But it only takes one comment to cast doubt. For a couple of days I tried to ignore what he had said, but the next time I went into Toulouse I took the postcard with me and after my lesson headed for the university library. I'd been there before to use their medical books but I'd never ventured into the arts section. It was packed with students studying for exams, writing papers, talking in stairwells in excited tones.
It took longer than I'd expected to find out anything about Nicolas Tournier. He was part of a group of painters called the Caravagesques, Frenchmen who studied in Rome in the early seventeenth century, copying Caravaggio's use of strong light and shadow. These painters often didn't sign their works, and there were long-running debates about who had painted what. Tournier was mentioned briefly here and there. He wasn't famous, though two of his paintings were in the Louvre. The little information I found was different from what I'd read at the museum: the earliest source listed him as Robert Tournier, born in Toulouse in 1604, died around 1670. I was only sure it was the same painter because I recognized the paintings. Other sources gave different dates again and corrected his name to Nicolas.
Finally I pinpointed three books that were the most up-to-date sources. When I looked for them on the shelves they were all missing. I talked to a hassled student behind the information desk who probably had his own exams to study for; he looked up the books on his computer and confirmed that they'd all been taken out.
‘It is very busy now, as you can see,’ he said. ‘Maybe someone is using them to research a paper.’
‘Can you find out who has them?’
He glanced at the screen. ‘Another library has requested them.’
‘In Lisle-sur-Tarn?’
‘Yes.’ He looked surprised, even more so when I muttered, ‘Bastard! Not you, I mean. Thanks very much.’
I should have known Jean-Paul wouldn't sit on his hands and let me do it myself. He was too intrusive to stay away, too intent on proving his own theories. The question was whether or not I was willing to chase after him to find out more.
In the end I didn't have to decide. Up the street from the Lisle train station I ran into Jean-Paul on his way home from work. He nodded and said ‘Bonsoir,’ and before I could think I blurted out, ‘You've got the books I've been looking for all afternoon. Why did you do that? I asked you not to look into him for me but you're doing it anyway!’
He looked almost bored. ‘Who said I do this research for you, Ella Tournier? I was curious about him, so I look for myself. If you want the books you can see them at the library tomorrow.’
I leaned against a wall and crossed my arms. ‘All right, all right. You've won. Just tell me what you found out. Hurry up and get it over with.’
‘You are sure you don't want to see the books yourself?’
‘Just tell me.’
He lit a cigarette, inhaled and blew out toward his feet. ‘OK. Maybe you find out today that there is not so much information on Nicolas Tournier for a long time. But in 1951 was found a record of his baptism, in July 1590 in a Protestant church in Montbéliard. His father was André Tournier, who was a painter from Besançon – that is not so far from Montbéliard. His grandfather was called Claude Tournier. The father, André Tournier, came to Montbéliard in 1572 because of religious troubles – maybe because of the Massacre of Saint Bartholomew. Your painter, Nicolas, was one of several children. There are mentions of him in Rome between 1619 and 1626. Then a mention of him in Carcassonne in 1627, and in Toulouse in 1632. For a long time they thought he died later in the seventeenth century, after 1657. But in 1974 was discovered his will with the date 30 December 1638. He died probably soon after.’
I studied the ground and was quiet for so long that Jean-Paul grew restless and flicked his cigarette into the street.
Finally I spoke. ‘Tell me, were baptisms back then performed right after the birth?’
‘Usually, yes. Not always.’
‘So it could be put off for some reason, right? The date of baptism doesn't necessarily indicate the date of birth. Nicolas Tournier could have been a month or two years or ten years old when he was baptized for all we know. Maybe he was even an adult!’
‘That is not likely.’
‘No, but it's possible. What I'm saying is that the source doesn't tell us exactly. And his will has that date you mentioned, but that doesn't mean we know when he died. We don't know, do we? Maybe he died ten years after making it.’
‘Ella, he was ill, he made his will, he died. That is what usually happens.’
‘Yes, but we don't know for sure. We don't know exactly when he was born or when he died. These records don't prove anything. All the basic details about him are still open to question.’ I paused to suppress the rising hysteria in my voice.
He leaned against the wall and folded his arms. ‘You just don't want to hear that this painter's father was André Tournier and not any of your ancestors. No Etienne or Jean. But he was not from the Cévennes or from Moutier. He is not your relative.’
‘Look at it this way,’ I continued more calmly. ‘Until recently – until the 1950s – they didn't know anything about him. They got all his vital statistics wrong except for his last name and the city he died in. Everything else was wrong: his first name, his birth and death dates, where he was born, some of his paintings which turned out to be by other painters. And all of this wrong information was published; I saw it at the library. If I hadn't found out there were more recent sources I'd have all the wrong information about him. I'd even be calling him by the wrong name! Even now art historians are arguing over which paintings are his. If they can't get that basic information right – if it's all got to be based on speculation, where a baptism equals birth and a will equals death – well, that's just shifting evidence. It's not concrete, so why should I believe it? What does seem concrete to me is that his last name is my last name, that he worked only thirty miles from where I live, that he painted the same blue I dream about all the time. That's concrete.’
