Page 71 of The Midnight Carousel
Laurent has promised Amélie a special gift for her thirteenth birthday.
How the time has flown. He vaguely remembers her baby years as a blur of sleepless nights and the Cloutier case, but not much else.
The main benefit of the mystery finally being solved is that Laurent can focus his attention on the people who are most dear to him.
The toy department in the Galeries Lafayette is abuzz with small children weaving through displays of teddy bears and gadgets, and harassed mothers chasing them.
He spots the object immediately. It has been on display for six weeks and Laurent has been dithering.
Now he sees it again, he realizes that nothing could be more perfect.
The size of a tennis ball, a small silver disc supports a dozen tiny carved and painted wooden horses beneath an indigo canopy. Best of all, when a small handle is wound, a tinkling tune plays as the disc rotates. A beautiful, magical, miniature carousel.
‘Can I help you, sir?’ a voice asks.
Laurent swings around. A young man of around seventeen has appeared behind him. He is long and lean and his suit hangs off him as if it was borrowed from someone much broader.
‘I will take this item, please,’ he says.
Laurent strides to the sales till with the assistant following behind.
He has a busy day ahead and cannot dally.
After this, he is taking Maisie and Milo to Juliette’s Patisserie to choose a cake for Amélie’s birthday party this Sunday, and then he will send them home in a taxi while he conducts a secret mission of his own.
Having heard that a detective is searching for the whereabouts of a blonde woman who is associated with an Indian man, Maisie’s mother has left something with her old friend with the yellow wig from the slums– word came yesterday via a constable working the beat in the Cour des miracles area.
There have been other false alarms and disappointments, but Laurent maintains a degree of optimism.
It is his deepest hope that in due course he might be able to engineer a meeting between Maisie and her mother.
As though his thoughts have called to her, Maisie turns around and waves at him.
She is at the furthest end of the department with Milo, amongst the model aeroplanes.
Even after more than two years, he cannot get enough of the simple pleasure of looking at this woman.
Rubbing her round belly, she refocuses on the toys.
Three months. In three months from now, their baby will arrive.
Laurent is beside himself with anticipation.
‘Here you go, sir. It’s a good choice,’ the assistant says with a smile as he hands Laurent the wrapped-up carousel. ‘Hope to see you again soon.’
Laurent pulls his gaze from Maisie and returns the assistant’s smile.
‘Thank you, Henri, I hope so too.’
He indicates the name badge as though this is how he has identified the young man when, in actual fact, Laurent has followed Henri Cloutier’s progress for years, silently opening doors for him.
Arranging for Mr Fraser, the owner of the auction house, to skim a portion of the proceeds from the carousel sale all those years ago was the first step.
This money was sent to Laurent. With the help of his secretary, Suzette, a number of cash-filled envelopes were left with the local priest to pass on to Henri’s mother.
It will never make up for the young man losing his father, and Laurent will never absolve himself of having sent a blameless man to the guillotine.
But he feels glad that he has played even a small part in keeping the boy from a life of destitution.
The rest of the day passes in a mad rush.
Returning home from the slums, Laurent is exhausted but also puffed up with jubilation.
The prostitute has given him something of note for Maisie.
Hurrying to his study, he closes the door.
From the window, he can see Maisie teaching Milo how to skim stones across the large pond in the garden.
The boy is giggling, as usual. Sometimes he is wilful, Laurent has discovered, but on the whole he is a joyful little chap who tags behind Amélie on the weekends that she stays with them in Paris.
Laurent smiles as Milo tries to copy his mother’s technique.
Engrossed in their game, neither has realized that he is home.
Good, there is time to make everything perfect.
He sits at his desk and wraps layers of pink tissue paper around the item, then scribbles a small card addressed to Maisie.
Leaning back in his chair, he half closes his eyes.
He is not quite recovered from the influenza he picked up from the slums last month, and the weariness has taken hold again.
Perhaps it would have been wiser to return home with the others after the patisserie, but he could not deny Maisie this surprise for any longer than necessary. It is the way his mother taught him.
‘No, Laurent, it isn’t polite to keep a lady waiting,’ she would say when he arrived downstairs five minutes after afternoon tea was served, having got distracted once again by his toy soldiers.
After allowing himself some minutes to regain his strength, Laurent is in the midst of standing up when a sharp pain shooting down his left arm throws his body off balance. He stumbles and ends up on the floor.
As he lies sprawled, Laurent thinks of Maisie as he always thinks of her– when he wakes, when he dreams, when he eats and sleeps and prays.
He thinks of her face upturned and ready to kiss him, a tendril of hair falling, the sparkle in her eyes, the joy of her smile when she presented the sandpiper feather that he has kept close to his heart to this day.
He thinks of her beauty, her glorious love for him, imagines all the other moments they could have shared if this wasn’t his very last breath.