The Paris Key

by Juliet Blackwell

  Once she became an adult she had tried to make amends, sending cards and letters and calling on birthdays and holidays. But it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.

  Draped over the arm of the old floral couch was one of Pasquale’s unfinished needlework projects: a scene of a swan-studded lake in front of a château. Genevieve picked up Dave’s old silver-inlaid pipe, turned it around in her hands. Put it down, watching it rock for a moment before falling onto its side. She trailed her fingers along the hurricane glass of a gas lantern, which, she remembered, Dave always kept handy; the village was so ancient and insular that many residents didn’t have regular plumbing until the 1970s, and the power was still erratic.

  She opened an old walnut armoire chock-full of bottles of all sizes and shapes: This was the cabinet of tinctures and liqueurs made by grandfathers from the herbs collected on certain mountains, in very special valleys. Genevieve inspected a few of the yellowing handwritten labels, remembering Uncle Dave flinging the doors wide, waggling his eyebrows, and saying: “Let’s see what we have here. . . . This eau-de-vie will fix that stomachache”—or headache or backache—“in a heartbeat!”

  Genevieve had come home to the last place she could remember being happy . . . but at the same time she was a stranger, an intruder, a person out of time here.

  A creeping dissatisfaction nibbled at the edges of her heart.

  Not yet, she thought. Give me just a little bit longer. A little bit longer in the bubble of forgetting the present and remembering the past, of feeling that elusive, intangible anticipation of happiness.

  “In AA they say that there’s no such thing as a geographical cure,” Mary declared when Genevieve talked about running away to Paris.

  Intellectually, Genevieve knew this was true. She might well be lugging her unhappiness with her to another country, packing it up in her suitcase right alongside dental floss and underwear. But in her heart she refused to accept this possibility. The idea of escape was too enticing.

  “Oscar Wilde wrote that when good Americans die, they go to Paris,” Genevieve had replied.

  “Okay . . . not sure what to make of that. But anyway, you’re not dead, Martin. You’re just getting divorced.”

  There were a lot of people who claimed to be happy. Or content, at least. Jason found fulfillment in making money and putting together win-win solutions to business deals. Some folks seemed most satisfied when they were stirring up trouble, like the people with whom Genevieve had mingled at the death-penalty protests with her mother, all those years ago. And Berkeley types touted the wisdom of the Buddha, preaching that once a person no longer wanted anything, she would no longer face disappointment. But didn’t that seem like a cop-out? A sour-grapes approach, as in, “I didn’t want it anyway”?

  Her brother, Nick, appeared content. Whenever Genevieve visited, he would take her for a tour of the farm, show her how well the kale was doing now that he’d found a natural way to keep the aphids at bay, exhibit the impressive girth of his pumpkins and the deep hues of the carrots, which he grew in the traditional orange variety as well as red and purple and yellow, a veritable rainbow coalition of root vegetables.

  Nick told her that happiness was an attitude, an approach to life. That you had to choose it.

  Could it really be that simple? Could one simply choose to find fulfillment in kale?

  Genevieve picked up a sparkling goblet from a set sitting on the chipped tile kitchen counter. It was small and decorated with cut-glass diamonds that formed geometric flowers. She weighed its heft in her palm. The glass was cool and slick, thick and sturdy. Perhaps her imagination was running away with her, perhaps her mind was jet-lag muddled, but she thought she remembered these goblets: old-fashioned, smaller and bulkier than the sleek stemware she was used to, the ones into which Jason would pour his exorbitant Napa Valley cabernets, proclaiming with false modesty that “you wouldn’t believe how much it costs, but one sip, you know it’s worth it,” even though to Genevieve it never seemed truly worth it, never seemed much better than the inexpensive Bordeaux she liked to buy from the grocery store, if only to watch Jason squirm when she placed it on the rack beside his precious Wine Spectator–ranked bottles.

  Over the old gas stove, soot marks marred the wall and ceiling. A copper couscoussier with its verdigris patina sat atop a burner; the top was used to steam couscous and vegetables while meats stewed below. When Pasquale lived here the whole apartment always held the aroma of food: roast chicken, tomates provençales, haricots verts.

