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  -“I thought not,” he continued, “it’s not very well-known. But it’s the perfect place to spend your last years without too much stress. I’ll have a small pension and a decent post as a rural doctor. At least enough to live quite comfortably,” he paused. “They say that being able to see the sea is good for the soul.”

  -“Yes, indeed,” I said, supportively, although to be quite honest, he had completely lost me. Now I really had no clue where this man was going.

  - “Edouard, I’ve told you many times that you’re young and promising; you take initiative, you have bright ideas. I think that Montdevergues needs people like you.”

  -“Thank you Sir,” I said in response to his friendly flattery.

  Mathieu reached out to hand me a piece of paper, pointing to part of it with his index finger. I could see that my name was written there, by machine and with the official seal on top. I realised then that he’d clearly been trying to add a little mystery and grandeur to the meeting.

  -“I processed your application myself so that you would get my position. I hope you don’t mind.

  As I read the page, it dawned on me that I would be the new Medical Director at Montdevergues, as soon as Cyril Mathieu had left. The sheet of paper began to tremble between my fingers.

  -“Sir, I...I don’t know what to say.”

  -“We don’t have much time, and there are lots of things you need to learn in very few months. Don’t worry, I’ll help you.”

  -“But, what about Pascal?” I asked, recalling the doctor in charge of male patients, who had been at the asylum quite a number of years before me.

  The Medical Director leaned onto the backrest of his chair and looked at the ceiling, as though it would help him find the right words to answer me, before he said:

  -“Pascal is an efficient man, a good person, but he doesn’t have the right qualities for the job. I’m sure he will be a great help to you, but he will have to adapt and get involved of his own free will.”

  -“I see...” I muttered, not very convinced.

  Mathieu took out some folders from a desk draw, giving me a wink as he handed them over.

  -“So, you accept the job...”

  I took the folders with a quick nod. On the one hand I was very excited and content, but on the other I felt a strange sense of vertigo, part of me knew that from now on things would never be the same again.

  -“And these papers? I asked, waving the folders.

  -“I want you to start getting used to the reality that is waiting for you round the corner. Four months may seem a long time, but I can assure you they will go by in a flash. We’ll need to work very hard.”

  -“Yes I know.”

  Cyril moved his face as though about to speak, but then changed his mind, remaining silent for a few seconds.

  -“There’s one thing that I want you to know,” he said darkly.

  -“Tell me,” I said intrigued, hoping for some kind of personal confession, or something about my future here that would not be so pleasant.

  -“I know you have a special bond with Miss Claudel, and that you’ve promised her things, and that you’ve given her certain hope.

  I was breathless. Back then I was in charge of more than three hundred and fifty patients, and he was talking to me about one of them. I had to admit that what he was saying was true, but what relevance did it have now?

  -“I don’t understand where you’re going with this, Mr. Mathieu.”

  -“I’m asking you not to do it. Don’t encourage the poor woman’s hopes. Just try to make sure she can have as dignified a life as possible in this asylum. Don’t make the same mistake as me.”

  Cyril weighed each word as he spoke, beaten by the conclusions he had drawn from a tragic reality, the stars seeming to have aligned along an unchangeable course.

  -“What you’re asking of me goes against my professional ethics. I am not just giving hope to Miss Claudel, I do it purely from wanting to make one of her modest wishes come true.”

  -“The problem is that this isn’t something that depends on her, you, or even me for that matter. But spurring her dreams on will only come back to bite not only her, but you as well,” said the Director, sullenly.

  -“But what dreams are you talking about?” I asked, trying to get to the real reason behind his advice.

  -“You know fine well what I’m talking about. Miss Claudel will most likely spend the rest of her days here, and never get out of this place that causes her so much grief. The sooner she understands this, the sooner she can try to make the most of the life she has.”

  -“You can’t be serious!” I exclaimed, rather angrily.

  Mathieu got up and came towards me. As he stood at my side, he gently took hold of my hand, giving me that strange feeling again that he was my father, and I was his son, his dear son.

  -“Seven years ago I wrote a very long letter to Miss Claudel’s mother. I explained the progress her daughter was making, her achievements, her lucidity and her good behaviour. I pleaded that she should allow her to be transferred to Paris, as Camille wished to be nearer to her family and that this would do her some good. I also said that she could consider letting her out of the asylum on a trial period, just to see how things went.”

  Cyril clasped my hand tightly, and his gaze went beyond the office we were in, and beyond even the mountains that were visible through the fluttering lace curtains of the open window.

  -“And what did she say?” I asked, curiously, although suspecting what the answer would be.

  -“That it wouldn’t be possible,” said Mathieu, hardening the tone of his voice and letting brusquely go of my hand. “That Camille was a danger to herself and to her family and that as long as it was up to her, she would never leave the asylum. She also expected me to forget about letting her out of the asylum, be it even just for a short time, and that if I didn’t there would be consequences to face.”

  It took me a while to assimilate the information that the Medical Director had just provided me. Again it was as though some kind of stone had hit the pit of my stomach, sending ripples of resentment and hatred through me.

