At the last minute she decided to go and it was a decision that altered the course of her life, because that’s where she met Anton. She felt awkward and out of place as soon as she showed up. Almost everyone was from the writing program, along with a few other random Columbia graduate students. She flitted in and out of conversations but was unable to get a toehold in any of them. She felt ashamed and took refuge in the bedroom, where she walked in on a man examining the books on the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf—Anton. They started talking and when it was time to go, he walked her to the 116th Street subway station, but at the last minute they decided they would keep talking and he would walk her to 110th, then 103rd, and so on until they had walked all the way down Broadway to the Village, the conversation never ceasing. They didn’t stop talking all the way up thefive flights to her small studio apartment. By the time he left two days later, Gwen was in love.
Tears fill her eyes. They were happy once. She yanks open the drawer on her right, searching for a tissue packet.
Instead, she finds an overstuffed manila folder. It’s addressed to Henri Khoury in France, and the return address is their old house in Boston, written in Anton’s familiar block lettering.
Bingo, she thinks and empties the contents onto the desk. A parcel wrapped in a piece of blue-and-white cloth slides out along with an unmarked white envelope.
As Gwen turns the parcel over in her hand, confused, the cloth falls away, revealing a worn leather journal. Gwen opens it but cannot make out the small, tidy cursive. She recognizes a word here and there and realizes it’s all in French. Every page has a date on top; the first page’s date is June 1, 1968. She flips to the last page and her stomach lurches when she finds a pencil sketch of a lone flower.
Le dernier cyclamen
The Last Cyclamen. This must be where Anton got the name for his book.
Gwen takes the heavy white envelope in her hand, recognizing it as the expensive stationery she gave to Anton on their first anniversary—the paper anniversary. Inside is one folded sheet, which she takes out and begins to read. It’s dated right after they returned from that awful trip to France.
Dear Father,
In France you called me a fraud. A thief.
You said that if Maman were alive she would be aghast to know that her innermost thoughts, her dreams and her fears were published for the world to see.
But I don’t see it that way. I see my book as a testament to her strength and courage, a way of honoring what a beautiful writer she was.
You say it’s plagiarism, using her words. That she’s the one who wrote it and I just slapped my name on it. That I’m profiting from her pain, stealing her glory.
But did you ever consider that she would want that for me? For her suffering to be transformed into my success? Isn’t that what every mother wants? For her children to become somebody?
I am somebody, thanks to her journal. I think if Maman were alive she would be thrilled for me. And even if she weren’t, she would never do what you have done. She would never cut me out.
I am your only child.
You have two grandchildren who deserve to have you in their lives.
I have enclosed Maman’s dairy. I don’t need it anymore and I thought you might want it back. I don’t regret writingThe Last Cyclamen, but I do regret what has happened to us.
Always your son, Anton
Gwen drops the letter on the desk, stunned. She opens the journal to a random page and tries to make sense of the words printed in neat script. She took four years of high school French, but she can only make out a few words here or there. When she turns the page, she finds a section that has been underlined in pencil. Did Anton make these marks?
She boots up Anton’s computer and opens Google Translate. There are two boxes next to each other—one in which to type in the original text and a second where the translation will appear. She begins to enter the underlined words from the diary.Aujourd’hui, il faisait une chaleur insupportable. J’ai rencontré J à La Gondola pour le déjeuner. Nos sièges étaient juste au bord de l’eau. Nous naviguerons sur cette mer ensemble, a-t-il dit en me prenant la main.
Like magic, as soon as she types in a combination of letters that make no sense to her, a series of English words appear in thesecond box. The words of Anton’s mother. It’s almost as if she is speaking directly to her from the grave.
Today was unbearably hot. I met J at La Gondola for lunch. Our seats were right by the water. We will sail that sea together, he said, taking my hand.
A chill runs through her. The Gondola restaurant played a large part inThe Last Cyclamen. It’s the setting of several meals at which the main character, a sheltered young woman, is seduced by an older, wealthy man. The Gondola represents the world she desires to be a part of, one of privilege and freedom.
Gwen recalls oneNew York Timesreview of the book mentioning The Gondola by name as an example of how Anton’s book captured the sophistication of Beirut in the 1960s before the civil war broke out.
Gwen turns to Anton’s bookshelf and pulls out a leatherbound copy ofThe Last Cyclamen, a gift from her to Anton upon its publication. The pages are gilded, the spine uncracked. It takes her a few moments to find what she is looking for, but about halfway through the book she sees it. Gwen traces the lines with her finger as she reads the now familiar words.
Today was unbearably hot. I met J at La Gondola for lunch. Our seats were right by the water. “We will sail that sea together,” he said, taking my hand.
Gwen drops the book in shock. Anton had stolen the words of his dead mother and passed them off as his own. That’s what the fight with his father had been about.
He had written this confession to his father, but he couldn’t bring himself to send it.
Of course Anton hadn’t been able to finish a second book in the past eight years, Gwen thinks with bitterness. He had nothing original to say.