‘No, that's coincidence. You are being seduced by coincidence.’
‘And you by speculation.’
‘That you live now near Toulouse and he lived in Toulouse does not mean that you are relatives. And the name Tournier is not so unusual. And that you dream of his blue – well, it is a blue easy to remember from a dream because it is so vivid. It would be harder to remember a dark blue, no?’
‘Look, why are you trying so hard to prove he's not my relative?’
‘Because you are basing all your proof on coincidence and your guts rather than on concrete evidence. You are struck by a painting, by a certain blue, and because of that and the painter's name is yours you decide he is an ancestor? No. No, I shouldn't have to convince you that Nicolas Tournier isn't your relative; you should be convincing me that he is.’
I've got to stop him, I thought. Soon I won't have any hope left.
Maybe my face reflected this thought, because when Jean-Paul spoke again his tone was kinder. ‘I think maybe this Nicolas Tournier is no help to you. That maybe he is, what is it you say, a red fish.’
‘What?’ I laughed. ‘A red herring, you mean. Maybe you're right.’ I paused. ‘He's taken over, though. I can't even remember what I was going to do about this ancestry business before he appeared.’
‘You were going to find lost-long relatives in the Cévennes.’
‘I might still do that.’ The look on his face made me laugh. ‘Yes, I will. You know, all your arguing just makes me want to prove you wrong. I want to find out proof – yes, concrete proof that even you'd agree with – about my “lost-long” ancestors. Just to show you that hunches aren't always wrong.’
We were both quiet then. I shifted from one hip to the other; Jean-Paul narrowed his eyes at the evening sun. I became very aware of him standing with me on this little street in France. We're only separated by two feet of air, I thought. I could just –
‘And your dream?’ he asked. ‘You still see it?’
?
??Uh, no. No, it seems to have gone away.’
‘So, you want me to call the archives at Mende and warn them you are coming?’
‘No!’ My shout made commuters' heads turn. ‘That's exactly what I don't want you to do,’ I hissed. ‘Stay out of it unless I ask for help, OK? If I need help I'll ask you.’
Jean-Paul raised his hands as if he had a gun pointed at him. ‘Fine, Ella Tournier. We draw a line here and I stay on my side, OK?’ He took a step back from the imaginary line, and the distance between us increased.
The next night while we were eating dinner on the patio I told Rick I wanted to go to the Cévennes to look up family records.
‘You remember I wrote to Jacob Tournier in Switzerland?’ I explained. ‘He wrote back and said the Tourniers were from the Cévennes originally. Probably.’ I smiled to myself: I was learning to qualify my statements. ‘I want to have a look around.’
‘But I thought you found out about your family already, with the painter and all.’
‘Well, that's not definite, actually. Not yet,’ I added quickly. ‘Maybe I'll find something there to prove it.’
To my surprise he frowned. ‘I suppose this is something Jean-Pierre cooked up.’
‘Jean-Paul. No, not at all. The opposite, if anything. He thinks I won't find anything.’
‘Do you want me to come with you?’
‘I have to go during the week, when the archives are open.’
‘I could take a couple days off, come with you.’
‘I was thinking of going next week.’
‘Nope, can't go then. It's crazy at the office now with the German contract. Maybe later in the summer when it's quieter. In August.’
‘I can't wait till August!’
‘Ella, why are you so interested in your ancestors now? You never were before.’
‘I never lived in France before.’
‘Yeah, but you seem to be investing a lot in it. What do you expect to get out of it?’
I intended to say something about being accepted by the French, about feeling like I belonged to the country. ‘I want to make the blue nightmare go away,’ I found myself saying instead.
‘You think by finding out about your family you'll get rid of a bad dream?’
‘Yes.’ I leaned back and gazed at the vines. Tiny green clusters of grapes were just beginning to appear. I knew it made no sense, that there was no link between the dream and my ancestors. But my mind had made the connection anyway, and I stubbornly decided to stick with it.
‘Is Jean-Pierre going with you?’
‘No! Look, why are you being so negative? It's not like you. This is something I'm interested in. It's the first thing I've really wanted to do since we got here. The least you could do is be supportive about it.’
‘I thought the thing you really wanted to do was have a baby. I've been supportive about that.’
‘Yes, but –’ You shouldn't just be supportive about something like that, I thought. You should want to have it too.
Lately I'd been having a lot of thoughts that I censored.
Rick stared at me, frowning, then made a conscious effort to relax. ‘You're right. Of course go, babe. If it makes you happy then that's what you should do.’
