La Mort des Apparences (The Death of Appearances)

“We have plenty of time,” Zelda said, reaching across the space betwixt she and her husband of eighteen years. She lovingly caressed his forearm in an attempt to assure him that his despondent thoughts were due to nothing more than the gloomy weather that had filled the day.

“We have plenty of time to go all the places and see all the things your heart desires, Jacques. Life is still young and full of possibilities. Why in heaven’s name are you speaking as though your world has suddenly screeched to an unexpected stop and will never resume?”

Jacques attempted a smile, but she could still see the sadness deep in his beautiful green eyes – sense the melancholy that had invaded his being for some unknown reason as if it were something tangible and palpable.

“You are right, my sweet,” Jacques said in his thick, French-laced accent as he patted Zelda’s hand. “Plenty of time,” he repeated absentmindedly as he stood and walked across the room to the small tabletop bar. “A drink, Zel?” he asked, pouring himself a generous glass of rich, amber-colored whiskey.

Zelda eyed him a bit dubiously and shook her head. It wasn’t like Jacques to drink whiskey, especially so early in the afternoon. He usually preferred wine.

She rose and walked over to place a kiss upon his cheek. “None for me. I will have my usual wine,” she said, heading to the kitchen. Pausing and glancing back, she added, “Besides, wine helps me cook better, and we must eat after all. Would you please put some music on while I prepare dinner?”

Jacques didn’t respond, but it wasn’t long before the lovely strains of Beethoven filled the early evening air - a bit louder than usual.

“Would you turn that down a bit, Jacques? Our neighbors will be complaining,” Zelda called from the kitchen as she poured herself a glass of wine, but the volume of the music didn’t alter.

“Jacques?” No response. Zelda sighed and gave up. It was likely the music was so loud, he couldn’t hear her anyway.

She busied herself in the kitchen, chopping veggies and preparing the salmon for baking. As her long, lean fingers and knife meticulously performed the tasks, her mind touched on Jacques. What was going on with him? It had been months since he had last seemed to really smile or laugh. Sure, he’d sometimes attempt to smile as if to reassure her he was fine – or possibly, more to reassure himself - but she knew the smile wasn’t coming from deep within. She had been so sure that he would snap out of it one day and return to the way he normally was, but now she wasn’t so sure.

His musings this late September afternoon had left her perplexed, worried, and unsure how to best respond. Truth be told, she was a bit stunned by his declaration that he felt his life was at a stand-still, going nowhere and with nothing to offer. He’d said his heart and soul longed for something he didn’t understand, and it was a depth of feeling that left him always feeling incomplete, misplaced, and sad. He must have seen the crushed look in her hazel eyes at his words, must have felt the sharp intake of her breath at the new realization that he wasn’t fulfilled by their relationship. Jacques was her everything. How could he possibly not feel the same? It was inconceivable.

Jacques had suddenly stopped speaking for a few moments and intently studied her with those penetratingly vivid, emerald green eyes before he’d softly spoken. “It’s not you, Zel. You are wonderful. By far the best part of me. There’s just so much I’d like to share with you, and I’m afraid that there won’t be time.”

Zelda had internalized a huge sigh of relief with his words, thus replying, “We have plenty of time, Jacques.” But had that been the right thing to say? From the look in his eyes, it had not seemed to squelch the sadness and from that point, despite her assurances to herself, a deep-seated doubt had taken root within her mind and heart.

Theirs had been a whirlwind love affair that had literally leapt from the pages of a romance novel. Zelda had met Jacques in 1958 at, of all places, the Eiffel Tower while she was a student in Paris. She had immediately been smitten with his kind, loving spirit, as well as those gorgeous green eyes and the alluring French accent. After dating for one year, they’d been married in a small French chapel in the countryside. It had been a beautiful Spring day that she would never forget, filled with wonderful French food, excellent wine, and good friends. Living in Paris with Jacques had brought her fulfillment and happiness. She worked as a secretary at the Louvre and enjoyed it even though it was not the center of her existence. They were able to live a decent life in the heart of gay Paris thanks to Jacques’ job as a banker. He often said that he might surprise her and up and quit his job one day to pursue a life of painting. Did a life of poverty suit her, he’d asked? He had teased that it would only be temporary or at least until he achieved worldwide fame. He’d laughed and said that one day she would come to work at the beautiful Louvre Museum to find his painting hanging front and center. Each time he suggested such a chain of events, Zelda wondered how many artists had begun their careers as bankers, but it also gave her pause to wonder if Jacques was happy with his work. Did he secretly long for life in Paris as an artist, full of passion, love, and the unknown? Being a banker didn’t seem a likely precipice to a life as an artist, but who knew? And Jacques did like to express himself through painting and drawing, but she’d always thought it more a hobby than a passion for him. Or thus she’d always thought, but now she wondered.

