“I’ll try,” I said. Jean-Paul gave his shoulder a last pat and we climbed aboard.
The bus was old and barely heated, and the upholstery was cracked, but it was clean, and most importantly, did not have a security camera trained on the passengers. Only about a quarter of the seats were occupied. There were a few older men, a trio wearing blue work clothes, and a pair of youths, but most of the passengers were women, some with small children. As we made our way to seats, just about everyone looked up and watched us, because that’s what people do when there’s something or someone new to look at. Once we sat down, they lost interest in us and went back to their conversations or naps or telephones, and ignored us. I caught Jean-Paul checking on people with telephones, as I was, to make sure no one aimed a camera at us.
When Jean-Paul sighed, I turned to him and put my hand against his cheek. He felt warm, but not feverish. I pulled the water out of the shopping bag and his meds out of the backpack and handed them to him. I asked, “How do you feel?”
“Quite well.” He swallowed his pills and handed me the water. “A lot better than yesterday. And you?”
“Other than a sense of impending doom, I’m fine.” I took a long drink; being stalked is thirsty business. “Do we have a plan?”
“I believe we are safer in Paris than we are out here, in the open,” he said, glancing up when the driver announced the next stop, the train depot in Rubiera. “We can get a flight out of Milan, if you agree.”
“I will feel better when we’re behind Isabelle’s iron gates, so yes, I agree.”
At the Rubiera depot, the bus shuddered to a stop and two old men hobbled down the aisle toward the exit. The driver got out first to give the men a hand down the three steps to the pavement. There was a moment of conversation before the two walked on toward the depot platform and the driver reclaimed his seat. For a fleeting moment, I considered taking the train. It would be faster than the bus, certainly faster than this local line. But then I flashed on the thought of being trapped inside a speeding train with Blondie and Sabri Qosja closing in on us. Jean-Paul grabbed my hand and looked at me, concern etched on his face; had I called out?
“Ça va?” he asked.
“Yes.” I covered his hand with mine. “I’m okay.”
“Yes?”
“Yes.” I leaned against his shoulder and took a couple of deep breaths. We were okay. For the moment, at least.
Four women carrying shopping bags got on at the depot. The driver greeted them like old friends, closed the doors, waited for them to take their seats, and drove on. The next stop was on the street between an outlet mall and an industrial park. The three men who wore work clothes got out, as did a clutch of women. When they were on the pavement, about half a dozen people, men and women, got on, all of them carrying shopping bags. I checked my watch. It was almost eleven, time for traditional working Italians to shop for food to prepare at home for lunch.
The old bus tipped and swayed as the driver navigated a roundabout and backtracked onto the two-lane road to San Faustino. Outside the windows, there wasn’t very much to see. A leaden sky with the green tinge of impending snow hovered low over naked fields. Here and there, industrial parks built out of cream-colored cinder blocks broke the monotony of gray sky and brown earth. We stopped at a large gym where mothers carrying swim bags herded little ones out of the bus, chatting together without pause while they tended to the occasional kiddy tumble or fuss. The two youths who were on the bus when we boarded got off at a large farm equipment showroom; their hands were stained dark with motor oil. The last stop was at a crossroads where there was a row of shops: a greengrocer, a bakery, a butcher, a tobacconist, a wine shop, and a trattoria that sent the rich aroma of strong coffee into the icy morning air. We waited for the other passengers to go ahead of us. As Jean-Paul and I buttoned our coats and gathered our bags, the driver pointed at us then gestured toward a sign on our side of the nearby intersection.
“Per Milano,” he said. And then turning to point toward the far side of the intersection, he said, “Per Firenze.”
“Grazie,” Jean-Paul said, waiting for me to precede him out.
“Ciao,” the driver answered with the traditional backward finger wave as we started down the bus steps. Quickly, we moved away to let the waiting passengers, all of them with laden shopping bags, climb aboard.
