Luc and Amelie

Luc and Amélie

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Prologue

It’s over. All that is left is a lapse of time beset by melancholy, weariness, and a yearning for freedom. Did the undoing, like threads that unravel, commence without our knowing, or can we pinpoint and recognize the exact moment when the end of love began? For the one left behind, ceaselessly wondering how, when, or why, facing this realization is the ultimate pain. At that moment, he or she must understand, without the possibility of appeal, that their love has become a meaningless and unwanted emotion.

Out of respect or mercy, one must also ask if there is such a thing as a humane ending to the other’s unrequited love. Or are we forced to commit an act of violence that hastens the end? For the lover who can no longer love, approaching these last moments is akin to looking through a window that reveals a landscape without details or relief. All that we may have loved in the past has become a series of lifeless negatives to be soon discarded. For the other person, the end of love always contains two inseparable and unremarkable faces: self-inflicted agony and undying hope.

* * *

Luc had just finished an internship with the Magnum Agency and had begun exhibiting a few of his works in the lesser-known galleries of the Left Bank, near the Pont Neuf. A short article by an up-and-coming critic described his pictorial style as austere yet slightly impressionistic. What was peculiar, the critic also noted, was that the artist seemed to have gone to extreme pains to photograph streets void of human presence, as if men and women were an intrusive presence. In the photographer’s world, there appeared to be no place for people, unless they were simply extras and part of the landscape, like a lamppost, a tree, or a park bench. Amélie was in her third year at Sciences Pô and hoped to become a foreign correspondent for Agence France-Presse. They had met at an exhibit on Venice at the Grand Palais. As the afternoon came to an end, Luc and Amélie found themselves alone in the last room, quietly contemplating Claude Monet’s Venise, Le Palais Dario.

“Do you like this painting?” he had asked, studying her face as if she were a model.

On the surface, the question was simple. Today, Amélie realized the opposite was true. Luc was prone to complicating things and was never satisfied with what he said or what his interlocutor answered. She had barely finished expressing her thoughts before he embarked on another of his incessant monologues.

“Venice is more than just a city of enchantment; it is also a work of art, crafted by different hands over the centuries. Whole, yet fragmented, still, and fluid at the same time; also, a solitary space where unlikely cultures coexist in some strange harmony. This is what Monet succeeded in capturing.”

As she discovered later, convoluted explanations were part of his charm, as if his soul were a vase that was being constantly filled, forever overflowing, unable to contain all his fleeting thoughts. With Luc, it was always about impressions, images only he could see and which he would decipher for others. In the dusk-filled room of the Grand Palais, he continued to share his thoughts, struggling to put into words what he called the aura of Venice. Listening to him, Amélie felt herself becoming part of an invisible audience.

Luc lived in a maid’s quarters on rue de Varenne, across from the Musée Rodin. One of the few tenants to occupy the top floor of the building, he was at peace, living like a monk, with no other furniture except a bed and a small desk. His bathroom served as a darkroom, where the smell of chemicals mingled with those of soap and vetiver. In the beginning, once she was done with her classes, Amélie was happy to climb up the five stories, walk down the familiar and narrow hallway, and join her lover in a world where intimacy and silence kept each other company. Often, she would find him staring at the Parisian sky and rooftops from his window, waiting for the right moment to take another photograph, identical to countless others he had taken before. Shadows and shapes. Shapes and shadows. Other times, he would simply say: “Look.” Amélie would then stare at a sea of slate roofs that surrounded the small room and spilled out towards the Eiffel Tower. On quiet afternoons, she enjoyed hearing the pitter-patter of the rain and felt touched by the way the raindrops caressed the roof above her. Other times, they would leave the rue de Varenne, hand in hand, and embark on a discovery of quiet neighborhoods and tree-lined streets that Luc would photograph in silence. For Luc, Paris was an endless stroll during which he would record the city’s discrete charm in hues of black, white, and gray. He once told Amélie that he decided to become a photographer after seeing Camille Pissarro’s The Boulevard Montmartre on a Winter Morning.

Venice was different. It was magical and foreign. He had been there before meeting Amélie and had returned many times, eager to capture what he thought others might have failed to see. Unlike his photos of Paris, those of Venice were in color. Venice in the rain, at dawn, at dusk. Venice during the Carnival. Reflections in the water of colorful and elongated or distorted shapes. Luc was also fascinated with reflections. To him, they meant seeing with the mind. At times, Amélie considered him to be more of a thinker than a photographer. His stills were devoid of any action. He had also once told her that photography was a form of theft that allowed the artist to capture the soul of an empty street or that of an unwilling or unsuspecting subject. Later, when she became more and more exasperated with such thoughts, Amélie wondered how Luc failed to see that a photograph also represented a form of confinement.

Luc was now sleeping peacefully, rocked by the monotonous clickety-click of the train wheels. He had always been that way when they traveled by train. He would look out the window for as long as possible and finally succumb to fatigue. He seemed so innocent, so unaware, so vulnerable, yet Amélie was the one feeling weak, like a coward. Luc had been preparing for this trip right after they met, to the point she often felt she had stopped being real, transformed into a character living solely in his imagination. Not even a character. Just an extra. He loved her desperately and had once told her he had never met someone whose soul was so beautiful. She had smiled and shaken her head. A bit saddened, she then realized that Luc had somehow erased all that she had once been.

The train clattered forward, leaving Venezia Mestre. From what Luc had told her, she knew that after Mestre, there would be a short stretch over the lagoon.

“Luc, we are almost there.”

After rubbing his eyes, Luc took hold of Amélie’s hand and looked out the window. It was early afternoon, and lonely wooden pillars jutted out of the lagoon. Occasionally, a solitary heron pursued its flight toward an unknown destination far beyond the still tranquility of the Adriatic Sea.

