I let out a long sigh. “Yes, I see. You know, I’m not sure I’ll ever really understand my relationship with my father,” I admitted. “But I think you just helped to remind me of how my own immaturity figures into that equation. And I must say, you’ve done it with exceptional grace.”
“Merci,” he said, his eyes shining with pleasure. “I understand much about fathers and sons, although God did not bless me with children.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I loved my father very much, but he was a difficult man. He drank. He caused problems for my mother. He was very demanding of me. There was pain and disappointment and yet, he was my father, and what existed between us was unique. I believe these are the things that make my feelings for him so special. Am I making sense to you?”
“You are.”
“I’ve had a good life, a fortunate life. No complaints, as they say. My wife was a wonderful woman.”
I hesitated before asking, “Was?”
“Yes.” The sadness in his eyes was plain enough. “She is gone, three years now.”
Donna said, “I’m sorry.”
“It is so much different without her.”
Donna and I waited as he took a moment to remember.
Our waiter returned, this time to pass out menus. When he said something in French to Monsieur de la Houssay, his tone was very respectful.
I watched and listened as the two of them went back and forth discussing the food, not fully understanding their enthusiastic banter, but getting the general idea. Gilles then suggested he order dinner for all of us. That suited me fine, since it saved us all the ordeal of having the items on the menu translated, a practice I’d employed since the time I thought I was ordering a filet of something and wound up with the sautéed stomach lining of some large, deceased critter.
I told Monsieur de la Houssay I’d be pleased to have him order. “As long as it isn’t brains or kidneys or anything like that, if you don’t mind.”
The old man laughed, but Donna looked at me as if I’d just called Gilles a dirty name. “It would be awfully nice if you would order for all of us,” she told him. “Anything you like will be wonderful.”
“I trust you both eat fish, yes.”
We said that we did.
“Your father never would. Did he ever change?”
“He never did.”
“Quel dommage. Although, one must admit, there is something to be said for consistency, oui?” He turned back to the waiter and began another animated discussion in French about this dish and that.
“Their special appetizing course is extraordinaire,” Gilles told us after the waiter departed. “I ordered only one, for the both of you to share. Believe me, it will be more than enough.”
“What about you?”
“Ah. It is the sad fate of a Frenchman, if you are fortunate enough to live a long life, you become unfortunate enough to have to deprive yourself of some of life’s great pleasures.”
I nodded.
“I will have a salad and I will enjoy watching as you indulge yourselves.”
Donna told him he was too young to think of himself as old.
“Ah,” he said as he lifted his glass to toast her, “you are almost as generous as you are beautiful.”
No wonder women love Frenchmen.
When he turned back to me, his demeanor was more serious. “You have come a long way to meet me. I appreciate that.”
“It was a little impulsive,” I admitted.
“Impulsive?”
“Nutty. Foolish.”
“Ah, yes.”
“But I trust Benny, and he gave me your name.”
He grimaced for an instant, and I wondered if he knew Benny was in some sort of trouble. Before I could ask, he reverted to that charming little grin of his.
“Benny,” he said, “is a man worthy of trust.”
For now, all I said was, “He certainly is.”
“And thanks to him, we are here together, yes.”
“Yes,” I said. “We are.”
“Then we have much to discuss.” And, having said that, he began to describe his days with Blackie, at the end of the Second World War.
They met when my father arrived in Marseilles, shortly after Benny got there, following the fall of Berlin. They were attached to a detail charged with investigating subversive activities, which was the polite name given to a covert scavenger hunt for artifacts appropriated by the Nazis during their unwelcome stay in France. Gilles claimed he had no idea how my father came to receive that assignment, but I had a suspicion that some of the brass in the armed forces can be smarter than we think. The boys at the Pentagon may buy forty-two-dollar bolts and six-hundred-dollar toilet seats, but they also win the wars they get involved in—Vietnam being excluded for too many reasons we don’t need to get into—and winning is what wars are all about. My guess was that Blackie and Benny, and, perhaps Gilles, were recognized by their superiors as having a unique set of skills in their hearts and heritage, so who better to track down stolen goods?
I said, “My mother just gave me some of his papers, and I saw part of that in his service record.”
He nodded. “Bon,” he said, then went on.
Gilles explained that their detail was a joint effort between French and American forces. In the days of Vichy and the German occupation of France, there were innumerable items that were separated from their rightful owners, and the French wanted them back. These included valuable wine, historical artifacts and artwork. Their unit was assembled to retrieve as much as they could, in clandestine manner, with as little fuss as possible.
“It was of the utmost importance that our missions were carried out in secret,” Gilles told us.
I asked why.
“The thieves were not all German officers,” Gilles explained with a touch of sadness. “There were many French collaborators who took advantage of the opportunities presented by the war. That became a public relations nightmare for the restored French government, particularly as they were singing the praises of the fabulous French Underground and their invaluable role in overthrowing the Third Reich.”
