Fade. Part 13

It's entirely possible that Paul had a crush on his aunt and that she excited him physically. Rosanna could have easily become the object of an adolescent's fantasy. My own memories of her cease at an early age. Despite her talent for hairdressing, I do not recall that she ever opened a shop of her own, in either Canada or the United States. She seldom returned to Frenchtown and I have no distinct memories of her visits. She was never a topic in my parents' house. No one in the family knows whether she is dead or alive.

I have been frank in my remarks about Rosanna and I hope it does not seem as if I have spoken ill of her. I think it is important, however, to show how Paul idealized his aunt in the narrative and I make mention of this to support my belief that his narrative is fiction and that he was making use of his standard approach to his writing; that is, taking actual people and places and coloring them with his own brushstrokes, rendering them finally as figures of his imagination.

Regarding Rudolphe Toubert: While hardly a paragon of virtue-as our police records indicate-he was not the vicious person Paul depicts in the narrative. He was less than heroic and often strayed beyond the law. He cheated on his wife, which Paul reports, and carried on affairs with women only a stone's throw from his home. Yet, his wife, who deserves sympathy because of the illness that confined her to a wheelchair, was not the most likable person in French-town and not the easiest woman to live with. (Her illness today would probably be considered psychosomatic.) She was sharp-tongued and never had a kind word for anyone even before she became a prisoner of her wheelchair. This does not excuse Rudolphe Toubert's extramarital affairs, of course, but it does help explain his promiscuous ways.

It is true that Rudolphe Toubert served the people-however, illegally-of Frenchtown in the Depression era. It must be remembered that French Canadians were still considered poor immigrants in those days and were not highly regarded by bankers and business leaders. Rudolphe gave people hope through his various lotteries. (Sold (Sold them hope is a more accurate way of putting it, as Paul's father said in the narrative.) But Rudolphe Toubert never welshed, always paid off the winners, and regularly lent large amounts of money to the people of Frenchtown without collateral, asking people to simply pay off the debt at interest rates that, while high, were not prohibitive. them hope is a more accurate way of putting it, as Paul's father said in the narrative.) But Rudolphe Toubert never welshed, always paid off the winners, and regularly lent large amounts of money to the people of Frenchtown without collateral, asking people to simply pay off the debt at interest rates that, while high, were not prohibitive.

In the matter of Rudolphe Toubert's cruelty, it is a fact that he arranged for the man Paul called Jean Paul Rodier to be taught a lesson for refusing to pay his debt. Without punishment, his entire system would break down. However, Rudolphe Toubert ordered his goons to merely shake Jean Paul up a bit, give him a slap or two. But the goons got carried away with their a.s.signment. Jean Paul was among the most disliked persons in French-town, had a big mouth, was known to beat up his wife, who weighed no more than ninety pounds, and did not pay his debts. Few people mourned the a.s.sault on Jean Paul Rodier.

I realized that all of this makes me sound as if I'm apologizing for Rudolphe Toubert just as I realize that I have painted an unflattering portrait of our Aunt Rosanna. But my purposes are different from PauPs. He was writing fiction and I am trying to devote myself to fact. I also believe that I am in a better position than Paul was to know the facts and to recognize them as such.

I once had a conversation with Paul-after the publication of his second novel, Come Home, Come Home Come Home, Come Home- in which we talked about the old family celebrations, particularly New Year's Day, which the French Canadians call the Jour de l'An, Jour de l'An, The family always gathered at my grandfather's house, and there was much food and drink and singing of old songs. It was, in a way, a bigger celebration than Christmas. The family always gathered at my grandfather's house, and there was much food and drink and singing of old songs. It was, in a way, a bigger celebration than Christmas.

At any rate, Paul and I began to reminisce about the celebrations of our childhood and ont Jour de l'An ont Jour de l'An in particular, during which he and I stole away in the barn to smoke some forbidden cigarettes and accidentally set fire to the hay. We had to scramble to extinguish the flames and were fortunate to do so before they spread. I will never forget the panicky whinnying of my grandfather's old horse, Richard. The horse sounded almost human in its terror of the smoke and flames. in particular, during which he and I stole away in the barn to smoke some forbidden cigarettes and accidentally set fire to the hay. We had to scramble to extinguish the flames and were fortunate to do so before they spread. I will never forget the panicky whinnying of my grandfather's old horse, Richard. The horse sounded almost human in its terror of the smoke and flames.

