Number 7, Rue Jacob

by Wendy Hornsby

  Isabelle was a stranger to me. I admit to having a guilty, maybe morbid, curiosity about her because, like it or not, she was my mother. Over the year and a half since I learned that she existed I had pieced together bits and scraps of information about her, but she was still a mystery to me. I lingered in her office, looking for hints, any little clue about what she thought, what she loved, who she was. The room seemed to have been spared the clutter that took over the rest of the apartment during its bachelor era. Books in three languages—French, English, German—lined the walls. Most of the titles had something to do with harnessing energy, nuclear power, physics, computers, climate change, or agriculture. I didn’t see a single novel on the shelves. My late father, a physicist, who had once been Isabelle’s mentor—and lover—never had much interest in fiction, either, though poetry was a passion.

  A fine layer of dust coated the orderly desktop. I tried to imagine Isabelle sitting there. When she worked at the computer, she would have faced the door with the monitor at the center of the desk in front of her. To the left of the computer, there were a telephone, a clean pad of paper, and a cup full of pens and pencils. There was nothing else on the desk except a small, elegant leather-bound book. I could see that it was old, and looked much handled. Perhaps a beloved volume of poetry? The leather cover had worn away at the corners, revealing wood underneath. When I lifted the cover, I half expected to find an inscription written by my father on the fly leaf. Instead, I found another puzzle.

  Clearly, this little volume was a treasure; no wonder Isabelle kept it close. The script was very elaborately hand-scribed on vellum or parchment, with richly, brightly illuminated capitals twined with flowers and scrolls and birds. Over the years oil from people’s hands had turned the edges of the leaves brown. I couldn’t read the text, but I recognized the first capital, a richly illuminated pi, the Greek equivalent of the Latinate letter P, and saw that the text was indeed structured like poetry. A Book of Psalms, in Greek, was my best guess.

  Isabelle, I was told, was a committed atheist. If this were a little volume of the Psalms, was it anything more to her than poetry? An object of beauty? Maybe she had taken up the study of Greek. Until I saw that gem of a book, I had little interest in anything I might inherit from Isabelle’s estate. I closed the wonderful book and gently placed it inside the top right-hand desk drawer to keep it safe.

  I grabbed my toiletries kit and padded off to the bathroom. Half an hour later, I was clean again, wearing a mostly clean collection of clothes, some of them mine, some I’d borrowed from my teenage nephews’ bureau drawers. Someone’s trainers, tossed into a bathroom corner, were dry and fit me well enough that I appropriated them. I was in the kitchen switching my wash when the cleaners arrived. Two young women, their heads shrouded by hijabs, came in, arms loaded with the tools of their trade. The older one accepted the hand I offered and gave it a quick shake.

  “Thank you for coming, Madame,” I said.

  “Fitting you in is most inconvenient,” she offered as a curt greeting, narrowing her eyes to let me know that she was not at all happy to be there. “We will do what we can, but we haven’t time to complete a thorough cleaning. Oui?”

  “D’accord.” Sure, whatever. That issue settled, they went straight to work on the mess as if they were familiar with the house and its sloppy inhabitants. I did my best to stay out of their way.

  The telephone on Isabelle’s desk rang as I was walking past with a stack of freshly laundered clothes. I glanced in at the phone, but kept walking. This wasn’t my house or my phone, and anyone who knew I was there would call me on my mobile phone, so I thought I should let it go to message. But the younger of the two cleaning women looked from the jangling phone to me and back with an expression of great puzzlement and reproach as if to say, “Answer it already.” So, I picked it up.

  “Maggie?” Jean-Paul. How did he know where I was and how did he get Isabelle’s number when even I didn’t know what it was?

  All I could think to say was, “Where are you?”

  “Have you pencil and paper?”

  I pulled the pad on the desk closer and took a pencil out of the cup. “Yes.”

  “I need you to go out and find an Internet café, any Internet café. Pay with cash and access this email.” He gave me an electronic address and a PIN to access it. “There is a message for you in the draft message box. Follow the instructions. Will you do this?”

  “Of course. But why? What’s going on?”

  “I’ll explain when I see you. Now, please write this down.” He recited a string of numbers. “Turn your mobile phone to airplane mode, then turn it off, and leave it in the apartment when you go. Same with your laptop.”

  “You’re being very mysterious, Jean-Paul.”

  “I’m sorry, mon coeur, but yes. Can you trust me? Will you do this?”

  “Up to certain obvious limits, of course. I mean, if you’re giving me nuclear launch codes, my love, then sorry, no deal.”

  He laughed. And then he coughed.

  I said, “I need you to tell me you’re okay.”

  “I’m fine.” He answered, too quickly, with no little joke about how I might make him feel better when we were together. “Maggie, I miss you. I love you. If there were anyone else I could ask, I would. I hope you can trust me.”

  If anyone other than Jean-Paul had given me those instructions, I would have laughed and hung up. “When will I see you?”

  “Tonight, chérie. Will you go find an Internet café now?”

  “Sure.” I heard a vacuum cleaner start up in one of the bedrooms. “I’m on my way. I’ll call you when I get back.”

