Losing Julia Read online

  Praise for

  LOSING JULIA

  “[AN] EARNEST, ELEGANT FIRST NOVEL… Hull’s research is assiduous; he seamlessly incorporates period detail… Patrick is a winning narrator, charming and honest and direct.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “The touches of historical and technical detail are expert and used with admirable restraint… the war scenes… [are] rendered… convincingly and movingly.”

  —San Francisco Chronicle

  “AN EVOCATIVE AND BITTERSWEET NOVEL…

  Hull powerfully re-creates the horrors and the heroism of war.”

  —Parade

  “ELEGANTLY WRITTEN AND SHAPED, Losing Julia touches the heart and lingers in the mind… A haunting story of a love in some ways lost but eternal in others.”

  —Roanoke Times

  “[A] grasp of history and sense of story combined with remarkable freshness.”

  —Washington Post Book World

  “Engaging… For lovers of sweeping, nostalgic, romantic stories, Hull has produced a fine example in this first novel.”

  —Library Journal

  “A GORGEOUS DEBUT NOVEL… scenes of war and making love are described with an equal and stunning starkness… Hull’s confidence and mastery turn an economy of words and emotions into art.”

  —BookPage

  “It’s been a long time since I’ve spoken so passionately about a book that at least five people bought it after a lunch or meeting with me. Or that I’ve talked about a novel’s characters as if they were old friends. Or that I’ve dog-eared so many pages I have some folded both ways because there were lines on both sides that I wanted to remember… I urge you to read LOSING JULIA.”

  —Carol Fitzgerald, President, Bookreporter.com

  Copyright © 2000 by Jonathan Hull

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publishers, except where permitted by law.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2012901585

  Digital edition ISBN: 978-0-9848218-1-5

  February 2012

  Dancing Muse Press

  Sausalito, California

  Book Cover and Layout Design by theBookDesigners

  Cover images © Lia G / Arcangel Images, Stephen Mulcahey / Arcangel Images

  eBook formatting by Guido Henkel

  Also by Jonathan Hull:

  THE DEVOTED

  THE DISTANCE FROM NORMANDY

  For the latest news, reading group guides and more, visit:

  www.jonathanhull.com

  For Judy, Dylan, and Kelsey

  All art is a revolt against man’s fate.

  —André Malraux

  Early on the morning of October 18, 1980, in a clearing near a woods in eastern France, I found the body of an elderly American named Patrick Delaney slumped against a small granite monument that bears the names of 152 American soldiers who died on that date in 1918. On the ground next to him was a worn leather-bound diary, a pen, an empty glass and a bottle of Scotch dating from the 1920s, its label covered with signatures.

  This is his story.

  —Natalie

  DECEMBER 12, 1981

  PARIS.

  I WAS GLAD that it rained. Not just a drizzle but big furious drops that lashed against us and danced at our feet. Our discomfort seemed somehow appropriate, all of us standing there with tears and rain washing down our taut faces, overcome by so many names. The clouds were just right too, dark and solemn as they marched slowly past, heavy with grief. But what got me most were the birds, dozens of them in every tree, loud and insistent. I remember listening and thinking how familiar they sounded, so that I couldn’t close my eyes for more than a moment without tumbling back.

  It was my first trip back to France. I had taken a train from Paris to Reims, where I rented a car and drove five hours, getting lost twice. Charlotte stayed in Paris with our son Sean, who was three then, and her sister Margaret, who had traveled with us from the States. I knew Charlotte wouldn’t join me for the service; she had no tolerance for battlefields or military reunions and rarely asked about my experiences at the front. I didn’t blame her though, and I was glad that she didn’t complain when I told her that I’d be gone for six days.

  I never did come back. Not completely.

  That was in 1928, a time when thousands of memorials were still being erected across France and Belgium: great big arches engraved with row upon row of names; small plaques and crosses in little fenced-in plots; solitary obelisks and statues in village squares; every one of them attended by mothers and fathers and wives and lovers who still remembered; vividly.

  Page and a few others were there, dressed in their old uniforms, subtly altered. I didn’t bring mine. Charlotte said I looked foolish when I tried it on, but that’s not why I left it. Standing in front of the mirror and looking at myself, I decided I didn’t want to see myself that way anymore. Not ever again.

  “It feels sort of strange to be here, doesn’t it?” said Page, lighting his third cigarette in a row and cupping it in his hand to protect it from the rain. I thought he looked much older than his age and wondered how many years a war takes off a man. “I wasn’t sure if I should come.”

  “Glad you did,” I said.

  “Makes me sad, thinking of the guys.”

  I nodded.

  “At least this time we get to see France.”

  “Yes, at least we can do that.”

  I proposed that we meet in Paris on that Friday for a night out but he was leaving the next morning on a family vacation. Just in case, I gave him the name of the hotel where Charlotte and I were staying and told him to call, though I didn’t think he would.

  The monument itself, a long granite rectangle four feet high, was draped in a white cloth. Nearby, two small tables were covered with food provided by a local committee of mostly overweight French women, who smiled incessantly and kissed our cheeks with great delight. After a few speeches the cloth was removed and a wreath placed at the base. During a moment of silence I closed my eyes tight and let the birds take me. When I opened my eyes I saw her.