I explained to Gilles that I understood the importance of public relations.
“The less that was revealed about these traitors, the better,” he said. He interrupted himself as the waiter arrived with our first course.
It was immediately apparent why he ordered only one appetizer for Donna and me to share. The dish was served on a large rectangular tray separated into sections, each containing a different delicacy. There were several types of fish, such as sardines, shrimp, herring, succulent little pieces of salmon and others I couldn’t identify. There was also a selection of marinated vegetables including green lentils, zucchini, eggplant and so on. Each taste turned out to be more delicious than the one before.
“I hope this is the entire dinner,” Donna said.
The size and assortment was overwhelming.
“Bon appetit,” said the waiter, and we thanked him. Monsieur de la Houssay ignored his mixed salad and watched expectantly as we made our way through the various offerings.
“Please,” I encouraged him, “you must have some of this.”
“Ah well,” he sighed wistfully, “life is short, as they say.” He got right in there with us, sampling the fish and other treats with as much gusto as if he were trying it for the first time. “This dish never fails to delight.”
As we ate, the sommelier brought a bottle of chilled Montrachet and I realized we had finished the champagne without noticing our glasses being refilled. Gilles gave the white wine a taste, then nodded his approval. Our glasses were filled, the bottle was placed in the silver ice bucket on a stand beside the table, and the man bowed and walked away.
As I have mentioned, I am not much for white wine, but tonight I said nothing, and it was delicious.
&nb
sp; “Your father hated the French you know,” Gilles said with an indulgent chortle that graduated into a slight cough. “It is amazing,” he continued when he caught his breath, “really amazing that we became such good friends. Frogs, he called us. Blackie would say, ‘Lousy Frogs. How do they come to think they won the war?’ He was quite a provocative one, your father.” Gilles smiled. “I must admit, to a certain extent we shared the same cynical view of what happened in France.”
Gilles said they spent many an evening over wine and cognac and cigarettes, arguing about the differences between the Italians and the French. “He was embarrassed by the fascists in Italy, of course, so he would, how you say, make fun of the French. He would say, ‘The French are the weakest of all men. When Hitler knocked on their door, what happened? Did they fight? Did they defend their great country? No. They laid down and spread their legs like so many whores in Pigalle.’ Forgive me, my dear,” he said to Donna.
“It’s all right.”
“Blackie would say, ‘Look at the French. They cried like women, asking Der Fuhrer not to hurt them, while their great DeGaulle went into hiding and the Americans and English were left to save them.’ It made your father angry when the war was barely over, and the French were already claiming the victory was owed in large part to the Resistance.” Gilles took a moment to remember. “He would say, ‘If the Germans were looking for a master race, they could find it in the United States.’ Blackie called the French a lot of inbred Poodles. He claimed America was a melting pot that took the best of so many cultures to breed strength and character.”
This did not sound anything like my bigoted father, but I figured he was young then, and probably feeling all sorts of patriotism after they whipped the Nazis. I guess he refined his prejudices about the great melting pot when he got home.
Gilles spent more time giving us a description of what went on during the war, then said, “The truth is, the Resistance was very helpful to the Allied effort. There were brave men and women who fought and died, spies who were tortured, even children working as our couriers who were murdered. The Nazis were merciless but the Resistance went on.” He shook his head. “Even your father admitted that you should not judge so many heroes because of the acts of a few greedy traitors.”
“Traitors?”
“The collaborators who later claimed to be connected to the underground. I will come to that.”
We fell into silence as two waiters arrived with a delicious looking veal roast. It was expertly sliced tableside, then served with an assortment of sautéed vegetables. Donna and I uttered the appropriate sounds of appreciation, especially as a bottle of Beychevelle was uncorked.
“Enjoy,” Monsieur de la Houssay said.
As we ate and drank some more, he spoke of those days in the south of France when he and Benny and my father were together, engaged in research, reconnaissance and repossession. “There was much information as to where these valuables had been hidden, some of it good, much of it false, some of it outdated by the time we received it. We followed each lead, searching for these people and, of course, what they had taken.”
He told us how their efforts led them to various places, including Paris, where most of what they were able to recover was safely delivered, and where they made time to celebrate their successes. Out of deference to Donna, Gilles was discreet in sharing the tales of Paris, only hinting at the more pleasurable aspects of those exploits. He was also careful not to go too far beyond general descriptions of their work, never venturing too near the subject that had brought me here.
When we finished our main course, he said, “I have asked them to give us some time before dessert. Or perhaps you would care for cheese. I think you need to digest first, yes?”
Donna and I nodded.
“Would you mind if I smoke?” We told him it would be fine, so he took out a pack of Gauloises and, after we declined to join him, he lit up and took a long, grateful puff.
Donna looked from me to him, then said, “Perhaps this is a good time for me to go and powder my nose or something. Maybe I’ll take a walk around the village.”
