Camille was struck by the quality of the pictures. Unlike the snapshots of her father, these compositions were sophisticated, the images crystal clear and expertly developed. “These are seriously good,” she said. “Do you know who took them?”
He shook his head again. “I don’t recall anyone taking photos. Perhaps Lisette collected them.”
“They’re pretty wonderful. Someone had a good eye and a good camera.” The backs of the photos were unlabeled and undated. She carefully placed the photos back in the pleated folder. “I’d like to study these further.”
“Of course,” her father said.
They continued sorting through the contents of the trunk and came across a sketchbook of pen-and-ink drawings. The sketches were simple, but showed maturity and control, probably not the work of a child. They depicted a variety of country scenes—an old stone farmhouse, fields and pastures, stone walls and rocky meadows.
“Your artwork?” Camille asked.
“No. I don’t remember these drawings. Look how old the paper is. It’s practically falling apart. And here—more photographs.” He took a collection from a pocket in the back of the sketchbook. They appeared to be pictures from which the drawings were rendered.
“I think these were taken by the same photographer as the ones in the Lisette folder,” Camille said. “They’re in the same style.”
“Do you think these are pictures of a real place?” Julie asked.
“Certainly. This is Sauveterre—our farm near Bellerive. Sauveterre means ‘Safe Haven’ in English. It’s a type of farm called a mas, very common in that part of the world. It was my home until I came to America.”
“It’s beautiful,” Camille said, laying the photos in a row on the coffee table.
“A typical mas is a whole community unto itself, almost entirely self-sustaining. Everything the family needed was produced right there—crops, dairy, meat, grapes, olives . . . There was a winepress we used for making wine from our own grapes.”
“That’s so cool,” Julie said. “Do you think it’s still there?”
“I know that it is, though apparently the main house is in dire need of repairs. The Oliviers have occupied it on lease ever since I left.”
Camille frowned. “On lease? From your cousin?”
He shook his head. “From me.”
She heard the words, but they didn’t seem real to her. “Wait a second. You’re saying you own a farm in France.”
“I have the official deeds filed away in a safe-deposit box.”
She stared at the pictures. “You still own this place. Why didn’t you ever tell me about it?”
“I rarely think of it. Sauveterre belongs to me in name only, because truly, the Oliviers have a ninety-nine-year lease on the place. The rent provides only a modest income, just enough to cover the taxes and upkeep. Although with the roof caving in, I suspect it’ll run into some expense.”
“But you own it.” Camille was amazed.
“The property has been in the Palomar family for generations, and upon the death of my father, it was placed in trust for me until I reached the age of eighteen.” He passed his hand over a detailed panorama of the mas in the sketchbook. “Sauveterre will be yours one day.”
“Whoa,” Julie said. “That’s awesome—a farm in France. Papi, why didn’t you want to live there? Why did you come to America? And why don’t you ever go back for a visit?”
“All these questions. It is as if I suddenly matter,” he added in a teasing voice.
Julie grabbed his hand. “You’ve always mattered. And I think you’re awesome. This whole trunk thing is awesome. It’s like figuring out a puzzle about you, Papi.”
It was the first glimmer of enthusiasm Camille had seen from Julie in ages. And it wasn’t a mere glimmer, but an actual spark. Julie seemed to love the old things, even mundane objects like a pair of sewing scissors and a cap with a feather in it, a fountain pen and inkwell crusted with old turquoise ink.
Camille spotted something tucked into the pages of one of the Sherlock Holmes books—not a bookmark but a prayer card, about the size of a playing card, depicting the head of Christ. It was a familiar image, a portrait with an incandescent glow around the face and flowing hair. She knew she’d seen it somewhere before. She turned it over, and was surprised to see a printed prayer in English, not French, and Chicago Offset Printing Company in tiny letters at the bottom. Next to that: Distributed by the USO.
On the edge of the card was a handwritten phrase, but the ink was so faded she couldn’t decipher it. She put the card aside to research later.
Then something else in the trunk caught her eye. Bending down, she moved aside a folded linen doily and a pair of dusty women’s shoes. Under these lay a dark-colored oblong case or box of some sort, about the size of a shoe box, its lid held in place with tarnished buckle latches. The box was not ostentatious but homely, the textured faux-leather board filled with creases of dust. On the top of the box was a symbol that tweaked her memory. A stylized letter E with a curlicue flourish next to a lightning bolt. Where had she seen that before?
A slight ripple of awareness skimmed over her. It was like the feeling she sometimes experienced when she was working on an old picture and realized she was on the verge of a major find.
“Papa,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper as she handled the case. It felt substantial in her hands. “Do you recognize this?”
He gave a Gallic shrug. “Open it.”
She set the box across her knees and passed her hand over the lid. It rattled softly. Its weight was substantial. Attached was a small brass plate with the letters CT pressed into it.
“Someone’s initials?” she asked.
“Not that I know of,” he said. And then, “Ah. That name is in the front of these books.” He indicated the Sherlock Holmes set. “Cyprian Toselli. I have no idea who that might be.”
“Mom, what’s in the box?” Julie bounced up and down, acting like her younger self. It was refreshing to see her showing something besides attitude.
“Let’s find out.” She released the latches, lifted the lid, and moved a moleskin cloth aside.
“It’s a camera,” Julie said. “Cool. Looks really old.”
Camille was amazed. “It’s an Exakta. I’ve never seen one this old before.” She picked it up, turned it over in her hands. Then she looked at her father.
He held out his hands, palms up. “Monsieur C.T.?” Then he rubbed his jaw, looking at the camera. “Or perhaps my mother was fond of taking pictures.” He offered a wistful smile. “Maybe that is where you get your talent in photography.” He leaned back, watching as Camille inspected the remarkable find. “My mother has always been a great mystery to me. I wish I had known her.”
Camille set aside the camera and reached for his hand. “I wish you’d known her, too, Papa. I wish we all had. It’s so sad.”
“Way to ruin the mood, Mom,” Julie said. “We were all excited about the camera.”
“Right.” Camille picked it up again. “We have a mystery right here. What I know about Exakta cameras is that they were made in Germany, and they’re very fine instruments—the first single-lens reflex. I think this model is from the 1930s. I can tell from this socket—it’s for the first built-in flash synchronization.” She inspected the pristine camera. “Wow. This could be a museum piece. It’s a rare find.”
“Well. I must write to Madame Olivier and thank her for this box of wonders,” said her father.
“Ça alors,” Camille said, touching the film winder with her thumb. She felt the slightest bit of resistance.
“What is it?” Julie leaned forward to see.
“I think there’s film in this camera.”
Six
Finn had attended a good number of ceremonies in his lifetime. After his father had gone missing in Cambodia, his mother had become an activist for the missing, and Finn had many early memories of somber ceremonies to acknowledge those few times when the truth about some poor guy’s demise came out.