  I knew right away, though I’d never seen her before. All the long nights listening to Daniel describe her; straining to see her face as he read her letters out loud, his voice mixing with the muffled cough of distant artillery.

  I stood up on my toes to get a better look at her, craning my neck above the small crowd. She stood farther back than anyone; I think she might have arrived late. I couldn’t catch her eye but I could see her profile clearly. A little taller than I had imagined; darker hair, partially hidden beneath a scarf.

  When the ceremony ended, she walked slowly over to the monument and rested both hands on it, as though praying. Then she leaned forward and searched through the names.

  I stood immobile, watching. It had to be her. Julia. The woman Daniel had planned to marry. The mother of the child he never lived to meet. I remembered Daniel telling me how he felt the first time he saw her; how he just knew. I watched as she slowly ran her fingers along the granite, stopping at Daniel’s name, then carefully tracing each letter. I looked at her slender hands and her narrow shoulders and the side of her face and her dark brown hair and the way she tilted her head slightly, as though adjusting to the sight of Daniel’s name in stone.

  Finally I approached her.

  “Julia?”

  She turned quickly and I saw those bright green eyes, and even in her sadness they were smiling, just like Daniel described them.

  So it was her. And how perfect she looked, more perfect than I had imagined, with the kind of face that y
ou instinctively want to touch and kiss and gaze at for hours. Even now as I recall her features: her sharp jawline, her small nose and pronounced cheekbones—what I remember most is the searing sensation of looking into her eyes for the first time, eyes that would haunt me for the rest of my life.

  “I’m sorry, I should introduce myself. I’m—”

  “But wait, I know who you are.”

  “You do?”

  “Patrick. Patrick… Delaney. Am I right?”

  “Yes, but how did you know?”

  “I’ve heard a lot about you, from Daniel’s letters.” She offered me her hand. “I’m glad to meet you. I never expected… ”

  “I didn’t either.”

  The rain started to come down faster and soon people were hurrying to their cars. I saw Page wave at me as he struggled with an umbrella.

  “You’re wet. Should we go?” I asked, wishing I had an umbrella to offer her.

  “I don’t mind it,” she said. I watched a drop of rain run slowly down her cheek, hesitating at the corner of her mouth. I struggled not to stare.

  She wasn’t glamorous. There was even a certain plainness to her appearance—no fashionable bob or plucked eyebrows—but that’s what made her so appealing. Her warm, soft features were strikingly natural, as though she’d look the same whether just getting out of bed or going out to dinner. Meanwhile, her shy smile and flashing eyes—what life they held!—suggested an interesting combination of strength and vulnerability. When I caught myself staring, I forced my gaze away.

  One by one the cars pulled onto the road and sped off. We stood there awkwardly for a moment, then began walking slowly around the monument, reading the names. After a few minutes the rain let up.

  “I spent two weeks in San Francisco looking for you,” I said finally. “I even put advertisements in the papers.”

  “You did? Really?” She looked surprised.

  I nodded, feeling embarrassed. “I had promised Daniel I’d find you, though I had no idea what I was going to say if I did.”

  “That was very kind of you.” She touched my shoulder, and from the expression on her face I could tell she was moved.

  “I wasn’t too successful.”

  “I’m afraid I’ve moved around a lot. I spent three years in Seattle after the war. I had a job teaching.”

  “Painting? Daniel said that you—”

  “Yes, I’m still at it.”

  “I’d love to see some of your work.”

  “Give me a few more years.” She removed her scarf and shook her hair, which was a thick brown, before running her hands through its wavy softness. Her gestures were slow and deliberate.

  I put my coat down and we sat on the granite step that ran along the base of the monument and stared out at the sodden field, which was still marred with bits of barbed wire and marked off with signs that warned TERRAIN INTERDIT (forbidden ground) in large red letters. Julia turned and ran her fingers along the freshly engraved names.

  As we sat in silence I felt nervous in her presence and wondered what to say. Should I talk about Daniel? The war?

  “You have a child?” I asked finally.

  “Yes, Robin.” Her smile returned. “A friend of mine is looking after her. It’s the first time we’ve ever been apart.”

  I thought of Sean and how he always screamed with delight when I returned home from work, barreling down the hallway to the front door. Already I’d begun to miss him: his chubby little face, the way he mispronounced things, his endless noisemaking. Since he was born I’d even turned down business that would have taken me out of town.

  “And you?”

  “A son. He’s with my wife in Paris. She’s not much for this kind of thing.”

  “Not too many people are.” She was right of course. I suppose that’s why I was so glad that she had come. I knew it would have meant a lot to Daniel. Death is such a lonely thing that it seems important for loved ones to know where you faced it. And Daniel and the others faced it just yards from where we were standing.

  I looked down at the wet ground, wondering what fragments of war it still held.

  “Mind if I ask you a question?” said Julia, standing up and turning toward me.

  I raised my hands. “Anything.”

  “Why did you come here?”