Gilles smiled at her, then reached for her hand. “You are a most understanding young woman.”
When Donna stood, so did Gilles, which brought me quickly to my feet. “Don’t be too long,” I said.
“Don’t worry. I’m easily amused.” She kissed me on the cheek, which for some reason took me by surprise. Then she picked up her purse and strolled away.
“She is most discreet,” he observed.
“Yes. I told her that you and I would have some private matters to discuss.”
“Oui,” Monsieur de la Houssay said as we sat down again, “and of course you have your questions.”
I reached into my sport coat and took out the letter. It was the original, not a copy. I thought I owed it to him to show what my father had actually written. When I handed it to him, he held it, still watching me. Then he unfolded it carefully, took out reading glasses and put them on.
“I trust you will be patient with me,” he said. “As bad as my spoken English is, my reading is worse.”
“Please. Take your time. Let me know if I can help.”
I watched him as he read, feeling sad that Blackie and Benny were not with us. As he went through the letter, I thought about how much fun it would be to sit and listen to the three of them talk over old times, recalling when they were young, when everything was still possible.
He finished, took off his glasses, folded the page and looked at me in a way that told me he was feeling just as melancholy as I. “Your father loved you very much.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“You now know, of course, that he and I occasionally spoke over the years. We also wrote letters, but not many. I knew of you, of how devoted he was to you.”
Blackie’s attitude toward me did not always feel like love or devotion, but I didn’t want to ruin Gilles’ view of my father, or of me, so I just nodded.
“Now you want to know about this letter.”
“Yes. About the stolen money.”
A large smile worked its way across his lips. Then he put his glasses back on, unfolded the letter and had another look. “Money,” he muttered, pronouncing it “moe-nay.” Then he began to laugh. “I am so sorry,” he said as he removed the spectacles. “When you mentioned stolen money, I was reminded of how clever your father was.”
I felt a sick feeling roll across my stomach. “Are you saying, there is no money?”
He handed me the letter. “Have a look. You see how the word appears only once in the letter?”
I had practically memorized the thing, but I scanned it again. “Right. Only once.”
“With a capital ‘M,’ correct?”
“Yes, yes,” I agreed, a little impatiently. “I don’t get it.”
“And you see the few water stains on the page? One of the droplets having fallen on the end of that one word, yes?”
“Yes, I see it.”
“You did not think he wrote this in the rain, correct? Or that these marks were his tears? No, he was a clever man.”
“Please, Monsieur de la Houssay. What are you saying?”
“I am saying that you are correct, there was no stolen money.” He paused, taking time to have a long look at me. Then he said, “What we stole was a beautiful painting, my boy. What we stole was a Monet.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“Things are seldom what they seem.”
That’s what my father said toward the end of his letter, a take on the Gilbert and Sullivan song I heard as a child, and a lesson Blackie taught me years ago on a Christmas morning.
I was nine and Emily was eight, Kelly a couple of years younger. We were all done opening our gifts when my father left the room and came back with two packages. One was small, the other large.
“Here
are the last two presents that Santa left for you and Emily,” he said to me, “but Santa forgot to mark who each of them is for. We’ll have to figure this out for ourselves.”
“Ooh, ooh, ooh,” we chanted, which is just another version of “Gimme, gimme, gimme.”
“Let’s open them first,” I suggested.
“Sorry,” Blackie replied with a shake of his head. “That’s not how it works.”
“I want to go first, I want to go first,” Emily was saying as she eyed the larger package.
“I don’t know about that,” my father replied. “Your brother is older, so I think he should go first.”
I liked that thinking, and immediately reached out my little hand to begin a physical inspection of the packages. Blackie brought me up short.
“No poking, touching, shaking, none of that. No peeling off any of the wrapping paper. You make a choice, and you keep what you choose.”
I was no fool, so naturally I grabbed the much larger package, quickly tore away the paper and stood the large box on its end. Then I sat there, staring at the picture on the front. I had chosen something called Patti Playpal, a doll, for god’s sake and, what was worse, it was huge, almost as big as Emily.
“Patti Playpal,” Emily shrieked.
I wanted to die.
Emily wasted no time ripping away the colorful red and gold paper of the small box, and I turned away from the horror of Patti Playpal to see what she had uncovered.
It was a Fanner 50.
The Fanner 50 was the greatest toy cowboy gun of the era. Among its other wonderful features, it had a faux pearl handle that opened up, revealing a compartment that held a large roll of paper caps, and a smooth hammer that you could fan with the side of your hand, enabling you to snap off fifty loud shots in a row, sending a small cloud of smoke rising from the barrel. Hence the name.
“A Fanner 50,” I groaned.
My father was smiling. “Things are seldom what they seem,” he told me. “You made your choice, and I think there’s a lesson in there somewhere.”
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