Paul fell into silence after we had discussed the incident. "That really happened, didn't it?" he finally asked.

"Of course it happened," I replied. "Why? Don't you remember?"

"Yes, yes," he said. "But you know, Jules, I have fictionalized so much of what happened in those days that sometimes, rereading my books and thinking of the past, I'm not sure what's real and what isn't."

That's one of the reasons why we cannot trust Paul to write factually. His imagination, which was one of his great gifts, not only ran wild but enabled him to take the ordinary events and people of his life and make them larger than life. The father in Bruises in Paradise Bruises in Paradise was a memorable character whom critics compared to the fisherman in Hemingway's was a memorable character whom critics compared to the fisherman in Hemingway's Old Man and the Sea, Old Man and the Sea, while my uncle, Paul's father, on whom the character was based, was an ordinary man, a good man, but hardly the tragic figure Paul created out of his art and craft. while my uncle, Paul's father, on whom the character was based, was an ordinary man, a good man, but hardly the tragic figure Paul created out of his art and craft.

I was once told by the chief of police here that I had little or no imagination. I took the remark as criticism until he told me that he was, in fact, giving me high praise. He said that my strength as a detective was my ability to see the facts as simply facts, to be always logical in my investigations. He said I was seldom thrown off the track or went off on a wild-goose chase because I was able to separate clues from false leads or red herrings. I think these same qualities allow me to judge Paul's ma.n.u.script accurately. I am also justified in making the observations about Frenchtown and the events Paul writes about not only because I have been a lifelong resident but because of my position as a police officer. A great amount of information comes in and out of police headquarters in a small city, information that concerns the past as well as the present. We have a complete file, for instance, on Rudolphe Toubert, including the fact that he received citations from the city for his activities on behalf of the youth of Frenchtown. Paul takes a dim view of Rudolphe Toubert's monopoly of the newspaper routes in the story. While Rudolphe Toubert may have enjoyed his power over the youngsters, he also gave hundreds of Frenchtown boys their first opportunity to earn money during the hard days of the Depression. He provided them with protection (the paper boys in the other sections of town were often beaten up or intimidated by older boys and a timid one like Bernard, for instance, would not have survived the rough-and-tumble world of downtown Monument). Paul also fails to note the annual Christmas parties Rudolphe Toubert held for the boys and the gifts each of them received. I believe that for dramatic purposes in his novel Paul needed a villain and Rudolphe Toubert served ideally in that role.

That leads us to Rudolphe Toubert's death. We still carry his death here in our files as an unsolved murder.

His body was found in his office on December 19, 1938, with a number of stab wounds. That same night, one of Rudolphe Toubert's employees, Herve Boisseneau, left town (was observed by a reliable witness boarding the B&M train for Boston). Rudolphe Toubert's safe had been rifled (Boisseneau knew the combination). Herve Boisseneau was never seen again and the murder weapon was never found. Rudolphe Toubert and Herve Boisseneau had been engaged in a fierce argument the day before the killing. Boisseneau was a huge man, capable of overpowering Rudolphe Toubert and inflicting the fatal wounds.

It is important to note that in the narrative Paul does not actually describe Rudolphe Toubert's murder. Why this omission when he did not hesitate to describe so many other scenes in detail?

The events of that tragic night are matters of fact. Paul's father was wounded in the skirmish and rushed to the Monument Hospital. Although he lost a great amount of blood, his wound was not considered critical and he made a complete recovery. At no time was his life in danger, according to police reports still available here in the files. Paul obviously exaggerated his father's injury to provide a climax for the events of that night. It is also tragic that his brother Bernard died three weeks later, suddenly and without apparent cause, according to Paul's narrative. In reality, an autopsy was performed and revealed his brother suffered from a congenital heart defect of which his family was unaware. As so often happened in those days, Paul's brother was considered "delicate" and this was given as the reason for his lack of vigorous appet.i.te and low energy level.

As to the sudden death of our uncle Vincent years before- which Paul attempts to link with the fade and Bernard's death- I am using the resources of my own memory as well as my interrogation of Uncle Edgar to corroborate the fact that Vincent was besieged by illness from the day of his birth, seldom went out of doors to play, and was a grade behind other children his age because he missed so much school. His death, which naturally plunged the family into sadness, was not entirely unexpected.

