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SABINE
PARIS, 1987
She was so relieved to discover the Abbey de Saint-Michel was still in operation.
After seeing the convent listed on Sabine’s mother’s birth and adoption certificates they had decided it was worth it to see if someone there perhaps remembered something about it.
Sabine was a little shocked when she dialled information and was then connected through to the convent. It seemed odd, somehow, to imagine an abbey, deep in the Provençal countryside, having a telephone.
Modern times, she thought, with some awe.
A minute later a polite, gravelly sort of voice with an air of efficiency answered.
‘Bonjour, the Abbey de Saint-Michel, Sister Agnes speaking.’
‘Good day, Sister,’ said Sabine. ‘I was wondering if you might be able to help.’
‘Certainly. Is it about the lavender production? We are open for tours, Monday to Saturday from 8 a.m. to 1 p.m. and we serve lunch in the gardens as part of the package.’
This sounded a bit more modern than she was bargaining for.
‘Oh, er no, actually. Um… I was wondering if there was anyone who could help provide some information about a child that was born in the abbey in the late 30s, just before the war. I believe that the nuns also handled the adoption.’
‘Oh?’ said the sister in some surprise. ‘Well, I was not aware of such an undertaking, but it is possible, especially in those times. I can make some enquiries if you like. If you leave your name and number I can get back to you.’
‘Yes, that would be fine, thank you,’ said Sabine, giving her details and feeling oddly disappointed, though she wasn’t sure why – perhaps it was just that until they spoke to someone who remembered those times, they were just going around in circles with the information they already had.
She popped by Monsieur Géroux’s antiquarian bookstore on the way home from the library, where he made her a mug full of the tar-like black coffee he enjoyed. They drank it next to his old-fashioned desk. Monsieur Géroux looked tired; there were deep shadows beneath his eyes. ‘I didn’t sleep well,’ he admitted. ‘I kept going over the possibility that out there, someone might remember something about your mother’s adoption and offer some kind of a clue as to who Marianne was… but then I stop myself, knowing that I’m reaching. It’s possible she simply abandoned the child, your mother, shortly after giving birth and no real questions were asked…’
Sabine sighed. ‘I’ve been tormenting myself with the same thoughts. When I phoned today, I was so hoping someone would just be like, Oh yes, of course she will be listed on the adoption papers, let me go check our records… I waited all day for someone to call back, hardly got a thing done properly at work…’
‘I can imagine,’ said Monsieur Géroux, showing her the pile of work that was on his desk. There was new stock that needed protective jackets as well as calls to be made to interested collectors but his heart hadn’t been in it.
‘I even – for the first time in at least a decade – had someone show interest in the Nabokov,’ he said, putting his head in his hands and groaning softly. ‘And I blew it.’
‘The Nabokov?’ Sabine asked, curious, a tug of sympathy going out to him.
‘Lolita – American edition – it’s in that cabinet there, the one with that ghastly cover,’ he said, pointing.
She stood up to go and look. It was indeed not attractive as far as covers went, though she wouldn’t go so far as to call it ghastly. To be fair she’d never really liked the story of Lolita; she knew it was meant to be progressive and all of that, but it had given her the creeps.
‘I’ve been trying to sell that copy for thirty years,’ he admitted.
‘Oh no, I’m so sorry,’ she gasped, realising how distracted he must have been. She felt a twinge of guilt… ‘If it wasn’t for me dredging all this up…’
‘Don’t be silly, if it wasn’t for you I would not have known that she warned Henri to stay away. Or that there might have been more to this story. I am grateful to you, truly. It is like a weight has started to lift.’
She reached over and squeezed his hand. ‘As I am to you, monsieur.’
He smiled and his freckles were more prominent, making him look younger.
‘Don’t you think it’s time, Sabine, that you started calling me Gilbert?’ he said, patting her hand, which had an ink smudge from where she’d been stamping book returns.
Her lips twitched. ‘I’ll try,’ she said.
Two days passed before Sabine heard back from the abbey.
‘Good afternoon,’ said the same voice that she’d spoken to before. ‘I am looking for Sabine Dupris.’
