“Did you invite me in here to make out?” I asked when he took me into his arms. Both arms.
“Perfect idea.” He showed me how perfect. Until someone behind us cleared his throat. Startled, I turned to find Philippe standing just inside the kitchen door leading to the mudroom.
“Excuse me, please. I’m sorry, but—” He looked as if he were on the verge of tears.
Jean-Paul reached for him to come closer. “What is it, son?”
“Papa wants to take me to the train later, so I don’t know if I’ll have a chance to talk to you again. You know, without everyone hanging around.”
“Has anyone noticed we abandoned them?” I asked.
“Suze peeked in and told them you were just kissing, and that made everyone happy. I went around the house and came in through the back. I’m sorry to interrupt.”
“We’re parents, we’re used to it,” I said. “Tell us what’s on your mind.”
“It’s just…” He struggled for air. I patted his back for a moment and he managed to breathe enough to say, “Aunt Maggie, I’ve seen most of your films, so I know you’ve met some really hardcore criminals. Do you think some people are born to be criminals?”
“Is there a bad seed?” When he nodded, I said, “I believe there are some people who are simply evil from the beginning. But, no, I think circumstances created them, not their genes.”
“But if they’re raised by a criminal, does that like, predispose them?”
“Maybe. But only by exposure to the parent.”
When his only response was to nod, I asked, “Does this concern have something to do with your mother?”
“What she did was really terrible,” he said, looking at the floor. “It’s bad that she stole money, but worse that she stole from you and Mamie Izzy because you’re family.”
“Have you done something, Philippe?” Jean-Paul asked in a very soft voice, watching Philippe’s reaction to the question as closely as he listened to the answer he gave.
“Maybe.”
“Go on,” I prodded.
“When we were goofing around in the library, me and Cho and Val, I told you that I bragged about how valuable the books were. So, we took pictures of some of them and put them up on the Net on a couple of auction sites, just to see if anyone would bid. We weren’t going to sell them, I promise you. It was just a dumb thing we did.”
“Was this before, during, or after the brandy?” Jean-Paul asked.
“During. But early. I mean, we’d had some, but Cho wasn’t throwing up yet, so we hadn’t had a whole lot.”
“Does Cho throw up a lot?” I asked.
He nodded. “He says it’s genetic. He can’t metabolize alcohol very well, so he turns bright red and throws up before everyone else. Usually, when he gets to that point, I know it’s time to stop.”
“But that night you didn’t stop,” Jean-Paul said.
“No. I was kind of mad.” He gave me a very direct look. “I liked living in Paris. I grew up here. My friends are here. It was hard when all that stuff happened around Maman and we had to move out of our house in the Marais and into Mamie Izzy’s apartment, but it was still Paris. I hated it when we had to go live on Grand-mère’s estate in Normandy. There’s nothing to do out there.”
“Except make cheese and grow carrots?” I asked. Finally, he smiled. I asked, “Are you mad that Isabelle left the apartment to me?”
He let out a long breath and looked away.
“That’s perfectly understandable,” I said. “I would be pissed if I thought I owned something like that, and then found out at the worst moment in my life that I didn’t.”
“Can you ever forgive me?”
“There’s nothing to forgive. Hell, Philippe, I just learned a few days ago that your dad was shut out of rue Jacob. It was cruel of Isabelle.”
“Sometimes she did things,” he said.
“So I understand.”
“Did anyone bid on the books?” Jean-Paul asked.
The poor kid, I thought he might faint. When Jean-Paul gripped his upper arm, he steeled himself. “They did. They bid a lot.”
“How much is a lot?” I asked.
“One book was going for about seven hundred fifty.”
“Seven hundred fifty dollars, euros, pounds?”
“Seven hundred and fifty thousand Swiss francs.”
“What’s the exchange rate?” I asked Jean-Paul.
“About the same as a dollar, one for one.”
“Does merde suit this situation?”
Philippe let out a bark that could have been a laugh.
“What did you do?” I asked.
“I took them down, off the site, and posted they weren’t for sale.”
“Them?” I said.
“We put up four books.”
“Were all of them Russian?”
He nodded. “Val said if we put up those books, he’d be able to find out how good the offers were.”
“Did your friends understand that you were just goofing around?” I asked.
He nodded vigorously. “But when they saw how much money we could get, they wanted to go through with it.”
“What did you do?”
“We argued. It got bad. That’s when Monsieur Griffith came down and told us to shut up. And that’s when I kicked them out.”
“But Val tried to steal one of the books, anyway, right? The little book of Psalms.”
“Yeah.”
“Was that the book someone was ready to pay three-quarters of a million for?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you afraid your friends still want to sell the books?” I asked. “If they can get their hands on them.”
“I know they are. I checked. The posts are back up.”
Jean-Paul had been quietly listening, but I could see that his mind was far from quiet. He said, “I’d like you to tell all this to David Berg or Thierry Dusaud. Will you?”