It amazes me that Paul took so many disparate events and forged them into a narrative that smacks of reality until one inspects each incident and character separately and sees how Paul distorted them for fictional purposes.

One further note on the now famous strike at the Monument Comb Shop. Paul describes the strike in very simple terms without going into any details of a complex situation. An important omission is the complete absence of Howard Haynes, owner of the comb shop. Howard Haynes dealt directly with the strikers and his office at the factory was the scene of the negotiations. He pa.s.sed through the picket lines every day and was booed soundly on occasion. He was never the object of violence, because Howard Haynes had always been a fair employer. The time of the unions had arrived, however, and industry was in an era of change. Men like Howard Haynes soon parted from the scene.

Why did Paul not mention Howard Haynes at all or deal with the strike issues? I believe there is a simple answer. He ignored Howard Haynes because he wanted to focus on Rudolphe Toubert as the villain of his ma.n.u.script. This is only my theory, of course, but I am convinced that there is merit in it.

I must deal now with my own relations.h.i.+p with my cousin Paul, although I have only a minor role in this narrative. Nevertheless, I was surprised to find that my character was so so bitter about Silas B. Thornton Junior High School when I remember my one year there and my subsequent years at Monument High School as among the happiest of my life. It is true, of course, that I was apprehensive about Silas B. Most of the students who arrived there in the ninth grade from parochial schools were latecomers-the public school system in those days operated on a three-year junior high system (7th, 8th, and 9th grades)-and we all felt lost and abandoned in our first contacts with public school teachers and students. Most of us adjusted quickly. It is possible, however, that I warned Paul about his writing and my fear that his work would not be accepted because he was a Canuck. This rings true. However (and again I emphasize), I do not remember making the statement. Isn't this what Paul has always done-made use of a real emotion for fictional purposes? bitter about Silas B. Thornton Junior High School when I remember my one year there and my subsequent years at Monument High School as among the happiest of my life. It is true, of course, that I was apprehensive about Silas B. Most of the students who arrived there in the ninth grade from parochial schools were latecomers-the public school system in those days operated on a three-year junior high system (7th, 8th, and 9th grades)-and we all felt lost and abandoned in our first contacts with public school teachers and students. Most of us adjusted quickly. It is possible, however, that I warned Paul about his writing and my fear that his work would not be accepted because he was a Canuck. This rings true. However (and again I emphasize), I do not remember making the statement. Isn't this what Paul has always done-made use of a real emotion for fictional purposes?

Let me point out that Paul disguised only slightly the ident.i.ty of the teacher who rejected his story. That story, very much revised, later was included in the Baker collection of best short stories of the year (1949) and eventually became the first chapter and gave the t.i.tle to Paul's first novel. (In his introduction to his later short-story collection, Paul paid tribute to this teacher for her honesty and candor.) Paul and I were not close for the remainder of our year at Silas B. and did not become close again until our senior year in high school when Paul was chosen as Cla.s.s Poet and I was chosen as Most Friendly in a poll of our cla.s.smates for the school yearbook. Two Frenchtown boys given praise and homage by their cla.s.smates, a kind of landmark for our time! In celebration, Paul and I sneaked into our grandfather's cellar and toasted our triumph with his homemade elderberry wine and pledged our undying loyalty to each other just before we both vomited onto the dirt-covered floor. Paul went on to be more than a high school poet, of course, while I eventually joined the Monument Police Force.

Along with 90 percent of my cla.s.s, I was drafted into the World War II army in July of 1942, only five weeks after receiving my high school diploma and a few months after the j.a.panese bombed Pearl Harbor. Paul was rejected because of a perforated eardrum, a minor affliction that caused many military rejections on the basis that no one with an ear defect could withstand the booming sounds of battle.

Paul was shattered by his designation as a 4-F and actually wept tears one night as we sat on the back porch at his house. It is difficult for people today to appreciate the wild patriotism of those years and how young men (and women) were eager to serve their country even at the risk of dying.

