She was intoxicated by this feeling of emptiness and grandeur. Boston and New York, for starters. Two huge cities, booming, full of workers, and shops, teeming with a creative effervescence, as she had never seen in London, Vienna, or even Paris. She now grasped the meaning of the expression "the Old Continent".
One only had to take a stroll down the street beside Trinity Church and follow the Charles River to see all the bustle that American entrepreneurship had made his society. Here, you could listen to the radio anywhere in town, make phone calls even at home, and do your laundry in big white steel machines.
Arlette had already been able to observe well-equipped housekeepers in the big Parisian houses, whereas she had always managed with a basin in her small student room. Here, all the housewives could buy these marvelous contraptions which made life easier, if one believed the large posters posted on the brick walls.
And the advertising… there was advertising everywhere. Everything was stained with garishly colored ink. It was impossible to go a hundred meters without coming across the square face of a young Anglo-Saxon blonde seductively holding a soap, a cigarette, or a tin can.
In the streets, posters depicting men in suits with Hollywood cowboy faces taunted with steaming cups of coffee the workers in dirty overalls who passed just below, leaving for the port. All of this was frighteningly modern and new to Arlette.
The stranger thought at first that the Depression had never happened in the big cities, or that it hadn't struck yet. No doubt this nation would be able to recover quickly, she had thought when she arrived. But what she saw later made her regret that optimistic thought.
Strolling through the streets of New York, you could see entire families wandering the streets, corpses on the banks, and the nauseating smell of urine and strong alcohol that putrefied the ocean spray.
It was as if the river itself was a torrent of alcohol. However, it had been years since Prohibition had been introduced. Didn't Americans have sodas to quench their thirst? Or was this country populated only by criminals willing to do anything to break the law, even if it meant drinking nothing but adulterated whiskey from breakfast to supper?
The young woman had already seen all this. In three days. Just thinking that this was just a start, just a glimpse, she was already dizzy. But New York and Boston were not final destinations. What she saw there was certainly only the exacerbated extreme of the largest cities in the country, she tried to reassure herself.
The month of May was struggling to chase away the last bursts of cold. The beginning of the year 1930 had been hard for everyone, and the real winter was beginning well. It had been less than a year since people had begun to lose their possessions, as farmers in the vast central tracts of the country were abandoning their land en masse to move west. Crisis. The young woman had learned of it in Paris, as one learns of the death of a painter, by reading a newspaper. She hadn't understood the ins and outs of the problem at the time.
Now that she was on the land where the tragedy had occurred, she felt less alone in her ignorance. For some, it was the fault of the immigrants, for others it was that of the Jews and the Communists.
One of these prophets of the end of the world, slumped on his table just next to the bar, was just giving his opinion on the bad harvests of the previous summer. The young woman couldn't help smiling. The learned counter-economists were always just as well informed, no matter on which side of the Atlantic they practiced. They always knew who to blame, and they all knew how to save the world.
After a speech heralding the Red Menace hovering over the brave Americans, he was forced to keep quiet when he noticed that his audience was more interested in the spectacle offered by the bay windows.
No one wanted to hear his depressing ramblings. There was already a kind of sad, monotonous atmosphere, which invited languor and contemplation with this rain.
A young woman with red lipstick laughed loudly at the back of the room. The man on his arm had made holes in the newspaper to make a mask out of it and spy on the other customers. The complicity between these two young people suddenly seemed unbearable in the eyes of Arlette.
The excitement of the first days gradually melted into a feeling of abandonment and longing. She was alone, lost, with no idea what awaited her. She had never had anything to do in the places where her destiny had taken her.
If she hadn't learned of her uncle's existence in the condolence letter she had received, she would never have heard of it otherwise. If he hadn't made her his only heiress, she would never have thought of going to the United States.
She had the impression that it was all just a series of errors of address… And yet, deep down inside her, it was what she had always dreamed of.
She stared at the ivy growing on the red bricks of the Georgian building across the road as the rain abated.
A man entered the café. He was a stooped old man, stubby in his neat clothes. He had small eyes hidden under a thick brush of gray eyebrows. He closed his umbrella and walked over to greet her.
She got up at the last moment and held out her hand feverishly. Was it the man she had spoken to on the phone? He had an iron fist.
"Master Brunner, I suppose?"
"Right, Miss Arlette Mangel?" Delighted. Did you have a nice trip? How do you find our beautiful country?
— It's… very different from France, she answered embarrassed, I hope to get used to it quickly.
The man looked annoyed. It was just a matter of form, which didn't require so many hesitant, mispronounced words.
She felt her ears flush with shame and looked down. He didn't like his French accent like many Americans it seemed. It was as if there was something inherently wrong with the mere negation of the word "American" for some of them.
For three days the young woman had been doing her best to try to resemble them, to adapt to their nasal pronunciation. But every time she heard a local speak and she tried to answer him, she felt like there was only the rudeness of his French intonations that could come out of his mouth.
No matter how much she tried to remember the tone, and the correct pronunciation, each time she had to speak, her words fell back into the monotonous flatness of her native language.
The man sat across from her, putting his leather shirt on her lap. He didn't take off his coat and left his hat on the table, getting ready to leave immediately.
"Hm, yes, fine," he evaded quickly. Well, you know with us, time is money! And we're all missing it here, I'm talking about the weather my dear, don't roll your eyes like that! Well then. One case leads to another and as a notary, you can imagine that I still have a lot for today. So let's talk directly about what brings you here. You will come to my office tomorrow to sign the paperwork and you can reach your next destination as quickly as possible. I don't doubt your impatience to discover your new country and to settle in more comfortably.
