Page 96 of Atlas: The Story of Pa Salt
Timeo laughed softly. ‘Apologies, Mr Tanit. My wife is merely expressing how happy Agatha would be that you are standing here in the living room of her house.’
Joelle pulled away to look at my face. ‘Do you think you will return to Switzerland to live?’ she asked. ‘It is a lovely place to make a home!’
I gave her a warm smile. ‘Perhaps, Joelle. I have several matters to attend to in England before I consider that option, however.’ I made for the door. ‘Please do keep Mr Kohler updated on the children’s progress. I should be absolutely delighted to hear about how they are getting on.’
The rest of my time in Switzerland was spent signing papers, meeting bank managers and sorting affairs with Eric Kohler, who would officially cease working for Agatha, and begin to work for me.
‘I will send your passport and any other documents to Arthur Morston Books, Mr Tanit. Please ensure that if you move, you tell me. I don’t want to have to chase you for another fifteen years.’ He chuckled and shook his head as I closed the enormous walnut door and left his office.
The process of acquiring citizenship transpired to be as slow as Eric had predicted. I became accustomed to his monthly letters, detailing what frustrating stage my application had been halted at, usually sent alongside a plethora of new documents to be signed and dated. In addition to the administrative business, it was a continued comfort to hear about the improving lives of the children from the peninsula. Both had begun to attend a local independent school recommended by Mr Kohler, and Georg in particular was showing significant academic promise.
Happily, I did not have to spend any time convincing Elle that our future was in Switzerland. ‘As soon as I have my official papers,’ I had promised her, ‘we will begin construction on a safe haven just for the two of us. Imagine! Our own secluded paradise.’
She had positively beamed at the thought. ‘Oh Bo. It sounds too good to be true! And when you have your citizenship, we can marry... openly, officially. The day cannot come soon enough.’
I knew how desperately she longed to settle down. I willed the process of Swiss citizenship to be speedy, but in the meantime, I wanted to make her a promise. With the permission of Mr Kohler, I withdrew some funds from Agatha’sestate and made my way to a jeweller’s on Bond Street in London.
Although I browsed a plethora of rings, none impressed me. I had never spent such a significant amount of money before, and I was reticent to exchange it for some jewellery that, despite the price, was generic. I wanted the ring to carry some meaning. After an hour of staring and squinting through thick glass, I enquired if a custom piece could be made.
‘Anything is possible for the right price, sir,’ the jeweller replied.
I knew that the central stone had to be a diamond – the ultimate symbol of strength in love. As for the setting, I asked for seven individual points to be included, to give the ring the appearance of a glistening star.
‘Very good, sir.’ The jeweller grinned. ‘As the setting will be quite large, perhaps you would like to select a second stone for the points? Sapphire perhaps?’
I thought for a moment, conscious of the fact that the man was trying to extract more money, but desperate for the piece to be unique. ‘Is there a gem that represents hope?’ I asked.
The jeweller nodded. ‘Oh yes, sir. Emeralds. Traditionally they signify romance, rebirth... and fertility,’ he added, raising an eyebrow.
I clasped my hands together. ‘Perfect!’
It took several months to craft, but was eventually hand-delivered to the bookshop. When I unwrapped the box and looked within, I was lost for words.
That night, I took Elle out for dinner in the city’s Albert Buildings. She wore a teal dress which somehow made her blue eyes even more vivid than usual. As we shared a bottle of Côtes du Rhône by candlelight, I told her all about the future I planned for us on the shores of Lake Geneva. Therest of the dining room melted away, and I spent the evening lost in her aura.
‘I think our time is coming, Elle. We can finally leave the past behind.’
She gave me the same smile that had floored me as a boy in Paris. ‘Do you really believe it, Bo? I’m almost scared to dream.’
I took her hand. ‘We will have our happy ending.’ I gently manoeuvred myself onto one knee, and slipped my spare hand into my jacket pocket. I took a deep breath and stared into her sparkling eyes. ‘Elle Leopine. We are destined to spend our lives together. But until the day I can call you my wife, please accept this ring as a symbol of everything you are to me.’ I produced the box and opened it in front of her. She covered her mouth with her hands.
‘Oh Bo...’
I carefully slipped the ring onto her left fourth finger.
‘I don’t know what to say,’ she stumbled. ‘I’ve never seen anything like this. It’s utterly beautiful.’
‘Seven points for my Seven Sisters – my guiding lights that have led me to the diamond in the centre of the universe... you.’
When Rupert and Louise Forbes married, Flora signed over the ownership of Arthur Morston Books as she had promised. Happily, the couple asked me and Elle to remain as shop managers. They were content with the business we had succeeded in building, and were busy with the renovation of Home Farm. To add to that, Rupert’s role in the British Security Service had apparently become more demanding. Although he was passionate about literature, his country took precedence.
On a quiet January morning in 1947, I put my feet up on my desk and opened theFinancial Times. As I was soon to be responsible for large quantities of capital, I did my best to keep up to date with the monetary markets – even if the majority of it was confusing to me. The paper was giving its review of 1946. It heralded the formation of the World Bank Group – a family of five international organisations formed to make leveraged loans to countries in need. In its first month, it had approved $250 million for French post-war reconstruction. My eyes widened as I read the article’s penultimate paragraph.
The first president of the organisation, Eugene Meyer, is known by most as the publisher of theWashington Postin the United States of America. Mr Meyer spends millions of dollars of his own money to keep the money-losing paper in business, with the aim of improving its quality, and in the spirit of independent journalism. In this regard, one may surmise why Mr Meyer was the perfect candidate for the role of WBG president. Meyer comes from a charitable family. His sister, Florence Meyer Blumenthal, was noted for the philanthropic organisation she formed, the Franco-American ‘Blumenthal Foundation’, which still awards the Prix Blumenthal to young creatives.
I jumped to my feet and raced upstairs to show Elle the article.
She gave a startled laugh. ‘Goodness me! I haven’t heard Florence’s name in such a long time.’
