the University of Quebec, manages to suggest that I am a student of literature without actually lying about my profession. Down in the ground-floor reception area, they have read it casually, issued me with a reader’s card,
and waved me encouragingly upstairs to the second floor. I approach the glass cage framed in ornate wooden carving that blocks the entrance to the manuscipt room and exchange the library card for a small disc of green plastic. It assigns me a seat at one of the long tables where I settle my belongings before proceeding to the reserve desk at the far end of the room. There, I exchange the green disc for an orange one that I must finally surrender before a manuscript may be brought out. I fill out my first request form but the clerk will not take my little orange token and sends me back to my seat.

Twenty minutes later, I am summoned to the desk of the assistant manuscript librarian back at the end of the room. He also reads my letter, more carefully this time, inquiring about my interests. M. Richaud—that’s the name engraved into the little sign sitting in front of him—seems unhappy and faintly annoyed by my presence, asking in a high quavering voice how long I plan to stay. A day or two, a week perhaps. Who knows what I might find here? How can I really say what I am looking for? After much negotiation, he finally grants me cautious permission, wiping a pasty brow with a pale hand before correcting the call number on my request form and appending his signature. Within a few days, M. Richaud clearly regrets his decision. From time to time, he rises nervously from his place at the end of the room and ventures forward to spy on all the scholars, his scrawny body hovering awkwardly near the central information desk, his damp eye peering at me with particular distrust. He must suspect that I am only a tourist in the halls of scholarship, a dilettante, the kind who probably harbours a forbidden ballpoint somewhere on her person. He worries that he was wrong to let me pursue my quest. I have been here several days. I do not seem to be going away.

Certainly, his confident underling, the assistant assistant librarian, a tall, chestnut-haired man all too aware of his own good looks, knows that I am only an interloper. Every day, as I arrive in the morning but minutes after nine, eager to exchange my green disc for the orange one, and settle at a desk that is comfortably removed from M. Richaud’s line of sight, the assistant’s assistant spots me and salutes me with an ironic
“Bonjour, mademoiselle,”
as if to say, “My pitiable boss may not have the stamina to challenge you, but I see right through your scholarly pretensions.” He smiles knowingly and moves on. Standing guard at the counter of the reserve desk, the clerks, in their turn, eye me warily as I pass over my request and return to my place. Ten minutes later, one of them rolls up to the table with a metal cart, the top of which is fitted with a bin lined in yellow felt. The clerk removes a document box and places it in front of me. I don my white gloves, lift off the lid of File 263, and take out the first notebook: 1890–1891. Here, at least, is a kind of home.

Ah, but he’s handsome, my soldier. I met him alone at the station yesterday afternoon—Adrien and Dick were both busy—and I was quite surprised when he stepped off the train. He looked so grown-up. I have seen him often enough in his uniform, on weekends and at his dear grandmother’s funeral last winter, but yesterday for some reason he looked so full of authority and health. To think that he did not have a single attack in Orléans since his summer break—or at least no serious ones, just some laboured breathing. If growing up means being free of that horrible ailment, it will be a
blessing, even if I will miss my little wolf.

The doctor was home for dinner, anxious to see Marcel, and, of course, he wanted to launch into a discussion of studies and careers right away. I had to hold him back so that our first evening together would remain a lighthearted affair. The boy needs time to settle in and let his lovely dark hair grow again!

After all his loneliness (and mine), he told us that he quite enjoyed the military life in the end. I wonder what happened to the twelve tablets of chocolate that I instructed him to set aside. He probably gobbled them all up in one go last autumn and by summer had utterly forgotten our scheme to get him through his exile!

He even asked the Colonel to extend another six months. The man quite rightly rejected such a request. It was nonsense, just one of my Marcel’s little fantasies. Anyone can see he will not be a military man or, for that matter, a doctor like his father, but there will be no shortage of careers open to him once he completes his studies. There is the question of willpower; he has always lacked his father’s and his brother’s stamina, but his intelligence will find a suitable place for itself, of that I have no doubt. His great sensitivity should be of use in diplomacy at least, if not in law. And as long as he can count on his health, he will work hard, I am sure of it.