  I shrugged.

  “Wouldn’t you rather forget? I can’t imagine what you think about.”

  “I can’t imagine explaining what I think about.”

  She stared at me so intently that I had to look away. I tried to think how to describe all the reasons I had to come back to France. “I feel closer to them here. Closer to a big part of me. It’s hard to explain, really, but I had to come.”

  “To say good-bye?”

  “To say hello.”

  A sad smile spread across her face. I stood up next to her and we both looked out over the meadow, which was gradually being swallowed by a thick mist.

  I pulled out a pack of cigarettes, offering her one. Then I lit a match and cupped my hands in front of her face, watching the light play on her cheeks. Her face looked so lovely to me—those piercing green eyes set in a slight squint, as though she were concentrating extra hard—that I felt self-conscious, wanting desperately for her to like me, which always seemed to make me less likable.

  “It’s getting cold,” she said, pulling the collar of her coat tighter around her neck. “Look, the fog has completely covered the field. Like a shroud.”

  The headlights of a passing car swooped across the field, briefly illuminating the monument.

  Julia ran her fingers along the etched names once more. “It’s so lonely here,” she said.

  “It sure as hell ought to be,” I said, taking a long drag from my cigarette.

  “It doesn’t upset you?”

  “Not right now. To tell you the truth I’m almost enjoying it.” It was true: after ten years of being stalked by memories it felt good to be back; sad but good, as though I belonged here.

  She gave me a sideways look. “So if I’ve got it right, you favor dark, lonely and rainy places?”

  “Only with the right company,” I said, stomping my cigarette butt out. She kept looking at me, smiling. I looked down at my watch. “It’s getting late. Are you staying in town?”

  “At the Hotel Concorde.”

  “So am I.”

  “Really?” A blush?

  We began walking down the gravel path to where our cars were parked. “Any chance I could buy you dinner tonight?” I asked, hoping she wouldn’t detect the nervousness in my voice.

  “Yes, I’d like that,” she said.

  As she got in her car she turned toward me and I could see she was crying.

  “Patrick?” she whispered. I leaned forward to hear her.

  “Yes?”

  She looked at me closely. “I need to know what happened.

  You must tell me exactly what happened.”

  WHAT HAPPENED.

  I’m still not sure. Not completely. Too many holes. But I keep asking the question, asking over and over until I am limp with exhaustion. And I always come back to that first day I met her; to that face looking up at me with those sad beautiful eyes and those trembling lips and that soft struggling voice.

  I always come back to Julia.

  I can still see her clearly, even with these fading eyes of mine. Not for much longer though. You see, I am eighty-one now and everything hurts, sometimes all at once. Feet, knees, hips, lower back, stomach, head. One false step and smash, old man Delaney will splinter into a thousand pieces of brittle bone on cold cement. Then pneumonia and slow suffocation with concerned faces staring down at me like I’m laid out under glass; thick, heavy glass pressing against my wheezing chest. And finally, a forced retreat through drug-induced mists with voices calling fainter and fainter and me unable to scream until Patrick Delaney, loving father of two children, three grandchildren and three great-grandchildren; failed husband to one failed marriage (long long ago and mostly my
fault); lover of many (but not nearly enough, which causes me tremendous grief); fiercely loyal friend to a few (all dead now but one, who can barely hear); disappears with a last shallow and putrid exhale.

  Shit.

  I’ve planned the funeral. Nothing starchy or pompous. Just a few words of comfort to mislead the survivors (no use dwelling on what’s in store for them), a few of my favorite songs—“If Ever I Would Leave You,” “There’s a Place for Us,” “Shenandoah”; I keep a list—and an absolute ban on holy pabulum, since I don’t believe a bit of it anyway. My ashes are to be discreetly scattered in the vineyards of Napa Valley—a deep, velvety cabernet, I’ve requested—giving me one last shot at the lips of an appreciative woman. The instructions, handwritten on two pages, are in an envelope in the top drawer of my bed stand. Waiting.

  So am I, though with scant enthusiasm. The fact that I still floss is simply my way of saying, “Up yours, Lord; you can destroy my spirit but not my gums.” Not yet.

  Strange how we labor all our lives to preserve our teeth—the one body part most likely to reemerge a few million years later from beneath the sands of the East African Rift, our incisors the subject of award-winning documentaries. I look at my teeth and remember how, as a boy, the whine of the dentist drill and the sickly taste of enamel so rudely challenged my adolescent sense of immortality. Head back and mouth open in an animallike snarl, I squeezed the hand rests and struggled not to cry.

  Where are you, boy? I stare into the wood-framed mirror just above the small oak dresser in my room, searching. Some days I catch just a glimpse of him in the corner of my eyes, a small and frightened youth now buried beneath the rubble. Come back here, boy!

  Sometimes I see him in my hands, now gnarled and splotchy but still, unmistakably, his hands too. I see them fumble with a ball, work a mitt, dig in the sand for hours. He’s a kind boy, shy and uncertain yet full of yearning. Baby fat still hides the knuckles. He runs with the awkward gait of a newborn colt. Always running. Come back!