Many from Monument died during the war, either in battle or in war-related accidents. Their names are inscribed in bronze letters on the World War II Memorial in Monument Park, across from headquarters, a statue I see whenever I look out my window here in the office. Among the names on that Monument is that of Omer Batisse, whom Paul identified as Omer LaBatt in his narrative. Omer lost his life on Iwo Jima in one of the bloodiest battles of the South Pacific, a member of a Marine detachment that a.s.saulted the island on the second day of fighting. Although he died a hero, I remember him as a big stupid hulk of a boy (this does not mean he could not die a hero, of course) who hung around the streets and picked up money doing odd jobs (probably strong-arm stuff) for Rudolphe Toubert. Thus, it's entirely possible that he bullied and chased Paul through the streets and alleys of Frenchtown, although Paul gave no indication of those happenings to anyone as I recall. As to the boy Omer accosted in the alley, I have been unable to verify any part of this incident. Since it involves the use of the fade, I take it as fabrication.

I must now address the topic of s.e.x in the narrative, particularly as it applies to the store owner Paul named Mr. Dondier and also the twins he identifies as Emerson and Page Winslow. To Paul's credit, he used completely fict.i.tious names for these characters and I am inclined to regard them as altogether fictional, although they are based loosely on actual people. I have little firsthand knowledge of the real twins he portrayed in the narrative, but I knew very well the man who might have been Mr. Dondier and I am frankly stunned at Paul's revelation and feel very strongly that he invented the entire episode. That store owner (it was not a meat market, incidentally) was above suspicion. The girl is n.o.body whom I can identify. If the fade is fiction-can it be anything else?-isn't it logical to accept everything connected with the fade, instances of spying, in particular, as fiction?

This same logic applies to the characters Paul named Emerson and Page Winslow. The act of incest Paul describes is shocking to me, although he was not explicit in his details and he has dealt with more explicit s.e.xual scenes in his earlier books.

Page Winslow (to use Paul's pseudonym for her) stands out vividly in my memory because of one moment in my life. I saw her coming out of the Monument Ladies' Apparel store one winter afternoon in brilliant sunlight, her hands hidden in a fur m.u.f.f, a long brown fur coat enclosing her body. She stepped out of the store and through the snow and slush and into a waiting automobile like a princess pa.s.sing through her subjects. She was probably the most beautiful girl I had ever seen and I felt my jaw dropping as I stood dazzled on the sidewalk watching her pa.s.sage.

Her brother, known as Emerson Winslow in the narrative, remained in our cla.s.s at school until his junior year. I knew him slightly, enough to greet him with a casual h.e.l.lo as we pa.s.sed. He always looked-the word we would use these days is cool. cool. Never ruffled. He did not move in any clique but could have been the leader of his own clique if he chose to. The scene Paul wrote in which the brother and sister made love was all the more shocking to me because of what happened in the future. The girl Paul called Page Winslow died at the age of sixteen in a boating accident off the coast of Maine. Later that year, Emerson, who was a junior, left Monument High School. There were reports that he enrolled in an exclusive prep school in northern Vermont. Someone later said that he became a conscientious objector during World War II and served as a medical aide in a hospital in England. I know this much to be certain: The boy Paul named Emerson Winslow is now a contemplative monk in a Roman Catholic monastery in the foothills of the Smoky Mountains in Tennessee. Never ruffled. He did not move in any clique but could have been the leader of his own clique if he chose to. The scene Paul wrote in which the brother and sister made love was all the more shocking to me because of what happened in the future. The girl Paul called Page Winslow died at the age of sixteen in a boating accident off the coast of Maine. Later that year, Emerson, who was a junior, left Monument High School. There were reports that he enrolled in an exclusive prep school in northern Vermont. Someone later said that he became a conscientious objector during World War II and served as a medical aide in a hospital in England. I know this much to be certain: The boy Paul named Emerson Winslow is now a contemplative monk in a Roman Catholic monastery in the foothills of the Smoky Mountains in Tennessee.

It is now 2:43 A.M. A.M. by the digital clock on my desk and my back aches and my eyes are on fire. by the digital clock on my desk and my back aches and my eyes are on fire.

