Background
Helen and Charles are trying to uncover the mystery behind a letter posted to Mademoiselle Suzanne Gauvin in 1903.
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[Previously, at the end of Chapter 9:
Helen looked at the menu briefly. "I think I'll have the Royal Virgin Sea Bream with citrus fruits, cromesqui Thai rice and parmesan."
"That sounds good," I said, "...and a bottle of champagne, perhaps, to celebrate?"
"Why not? I wonder what it is that makes the virgin sea bream so special."
"Probably not the same as the virgin sturgeon."
"What do you mean?"
"Caviar comes from the virgin sturgeon,
The virgin sturgeon is a very fine fish.
The virgin sturgeon needs no urgin’,
That’s why caviar is a rather rare dish."
"I'm not quite sure how to take that."
You would, I thought, if I quoted the second verse.
As things turned out, I did not need to. Helen ordered a half bottle of Sauternes to go with her dessert, and then announced - rather tipsily - that she was in no fit state to drive.
"Nor am I," I confessed.
"Then we'd better make use of the room I booked, hadn't we, Charles? My treat. You can always sleep on the sofa bed, if that would make you feel more comfortable."]
Chapter 10
No doubt about it, despite my natural inclinations, the sofa bed was definitely going to make me feel more comfortable. I still felt sure Helen was playing me along, and I needed to know why. Even through the alcoholic haze, I could hear alarm bells ringing, and I had enough sense to realise I was almost old enough to be her father.
The situation was awkward and, if she came on strongly, I would have difficulty in handling it. I certainly did not want to make the fatal error of slipping between the sheets with her while she was inebriated and her defences were down.
I liked Helen, despite all the questions in my mind, and I wanted, at least, to keep our friendship on an even keel until I had a chance to lay my suspicions to rest.
She leant against me for support as we made our way up to the room and, when we got there, she had some difficulty sliding the keycard into its slot.
"Whoopsy-doo!" she said, as she dropped it on the floor. I bent down and picked it up, and opened the door for her. "Why, thank you, sir!" She flashed me a lopsided smile and headed across to the bed, flopping down on it before bouncing up and down several times. "Come and sit beside me," she said, patting the coverlet invitingly.
I headed across and sat gingerly on the edge of the bed, just beyond her reach.
"Tell me more about the sturgeon."
"The sturgeon?"
"You know. The virgin sturgeon that needs no urgin'."
"Well, there are a few more verses, but I don't think you'd want to hear them. It's just an old Rugby song."
"Go on! Don't be shy."
"All right. The second verse goes something like this:
'I gave caviar to my girlfriend,
She was a virgin tried and true,
Ever since she had the caviar,
There ain't nothing she won't do.'"
"Oooh! Naughty!" She giggled. "You should have fed me caviar, shouldn't you? Or don't you think I'm a virgin?"
She stretched out across the bed and closed her eyes. "Are there any more verses? I like that song."
I launched into a third verse, relieved not to be invited to do anything more risqué:
'I fed caviar to my grandpa;
He was a gent of ninety-three.
Shrieks and squeals revealed that grandpa
Had chased grandma up a tree.'
By the time I reached the end of the fifth verse, I was relieved to see that she was sound asleep.
I walked across and opened the French windows to a cool night breeze. The lights of the city shimmered in the moonlight, and somewhere in the distance a church clock struck ten. I carried a cane chair onto the balcony to enjoy the solitude and tranquillity as I continued to turn things over in my mind.
Why were we on this wild goose chase? What was the point of it all? I took the envelope out of my pocket and looked at the beautiful copperplate script again:
'Chez ses parents' -- 'in the house of her parents'. That part of the address had not struck me before. Was she still a child at the time? If so, who would be writing to a child in those days? An educated person, judging from the well-formed and fluid hand. And, if she lived with her parents, why were they not listed in the parish records? Surely someone would have the answers. After all, 1903 was not all that long ago.
Maybe it was foolish romanticism on my part, but the more we looked, the more unanswered questions seemed to be coming to the surface. As a writer, my curiosity was aroused. There had to be a story here, and perhaps something more interesting than my regular, bread-and-butter travel articles.
My mind continued to play with possibilities about Mademoiselle Gaudin, and I also tried, in vain, to make more sense of my feelings about Helen, perhaps an even more mysterious woman. Eventually, the alcohol had its inevitable effect, and I drifted off to sleep.
An hour or two before dawn, the soft pressure of a hand on my shoulder awakened me. I sat up, rubbing a stiff neck as I got to my feet. There was a distinct chill in the air, and a few low clouds drifted like wraiths across the moon.
"Come inside, Charles. You'll catch your death out there. I've been having the most dreadful nightmares. They plague me sometimes, and I just can't sleep."
I closed the French windows, drew the curtains, and asked Helen if she'd like a cup of tea.
"The English solution to everything! All right."
"What are your nightmares about?"
"They're complicated."
"No need to talk about them, if you don't want to. I thought it might help."
"Mostly, they centre round a childhood trauma. Both my parents were brutally murdered when we were living in Pakistan."
I could see the deep-seated pain in her eyes, and took her hand gently. "Do you want to tell me about it?"
“My father was an engineer. He went there as a consultant, giving advice about small infrastructure projects organised by a local NGO, the Aga Khan Rural Support Programme. He was working in the Chitral region, way up north, near the Afghan border when he met my mother, a Kalasha.”
“What do you mean – a Kalasha?”
"The Kalash are a minority indigenous group who have lived in the northern part of Pakistan for thousands of years. The women are extraordinarily beautiful.”
“Yes, I can see that, just by looking at you, Helen.”
She smiled at the compliment. “No, my looks come from my father. The Kalasha tend to have blonde hair and blue eyes. Some people think it may have been because the region was conquered by Alexander the Great. Anyway, the point is, they fell in love.
It wasn’t easy for them. He was a Catholic and the Kalash religion is pre-Islamic. It is rare for a Kalasha to marry outside her ethnic group, and she was disowned by her family.”
“They must have been very much in love.”
“Yes. They had two daughters. My sister, Kayla, was two years older than me.”
“You say ‘was’. Where is she now?”
Helen’s eyes misted over, and for a moment I thought she was going to break down.
“This might be a good time for that cup of tea,” I said.
She nodded gratefully. I passed her a box of tissues from the bedside table and went to put the kettle on.
Author Notes
Cast of Characters:
Charles Brandon: The narrator, a well-known travel writer
Helen Culverson: A woman of mystery, also purporting to be a travel writer
Madam Durand: A French magazine editor, who was involved in a serious accident
Dr. Laurent: A veterinary surgeon in Versailles
Madam Lefauvre: An old woman living in Versailles - the town gossip
Francoise Gaudin: A woman living in Versailles
Alain Gaudin: brother of Francoise
Estelle Gaudin: deceased mother of Francoise
Suzanne Gaudin: recipient of a letter posted in 1903 - presumably now deceased (possibly, but not necessarily, related to Estelle and her two children)
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