“Papa is making me go back to school tonight.”
“Papa is thinking hard about that.”
We all turned around at the new voice. Freddy had been listening in from the mudroom, leaning against the washer with his arms folded. He straightened up and came into the kitchen. With barely a glance at either me or Jean-Paul, he went to his son and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. They were nearly the same height now, but Philippe seemed to shrink, a child nestled in the safety of his parent’s embrace.
“I have only the vaguest idea what you’ve been talking about in here,” Freddy said. “But I can see that whatever it is has caused you great pain, Philippe. I hope you’re ready to talk to me.” Freddy kissed the top of his son’s head. “We’ve been through hell this last year and a half, haven’t we?”
When Philippe bobbed his head, acknowledging an understatement, his father smiled. “I keep thinking the worst is over, so you, Robert, and I can relax and try to figure out what normal is. But shit just keeps piling up, doesn’t it?”
Freddy turned to me. “And, yes, I was really pissed when I found out that Maman shut me out of rue Jacob. My dear wife’s legal defense ruined us financially, and worse, much worse. I could only get to sleep at night by reminding myself that I still had a big cushion to fall on, a prime property on the Left Bank of Paris. And then the cushion disappeared.”
“Ah, Freddy, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
His shoulder rose a bit. “You have nothing to be sorry about. Maman did what she did. You didn’t even know she existed.”
There was no rancor in his voice, only sad resignation. He got the raw end. But he was used to that; he grew up with the woman.
“Maggie,” he said, “in America, I understand that some kids take a break the year before starting university. They use the time to grow up and figure things out.”
“Some do.”
“I think Philippe may have earned a break. I thought that a preparatory year in England would be a breather for him. A new environment, new friends, a new start. But I can s
ee I was wrong. He carried all the same distractions that prevented him from sitting for the baccalauréat exams last spring across the Channel with him.” He looked at his son. “So, Philippe, if you agree, we’ll find something that will make you useful and keep you worn out, keep you out of trouble, and give you some time to think. Do you agree?”
“I don’t want to make cheese.”
“I understand that completely, because neither do I. Any idea what you might want to do?”
“Learn to cook.”
“Oh-là-là.” Freddy rolled his eyes, and smiled. “Why the hell not?”
Karine came in carrying a stack of dishes. “Here you all are. What are you up to?”
“We’re talking about a wedding feast,” Jean-Paul said. “Philippe has some good ideas.”
“Lovely lunch, Karine,” I said. “Just lovely.”
She set the dishes on the counter. “You two better go back in there before things get completely out of control. Élodie and Maman Victoria are already comparing guest lists. Suze and Vic are talking about dresses, and Émile is looking up venues big enough for a crowd.”
As we turned to troop out, Jean-Paul caught up with Freddy. “After you have a conversation with Philippe about what happened at the apartment over the New Year, I encourage you to take him to speak with a friend of mine. His name is David Berg.”
Freddy froze, alarmed. “I know who David Berg is.”
“Most likely, he’ll want you to speak with his assistant, Thierry Dusaud. Please don’t worry, and please don’t put it off. And while you’re still in the city, Maggie and I would like to sit down with you for an important conversation as well.”
“Has Philippe hurt anyone?”
“No. But he wandered into something that may have gotten out of hand. We need to help him get out before it’s too late to save himself. But that isn’t all that we need to talk about.”
“I’m putting Robert on the train to Normandy this afternoon because he has school tomorrow. But I was planning to stay in town tonight with Grand-mère. Traveling one way between here and Normandy is about all she can manage in a single day; we’ll drive back tomorrow. I’ll hang onto Philippe overnight, too. Maybe we can speak with Berg’s assistant in the morning. Do you have a number for him?”
“Yes. Better if you call him today.”
“Call the assistant to the Directeur Général of the police on Sunday?”
“Yes. Trust me, he’ll be happy to hear from you.” The two men took out their phones so that Freddy could copy the number from Jean-Paul’s contacts into his own.
On the way back out to the wedding planners in the salon, Freddy caught my arm. “Maggie, where was Jean-Paul when he was hurt?”
Funny question. “On a Greek island.”
“Were you with him?”
“No. I was still in Laos when it happened. Why?”
“Just brotherly concern,” he said, giving my shoulder a pat as we went through the door and into the fray. “There’s an orthopedic brace on the washer that wasn’t there when we arrived. I was worried that you had been injured, too.”
“Thanks for the concern, but I’m fine.”
Karine was right, the conversation between Grand-mère and Victoria about a wedding party had gotten completely out of hand. I thought it best to stay out of it and went looking for my other nephew, Robert, who wasn’t with the others. Usually the more social of Freddy’s boys, Robert was by himself in a quiet corner of the sunroom off the main salon, fiddling with his phone. While Philippe looked very much like his father, all angles and bones, Robert was more like Grand-mère and Isabelle, with rounder, softer features. I went over and stood in front of him.