Well, there, the cake is eaten, all twelve pieces gone. The year flew by, just as I told him it would, and he is home again. I have let him sleep late on his first morning home, but it is now almost ten and I have finished my correspondence. I will go and see if he is stirring.

Marcel went over and saw Jacques Bizet yesterday afternoon and came home very excited. He says Mme Straus seems ready to admit him into her salon, so he has well and truly grown up. I know that she and Jacques’s stepfather have not always considered Marcel suitable company for the boy, but they seem to have changed their opinion, and are now very welcoming. (Such nonsense it all was, Marcel can be extravagant in his emotions, but the idea that he was actually a bad influence on Jacques was too ridiculous. All those two ever do is discuss literature. At any rate, Marcel has never taken any offence, and has always held Mme Straus in the highest regard.)

Finally began my reading of Pierre Loti’s book last night. His description of his mother, drawn on his earliest memories, is deeply touching.

Papa and Uncle Louis are to dine with us this evening. I thought lamb would be good for a change. Marcel will find his grandfather much changed, I fear. How differently people react to death. I never doubted that Uncle Louis loved his wife, but he has always been a joyful widower, liberated from domestic cares, happy to play with his coquettes. (Georges would be just the same, I imagine.) Papa, on the other hand, seems so shrunken since Maman’s death, and I find it difficult to reach him in his grief.

Marcel wants to attend Mme Arman de Caillavet’s salon this Sunday (or whatever it is she now calls herself.
That family adds names at a rate one can hardly keep up with—
de
this,
de
that.) He had visited once or twice before his military service, and has made friends with both her son Gaston and his friend, the Poquet girl. He says Mme Arman de C. will be delighted to have him back. He greatly hopes for further conversation with her most regular guest (and, they say, her lover), Anatole France. I said I would ask his father whether he may go.

Much discussion about Marcel’s career prospects at dinner and Adrien told him he may visit Mme de Caillavet’s on Sunday, if on Monday he goes down to the Sorbonne to register for law. His father also wants him to give more thought to the political science program at the Ecole Libre, saying that is the best preparation should he chose diplomacy. Marcel still says he would prefer a literary career, but will follow his father’s wishes. And really, it is only sensible, although I cannot quite imagine Marcel as a lawyer and the separations that diplomacy would entail quite frighten me. At least, his health continues strong, even if I had to issue a gentle reminder yesterday about the number of pâtisseries it is wise to consume in one afternoon. His presence almost consoles me for his grandmother’s absence.

My joy over Marcel’s apparent good health was premature. A horrible attack yesterday evening—one of his worst
kind with that awful wheezing and gulping that makes you think he is going to expire at that very moment.

It happened after dinner. His father and Dick had been in high spirits during the meal. It was their usual banter, but particularly joyous because Dick has announced he is definite about medicine once he finishes at the lycée. It was no surprise, of course, but Adrien did make a huge show of congratulating him. They were laughing about it all through dinner with Adrien regaling him with tales of all the pranks they played at the Faculty in his student days. Marcel joined in at first, but became quieter and quieter. We had just moved into the salon when he started that little wheezing sound of his. It is such a small noise, but I swear it is so horrible it could summon me from the other side of the Boulevard Malesherbes. His father told him to sit down and breathe calmly, but it only got worse and worse. We helped him to his room and tried to prop him up on pillows, but by this time he was panicking. Finally Adrien gave him some morphine—Marcel’s never liked the stuff and we hardly ever use it, but there seemed no choice. He quieted down, but still it was several hours before his breathing was regular again. I sat with him and read to him from Loti, which he has just started himself, while Adrien and Dick went back to their coffee.

T
HESE ARE MY
own translations. You will excuse me if they are not as elegant as they might be, if I seem unable to purge a certain Gallic extravagance from her prose, perhaps making her appear pretentious where she is, in fact, highly
sensitive. The syntax is slippery; her constructions a trifle formal by contemporary standards. How shall I deliver her voice to you?