‘Oh, Rick, don't –’ I stopped. There was no point criticizing him. He was trying to be supportive without understanding. At least he was trying.
‘Look, I'll go for a few days, that's all. If I find out something, great. If I don't, it's no big deal. All right?’
‘Ella, if you don't find anything, I'll take you to the best restaurant in Toulouse.’
‘Gee, thanks. That makes me feel a lot better.’
Sarcasm was the cheapest form of humour, according to my mother. My remark was made even cheaper by the hurt look in his eyes.
The morning I left it was crisp and bright; there had been thunderstorms the night before, clearing the tension from the air. I kissed Rick goodbye as he left for the train station, then got in the car and drove off in the opposite direction. It was a relief to go. I celebrated by playing loud music and opening both windows and the sun roof to let the wind whip through me.
The road followed the Tarn up to Albi, a cathedral town full of June tourists, then headed north away from the river. I would meet up with the Tarn again in the Cévennes, climbing backwards to its source. Beyond Albi the landscape began to change, the horizon first expanding as I climbed, then narrowing as the hills closed in around me and the sky turned from blue to grey. The poppies and Queen Anne's lace along the road were joined by new flowers, pink jack-in-the-pulpit and daisies and especially broom, with its sharp, mouldy smell. The trees grew darker. Fields were no longer cultivated but left as meadows and grazed by tan goats and cows. Rivers got smaller and faster and louder. Abruptly the houses changed: light chalk stone became hard brown-grey granite, and roofs were more angular, tiled with flat slate rather than curved terracotta. Everything became smaller, darker, more serious.
I closed the windows and sun roof, turned off the music. My mood seemed to be linked with the landscape. I didn't like it, looking out at this beautiful, sad land. It reminded me of the blue.
Mende crowned both the landscape and my mood. Its narrow streets were surrounded by a busy ring road that made the town feel hemmed in. A cathedral squatted in the centre, two different spires giving it an awkward, unplanned look. Inside it was dark and grim. I escaped and, standing on its steps, stared at the grey stone buildings around me. This is the Cévennes? I thought. Then I smiled at myself: of course I'd assumed Tournier country would be beautiful.
It had been a long drive from Lisle; even the bigger roads curved and climbed, requiring more concentration than straight American highways. I was tired and in an uncharitable mood, which wasn't improved by a dark, narrow hotel room and a lonely supper in a pizzeria where the only other customers were couples or old men. I thought about calling Rick, but knew that instead of cheering me up he would make me feel worse, reminding me of the gap that was growing between us.
* * *
The departmental archives were in a brand-new building made of salmon and white stone, and metal painted blue, green and red. The research room was large and airy, the tables three-quarters full of people scrutinizing documents. Everyone looked as if they knew exactly what they were doing. I felt the way I often did in Lisle: as a foreigner my place was on the edge, where I could watch and admire the natives but never take part myself.
A tall woman standing at the main desk looked over and smiled at me. She was about my age, with short blond hair and yellow glasses. I thought, Ah, thank God, not another Madame. I went up to the desk and set down my bag. ‘I don't know what I'm doing here,’ I said. ‘Please can you help me?’
Her laugh was the most unlikely shriek for such a quiet place.
‘Alors, what are you looking for?’ she asked, still laughing, her blue eyes magnified through thick lenses. I'd never seen someone wear thick glasses so stylishly.
‘I have an ancestor named Etienne Tournier who may have lived in the Cévennes in the sixteenth century. I want to find out more about him.’
‘Do you know when he was born or died?’
‘No. I know that the family moved to Switzerland at some point but I don't know when exactly. It would have been before 1576.’
‘You know no birth or death dates? What about for his children? Or grandchildren, even?’
‘Well, he had a son, Jean, who had a child in 1590.’
She nodded. ‘So the son Jean was born between, let's say, 1550 and 1575, and the father Etienne twenty to forty years before that, say, from 1510. So you're searching between 1510 and 1575, something like that, yes?’
She spoke French so fast that I couldn't answer right away: I was wading through her calculations. ‘I guess so,’ I replied finally, wondering if I should mention the painter Tourniers as well, Nicolas and André and Claude.
She didn't give me the chance. ‘You want to look for records of baptism
and marriage and death,’ she declared. ‘And maybe compoix also, tax records. Now, what village did they come from?’
‘I don't know.’
‘Ah, that's a problem. The Cévennes is big, you know. Of course there are not so many records from that time. Back then they were kept by the church, but many were burned or lost during the religious wars. So maybe you will not have too much to look through. If you knew the village I could tell you immediately what we have, but never mind, we'll see what we can find.’
She ran through an inventory of documents held there and in other records offices in the département. She was right: for the whole region there were only a handful of documents from the sixteenth century. The few records left must have survived arbitrarily. It was clear that the likelihood of a Tournier turning up in the books would be entirely down to luck.