  “I’m sorry, but no, you can’t call me. Do you know what a burner phone is?”

  “A throwaway,” I said.

  “Exactly. This phone is a burner. When we say good-bye I’ll toss it. I’ll see you tonight and explain everything.” There was a click and the line went dead.

  I have never known exactly what Jean-Paul does. He always says he’s a boring businessman, but I have never bought that. When I met him, he was the French consul general appointed to Los Angeles, a position that seemed to have more to do with promoting French trade and helping French citizens who wandered into problems in the U.S. than with the sort of spycraft he seemed to have access to. If I ever needed information on just about anything, from counterfeit masterpieces to stolen military weapons, the more arcane the better, Jean-Paul could make a phone call to the appropriate friend and find it. Always without explaining just who he had called or how they were connected except to say that they were at school together. More recently, since his recall home to France from Los Angeles, he worked with a trade group, something about representing European Union exports to the global marketplace. But he was always a little vague about the details.

  As Jean-Paul gave me his instructions, I suspected that he was staying off the electronic information grid because he had been hacked, or was being cautious to prevent being hacked. But why? Whatever was going on with him certainly smelled intriguingly cloak-and-dagger. While I hoped I just might be on the verge of finding out something more about Monsieur Jean-Paul Bernard, I was also worried about his safety. Global wars have been fought over trade routes and the protection of monopolies on products and commodities. But there are also quieter, undeclared wars among commercial competitors. The scary thing is, those private commercial wars are not bound by the rules of the Geneva Convention.

  My own coat was damp and mud-spattered. I rummaged among the coats and jackets hanging from the hall tree in the vestibule, found one that would do nicely, a handsome flannel-lined waxed canvas with a Barbour label that, from its size, was probably Freddy’s; he was a tall, broad-shouldered man. I slid my wallet and the keys Mme Gonsalves left for me into a pocket, and told the cleaners that I would be back soon.

  The jacket was far too big for me, but it was dry and it was warm, and it covered me to the knees. I pulled up the collar and walked briskly up to boulevard Saint
-Germain and then headed in the general direction of the Sorbonne, thinking that I was likely to find an Internet café in an area where students congregate. The first place I spotted was a few doors down from the Odéon Métro station, a bright new door on the ground floor of an ancient building. Inside, the room was redolent of coffee, tobacco, pot, and unwashed youth. But it was warm. I gave the attendant a few euros from my meager stash, assuming he wouldn’t be interested in the Laotian kip I hadn’t yet exchanged, chose a terminal in a far corner, as far from a cluster of young men playing a noisy video game as I could get, sat down and opened the email account Jean-Paul had given me.

  The draft message he left me was very strange. First he asked me not to use credit or ATM cards, and again told me to keep my telephone and laptop in airplane mode and turned off, and to leave them in the apartment. The next part was cryptic: “Always aim for the moon, and remember how far it is to China.” Hoping for explanation, I clicked on the URL imbedded in the message and up popped the home page for an airline. Mystified, I studied the page. In the top corner, there was a box for an itinerary number. I punched in the string of numbers Jean-Paul had given me over the phone and found a boarding pass for a flight that left that afternoon at two o’clock from Orly Airport, Paris, headed for Marco Polo Airport, Venice. The boarding pass was issued in my name.

  2

  Venice? I looked at my watch: the plane was scheduled to leave in five hours, at two p.m. I printed the boarding pass, folded it into my pocket, and erased my session history before logging out of the computer. Not using credit cards was one thing, but I had business to take care of and there were people who would worry if they didn’t hear from me. I spotted a couple of pay phones against a side wall of the café. At the service counter, I bought a café au lait and a prepaid calling card, using cash, so that I could tell my grandmother that I had arrived. Otherwise, she would summon Interpol to track me down.

  “Ah!” Grand-mère said, clearly surprised when she heard my voice. “It’s you, my dear. I didn’t recognize the number. Where are you now?”

  “Paris,” I said.

  “With Jean-Paul?” she said with a satisfied little sigh in her voice. My grandmother is in love with the idea that I am in love with her old friend’s handsome son.

  “Not yet. I’ll see him tonight. My phone died, Grand-mère, so while the cleaners are working at Isabelle’s apartment I ducked into a café to let you know I’m here.”

  “The cleaners are there now? Why are the cleaners there now? Freddy gave very clear instructions to Madame Gonsalves to have the place cleaned last Monday. I heard him repeat the date twice. Such inefficiency! Why they keep that woman is a mystery to me. Useless. She is simply useless.”

  “Maybe she’s losing her hearing and didn’t quite understand the message,” I offered, thinking about the volume of her television. “I’m leaving some of my things at the apartment, but I won’t be staying. At least, not for a while.”

  “Of course.” She was happy again. “You’re going to Jean-Paul.”

  “Yes. We’re getting away for a few days. I’ll let you know when I’m back.”

  “When you get back, I know you’ll bring Jean-Paul for a visit, won’t you? It isn’t such a long drive from Paris to Normandy. Or you can take the train to Caen and I’ll have Freddy pick you up. I’ve decided that since he’s here building his cottages I’ll just stay for the winter. Besides, my big old house in Paris costs too much to heat.”