A moment ago I read over what I have written thus far and, frankly, do not like the way I sound on paper. The police reports I write are impersonal and there is a specific vocabulary available for your use with certain words serving as crutches-perpetrator, warrant, incarcerate, unlawful possession, etc. In writing this report, it was necessary for me to develop an instant and completely new vocabulary. I have tried to be objective, as if giving testimony in court, where the only impression I have to make is one of honesty and competence. Have I accomplished this at the cost of sounding less humane and compa.s.sionate than I really am? etc. In writing this report, it was necessary for me to develop an instant and completely new vocabulary. I have tried to be objective, as if giving testimony in court, where the only impression I have to make is one of honesty and competence. Have I accomplished this at the cost of sounding less humane and compa.s.sionate than I really am?

Thus, this report provides no clue to the high regard I have always had for Paul, how proud I and his family have been, our concern for the happiness that always seemed to elude him. He never married, never knew the bliss of wife and children. He never took advantage of his fame, never traveled to foreign places (he turned down dozens of speaking engagements and invitations to visit places like the great cities of Europe). He avoided interviews, did not allow his picture to be taken, devoted himself completely to his writing, and to his family-his parents, brothers and sisters, cousins, nephews and nieces. He was loyal to old friends. I have not mentioned Pete Lagniard and how, as a silent partner, Paul set Pete up in a printing business. (Pete, who was perhaps the only character in the narrative portrayed with utter truth and no fictional touches, died of a heart attack in 1973 while attending a Red Sox baseball game in Fenway Park.) Paul seldom left Monument or Frenchtown, always lived alone, gave most of his money away (he supported his parents). His only pleasures aside from his writing (if writing was a pleasure for him) seemed to derive from his nephews and nieces, whom he obviously adored and who visited him often, making his apartment their headquarters in Frenchtown.

My fingers stumble as I finish this report and sadness holds me in its grip. Am I sad because reading the ma.n.u.script has brought back the memory of days long gone that could have been happier for all of us? Writing about Paul and his narrative has been like looking into a mirror as I typed. A trick mirror, maybe, like the kind found in carnivals and amus.e.m.e.nt parks. The tricky mirror of memory-making it difficult to separate the real from the unreal.

I believe what I have written is the truth, however. I am convinced that I have sifted fact from fantasy, fiction from reality. Thus, what Paul has written in the ma.n.u.script is fiction. Without any doubt or conjecture. To believe otherwise is to believe in the impossible. Thus, what Paul has written in the ma.n.u.script is fiction. Without any doubt or conjecture. To believe otherwise is to believe in the impossible.

My grandfather, Detective Jules Roget, does not look like a detective, and he does not look like a grandfather, either. I think of detectives as tough-talking private eyes in the movies and I think of grandfathers as kindly old men with potbellies, silver hair, and spectacles perched on red noses. My grandfather Roget is not like either of those. His voice is soft, almost a murmur. He has only touches of gray in his iron-black hair. He is tall and slim, without the slightest hint of a paunch.

He also does not resemble the person who wrote the report on the ma.n.u.script. That is, obviously, the side of him I have never seen-the police detective whom suspects face under questioning. Yet I was grateful for that relentless logic, that impersonal parade of evidence he marched past my eyes in the report.

Paul's narrative of life in Frenchtown fifty years ago had enchanted me. I delighted in the autobiographical overtones simply because I have devoured every piece of material about him and here was new, exciting stuff. The people in the story-from his parents to his uncle Victor to his best friend, Pete, and even the brief appearance of my grandfather-held me in thrall. I never for a moment considered that the narrative was more than just that-the fragment of a novel, fiction. In fact, as I read the ma.n.u.script I realized that Paul had been reaching into new territory, the realm of fantasy. I grieved for all the lost possibilities because this probably was the last thing he had written.

However, confronted by Meredith's reaction to the story, her doubts, her veiled hints, her troubled countenance, I had allowed myself to regard the ma.n.u.script as possibly, just possibly, autobiographical. What if What if... Paul Roget's own question coming back to haunt me.

Having finished my grandfather's report, I slumped with relief on the sofa. The fade, of course, had to be fiction. To think otherwise was to confront the impossible, as Gramps, that most rational of men, had pointed out. That way madness lies That way madness lies- Shakespeare, whom Professor Waronski quotes incessantly.

"Finished?" Meredith asked a few moments later, peeking around the corner of the bedroom doorway. She had sequestered herself with a Broome ma.n.u.script while I read the report.

Hugging the report to my chest, I nodded.

"Impressed?" she asked as she sat beside me on the sofa.

"Very," I said. "It was like a dash of cold water, Meredith. Just what I needed."