  -“I can’t believe a mother like that actually exists!” I cried, enraged.

  Mathieu tried to calm my anger, placing his hands on my shoulders. He knew that he had involved me too much in this case, forgetting that a doctor needs to keep a cool head and must always maintain an emotional distance from patients.

  -“Has Miss Claudel told you herself why she’s “imprisoned” here, as she likes to put it?”

  -“No. Only that it’s because she wanted to be her own woman.”

  -“That doesn’t surprise me.”

  The Medical Director went towards a bookshelf which stood to the right of his desk, and pointed to a small filing cabinet. He remained there with his hand in the air, pointing towards it, paralysed and in silence, as though he had suddenly lost all consciousness.

  -“Mr. Mathieu...” I whispered, to wake him from his trance.

  Cyril lightly shook his head and rubbed his temples with both hands. He then gave me a defeated, empty look.

  -“That contains the real story behind Miss Claudel. The one she told you is a farce, a pantomime to keep both the system and my conscience safe. A diatribe filled with nonsense where ailments and illness are strung together, one after the other, with the purpose of justifying the unjustifiable. When I leave, I’ll read the pages inside that cabinet, I’ll read the memories of my guilt,” he said before gesturing me out of the room.

  I left Cyril Mathieu’s office, satisfied with the news of my imminent promotion, but plagued with the strong after-taste of powerlessness that had devastated the Medical Director, and which I somehow knew would do the same to me.

  Chapter 8

  Paris

  Montdevergues, 19th of November 1943

  It has been more than a week since I have had chance to write again. It is Friday night, and Saturday morning I have decided to have a rest. The days at Montdeve
rgues drag on, each hour is pensively mulled over and prolonged; it feels like dying and taking one last laborious breath that never ends. Some are waiting for a new piece of news, a change of direction, some kind of sign. Others are simply waiting to die.

  Not long after my conversation with Cyril Mathieu, I found Camille in the same garden where we had first met. By then I knew that she rarely left her room, and when she did it was under the orders of a guard or nurse. We cannot allow patients to spend hours on end shut up in their room.

  As I saw her, I was tempted just to slip past without saying a word, pretending not to have noticed her. I could still feel the dead weight of the Medical Director’s words on Camille’s mother and her inexplicable, cruel behaviour. Although I knew it would be theoretically impossible, I did not want to speak with Camille until I had read the entire secret of her past that was still in Cyril Mathieu’s possession, and he was not planning on handing it over until his departure. But it was too late, Camille was already coming towards me. She whispered in my ear:

  -“Last night I dreamt of Paris and I woke up in a good mood.”

  As I looked at her that morning, I could see that her face was glowing, as though the woman before my eyes was completely different to the enraged and resentful one I usually found on my weekly visits. It may seem strange to say, but that happiness that to me appeared to be only momentary, made me seriously fear for her mental health, as though her nostalgia and spitefulness were in fact symptoms of sanity, whilst joyfulness indicated the contrary.

  -“That's wonderful news. It’s been so long since I saw you smile like that,” I said, knowing that it was really the first time she had ever done so in my presence.

  Camille bowed her head, like an uncomfortable, uneasy teenager. She scraped one of her feet on the ground, leaving a mark on the pebble path that resembled the shape of a human torso. I suddenly remembered the figures I had salvaged from their impending doom as shards of clay in the skip.

  -When I went to Paris, I felt truly happy. My father had agreed to let me go to classes at the academy, despite the disapproval of my stubborn mother. He knew that I had already become a real artist, and he didn’t want to clip my wings, but spread them for me with his own two hands, quite the the opposite.”

  -“That’s a beautiful thing to say.”

  At that moment Camille did something which took me by surprise: she took hold of my arm and began to walk with me, around the flowerbeds and further from the main building that was her impenetrable fortress.

  -“I discovered a whole new world in Paris. I met other artists, women like myself, who were fighting to make a name for themselves and to find their niche in a world of men. We couldn’t work at the studios, we couldn’t take part in the most important competitions or even display our work. But the more adventurous of us still dared to try and change things,” she exclaimed, holding back a wall of emotion.

  -“No doubt you had to be very careful,” I pointed out, continuing the conversation. I was glad that she was sharing these moments of happy reflection with me.

  Camille leaned into me. I could feel her body, angular in places, fleshy at the hips. Her limp caused her to push into me slightly, as I supported her weight.

  -“Yes, I did. But I felt like a volcano, a typhoon, an uncontrollable force of nature. Even if now I want to go back to Villeneuve, back then the capital seemed like a miracle to me. I believed that the world of art and the whole of France would find out who Camille Claudel was.”

  As we walked, the surrounding patients looked on in both surprise and envy. The medical staff and assistants were shocked by the scene too. Even I was not entirely sure what was happening. The human mind is a mystery, not even we experts can unlock every single puzzle of its cryptic code. At that moment I felt I was gliding into an open paradise, guided by Camille’s neurones. The journey was smooth and pleasant.

  -“And in they did in the end, didn't they?”

