The Curious Charms of Arthur Pepper(33)

“Sure. Donna likes glittery cheap stuff. She has drawers full of it. Manda likes the expensive shit. Diamonds and platinum, to show how much I like her. Costs me a fortune.”

“Do you give a great deal of thought to what you buy them?” Arthur asked, thinking of the singular engraved page in the book charm and how enamored De Chauffant might have been with Miriam.

“Not really. I leave it to them. They point out stuff they like, or buy it themselves. Or I might pick up a little something off friends I know who get nice stuff cheap. I’d make an effort with a wedding ring, though. That’s forever.”

“Thank you. That is helpful.” Arthur stood up and faced the man. “You asked if I made a good choice with my wife. I absolutely did. But I’m not sure whether I was a good choice for her.”

The man reached out and punched Arthur’s shoulder. “Nah, you seem like a kind man. I think you probably were a good choice.”

“Do you think so?” He suddenly felt like he needed affirmation, even from this cheating, brash stranger.

“You were faithful. You’re kind. You listen. You’re thoughtful. You offer good advice. You’re not a bad-looking fellow. I’m sure she made a good choice with you, yeah.”

“Thank you,” Arthur said quietly. He paid his bill and left a two-pound tip. The waitress saw him and waved.

“She sure is a babe,” the man said as they walked away together. “Do you think that...?”

“No,” Arthur said firmly. “No, I do not.”





The Book


FRAN?OIS DE CHAUFFANT’S house was larger than Arthur had expected. It was extravagant, opulent, like it should be a five-star hotel with a man wearing a gray top hat standing at the door. Its white frontage gleamed in the sunshine. Arthur felt suddenly embarrassed by his own three-bedroom redbrick semidetached. He had never aspired to own anything grander. He and Miriam had once discussed moving to be a little closer to Dan and Lucy’s school, but he had never judged himself or others by the size of their home. Home is where the heart is, his mother used to say. Should he have worked his way up the career ladder so he could have afforded something grander for his family? Should he have strived to be more successful? These were questions that he had never considered until he had started this journey.

As he stood before the house and surveyed the swooping crescent, the poplar trees, the neatly trimmed square, he imagined De Chauffant and Miriam strolling hand in hand, she all in white and he dressed all in black, drawing admiring glances from neighbors and passersby. In his imagination they stepped in unison and giggled, heads bowed and touching. Then they kissed on the threshold before disappearing into the house.

Arthur dug his hands in his pockets and surveyed his ridiculous blue trousers, his sturdy walking sandals, his nylon rucksack with a compass. Glamorous he was not. If Miriam had stayed with the French writer she could have lived a life of luxury and creativity, rather than plumping for domesticity with a boring locksmith. Her kids could have been privately educated and wanted for nothing. Arthur had often refused to buy toys for Dan and Lucy because they were too expensive.

But not once had his wife made him feel like he wasn’t good enough. He was doing that to himself.

His knees shook as he ascended the stairs. He took hold of the black iron door knocker, which was the shape of a lion’s head. Straightening his back, he stood in readiness for the door to be opened by an aging, raven-haired French love-god.

He had already decided that De Chauffant would still be wearing his tight black trousers and turtleneck jumper. It was his trademark, Arthur was sure. He would be barefoot and have a pencil tucked behind his ear. How would he answer the door—with a flourish, or with a sigh because his latest masterpiece had been disturbed?

Arthur rapped as assertively as he could. He waited for a few minutes, then knocked again. He felt nauseous, as if he had just stepped off a train after a long journey. His head told him to about-turn, to leave and forget about this silly mission. His heart told him to stay, that he had to carry on.

There was a rattle behind the door, the sound of chains being removed. The door opened by a few centimeters. He saw a flash of pink clothing. An eye pressed to the gap.

“Yes?”

He couldn’t tell if the voice belonged to a man or a woman. It wasn’t the voice he had granted to his love rival.

“I’m here to see Fran?ois De Chauffant.”

“Who are you?”

“My name is Arthur Pepper. I believe that my wife was a friend of Mr. Chauffant.” The door remained ajar so he added, “She died a year ago and I am trying to trace her friends.”

The door opened slowly. A young man, in his mid-to late twenties, stood there. He was very thin and wore jeans that hung off his hips. Led Zeppelin, his T-shirt said. It was short enough to display his navel, which was pierced with a red glittery stone. Hollow navy eyes blinked through his spiky, powder-pink hair.

“He won’t recognize her, your wife.” His accent was soft, Eastern European.

“I have a photograph.”

The man shook his head. “He is not good at recognizing anyone.”

“I have reason to believe that he and my wife were close. It was a long time ago. In the sixties...”

“He has Alzheimer’s.”

“Oh.” This was unexpected. Arthur’s vision of a cocky beatnik dressed in black vanished, not replaced by anything else.