“Coffee,” I said as I took Jean-Paul by the arm and steered him toward the trattoria. We joined a row of locals standing at the tin counter. He ordered two caffè corretti and two pastries. The proprietor piled the pastries onto a single plate, which he skidded down the counter toward us. Two coffees in tiny cups quickly followed.
“Cin-cin,” Jean-Paul said before he downed his coffee in a gulp.
When I lifted my cup to take the first swig, I knew there was more than coffee in my little cup. “What’s in here?”
“Grappa,” he said, knuckling his cheek under the line of stitches. “That’s what makes your coffee ‘correct.’ Drink it fast. It’ll warm you.”
I don’t know whether it warmed me or numbed me to the cold, but the potent alcohol added to the strong coffee certainly took the edge off that very stressful morning. We shared the pastries—they were delicious—gathered our things and went back outside. We found a sheltered alcove at the end of the row of shops and waited there, out of view of passing traffic, until we saw the Milan bus approach. This bus was big, new, and shiny. We waited for most of the passengers queued at the stop to board before we came out from the alcove and joined them. Tickets were purchased with a credit card at a machine behind the driver’s seat. As the two of us talked together about which buttons to push and where the printed tickets would come out, the driver turned and said, “Per Mílano?”
“Sí,” Jean-Paul said, pulling the tickets from the slot when they appeared. “Milano.”
The driver waved impatiently for us to move out of the way of the couple that waited behind us. As newcomers, we competed for seats already taken by shopping bags, wheeled suitcases, coats, and a couple of boxes with tractor parts. With a few hand gestures, we negotiated with a woman to move her shopping bags to her side of the aisle so we could have two seats together. The seat backs were high, letting us cocoon ourselves from the other passengers, except for the woman across the aisle, who closed her eyes and began to snore softly as soon as the bus pulled away from the stop.
We were now on an express bus, speeding along the Autostrada del Sole, a sleek toll road, with no more stops until Milan. After we crossed the Po River, the landscape changed from flat plains to gentle foothills. In the distance, I could see snowcapped Alps rising above a gathering storm moving in from the east. That morning, Roddy’s yacht captain had told us that a Siberian Express was expected to descend on Europe overnight, meaning heavy snow and ice. I hoped we could get a flight out before the storm hit. I’d dealt with more than my share of cancelled flights already that week. Though for the moment we were snug and warm, and together, it wouldn’t last long. The trip to Milan would only take an hour and a half. And then what?
“Lunch in Milan,” Jean-Paul said, looking up from his telephone.
“And then home for dinner.”
“You can say home and mean Paris?”
“If you’re there,” I said, turning to him. “As the owners of number seven, rue Jacob, do we get our pick of any of the apartments?”
He laughed softly. “We can choose from any that become available, of course. But there are no vacancies just now, except for Isabelle’s own apartment which, by the way, she owned outright. If you can’t be comfortable in her place, be prepared for a good wait for another. Our tenants tend to stay for a very long time. Indeed, many stay until the mortuary van comes for them.”
I was trying to imagine myself living in Isabelle’s apartment—my apartment now—when Jean-Paul lifted my chin and kissed me.
“Is there a reason you wouldn’t be happy in her apartment?” he asked.
“Too early to say
. I was hardly there before I left again.” I asked, “Would you be comfortable at Isabelle’s with me? Or would you prefer to stay at your own place?”
He studied me for a moment in the quiet way he has. I knew his wheels were turning, but what I couldn’t read was which question he was thinking over, if either. We had not lived together, and though we had decided to marry, we had yet to get to the when, where, or what-next steps to make that happen. Those issues probably would not have arisen if he were still assigned to work in Los Angeles, my home base, or if the French television network and I had finalized an agreement and I were to work in Paris, his bailiwick, or if we both hadn’t been traveling, separately, nearly constantly ever since my grandmother popped the Champagne corks in celebration of our impending union. There were a lot of decisions to make.
“I wonder,” he said at last, “which ghost you would be more comfortable living with, your mother’s, or my wife, Marian’s?”
