Page 162 of The Seven Sisters
‘We’re going to somewhere off the Champs-Élysées?’ I confirmed, as much for the driver’s sake as my own.
‘Yes. Do you doubt me and my prowess at my favourite new language?’ He smiled.
‘No, of course not,’ I said. ‘But are you sure you meant a park?’
‘Hush, Maia,’ he said, putting a finger to my lips, ‘and trust me.’
Sure enough, we alighted next to the iron railings of a small, square expanse of green just off the Avenue de Marigny. Floriano paid the driver, then took my hand and led me through the gate and along the path that took us to the centre of the gardens. A pretty fountain played there, and Floriano pointed up to a bronze statue of a reclining, nude woman which sat atop it. Accustomed to seeing many erotic images all over Paris, I turned to Floriano askance.
‘Look at her, Maia, and tell me who she is.’
I did as he bid, and suddenly I saw her. Izabela, my great-grandmother, naked and sensuous, her head thrown back in pleasure, her hands thrown out, her palms facing upwards to the heavens.
‘Do you see now?’
‘Yes, I do,’ I whispered.
‘Then it will be no surprise to you that I discovered this sculpture is by none other than Professor Laurent Brouilly, your great-grandfather. I can only believe it is his silent tribute to his love for your great-grandmother. And now, Maia, look at her hands.’
I looked, and saw the palms and the delicate fingertips. And yes, I did see.
‘They are much smaller, of course, to fit the size of this sculpture, but I have compared them to theCristo’s hands, and I am convinced they are identical. I will show you the photographic evidence later, but for me, there is no doubt. Especially as it is the very gardens where Izabela told Loen she met Laurent for the last time here in Paris.’
I looked up at Izabela and wondered how she would feel if she could see how she’d been once again immortalised; no longer the innocent virgin as in the first sculpture, but subtly, sensuously, by a man who had truly loved her. And a father who, through the hands of fate, had also been able to know and love the daughter they had conceived together.
Floriano placed an arm around my shoulder as we eventually walked away. ‘Maia, we are not saying goodbye here like Bel and Laurent once had to. And you must never believe we will. Do you understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good, then we can leave Paris. And one day,’ he whispered into my ear, ‘I will write a beautiful book as my tribute toyou.’
*
I watched Floriano’s face as we sped across Lake Geneva towards my home. Even though it felt to me as though I had been away for many months, in reality, it was only three weeks. The lake was busy with tiny craft, their sails fluttering in the breeze like angels’ wings. The day was still very warm, even though it was past six in the evening, and the sun hung clear and golden above us in a cloudless blue sky. As I saw the familiar wall of trees in the distance, I felt as though I had lived another lifetime since I’d left Atlantis.
Christian steered the boat in to the pier, secured it and then helped us both out. I saw Floriano reach for our luggage, and Christian stop him. ‘No, monsieur. I’ll bring those up to the house for you later.’
‘Meu Deus!’ he commented as we walked across the lawns. ‘You truly are a princess returning to your castle,’ he teased me.
Up at the main house I introduced Floriano to Marina, who did her best to hide her surprise at the fact my guest was a ‘he’ not a ‘she’. Then I took him on a tour of the house and gardens, and through his eyes I saw the beauty of my home anew.
As the sun began to dip below the mountains on the other side of the lake, we took a glass of white wine for me and a beer for Floriano and I led him down to Pa Salt’s secret garden by the water’s edge. It was a riot of July colour, each plant and flower at the peak of its beauty. It reminded me today of a famous garden I’d seen once somewhere in the south of England when I had visited it with Jenny and her parents: everything laid out so perfectly, its intricate parterres lined by immaculately clipped box hedges.
We sat together on the bench under the gorgeous, fragrant rose arbour overlooking the water – the spot where so many times in the past I’d found my father deep in contemplation – and toasted each other.
‘Here’s to your last night in Europe,’ I said, with a slight catch in my voice. ‘And to the success of your book. As it’s already number six on the bestseller list in its first week in France, it might go to number one.’
‘You never know.’ Floriano shrugged casually, although I knew he’d been overwhelmed by the positive reaction from the French media and the bookshops. ‘And of course, it’s all due to the wonderful translation. What is that?’ he asked me, pointing to the centre of the terrace.
‘It’s called an armillary sphere. I think I told you that it appeared in the garden soon after Pa Salt died. It has all of our names engraved on a band and a set of coordinates for each sister. And an inscription written in Greek,’ I explained.
Floriano stood up and wandered over to inspect it. ‘Here you are.’ He indicated one of the bands. ‘And what does your inscription read?’
‘Never let fear decide your destiny.’ I gave him an ironic smile.
‘I think your father knew you well,’ he said, turning his attention back to the armillary sphere. ‘And what about this band? There’s nothing on it.’
‘No. Pa named us all after The Seven Sisters stars, but even though we all expected one more to arrive, she didn’t. So there have only ever been six of us. And now,’ I mused sadly, ‘there’ll never be a seventh.’