"I agree," Meredith said. "When I first read it, I clutched it just as you're doing. Like holding on to a lifesaver."

When I first read it ... s.h.i.+t-would the doubts begin once more? ... s.h.i.+t-would the doubts begin once more?

She evidently saw my face change-did color drain from my cheeks again or did I just register surprise? She said: "Please bear with me, Susan, okay? Let me play the devil's advocate for a little while. ..."

Again I nodded, not trusting my voice this time.

"You see, Susan, what your grandfather writes in his report isn't entirely contrary to my interpretation of the ma.n.u.script if we put the fade aside for a moment." This was the first time she had mentioned the word. "Can we?"

"Let's," I said, still stingy with words.

"Okay, then, invisibility aside, I am certain that Paul was writing the truth. About his family, his aunt Rosanna, his friend Pete, the whole bit. You see, your grandfather continually betrays himself in that report. For instance, he saw his aunt Rosanna one way, Paul saw her another way. But he does not deny her existence. In fact, he doesn't deny the existence of any of the people in the ma.n.u.script. He only denies the way Paul portrayed them. And who can say whether your grandfather is right and Paul is wrong? The point is that the characters in the ma.n.u.script were clearly recognizable to him. And this is not true of Paul's other work, except for the father and son in Bruises Bruises and even then the resemblances to Paul and his father were superficial. In none of his other novels or stories were the characters recognized as real people. But in this ma.n.u.script, everybody is. The first names are real names." and even then the resemblances to Paul and his father were superficial. In none of his other novels or stories were the characters recognized as real people. But in this ma.n.u.script, everybody is. The first names are real names."

I got up and went to the window and looked out at the night, the lights winking distantly across the river, the water pebbled like a certain kind of black leather. Lights flashed in the air as a helicopter whirled its way through the sky. I sensed that Meredith was waiting for me to say something.

"But where does all this lead us, Meredith?" I asked, turning back to her.

"It leads us to the fact that Paul Roget has written his most realistic, autobiographical novel yet. And if he wrote it that way, then he wanted us to believe what happened in the novel. And we must believe all of it or none of it."

"I have a theory," I said, not certain whether I did did have a theory at all. "Maybe Paul had to create a real world so that the reader would have a theory at all. "Maybe Paul had to create a real world so that the reader would be forced be forced to believe the fantasy. But that doesn't mean the fantasy was real." A dart of pain appeared above my left eye, like an old enemy, a.s.serting itself when I've pulled an all-nighter before a big exam or have written long past the arrival of fatigue. to believe the fantasy. But that doesn't mean the fantasy was real." A dart of pain appeared above my left eye, like an old enemy, a.s.serting itself when I've pulled an all-nighter before a big exam or have written long past the arrival of fatigue.

Meredith joined me at the window, our shoulders brus.h.i.+ng. "I never tire of this view," she said. "It's always changing, never the same."

The intimacy of the night and the moment gave me courage. "Why are you so adamant, Meredith?" I asked. "Why do you insist that Paul was writing the truth?" Plunging on, I said: "Do you realize what the truth would mean? That the fade was real? That Paul had the ability to render himself invisible? That he killed a man fifty years ago in Monument?" I almost shuddered saying these words.

"I know, I know," she murmured wearily, regretfully, leaning her forehead against the windowpane, her eyes closed. "It's crazy, but ..."

I waited, hoping she would say: You're right, your grandfather is right, let's call it a day, let's put out the lights and go to sleep. Weariness enveloped my own body and that vulnerable spot above my eye pulsed with a brighter pain.

Meredith turned to me abruptly, clasping her hands together. "One more thing, Susan." Voice brisk again. "Please?" Without waiting for a reply, she asked: "Remember Paul's refusal to be photographed and, in the ma.n.u.script, Adelard's warning about photographs?"

"Yes," I said, reluctantly, trying to disguise my impatience.

"I have something to tell you about photographs," she said, "and then we'll call it quits. I won't even ask you to comment."

I said nothing, waiting for her to go on, knowing that my protests would be useless. Besides, I was a guest in her apartment and she had been kind to me from the moment we met.

