Page 55 of Atlas: The Story of Pa Salt

Ally smiled at the memory. ‘You know, I don’t think Charlie will ever be quite the same after watching Angelina that night. Five years of medical school were no substitute for abrujaand her knowledge when Bear decided to appear so suddenly.’

‘Well, he shouldn’t be too downhearted. There’s only so much abrujacan do at the end of the day... I’m sure you were grateful for the painkillers he prescribed you afterwards!’ Tiggy gave her sister a wink. Then she looked back down at Bear. ‘He says to look at the letter, by the way.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘He wants you to look at the letter.’ Tiggy gave Ally a wide smile.

‘Who? Bear? What do you mean? I...’

‘I’m not sure. I hope that’s helpful. I’m off to bed. Night, Ally.’ Tiggy embraced her sister and headed for the door.

Once it was shut, Ally’s heart skipped a beat. Tiggy could only have been referring to one thing. She walked over to her suitcase and opened a zip pocket in the lining. From within, she retrieved the only letter in her possession. It was Theo’s, of course, which she carried with her everywhere. This was not information Ally shared around, and nobody else had ever laid eyes on it. Trembling a little, she slowly opened the envelope, and her eyes skipped down to Theo’s penultimate paragraph, like they always did.

And if by any chance you get to read this, look up at the stars, and know I am looking down on you. And probably having a beer with your pa, as I hear all about your childhood habits.

My Ally – Alcyone – you have no idea what joy you’ve brought me.

Be HAPPY! That is your gift.

Theo xxx

The image of Theo and Pa sharing a drink and a smile brought Ally an enormous amount of happiness. She knew how much her father would have approved of him, and hoped very much that they had been able to meet in another life. Now, what was it that Tiggy had said?

He wants you to read the letter.

Ally stared down at the only capitalised word on the page, which her eye was drawn to like a magnet.

Be HAPPY!

A lump arrived in Ally’s throat. She walked over to the cabin window and bent her knees so that she could look up to the stars. ‘Thank you, Theo. Give Pa a hug from me.’ She placed the letter safely back in the zip lining of her suitcase, and climbed into bed. Ally knew immediately that trying to sleep would prove futile, since her mind was more crowded than the Grand Plaza in Oslo. She grabbed her phone once more and sent Jack a text.

Thanks for looking after Bear earlier. Sleep well! x

She received a response almost immediately:

Pleasure Al! You too x

She eyed the pages of the diary on the dresser. Inside were answers. The agreement had been that the sisters would read another hundred pages in the morning, but knowing there were revelations just inches away, she decided she would read on.

1936–40

The casual reader, should they find themselves engrossed in these pages, may wonder why there is no diary entry recorded for over six years, and how it has come to be that the little boy who was acitoyen de Parisis now on the cusp of adulthood in a new European city. The tale is a turbulent one. In truth, during the past six years, I wrote pages for my diary often. The contents were probably too sentimental for some literary tastes, but stood as a record of the happiness I experienced over the course of my time in France. It is my unfortunate duty to report that the majority of the pages were left in the Landowski household, when I was forced to make an unplanned, untimely exit, due to circumstances that arose as a result of my grave mistake: opening my mouth and talking.

Although, as I write, it is 1936 and I am eighteen years old, I appreciate that it would be lax of me to offer an incomplete story. Allow me to explain. From 1930 to 1933, life in Paris continued for me in much the same pattern as it had for the previous two years: I assisted Monsieur Landowski and Monsieur Brouilly in the atelier, and attended my lessons with Monsieur Ivan at the conservatoire, as did Elle. As weboth grew older, we were awarded more and more freedom by our respective keepers – Madame Gagnon in Elle’s case, and Evelyn in my own. We spent halcyon mornings discovering coffee in Parisian cafés, and in the evenings we would wander the streets, each time finding some new architectural detail which would provide enchantment and wonder. My decision to speak that Christmas Day had truly allowed my relationship with Elle to flourish... who could have predicted? It was my great privilege to read toheron our picnic luncheons, and to seek her opinions on every facet of my fast-improving life. Ironically, it would be the same decision that would lead to my undoing.

One morning in early 1933, whilst we were in the workshop, Monsieur Landowski made an announcement: ‘Gentlemen! I have some news to impart. It is not of an insignificant nature, so listen carefully. Our journey together is coming to an end.’

‘Monsieur Landowski?’ Brouilly said, the colour draining from his face. After all, he had made the decision to leave Rio to pursue his career in Paris.

‘As of this morning, I have been offered the position of Director at the French Academy in Rome.’ Brouilly did not respond. I found myself feeling similarly anxious, for Monsieur Landowski provided me with shelter, food and, of course, generously paid for my tuition at the conservatory. ‘Monsieur Brouilly, have you nothing to say?’

‘Apologies, monsieur. Congratulations. They have made a fine choice.’ I joined Brouilly’s praise by offering a wide (if artificial) grin, and a solo round of applause.

‘Thank you, gentlemen. Imagine. Me! With an office! And a salary!’

‘The world will miss your talent, monsieur,’ Brouilly said, with genuine sadness.

‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Brouilly. I shall still sculpt. I will always sculpt! The main motivation for taking the position is... well, I suppose you could say that it is the fault of our young friend here.’ Landowski gestured to me, and registered my shock. ‘What I mean to say is that I have derived a great deal of pleasure, both artistic and personal, from seeing Bo progress during these last few years. Monsieur Ivan says that he is well on his way to becoming a virtuoso cellist. All this, from a child who could hardly stand when we first met. In truth, I am a little jealous of your teacher, Bo! Although I have contributed financially, I wish I could have been the one to nurture your artistic gifts. As such, it is my hope that at the French Academy, I will be able to develop the talent of other young people in my own field.’