So that you’ll understand just how extraordinary your find is: I lost this manuscript on April 3, 1983, on a trip to Montreal. With the arrogance of my twenty-three years, I was hoping to get some writing advice from an acquaintance who was also a well-known literary critic. To show you how much I appreciate the marvelous gift you’ve given me, but also to prove your son right, I’ll admit that I searched for it for months, even questioning the airline and the various people who might have found it. I wrote to the stewards and the flight attendants, as well as the cleaners. I spoke to the shopkeepers in the Montreal airport, and also those in the Paris airport when I returned from my trip. I hoped that a passenger might have left it in a café, or sent it back to the critic whose name was on the envelope. No such luck! I was forced to say good-bye to my first manuscript, which, after that misadventure, was also my last.
And there you have it! Thirty-three years later, you pull it out of a nightstand in a room overlooking the sea, nestled in a hotel in Finistère … But I have to tell you something even more incredible: the original work ended on page 156, where you found my godfather’s address. At the time, I was living with other students and I was afraid they would mock my literary aspirations if the book was sent back to me.
Maybe if you’d known that, you would have noticed that starting on page 157, the style becomes more fluid. My successor was not content merely to finish my book; it seems that on top of it, they did so with a certain artistry.
I am also not the author of the poems in the margins … They must belong to the mystery person who discovered my manuscript, probably under an airplane seat, and took it upon themselves to finish it before abandoning it at the very tip of Brittany. That man (or that woman, since we have no way of knowing) was not thoughtful enough to send me their additions as you have done.
In the years that followed, from time to time I wondered what my life would have been like if I hadn’t lost that manuscript. I imagined rolling the dice of destiny again, brilliantly finishing the book, pitching it to an editor, and experiencing the dazzling ascent of a young writer praised by the literati … As you can see, I entertained these unfulfilled, adolescent dreams for a long time.
Speaking of unfulfilled, you didn’t say anything about the story! What am I supposed to think about your silence? A stranger returns this manuscript to me, even though she is under no obligation, thanks me for a pleasant read, reveals implicitly that she’s passionate about literature, and yet doesn’t even tell me what she thinks …
Never mind, forget I said anything. And thank you for sending me these few lines that will keep me company from now on, like the nostalgia of a bygone youth.
Sylvestre Fahmer
P.S. I noticed that you slipped the card of the Beau Rivage Hotel into your package; I’ll be sure to book a room there should reckless footsteps lead me to the area one day.
P.P.S. I hope you’ll forgive my shaky handwriting. I tried my best, but clearly I haven’t had much chance to practice since my summer camp days …
from Anne-Lise to Sylvestre
RUE DES MORILLONS, MAY 5, 2016
Dear Sylvestre,
Thank you for letting me know that you received that rather peculiar package. Now I feel as though I’ve done a good deed and that makes me happy, as it does most people. Like your mother, I have a particular tenderness for epistolary exchanges. For a long time now I haven’t had the opportunity to use my stationery and people respond to my cards by e-mail, or worse, by text. You might notice that I’ve set aside the phone number you sent me so that I could send this letter to your actual address, which conjures up images of the French countryside.
You asked to know my opinion as a reader and I will share it with you. First of all, I was moved by the plot. The narrative could have been sappy, but it’s not. Good feelings abound but, told from the perspective of a man and spoiled with so many inaccuracies on the nature of women, it’s rather refreshing. And the nostalgic reflections, sprinkled here and there by young people, give us a feeling of urgency as if we were embarking on a new day knowing it might be the last. Now that I know that you are responsible only for the first part, I can admit to you without lying that I was disappointed by the ending.
Certainly, as you humbly said, the second half gains fluidity. The style is more striking and sophisticated. The descriptions are written with poetic subtlety without ever stopping the rhythm of the plot and there is a professionalism in the editing that I didn’t see at the beginning of the book … I can be honest about all of this without fear of offending you, because I believe that skill does a disservice to your text. I lost my emotional connection to it in the same way that perfection in a person lessens their charm. I think you’ll understand what I mean.
In summary, the book’s first author introduced a candor and a sensibility that gave me chills, while the second furnished it with a linguistic excellence that would delight a French professor.
If I can give you a piece of advice—and this is merely a formality because I won’t wait for your agreement: finish it! Take back your story and your right to give it its true ending.
The annotation added by our second author (excuse me for this possessive when I have nothing to do with this story) shows that he appropriated your manuscript. That he entered into it without permission and granted it an ending worthy of admiration, of course, but quite different, I’m certain, from the one you would have chosen. While I write you these few sentences, I’m dreaming of what such a meeting could produce: you, the man with the wounded sensibility and sensitive skin, and he, the brilliant storyteller, capable of placing the right word in the right place without fail. But some meetings are not meant to take place and the world is therefore deprived of potential masterpieces …
There you have it, dear Sylvestre, my opinion as a reader. I hope that this will help you to complete your book, for the things we leave unfinished stay with us all our lives like chronic pain that resists the strongest painkillers.
Hoping to read your work again one day, for it is never too late to publish.
Best wishes,
Anne-Lise
from Anne-Lise to Maggy
RUE DES MORILLONS, MAY 6, 2016
Dear Maggy,
I hope the “grown-ups” cleaned up your house before heading back to the city … I know how annoying it is not to find your things in their place when you come back after a long time away. During the few days we spent in the area, I did everything I could to keep an eye on their outings and their visitors, but you know how skilled they are at avoiding my vigilance … I was pretty worried when we abandoned your home to them, even for a short three-day period!
Anyway, they came back delighted with their new independence and say thank you. As for the adults, we took advantage of the sea air and the impeccable service at the hotel you recommended. It is so rare for a mother to feel like she’s on vacation!
Speaking of that hotel, I have a favor to ask you. During our stay in room 128 with the superb view you’re so familiar with, I discovered a forgotten manuscript in the nightstand. At the time, it was amusing, but nothing exceptional, and you will not be surprised to learn that I sent it back to its owner.
That’s where things took an interesting turn: it turns out that the author in question had not finished his story and the ending was in fact written by a stranger, perhaps the person who stayed in room 128 before me. In your opinion, what is the likelihood that two writers who have never met could unite their talents to create a cohesive work?