Page 20 of The Seekers of Deer Creek

There’s a specific moment of inevitability that one may feel amid scholarly pursuit. Samuel once described it to Vivi as a plummeting sensation. He said it was as if you were diving from the highest crag into a depthless pool, knowing that somewhere in all the obscurity lies a pearl so bright and worthwhile that it might illuminate everything around you, if you could only clasp your hands around it. Instinct, Samuel said, predestination.

Vivi began to experience that plummeting sensation when she liftedthe first of Blanc’s letters to Justine. Her eyes skated so quickly across the words that they began to cross. She paused to gird her patience, then began to read again, committing each word to memory.

Justine Allard

Maison de Notre Rêve

Arles, France

April 4, 1936

Darling JuJu,

Can it be that my infant sister—the brat nipping at my ankles—has turned forty? That makes me positively withered. Do you hear the knell of death yourself or are you, as ever, immune to the passage of time? I hope that Marcel has spoilt you properly with paintings. (I meant to ask if you’d received the drawing I sent by the wonderfully sleek Eileen Agar? She will be something in a few years!) I wish that I could have attended your birthday fête in Arles, but Paris (and yes, handsome Gabriel) keeps me occupied.

I know it’s not the thing to ask for a favor on someone else’s birthday, but I must be a cretin for the sake of friendship. One of my artists, L, has sunk into one of his strange depressions. You know his work; you admired it last time you were in the city.

You remember me speaking of him now? He is difficult to forget.

L will not eat; he is painfully thin and will not touch his paints. And he has no family, no friends aside from me. I worry about his mental state. An artist who does not create is like a powder keg that will not light. But there’s little for me to do for him. The jealousies eat him alive, along with whatever memories continue to taunt him fromhis past. I don’t worry that he will harm anyone else—he is gentle of heart—but I worry that he will harm himself. It would not be the first time, JuJu.

I know you have the old servants’ cottage at Maison de Notre Rêve. No one uses it anymore, yes? Could you find it in your heart to open it up to my friend? The fresh air will revitalize him, I am sure, and the nature is unparalleled. You would be helping a prodigiously talented painter find his bearings again. And you would be helping to put your brother’s mind at ease. A fortnight should be enough; I ask for no more of your hospitality.

Affectionately yours,

Emi

Emil Blanc

Montparnasse

Paris, France

April 29, 1936

Yes, Emi, send your artist. He may stay as long as it takes to return to himself. Marcel is in Germany this summer, but I will do all that I can to bring L back to life. In the name of art!

Your loving JuJu

PS. The Agar is very nice, but I prefer L’s landscapes.

PPS. I feel as old as the hills. Change will be welcome.

Justine Allard

Maison de Notre Rêve

Arles, France

May 7, 1936

JuJu, you’ve saved us. Again, you have my gratitude. L will arrive on next Sunday’s train. I’ve told him he owes you a painting. You may be his most devoted collector yet.

All my heart,

Emi

Emil Blanc