Surprised, Arlette just nodded, more to take in the information than to signify her approval. She had trouble following the flow of his words in English. But why was he discussing these private matters here in a café, and not in his office out of sight? Was it even legal? Or was he afraid they would be listened to in his own office? He continued by taking out some papers from his folder.
« J'ai préparé tous les documents pour la vente de l'entrepôt et du bateau de Nantucket comme vous me l'aviez indiqué dans votre lettre. Lorsqu'ils seront vendus et que j'en aurai prélevé ma commission, je vous enverrai l'argent. En ce qui concerne la maison à Richmond, la clef vous attend déjà là-bas. Le maire s'en occupera. Je vous remettrai vos droits de propriété après la signature. Vous allez acquérir près d'un cinquième du comté en forêts et lacs, félicitations.
The estate was named Pinewood because of the silver pines that can still be found at its heights and which make it a very popular terrain. When the mayor of Richmond shows you around, you're sure to see the old Pinewood vacation villa, which hasn't been occupied for at least a decade. Dilapidated and unsanitary, totally uninhabitable if you ask me.
There are also five thousand hectares of land, including three ponds, a lake, and three rivers, one of which originates on your mountain, Mount Curtis. Your uncle also left a sealed letter, sixty thousand US dollars, and a clock, which he wanted to bequeath to you.
Breathless, Arlette tried to intervene, she tried to repeat the numbers she had just heard. "Your mountain". Was it just possible? Owning a mountain… The notary swept away his surprise by raising his hand to prevent him from speaking as if his voice were unbearable to him.
"Now I must ask you about the future of the lands you are about to own, Miss Mangel. You must understand that it is unusual for a property matter to be settled so far from the land itself. If you had a clear idea of the type of exploitation you will practice on your land after your arrival, the administrative procedures in your adopted county would be easier…"
The young woman took a moment before realizing that there was a question in there that needed a quick answer. She felt carried away in a whirlwind of abstract information.
How much was five thousand hectares of land, could you draw the limits by looking at the horizon? Would he have to use a spyglass from the top of the mountain to see his house? And how much were sixty thousand dollars in francs? Was she rich? Was that enough to last a year? She had no idea.
She pulled herself together suddenly, as the notary's eyes stared at her impatiently.
"I… I'm not familiar with… Logging in the forests…"
With the back of his hand, the man dismissed the thought and replied in an annoyed tone:
- Lumbering. Try to learn a minimum of vocabulary. You must be no less knowledgeable than your uncle, believe me. In fifteen years, he has never built a single sawmill. When he died, potential buyers rushed to my door as soon as they saw that the estate was being managed from Boston.
Your uncle was a sailor, he had no idea of anything related to trees or hunting, he bought this land thinking of making it a new Yellowstone, a kind of reserve I believe. But you, Miss, you come from a wooded area, don't you think? This makes you a more competent person than him, by default I understand, but more competent all the same.
"I'm not familiar with management in general, Master. I do not even know…
"Very well," he cut her off, "we'll say you're looking for partners to undertake the operation…
— Can't we sell the land like the warehouse and the boat?
The notary was about to add something but he suddenly froze. He stared at her in surprise. Had she made a grammar mistake? Had she made a mistake in the pronunciation of a word, making him say something absurd?
"Do you realize the value of this land?" You will sell it for a handful of dollars because of the crisis and the next to own it will make it one of the biggest fortunes in the region. And especially in these difficult times, owning a property always means having a rescue boat with you. Your uncle was specific in his heritage. You can do what you please with the boat and the warehouse, but the forests belong to the Mangel and he wants that name to remain in those lands. Aren't you going to respect your uncle's last wishes?
— I… yes, I'll see, there will surely be people who know how to take care of such things on the spot.
Reassured, the old man lowered his head and handed him a paper.
— Yes… You will certainly find someone to take care of it… Fine. Here is the inheritance tax settlement as agreed. If you see any erasures, please let me know right away before I have them permanently corrected.
She quickly skimmed the document and realized that the handwritten English was completely unreadable to her. Embarrassed, she decided to trust him and returned the sheet.
It was all so fast, she wondered if it was legal. She would have asked him the question, but she wanted to leave, to not have to talk to this man anymore, to take the next step.
- It's good, it will. When can I leave?
'There's a train to Portland leaving late tomorrow afternoon. You will arrive there on Wednesday morning and a driver will be waiting for you to take you directly to your home. What time is it? five o'clock already? I leave you, see you tomorrow morning at ten o'clock for the signature.
The little man stood up, greeted her by shaking her hand again, and left without giving her a look. Was business always so expeditious with the Americans?
Arlette looked around and realized that the whole room had retained its heavy, sleepy atmosphere. Customers were still slumped in their seats, the bartender endlessly wiping the same cups, staring blankly out the window.
She walked down the street and let herself be carried away by the Italian accents she heard from one shop to another. She had trouble realizing that she was there, in the United States, and not in France.
It was as if she were trapped in a strange dream and each attempt to pierce the bubble of this dream pushed her a little further into its meanders.
She thought in French but read, spoke, and listened in English. She couldn't identify what she was experiencing as reality. The daily no longer existed.
Everything she undertook was new, unprecedented. There was no more rhythm, no more morning or evening, only a list of things to do and events that had to follow one another. She had not experienced such upheaval since leaving Paris. All the people she met here were strangers.