The buzzer on the timer sounded, distracting Zelda from her thoughts as she removed the salmon from the oven. Delicious aromas of lemon, sage, and other spices moved throughout the room. She filled two plates with portions of the fish and veggies before placing them on the tiny table. As she poured the wine, she looked out the window. Living on the twenty-fourth floor offered a stunning view of the Southern side of Paris. The distant sunset this evening was beautiful, boldly hinting at hues of blue, pink, and yellow. She mused it was definitely worthy of the finest artist’s brush, but was that Jacque’s brush? Turning, she completed the table’s setting with a basket of crusty French bread and a plate of softened butter before heading back into the living area. Zelda immediately went to the stereo, turning down the volume to a softer level. As she did so, she could clearly hear the subtle noises of the city below, including resounding sirens, and she realized Jacques had left the balcony doors open once again.

“Jacques, dinner is ready,” she called, assuming he had disappeared into the bedroom.

Before she could walk across the room to close the balcony doors, the doorbell rang. A bit surprised, she stopped and turned away, her attention diverted from the open balcony. When she answered the door, she found her neighbor, Suzette. Zelda noted that, as usual, there was not the slightest hint of a smile on her face. It had to be the music, she thought; it had been far too loud.

“I’m so sorry about the music, Suzette. You know how much Jacques enjoys his Beethoven.” Zelda managed an apologetic smile. Suzette wasn’t the most pleasant of people, and Zelda was expecting a sarcastic retort. But instead, something in Suzette’s face gave her pause, and she hesitated, unsure what else to say. Was that pity she saw in Suzette’s eyes? They were talking about the music. Why was Suzette looking at her like that?

Suzette appeared nervous, looking down at her feet instead of responding. She hesitantly stepped aside and allowed a tall, lean police officer to fill Zelda’s doorway.

Zelda’s mind raced. What was this? Was she so angry about the loud music that she’d called the police? Seriously? This was unbelievable! Suzette was a bit eccentric, but she’d never done anything like this before. Zelda cleared her throat as she attempted to think of something to say, but the officer spoke first.

“Mme. Dubois?”

“Yes,” Zelda replied, keenly aware she’d forgotten to remove her apron before answering the door. She fidgeted nervously with the rick rack trim along its’ edge. “I’m so sorry about the loud music. It won’t happen again.” Jacques was never going to hear the end of this. What in the world would the other neighbors think? Where was he anyway? She looked over her shoulder anxiously, hoping to see him emerging from the bedroom, but there was no sign of him.

“Mme. I am sorry, but it is not the music. I must inform you that I have some very unfortunate news. We have asked your neighbor, Mme. Lyon, to come and sit with you while we speak,” he nodded at Suzette. The officer’s English was a bit stilted but good enough that Zelda had no difficulty understanding him.

Surprise flickered across Zelda’s face before she quickly stepped aside. “Where are my manners? Please come inside. I’ll get my husband.” She turned to call Jacques, but Suzette had quickly taken her by the arm and was steering her toward the sofa.

“Zelda, please sit with us for a minute,” she said, pity now a fully recognizable emotion within Suzette’s dark brown eyes. Still, she avoided looking directly at Zelda.

A feeling of dread began to spread in Zelda’s chest, permeating throughout her entire body. What was happening? Why wouldn’t Suzette let her get Jacques from the bedroom? What unfortunate news did the officer have? Her eyes darted across the room and spied the open balcony doors as she slowly lowered herself to the sofa next to Suzette. Sirens echoed from below. Fervent denial took firm root in her mind as a frightening thought crept forward to taunt her like an insidious snake silently slithering into a garden.

The officer removed his hat and took a seat across from her. His brow creased and his lips pursed tightly as he seemed to grapple with the necessary words that were not easily forthcoming.

“Mme. Dubois, is this your husband’s wallet?” He handed her a brown leather wallet that she quickly recognized, although it appeared a little more worn than when last she’d taken note of it. What on earth? Jacques was never without his wallet.

Zelda hesitated and then shook her head affirmatively, words refusing to leave her lips as she took ahold of the wallet, her fingers clutching the worn leather with a sense of fear.

 The officer cleared his throat and uneasily looked at the floor and then at Suzette before his somber gaze returned to Zelda. “Mme., I regret to inform you that we believe your husband leapt from your balcony to his death only a short while ago. His body is below, but we are in the process of having it taken to the morgue. I am deeply sorry for your loss, Mme.”

There was a loud, overwhelming buzzing in Zelda’s ears as her breath caught in her chest. This could not be right. She shook her head in denial and rose to go to the bedroom, tears streaming down her cheeks as she murmured Jacques’ name. Suzette quickly followed her every step, words of comfort softly issuing forth as she walked with Zelda about the rooms of the small apartment. A chill invaded. Jacques was not to be found.