“How are you, Robert?”
He looked up, surprised, I think, that I had spoken to him, or that I was there at all. “Aunt Maggie.”
“May I sit here?” I asked.
“Of course.” He scooted over on the sofa to make room for me. Stiffly, he asked, “Have you been well?”
“Yes, thank you. And you?”
He thought for a moment before he nodded. “Very well, thank you.”
“Robert,” I said, “I’ve had some interesting conversations with your brother about his love for cheese making.”
There was a delay before Robert laughed. “And about how fun it is to press apples into cider?”
“And grow carrots.”
“Uncle Antoine calls me and Philippe city slickers. I had to look that up on the Net. It’s true, though. I am a city slicker.”
“Philippe likes to cook. What about you?”
“I want to be a mad scientist, like Mamie Izzy. I don’t mean an actually crazy person, just one who’s mad for science.”
“You probably love physics.”
“Oh, yes! Do you?”
“Afraid not,” I said. “Robert, about Isabelle’s apartment.”
He dropped his head and let out a long breath, clearly not happy with the topic. “I’m sorry. Very sorry.”
“Sorry about what?”
“Papa told me and Philippe to get all of our junk out of there before you moved in. That’s one reason we went to Paris after the Christmas ski trip, to finish packing our stuff. But we fooled around instead. So, Papa let Philippe and his friends stay one more night to see the New Year fireworks if they promised that they would finish packing up before they left. But I guess they didn’t.”
“Robert, if you and Philippe want to leave some things there, it’s fine with me. I hope that you know you’re welcome to visit.”
He gave me a puckish smile. “With or without friends?”
“Preferably without. If you bring friends, I won’t be able to spend much time with you.”
He furrowed his brow. “Why would you want to?”
“To get to know you. We’re family.”
He studied me for long moment. “Do you think that’s as weird as we do?”
“Maybe weirder. You at least knew that I existed.”
“If it makes you feel better, you can give us Mamie Izzy’s apartment back.”
Chagrined, I had no comeback. I looked into his face, at a loss, and he began to cry. Quiet tears became soft, desperate gasps for air. I wrapped an arm around him and he buried his face against me. He wiped his nose on the back of his hand and managed to say, “I’m sorry, Aunt Maggie. I didn’t mean to say that.”
“Maybe not. But, obviously, that’s what you’re thinking. Robert, I didn’t evict you; you could have stayed. You moved to Normandy because your father is working on a project there.”
“Yes. But not forever. Where do we go when he’s finished?”
“There’s plenty of time to figure that out.” He was not mollified. “Damn, Robert, we’ve had quite a year, haven’t we?”
I felt his head nod, and offered him my sleeve. Isabelle’s cashmere sleeve. He laughed and used his own to wipe his nose. I said, “Merde.” And he laughed again. After a few deep breaths, he was composed enough to sit up straight.
He asked, “Is Philippe in big trouble?”
“Not from me.”
“I hate his friends.”
“Cho and Val?”
He nodded. “I don’t like Philippe when he’s around them.”
“Why?”
“They’re so full of themselves. Crétins arrogants.”
“Can you translate that into English for me?”
“Arrogant pricks,” he said. “Both of them.”
“A lot of empty talk?”
“I hope it’s empty talk.”
“About what, for example?”
“They were always talking about how rich they were,” he said. “Papa got tired of hearing it. He said, if your parents are rich, all you are is a dependent. And that it was foolish to wait around expecting to inherit, because you might get nothing. Like us, I suppose. So, then all they could talk about was how they were going to get rich themselves. It was just stupid.”
“Sounds boring.”
“V
ery.”
Freddy came into the room just then, looking for Robert. “Ready to go, son?”
Robert smiled at me, shrugged, and got up.
“Have a safe trip home,” I said to him as we followed Freddy out.
After a beat, he asked, “Can I really visit you sometime in Paris?”
“Of course. I’d love it.”
He seemed to file that bit of information.
There was a general movement of guests toward the exit. Good-byes took a while. Promises to call, to get together soon, to stay well, to be careful on the roads; the sun was low, the roads might ice up. Finally in our cars, there were last waves as first Freddy’s Jag drove out, and then Victoria’s Volvo. We were the last in the queue. I knew that Jean-Paul had let the others go ahead because he did not want them to see the police car pull out right behind us.
“Why do people always talk about the weather?” I asked, watching our tail fall into place behind us.
“Probably because it’s the one thing we all have in common,” he said. “Speaking of weather, this winter has been unusually cold and miserable. But you do know that gray and damp is normal for Paris from fall till spring. Do you think you could adjust to living here?”
“I could say that you are sunshine enough for me, but I honestly don’t know. As a Californian, I’ve visited winter as a tourist many times, always knowing that when I get home again I can fold away the long johns and go outside for a dose of vitamin D. I suppose I could learn to remember to put on a coat when I go out.”
Number 7, Rue Jacob Page 23
