CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Manet, Monet & Mamonet
It felt reassuring to be walking amid the cultural civility and social enlightenment offered along the Boulevard Saint-Germain in the afternoon sun, enough so I was almost able to forget my cares and find myself assimilated into the pleasantries of Paris on such a fine June day.
Open air markets displayed fresh wares to a range of shoppers, young and old, eager to acquire the finest of vegetables, cheeses and meats. Parents and children paraded past outdoor cafes filled with holidaymakers relaxing beneath flowing umbrellas and bobbing balloons. Even a gathering of pigeons appeared content, darting about like gray beer-bellied footballers seeking to organize a pickup game on the sidewalk. The atmosphere was such I wished to be taking advantage of the city I love, indulging in a leisurely stroll with nowhere specific to go but for the next available shop or gallery, with stops for the occasional refreshment served by a lovely barmaid.
Instead, I heightened my pace and crossed over the Seine on the Pont de la Concorde, angling through the Jardin des Tuileries -- its magnificent gardens rising to full strength -- to the Rue de Rivoli and, finally, the Rue de Richelieu. From there it was a brisk walk to the undistinguished apartment I kept on Rue d'Orangutang, a maisonette my grandfather -- Jupiter von dek Horn, Wark's younger brother -- won as the jackpot in a marathon game of mahjong prior to the outbreak of World War II. As my visits to the unassuming abode were painfully infrequent by my standards, I entrusted its key to Renaldo Sédentaire, a reliable and longstanding family friend who owned the Mangez Votre Gâteau cafe located next to the apartment's front door. Renaldo's daughter kept the apartment tidy during my absences, an act I was grateful for while refreshing myself under a hot shower and slipping on a clean ascot and suit.
Back on the street, I seated myself at the outward most Gâteau table affording the best view of the active street life. Here, the carefree young and doddering aged strolled past, oblivious to my pressing dilemma. A number of revelations had come to me over the past few hours, the foremost being that for all of Chip/Silly's reputed mental deficits, he would know exactly where to find me in the City of Light.
"Bonjour, Monsieur Baron."
"Renaldo, my good fellow. So glad I've returned."
"Likewise, sir," he replied, his features as dour as ever beneath his balding head. He set down a glass of red wine and the day's paper. "For you and you again."
"Merci. Thank Giselle, too, for looking after the apartment."
"As always. Your payments are timely and appreciated." He scanned the street in both directions. "A young woman stopped by minutes ago asking for you, sir. She left no message, only that she would return soon."
"Quite. No name, of course."
"Naturally, sir," he replied, bussing the table behind me. "Renaldo is discreet, as you know."
Renaldo's gentlemanly quality would not be required for this particular caller. Undoubtedly, she was a courier with a message for me.
It shouldn't be long now.
I skimmed the headlines and, enjoying a taste of the bold yet toothsome merlot, considered what had been accomplished.
Baril de Singes [Barrel of Monkeys] Page 51