“Interesting question,” I said. “Does Marian haunt your house?”
“She does not haunt me, any more than your late husband haunts you. But I put the question to you. So?”
“I have never been to your house, so I can’t answer.”
“We haven’t had the occasion, or made the occasion to go there. My fault, I suppose. I wasn’t sure how you would feel,” he said, still watching me closely. “Except for removing Marian’s intimate things, I left the house very much as it was when she died, in part for our son’s comfort, and for the rest because I accepted the Los Angeles consulship so soon afterward. In the months since I’ve been back I’ve been too busy to notice that it might be time to call in the painter or to buy new sheets. But we could do that, you and I, if you wish. The other issue, of course, is that the house is in the suburbs. The commute by train is no problem, but when the transit union goes on strike, and they do regularly, the drive into Paris is a nightmare.”
“With a little paint and new sheets, I think I could exorcise Isabelle from her apartment, as well. But it isn’t very big. You would have the office, but my work takes up a lot of room. I suppose I could rent space somewhere.”
“You wouldn’t need to,” he said. “There is plenty of room in the cellars at rue Jacob for you to set up a comfortable work space.”
“Cellars? Plural? What’s down there?”
He shrugged. “Utilities. We installed central heating, plumbing, and new electrical service when we did the renovation. And all the conduits and machinery and so on are down there. There is a storage area for tenants and a maintenance shop. The rest, just empty space. Except for the library, of course.”
“What library, of course?”
“Ah, yes. No one explained to you about the library, did they?”
“Nope.”
“Remind me, as soon as we’re back in Paris, to find you a new notaire,” he said, knuckling his cheek again.
“Do the stitches itch?”
“I’ll be very happy when they’re out.”
“When are they supposed to come out?”
“Yesterday.”
“We’ll have Émile take care of it in Paris tonight. If we get to Paris tonight,” I said. “Now go back to, What library?”
“Yes, well, that’s another complication left to us by the Little Sisters of Saint Émilian when we acquired number seven.”
“The library belonged to the convent?”
“Yes.” He looked at me askance. “That property has a very interesting history. A very long history.”
“Until we get to Milan, we have nothing but time. I’m all ears.”
“Well, then, where to begin?” While he thought, he kept worrying the areas around his sutures. When he looked over at me, I expected to hear, “Once upon a time.” Instead, he said, “Chérie, you’ve been stitched up once or twice, yes?”
“Sure.”
“You’ve watched the doctor take out the sutures?”
I nodded. “I’ve taken out my own a couple of times.”
“Good. Then you know what to do. Did you bring the little scissors from Gille’s apartment?”
“You want me to take out your stitches?”
He took my hand and kissed it. “I beg you, please. Put me out of my misery.”
“Here?” I glanced at the woman across the aisle; she still had her eyes closed. “Now?”
“Bien sûr. Why not?”
Why not, indeed. I pulled up the backpack and fished out the pharmacy bag from Paris where I had stowed our little medical kit: tape, sterile wipes, antiseptic ointment, scissors. We pulled up the armrest between us so he could lie across my lap. He looked very comfortable; with his knees bent and his feet on his seat and his head on my thighs, he might as well have been napping at a picnic.
I did the best I could with sterile wipes to carefully clean the area around the wounds and the sharp little scissors. When I was ready to snip the sutures, I asked him to cover his eyes with his hand in case the bus hit a bump. If I was going to stab him, better to hit the back of his hand than his eyes.
“All set,” I said. “Now, tell me about the library. The long version.”
——
While he cleared his throat, and began, I started with the suture on his cheek that was the furthest from his eye. Carefully, I pulled up the surgeon’s beautiful little knot, slipped the pointed end of the scissors into the gap, and snipped. Using my fingers like tweezers, a couple of tugs pulled the first bit of stitching free. He didn’t even wince. Then I went on to the next one. And the next.