"I told you about the Coover, how Paul refused to come to Manhattan, didn't I? There was an epilogue to that particular episode. Paul was suddenly vaulted into more prominence than ever before. People were curious about this man who sidestepped publicity, whose photo had never appeared anywhere. As might have been expected, there were people who were determined to photograph him. A hotshot photographer with a reputation for tracking down the most elusive of subjects got an a.s.signment from Lit Times Lit Times to shoot Paul Roget. to shoot Paul Roget. Lit Times Lit Times was a trendy literary magazine that loved gossip, inside news, exclusives. It failed after a few years but it was powerful and influential in its heyday. was a trendy literary magazine that loved gossip, inside news, exclusives. It failed after a few years but it was powerful and influential in its heyday.

"Lit Times dispatched the hotshot to Monument. All hush-hush. She was a friend of mine, Virginia Blakely, my roommate at Kansas State, but didn't confide in me, antic.i.p.ating that I would have tipped off Paul, which I would have done. It took her a week but she managed to track him down and took three quick shots of him, at a distance, as he came out of his apartment building and got into a car-" dispatched the hotshot to Monument. All hush-hush. She was a friend of mine, Virginia Blakely, my roommate at Kansas State, but didn't confide in me, antic.i.p.ating that I would have tipped off Paul, which I would have done. It took her a week but she managed to track him down and took three quick shots of him, at a distance, as he came out of his apartment building and got into a car-"

"Photographs? Of Paul?" Excitement sent my voice an octave above normal.

She smiled wryly, held up her hands. "Hold off, Susan. Let me finish. Virginia brought them to me after Lit Times Lit Times rejected them. Let me show you why they rejected them...." rejected them. Let me show you why they rejected them...."

She went to the secretary again and opened that same drawer and this time withdrew a manila envelope. I literally held my breath, my heart behaving erratically, the headache almost forgotten. Even an obscure, rejected, out-of-focus photo of Paul Roget would be a discovery of major proportions to the world. And priceless to me.

I left the window as Meredith placed the envelope on the coffee table, and removed three eight-by-ten photographs, black and white, grainy, stark, like newspaper photos. They showed the front end of an automobile, the front steps of a building, a curtained window in the background. The focal point was the blurred figure of a man caught in midstride as he moved toward the car.

But wait.

As my eyes scanned the photographs I saw that the figure in the first photo had grown fainter in the second photograph and was not in the third photo at all, having disappeared into the car when the third picture was snapped.

"Notice anything special?" Meredith asked.

"Of course," I replied impatiently, disappointed at having come so close to seeing a photo of Paul Roget and then not seeing him. "It's all blurred. That hotshot photographer goofed up."

"Look again," Meredith said. "Closely. See how sharp the pictures are? The car, the front steps, that lace curtain? Fine details, remarkable, really, for a high-speed telephoto lens."

I looked up, wary again, knowing I was being led to places I did not want to go.

"The fact is, Susan, that Virginia didn't goof up. Neither did her camera. Everything in the photos is clear, and sharp, except Paul. The figure of Paul isn't really blurred or out of focus. He's like a ghost image, a figure that was either about to materialize or vanish altogether in the first two pictures. And he's entirely gone in the third photo...."

"He's in the car," I said, keeping my voice level and reasonable.

"Is he?" Meredith asked. "Or has he faded? Started fading in the first photo and was completely invisible in the last?"

Sleep was elusive that night. Traffic sounds, the swis.h.i.+ng of tires on the pavement nine floors below-had it begun to rain?-reached my ears and the grandmother clock in the living room chimed at quarterly intervals and tolled the hours, like notes of doom in the quiet apartment. No dramatics, Susan, I muttered as I tossed and turned on the bed, punching the pillow, tugging at the sheet, and then lying still, unmoving, hoping to invite sleep that way. Thank G.o.d my headache was gone.

I must have slept occasionally because I suddenly plunged into dreams, vague and insubstantial, faces swimming in mist and rain. One of the faces was my grandfather's and I emerged from sleep, saw by the digital clock that it was three forty-five. I thought of what my grandfather had told me about Paul and the public library in Monument and why I had not mentioned it to Meredith, but the thought was too much to manage as I drifted off again, this time into a deeper, encompa.s.sing sleep. When I woke up, morning light filtered into the room through dripping windows, a foghorn sending its mournful call up from the river.

The digital clock announced nine forty-two-the alarm had not gone off at nine.