  “I imagine it does,” I said, though I doubted her big old stone farmhouse in Normandy was any more economical to heat than her townhouse in Paris. I suspected that having Freddy nearby was at the heart of her decision. “I’ll speak with Jean-Paul about a visit. See you then.”

  “À bientôt, ma chère Maggie. My best to your Jean-Paul.”

  The next call was to my Uncle Max in Los Angeles. Max is both my lawyer and my agent, and my primary fusspot among several contenders. I called his message-only number to let him know that I was fine, that the meeting with French television was set for Monday morning, and that I would be in touch in a few days. I assured him that my film production partner, Guido, was on his way back to L.A. to get started on post-production of the unexploded bomb film. No worries. Honestly, no worries. And by the way, my phone died so don’t try to call me.

  As far as I knew I hadn’t lied to him. But then, I didn’t know enough about what was going on to lie about much of anything.

  My next issue was money. I rarely carry very much cash. At the airport, I had exchanged the rest of my Ukrainian hryvnia for euros, but after paying for the taxi in from de Gaulle that morning, and then for the computer time and a phone card, I was broke. Jean-Paul asked me not to use credit cards or an ATM, but that was not actually a problem because I had another source for cash.

  Freddy and I were co-heirs of our mother, Isabelle’s, complex estate. A year and a half after her death, the estate was still generally tied up by various arcane French inheritance laws and procedures. However, there was one account, a tontine, separate from the estate, that had been set up jointly by my late father and Isabelle naming me, their natural child, as their equal owner as a strategy to circumvent all sorts of tax and inheritance laws. As the sole survivor of the tontine, the funds now belonged to me alone. Out of everything I was to inherit from Isabelle, whom I had not known, her share of the tontine was the only asset I felt entitled to because it came to me far more from my father’s efforts than it did from hers.

  Dad had worked on an energy-related process for many years before Isabelle came along. Ordinarily, a graduate student, as she was then, who spent a single year assisting on a research project, would expect to receive no more than a mention somewhere in any paper he might publish, as well as the possibility of presenting the research with him at a professional conference or two. And nothing more. However, Dad split the significant earnings from patents on the process with Isabelle as a way to support me, their love child. Neither of them is around to ask, but I suspect he continued with the arrangement after he took me from her as a way of paying her off.

  As soon as I learned about the tontine, I made sure that Mom received a regular allowance from Dad’s share of that account, small compensation for her husband’s infidelity and for all the years of putting up with me, the product of Dad’s infidelity. But, so far, I had only made personal withdrawals from Isabelle’s share to cover incidental expenses when I was in Europe; a little play money, as it were. After Jean-Paul’s cautions about using cards or making electronic withdrawals, I decided that it was time to tap into what had become a substantial pot. In person.

  ——

  Monsieur Revere, the banker who oversees the tontine account, seemed genuinely happy to see me. But he always does when I reassure him that I intend to leave the account right where it is, in his care. On that cold February morning, he was casually elegant in the way that French men can’t help being, wearing a navy sweater vest under a beautifully tailored charcoal suit. With graceful, easy charm, he ushered me into his office. Before I had settled into the deep brocade chair in front of his polished desk, hot tea and tiny pastries were brought in and set in front of me by an assistant. This, I had learned, was protocol; refreshments and pleasantries first, business second.

  I was hungry, very hungry. But I restrained myself and only took two little pastries, savoring them; has anything ever been as delicious as something, anything, fresh from a French bakery?

  “Your family is well?” he asked.

  “I haven’t seen them since Christmas,” I said. “But, yes, everyone seems to be fine. And your wife?”

  His eyes sparkled when he said, “My dear wife is very well, indeed. Our daughter tells us we’re to become grandparents during summer.”

  “Congratulations. How wonderful for you all,” I said. “I’m sorry for the circumstance, but I enjoyed meeting your wife last spring. She will be a wonderful grandmother.”

  “I’ll pass that sentiment to her.” The spa
rkle was gone from his eyes when, after a sip of tea, he asked, “And your brother, Frédéric, how is he faring?”

  “Freddy’s coping, I think. Staying busy with his boys and his building project.”

  “I hope he doesn’t bear ill-will toward me. If there had been any way I could have gotten out of testifying about your accounts at his wife’s trial, I certainly would have welcomed it.”

  “He understands, Monsieur Revere. You did no more than audit the books. His wife committed the crime.”

  “A sad business, embezzlement,” he said with a sigh. “Very sad.”

  “Indeed.”

  “So, Madame,” he said, pouring me a second cup of tea, a signal that it was time to get to my reason for coming. “A little withdrawal, I understand. How much would you like?”

  I took a third tiny pastry and nibbled off a corner while I thought about that innocuous question. How much cash would I need when I got to Venice, and what would I need it for? Maybe hotels? Another airline ticket? Food? Ransom? I had a vivid imagination, but no facts.

  “Not so little this time,” I said. His eyebrows rose. “Ten thousand, please. In cash.”

  “Euros, not dollars?”