Jean-Paul was a natural storyteller, but it didn’t matter very much what he was saying at first; it was enough just to hear his voice, to have him close beside me. But as the story about number seven, rue Jacob unfolded, I found myself drawn in, intrigued, focused as much on the story as on the storyteller.
Jean-Paul did not know who the original owners of number seven were, but some centuries ago the property was bequeathed to the Little Sisters of Saint Jérôme Émilian, who converted the existing palatial home into a convent and school for abandoned girls. Saint Jérôme Émilian, he told me, as I pulled out yet another stitch, is the patron saint of abandoned children. Though the nuns at Saint Émilian took in children, there was no basket left at the gate to receive babies dropped off in the night; foundlings were not welcome. The nuns’ charges might be orphans whose wealthy families died during one plague or another, or who had been given the boot by a stepparent. But most of the girls were the illegitimate offspring of wealthy men, children who were, like me, the paramour’s daughter. No matter who she was, a girl would not be admitted through the high iron gates on rue Jacob unless she came with a generous financial gift to the convent and an endowment sufficient to support her for the rest of her life.
I wanted to believe that the fathers loved their daughters, as mine had loved me, and were providing for them in the best way possible at the time. Few men in any era could take their lovers’ offspring home to the missus, as mine had done, and expect the children to be welcomed. There are more possibilities for extracurricular children now, and fewer stigma, but it wasn’t so very long ago that the father of a bastard girl would likely not be able to find her either an appropriate husband or an honorable way to support herself. For wealthy fathers, handing a girl over to the virgins of the church to raise, with the expectation that she would one day take religious orders and disappear from society, was a common enough solution. Think of poor Héloïse after her dalliance with Peter Abélard.
Jean-Paul told me that the convent school at number seven, rue Jacob trained their wards to be teachers and nurses, and, according to Isabelle’s research, ran a very busy scriptorium where nuns and novitiates, hunched over their desks, painstakingly copied and recopied scripture, church-approved history, official decrees of the state, music, and whatever else was put in front of them.
“It was a very well-respected scriptorium,” Jean-Paul said. “Isabelle discovered that Saint Jérôme Émilian often worked in concert with the scriptori
um nearby at Saint-Germain-de-Prés, when it was still a monastery, producing manuscripts for the libraries of kings and cardinals. Magnificent illuminated documents. And, they assembled a library for their own use.”
“That explains the little volume of Psalms I saw on Isabelle’s desk.”
“A volume of Psalms?” He took his hand away from his eyes and sat up a little. “When did you see it?”
“Yesterday. That’s the only time I’ve been in her apartment.”
“Describe the book.”
I shrugged, holding out my palm. “It’s no bigger than my hand. Leather-bound, handwritten on parchment, with illuminated capitals. In Greek. It’s beautiful.”
“You saw it on her desk?”
“Yes. Is that a problem?”
“I know Isabelle didn’t leave it there, so I wonder who took it from the library. Only the two of us have keys.”
“How do you know she didn’t put it there?”
“I was in the apartment after Isabelle was killed in Los Angeles,” he said. “Your Uncle Gérard asked me to be with Freddy when the police came to interview him about her death. I can assure you that there was no volume of Psalms on her desk then. Afterward, I went down to the library to make sure all was in order, as I do from time to time, and found it intact, door bolted.”
“Lie back down, I’m almost finished. And explain to me why you’re upset about the book being on her desk.”
“Oh-là, it is so complicated, that problem.” He lay back and covered his eyes again. After a deep sigh, he said, “I told you there was a dispute over who held title to rue Jacob, the nuns, the diocese, or the Vatican, when Isabelle wanted to buy it. Ownership of the library is an even bigger war, and one that has not yet been resolved. Maggie, when the diocese and the Vatican sold the property to us, they did not know the library existed. Anyone who could have told them had long ago ascended to heaven. At least, that’s where I assume nuns go. It’s possible that the last few nuns didn’t know it was there, either.
Number 7, Rue Jacob Page 12