Padding down the hallway, I pa.s.sed Meredith's bedroom, glanced in, saw the bed unoccupied and unmade. Listened for sounds of the shower at the bathroom door. Peeked in, not there. She was not in the kitchen or the living room. At the window, I looked out at a gray morning, the waters of the river like chips of slate, the high-rises s.h.i.+mmering in the rain and mists.

Meredith and I usually went to midmorning ma.s.s at St. Pat's on Sunday, busing it back and forth, picking up the Times Times and croissants on the way back. She had evidently gone off without me today. Was she angry? Or merely avoiding me? Had those final words of hers last night suddenly sounded unreal and impossible this morning-to her as they did to me?-and sent her running out of the apartment? and croissants on the way back. She had evidently gone off without me today. Was she angry? Or merely avoiding me? Had those final words of hers last night suddenly sounded unreal and impossible this morning-to her as they did to me?-and sent her running out of the apartment?

On the coffee table I found a neatly stacked pile of ma.n.u.script pages, a note on top of them.

Dearest Susan:So sorry-I did not play fair with you last night. Haven't played fair since the beginning. Attached is the remainder of Paul's ma.n.u.script, which I did not show you or Jules. Maybe it will explain all-maybe nothing. Anyway, forgive me. See you later today.Meredith

Almost dreamlike, my hand moving in slow motion, I lifted the note and looked down at the first page of the ma.n.u.script.

I am writing now of Frenchtown in the late spring of 1963 when I lived in ... ...

I glanced away, rubbed my eyes, lowered myself on the sofa, drew the stack of pages toward me, and began to read those first words again.

PAUL

I am writing now of Frenchtown in the late spring of 1963 when I lived in a three-room tenement on Mechanic Street, on the top floor of a three-decker across from St. Jude's Church. The tenement was adequate for my needs: a kitchen where I prepared simple meals or heated up my mother's ca.s.seroles on the old gas stove; the bedroom where I slept fitfully in the small hours of the night; and the front room where I wrote, directly opposite the huge stained-gla.s.s window portraying St. Jude. From the outside, I saw only the leaded outlines of his figure, like a giant paint-by-number portrait.

There was a small porch where I sat sometimes in the evening, aware of Frenchtown all around me. The house is still there and so is the church, and so is Frenchtown, although it isn't French anymore and was never a town to begin with. That first generation of French Canadians who gave the area its name have either died or live out their days in housing projects with terrible names like Sunset Park or Last Horizon. Most of their sons and daughters have left Frenchtown, although some remain in Monument in homes constructed during the boom years after World War II. As the Canucks moved out of Frenchtown, others moved in. First the blacks, who swarmed the streets and quickened the tempo of life, bringing jazz and blues from the ghettos of Boston and New York City and Chicago. The Puerto Ricans came next, mingling with the blacks and sometimes fighting with them, both races finally accommodating each other in a tentative and uneasy peace. Now the Puerto Ricans outnumber the blacks and the Canucks, and fill the air with spicy smells, the acrid odor of celluloid only a dim memory.

The shop whistles no longer blast through the air of Frenchtown. The old b.u.t.ton shop ceased operation years ago, the building torn down to make room for a low-income housing development. The s.h.i.+rt factory closed its doors soon after World War II, windows boarded up, clapboards peeling like old skin while the city debated its future in an urban-renewal program that never happened. The Monument Comb Shop has a new ident.i.ty and is now Monument Plastics, part of a conglomerate with headquarters in New York State. All kinds of toys, combs, flowerpots, footstools, boxes emerge from molding machines that operate twenty-four hours a day. My brother Armand is in charge of personnel and community relations, positions that were unknown during the Depression. He still lives in Frenchtown, in a ranch-style home, with a swimming pool in the backyard, one of the new streets laid out on the site of the old munic.i.p.al dump. He is married to the former Sheila Orsini, who was employed as a secretary in the office of the shop. At the time of which I write they had three sons: Kevin, who was thirteen, Dennis, eleven, and Michael, nine, and a daughter, Debbie, who was six.

Armand was a comfort to my father in his old age, although they argued constantly.

My father was contemptuous of plastic. "Fake stuff," he called it.

"But safer than celluloid," Armand countered.

"Safe but cheap. A celluloid comb, now. We still have some in the house. They never wear out."