Dazed and riddled with unspoken shock, she reluctantly took a seat on the sofa again. Lowering her head into both hands, she wept profusely, not caring whom else was there. Suzette’s palm made tiny circles on her back as she sought to comfort Zelda.

Unbeknownst to Zelda, the officer rose and walked about the apartment, taking note of the dinner table set for two, the half-drunk glass of whiskey on the bar, and the envelope that lay atop the desk with Zelda’s name boldly scribbled on it along with "I'm so sorry". He walked to the balcony, peering over the wall to momentarily view the chaos below before he returned and resumed his seat. Nothing looked suspicious or out of order. It was all too apparent this was a most unfortunate incident and an obvious suicide. Such a waste, he thought to himself.

“Do you have someone you can call, Mme. Dubois?” he quietly asked Zelda. “You should not be alone.”

Zelda looked up through tear-filled eyes and nodded. She would have to call their families. She wasn’t sure how she’d tell them, but she must. As Suzette handed her a pretty, little lace handkerchief, she was momentarily distracted by the irony in it. How could something appear so delicate and pretty amidst this horrific set of circumstances? It was like an oxymoron – a prickly thorn in an otherwise beautiful, flower strewn garden. Looking up, Zelda thanked her as she took the lace handkerchief and dried her tears.

“Very well, Mme. Dubois. We will need you to come down to the station tomorrow for further inquiries into your husband’s death, but for tonight, you should call your family and attempt to rest. Again, I am most sorry for your loss.”

Zelda watched the officer rise, don his hat, and leave. Suzette followed behind him and quietly closed the door. Zelda’s senses were in overdrive, and she was innately attuned to every fleck of dust on the side table, every minute noise that rose from the streets below, and every attempt at drawing breath that her body made.

“I’m going to make you some strong coffee, dear,” Suzette said as she made her way to the kitchen.

Zelda marveled that Suzette seemed very much at ease with her newly assigned caretaker and friend role. Despite the fact that she and Suzette had never been close, she was immensely thankful for the neighbor’s presence at this critical juncture and would never, ever look at the woman in the same harsh light again. Right now, she did not want to be alone. Yes, it was definitely an oddity that she was finding comfort in the hands of someone she’d never befriended or trusted to any large extent.

As Suzette busied herself with the coffee in the kitchen, Zelda looked around and picked up the wallet that lay on the coffee table. She gazed at it as if seeing it for the first time and then slowly lifted it to inhale of its musky scent. She was overwhelmed with the essence of Jacques and unable to fathom that he was gone. How utterly and undeniably sad she felt. How could he have ended his life? What immense pain had filled him so that he must do this horrible thing? Her heart was broken, and guilt filled her as she remembered her inability to make him feel better only a short while earlier. She should have done more, said more, and loved him more. She should have been there for him even when he’d pushed her away. Doubt, grief, and guilt consumed her, and she wept again with greater intensity as she realized that life would never be the same.

Finally, she steadied herself and reached down to smooth the delicate, lace handkerchief that lay in her lap as she pondered the stark contrast of it and the horrid moment at hand. Lightly touching its’ edges, she felt the softness of the Belgium lace. Her life would never be like the soft, pretty lace again. It would take a great deal to repair herself and live after Jacques. She had created an illusion where everything appeared easy and wonderfully beautiful in her life and home, but in actuality, it was anything but. With a deep-seated, profound regret, Zelda knew that appearances were nothing more than a façade created for the weak, and she must be strong. Jacques’ death made her never want to hide behind weak or false appearances again for it had been far too costly. Instead, she would confront life’s situations, including those riddled with pain or doubt, with a strong dose of reality and a renewed vigor. She would never fall short of the mark again for those whom she loved or for herself. Indeed, the illusion of appearances had been no friend to her.

Slowly, Zelda made her way to the balcony. She knew she was retracing Jacques’ final steps, and it nearly shook her resolve. Resolutely she reached the wall and looked over at the street below, now nearly cleared of all the commotion of Jacques’ final action. She clutched the dainty handkerchief tightly for a moment and wiped at the stain of tears. She had been so foolish.

She was keenly aware of the wind that whispered in the early evening as it seemed to spur her onward. She lifted her slender arm and draped it across the balcony's ledge, the handkerchief delicately dangling and dancing in the breeze from her fingertips. With determination borne of pain, she released the handkerchief and watched as it slowly moved across the Paris skyline. She eventually lost sight of it and at long last exhaled a sigh of relief. Today had been a day of fierce reckoning, but somehow she would continue to live and move beyond the guilt and regret she felt so profoundly. Life was no longer an illusion and all its’ false appearances were as dead as Jacques, disappearing into the moonlit night along with the floating lace handkerchief.