You have fulfilled your mission of finding the person who brought my book to the tip of Brittany. Now you can turn to other projects. I have to say that I’ve taken a liking to our exchanges, which have allowed me to meet my mailman. In fact, no one writes to me anymore and all my bills now arrive electronically. With the “no junk mail” sticker my daughter put on the letterbox after a tenth-grade exposé on deforestation, I thought of doing away with that obsolete object altogether … Thanks to you, it’s regained its utility for a bit.
And you should know: you have reawakened the fervor for writing in me. Not only am I now determined to finish my old novel, but I am embarking simultaneously on a new book that keeps me up until the middle of the night.
So you can be happy knowing you’ve saved an idle fifty-something from his ennui.
Sylvestre
from Maggy to Anne-Lise
POINTE DES RENARDS, MAY 29, 2016
Hi Lisou!
Who else but you could lead me down such unbelievable paths? And is there any other friend I would set out for to taste the wind of the North (yes, yes, for me, Roscoff is the North) while the spring sun is warming up the plants on my patio? It’s a fact that you alone have this power to get me on the road even when the amateur photographers have refused to go to Finistère, frustrated by the fuel shortage that has us gathered in front of gas stations like junkies harassing their dealers …
It’s even worse that I was not satisfied by merely obeying the request you made over the phone (on that note, you can thank Agathe for relaying your requests so valiantly), but I did so with an incredible excitement. Upon arriving in Roscoff at noon, I went to the Bellevue and made no mention of my reason for being there before I had tasted their scallops roasted in butter (don’t forget that you’re paying, I made sure to keep the receipt), along with a glass of 2005 Gros Plant, a very good year chosen with the help of the server (who it so happens was very cute).
I took advantage of a lull in the service (I don’t understand why restaurant owners complain when their places are filled to the brim a month before the official close for paid vacation!) to question Roméo (I swear that’s his name). I had barely mentioned the manuscript on the beach when he asked if I wanted to have coffee during his break (I have to mention here that I still have a perfect tan from my vacation and that I was wearing my little floral dress, even though my teeth chattered with each gust of wind!). Our Roméo, who owes his name to his Italian mother, found the manuscript at the Roscoff library, where he hosts workshops for schoolchildren. This waiter is a literature enthusiast and goes to the library whenever he has time.
To temper this idyllic description of a perfect young man, you should know that he started to frequent the library because he was infatuated by a young librarian … But at the end of the day, don’t you always say that we are driven to read for the best reasons?
One winter day, he was watching his ladylove while volunteering for a neighborhood association when a man came to the counter with a collection of books he wanted to donate to the library. It was all the way at the bottom of a box, beneath dozens of dog-eared and yellowed books, that our Roméo found this manuscript that now occupies all my thoughts even though I have yet to read it.
Our charming young man learned from it that unconfessed love can stay with us an entire lifetime, and so he decided to get over his shyness and declare his feelings for the young librarian named Julie (I swear to you that this is all true and that Julie is her real name) … They’re not married and don’t have children, but I think it’s only because they haven’t had enough time, and I dare to hope that “Roméo” and “Julie” will conquer the tragedy of their namesakes to live happily for years to come!
Now you know everything, my dear Lisou, and thanks to you I spent a magnificent day in Roscoff, which is, by the way, a town well worth the trek …
I would have loved to make you languish—to use an expression that couldn’t be any less Breton—but I am your friend and I was too afraid you’d get worked up all alone and get one of your ulcers again. So yes, I asked THE question: Is there any way to find the man who donated the box?
Roméo doesn’t know his name, but he’s going to ask around and will contact you as soon as he knows more. I gave him your information (I’m handing him over to you only because he’s too young for me, but I assure you he’s very cute and no, I don’t doubt the power of my floral dress).
What do you think? Haven’t I played a good Watson?
I know I’ve made you proud and that as you read these words you have that brilliant smile on your face that urges your friends to do impossible and sometimes reprehensible acts in your name.
But I regret nothing, you have awakened in me the excitement that allows us to relive the adventures of our childhood heroes and I remain available for all investigations being conducted in my area.
Now I have to get back to work (I’m behind because of my little escapade) and I hope the rest of your weekend will be brightened up by these revelations.
Your adoring Watson,
Maggy
P.S. You know what? The handsome Roméo was wearing a red-and-white-striped T-shirt, and with his glasses, he reminded me of Waldo. You know Where’s Waldo?, that series of books where the reader has to find a character in a striped T-shirt and a red hat in every image? It struck me that that’s exactly what you’re doing with your second author: you turn the pages and in each new setting, you search for your Waldo!
P.P.S. I just read an article on the puffer fish. It has a big head, bulging eyes, and a small, slippery body. Throw in some stretchy skin that allows it to puff up to repel predators, and a poison in its flesh that’s deadly to man, and you will have a very accurate portrait of someone you know. Wouldn’t that make an excellent pet for Bastien?
from Anne-Lise to Maggy
RUE DES MORILLONS, JUNE 2, 2016
Dear Maggy,
You are the best friend anyone could ask for! I can’t wait to share the latest progress with you. Your young waiter called the man with the box and gave him my number (he apologized in a little message; you were right, he’s a charming boy). I’ve just received a call from the man, a certain Mr. Cléder who lives in the western suburbs of Paris. Since he works very close to here, we’re going to have lunch together tomorrow afternoon.
I’m beginning to think, Maggy, that this manuscript has the power to lower our defenses. Since its appearance in room 128, we have retraced the steps of its readers and, each time we mention it, doors open and faces light up.
Do you remember the long conversations we had about this thirty years ago? At university, we searched for “The Book.” We dreamed of a text that would divert the anger of wounded hearts, that would shatter the hatred we feel for the unknown, chase away the clouds that leave premature wrinkles on still-young faces, a text that could provoke unbelievable and unforgettable encounters between people.
Don’t roll your eyes! I abandoned that utopian vision more than thirty years ago, but when I write to people who’ve read Sylvestre’s book, I rediscover my passion for reading and I believe in the power of words again.
There, I’ve said it. Your mocking tone won’t change anything—this novel does its readers good and I promise to send you a copy. You know me, I couldn’t keep myself from scanning the original before sending it back to its owner. (Of course, you’d have it faster if you joined our modern world and accepted the Internet into your lair.) In the meantime, I’m dying to meet this Mr. Cléder, who could very well be my “Waldo”!