  -“Yes, they did. But it wasn't long before I was denied what was mine. I was robbed of my life and my work,” she mumbled.

  I was afraid that Camille was getting herself worked up thanks to my clumsy comment, which had seemingly brought back the darkest memory of her life. I tilted my head as I tried to see if there was any sign of a change of mood in her eyes, but everything seemed to be steady.

  -“Don’t hurt yourself, Camille.”

  -“No, nothing can ever hurt me now.”

  Her radiant happiness was contagious. I even began to believe, as conceitedly as it sounds, that this slight improvement was undeniably down to my skills as a psychiatrist, and that sooner rather than later this woman, who had spent years of her life shrouded in darkness, would wake up with my help to a new life filled with joy.

  -“What do you mean?” I asked, expecting an answer perhaps vaguely related to myself. This is how self-centred and vain I can be sometimes.

  -“Because last night I was in Paris, and I was back sculpting marble, and everything had started again, right from the beginning.”

  Chapter 9

  An abducted museum

  Montdevergues, 21st of November 1943

  Sometimes I would spend hours locked away in my room. After taking up the position as Director of Montdevergues, I refused to move into the main building. With my new post came the right to more comfortable quarters, closer to my office and with spectacular views, but in exchange I would have to sacrifice the privacy I had grown so accustomed to. So I decided to stay where I was. The rest of the staff took this as a sign of humility and it was well-received, but it was rather just a symptom of my secret disaffection with human beings as a whole. As individuals, I believe in people and their potential, but in groups I feel that any one of us is capable of committing the worst kind of atrocity. Fortunately the war in France has not put state against state, but instead has pitted smaller groups against each other, organised around the so-called Resistance. This has left doctors out of the equation, and we are not obliged to participate in the battle. God knows what kind of villainy I would have been capable of committing, lost in the dirty anonymity of the people and such brutality. I have had too many nightmares of me holding a bayonet, and committing the worst of crimes, gunning down others like me, and only when I wake up do I feel the unrecognisable sense of guilt.

  Here, hidden away in this modest building, I feel like a nobleman from the Middle Ages at the top of his tower. Removed from everything, immune to the events that would otherwise involve me, I am separated from the situation I have taken on, one that hangs in a precarious balance. As I sit here, I am surrounded by dozens and dozens of figures that were made by Camille during her years of imprisonment, the ones I have rescued them from untimely end. It feels like building your very own paradise. The world outside shrivels up in its unremitting decay.

  I remember the day when I went back to the guards who were about to smash three new figures with that same insensitivity, haste and coldness as the last time. I was so shocked by their detachment and the unshakeable manner in which they carried out their task without any remorse.

  -“Good afternoon,” I greeted, in a distracted sort of way, as though I happened to be there by chance. But it was hard to even fool myself.

  -“Good afternoon, Sir,” they replied in unison, without looking up at me.

  -“Would those happen to be Miss Claudel’s figures?” I asked, stupidly, only making my supposed disinterest seem even more unlikely.

  One of the guards looked at the other, as if to say, “this guy’s back again with his mad ideas”. The same one replied, rather out of forced politeness than for a real desire to satisfy my unhealthy curiosity.

  -“Yes, Sir. You know we’ve been given orders to destroy them and to throw the rest away,” he replied, as though repeating a refrain I had heard a thousand times before.

  I looked at the men, then at the clay figures; just a quick glance, but long enough to discern that these were sublime, pure works of art by the delicate hand of a genius, a qual
ity reserved for the highest of beings. I felt dizzy. I was willing to be subjected to any kind abuse if it meant saving the figures from being so savagely destroyed.

  -“Yes, I do know that. I spoke about the matter with Mr. Mathieu, and we’ve come to an agreement that suits us both,” I claimed, brazenly lying and improvising on the go. Anything to prevent another sacrilege.

  The guards turned to look at each other, puzzled. The older one who was of a stockier build and seemed brighter took up the role of spokesperson again.

  -“We don’t know anything. The Director hasn’t mentioned anything to us,” he said, puffing out his chest defensively.

  I felt a sharp pain of rage rip through my gut. I had not been long at the asylum and my authority could of course still be questioned, as long as it was done so with a good dose of respect. Those guards should answer almost exclusively to the Director, who was after all the one who paid them: he was their leader, and more importantly was the one with the power to dismiss them.

  -“He must have forgotten. He’s got a lot on his mind. We thought,” I began, now taking the lie too far, “that it would be a good idea for me to take care of these figures and for me to keep hold of them in case Miss Claudel regains her sanity and wants to do something with them. At the end of the day, they are hers after all,” I concluded, trying to show myself to be fair and perhaps even compassionate.

  -“As you say so,” replied the guard, not very convinced, with his eyes glued to the ground. He looked at the figurines in the same way he would have looked at a piece of rubbish, and of course, he was very far from understanding my ridiculous fixation.

  I suddenly realised that my ruse would inevitably lead me to having problems with Cyril Mathieu, perhaps even to my immediate resignation. I had to get these two men on my side if I did not want to lose my job.