“This is how I imagined it would be, Amélie.”

Instead of answering, Amélie rested her head on his shoulder. She felt tired. Weary of Luc’s love and the beauty only he could see.

He had chosen their hotel, making sure they would have a view of the Grand Canal. The

room was small, but something was inviting and reassuring about the fresh smell of the white sheets. She almost wished they could start over but knew the image of a clean hotel room was a lure. Eventually, everything she wanted to escape from would return and keep her prisoner.

“We should start with Cannaregio and cross over into Santa Croce.”

“I’d like to rest a bit first. You can go without me. It’s okay.”

“Are you sure? I wanted to do this together.”

“I just need a few hours to myself. I will meet you at the place where you were going to take photos of the sunset. What is the name of the church?

“San Giorgio. Meet me on Riva degli Schiavoni. And here, take my map. In case you get lost. I will be near the water.”

As Luc kissed her tenderly on the lips, Amélie felt no stir in her heart. She was now certain her decision before boarding the train in Paris was not a mistake. After the door closed, the sound of Luc’s steps began to fade. Exhausted, she looked at the bed and wanted to rest her head on the pillow and forget everything: Luc’s love for her and all that could remind her of him. Especially Venice. She could not rest yet. There was a letter to write, which she would leave on the small wooden desk. She felt sad because of the pain she felt and the suffering she was about to inflict. She sat down, took out a sheet of paper, and began to write.

Dear Luc,

When you read this letter, I will no longer be here. I am going back to Paris tonight. Please don’t look for me. Right now, I can’t find the right words; I only know that it is over between us. Deep in my heart, I know this is unfair, yet there is no one to blame. Neither you nor me. I didn’t have the courage to tell you in Paris, and I am sorry I waited so long, especially since Venice has always meant so much to you. Please don’t try to find me in Paris, either. It’s best to forget me.

Amélie.

After folding the letter and placing it in the envelope, Amélie felt two tears roll down her face. She wished she could have loved Luc forever, but their time together had become another faded photograph she had desperately tried to bring back to life. To her dismay, she hadn’t been able to find the colors. Unlike Luc, she was not an artist.

Puzzled that Amélie was nowhere to be found, Luc returned to the hotel room and saw her letter on the small desk. He felt lost and empty and also scared. Without her, he was nothing. No one. His life, his art, and even Venice’s beauty meant nothing without her. Re-reading Amélie’s sparse words, Luc remembered all he loved about her: her voice, her smile, her grey eyes. He inevitably wondered what he had done wrong and how he could change things. Surely, there was still time to talk things over. This breakup was not definitive. It was a misunderstanding. He needed to find her before she left Venice.

The train station was congested and noisy. As Luc went from quay to quay and scanned the crowds of passengers, his heart stopped each time he thought he recognized Amélie’s silhouette. Each time, after realizing it was not her but another woman, Luc continued to suffer and hope. Eventually, he left the train station and headed towards Riva degli Schiavone. Amélie would be there waiting for him. Together, they would look at the sunset over San Giorgio. Together, they would walk and talk. Forever.

On the Riva degli Schiavoni, packs of tourists were admiring the last golden shimmers of the day, which floated gently and quietly on the dark waters of the lagoon. By now, Luc knew Amélie would not show up. Yet, he continued to wait for her on the waterfront, just as he had searched for her at the train station, hoping she would return. Seeing all the couples around him, Luc now felt exposed, unable to hide his loneliness. He was an unloved lover about to capture the beauty of Venice for no one—not even for himself. Close to the pontoon, a gondoliere was looking to take passengers to the Grand Canal. Luc waved to the man, then changed his mind. Distraught, he headed back to the hotel.

* * *

On the train ride back to Paris, Luc once more let himself believe Amélie would be waiting for him, if not at the train station, for sure at the rue de Varenne. He was certain she had changed her mind. After his train arrived in Paris, Luc waited on the quay for half an hour in case Amélie was late. Later, when he opened the door to his room, he found nothing but loneliness. The bed was empty, filled with the scent of the only perfume she wore. During the following months, which included a torrid end of summer and a cool autumn filled with crisp blue skies and falling leaves, Luc continued to believe in Amélie’s return, so he spent hours looking at photos of her, preparing himself for the moment she would walk back into his life.

On a cold and gray day in February, he saw Amélie walking hand in hand with a stranger on the Pont du Carousel, a bridge they had traveled over many times together. The young man looked familiar. One of her classmates. The fact that they made a harmonious couple made him wonder what people used to think about them as a couple. Were they odd, together, or ill-assorted? As they crossed paths in silence, Amélie looked at Luc with an expression he had never seen before and which he couldn’t understand. An expression mingled with pity and slight indifference. When he turned around, she had already disappeared into the crowd. That same afternoon, Luc wrote her a letter, asking if they could meet one last time. Several days later, he found an envelope under his door. It was the letter he had written to Amélie. Someone had scribbled, “No longer at this address.” That same evening, alone in his room, Luc sifted through the countless photographs he had taken while walking with Amélie along the streets of Paris. As he looked at these haunted representations of the past, Luc began to wonder whether love was condemned or destined to become nothing more than a vague memory of who we had once loved. Later, while thinking of his current situation, Luc understood that everything in life is a matter of time. And when the time has come, love is usually no match for the passing of hours, weeks, or years. At one point, and unlike a photograph, the heart can no longer remember or be the witness to what has been. Furthermore, he understood that the love he had hoped to obtain from Amelie was essentially her loving the beauty he saw around him. Nonetheless, and despite his loneliness, Luc would continue to still time, places, and people and take only black-and-white photographs of Paris, convinced that the only thing worth saving was this city’s beauty.