  And spices and chocolate and fresh bread.

  A dozen mismatched but sturdy wooden chairs surrounded a heavy farm table, too large for the available space, so long it extended into the living area. The table appeared to be waiting for a large family, and though Pasquale and Dave had only one child, Genevieve remembered lavish Sunday dinners with family and friends crowded around, children sitting on laps, dogs awaiting dropped tidbits. The lamb on the table, the steaming tagine—an intricately painted ceramic bowl with a conical hat—full of fragrant couscous and braised vegetables. The water with a dash of wine, pale pink in the cut-glass goblets that made her feel like a princess.

  Genevieve remembered asking Tante Pasquale why the refrigerator was so tiny, the size of a “dorm fridge” college students might use to chill a few six packs of beer.

  “In your country they are, what do you say? Énormes!”

  “Enormous,” Genevieve had corrected her.

  “Yes, enormous. Because the people, they shop only one time a week. Here we shop every day.”

  “Why?”

  “So the food is fresh, you see? We must buy the baguettes every day, so they are fresh. This will be your job while you are with us, to buy the baguettes.”

  At the thought of those meals, Genevieve’s mouth began to water. What time was it? None of the many clocks were reliable. She didn’t have a watch, and she didn’t want to even turn on her cell phone for fear of exorbitant international rates.

  Would restaurants be open? But . . . she couldn’t face Paris. Not yet. Not until she’d had a shower and gotten herself together.

  Atop the table sat a fruit bowl on a doily, and a picnic basket. The only other item was a note, a full-sized sheet of heavy linen paper, snow-white against the dark wood of the table.

  It was from Catharine:

  Chère Cousine Geneviève,

  Bienvenue à Paris!

  I am so sorry I am not here to give you welcome as I should. I am in the South of France with my godmother’s family—I am sorry you come to Paris in January, so cold and rainy! I have made the beds in our old room with fresh linges (I forget how you say that), and have asked a neighbor to leave you a little food and wine because I think you are hungry. Look in the frigo! Please enjoy—comme chez toi!

  I know my father would be very happy to know you are here, looking after his shop. I will not be surprised if he comes to you in your dreams to tell you so. Do not forget to note your dreams! I will interpret them for you when I return.

  I am very pleased and excited to see my little cousin. It has been too many years.

  I wish you good sleep and bon appétit!

  In the frigo—fridge—were three generous wedges of cheese under a glass dome. Two bottles of wine, one white, one rosé, chilling. Genevieve unwrapped a package of wax paper to reveal a thick slab of country pâté; another bundle held thinly sliced ham. There was a container of cornichons, a tiny round jar of Dijon mustard, and a fat stick of yellow butter on a small blue dish.

  Two bottles of red wine, a fresh baguette, a bar of chocolate, and a tin of foie gras were nestled together in the picnic basket.

  With the exception of the two perfect pears that scented the kitchen, these were all foods Genevieve habitually denied herself. But here people ate such things without shame. And managed to look fabulous while doing so.

  Genevieve fell, mo
re than sat, in one of the wooden chairs.

  It was outrageous, what she had done. Who does something like this? Who moves to Paris on a whim? Her heart hammered in her chest and she couldn’t catch her breath. She felt woozy. Was she having a panic attack?

  But then she heard Mary’s voice in her head: “You’re not dead, Martin.”

  No, she was very much alive. And she had a choice to make. She could get back on a plane and go home like a sensible person, before anyone had even noticed she’d gone.

  Or she could open a bottle of wine.

  Chapter Seven

  The rosé was dry and crisp and perfect.

  The baguette was ambrosia: crispy on the outside, chewy on the inside. What was it about bread in France? Like the French version of butter, it seemed to bear little relation to the item of the same name back home. Genevieve sliced a wedge of pâté, topped it with a cornichon, and made a little sandwich. Another glass of wine, a bit of cheese: P’tit Basque, tangy Roquefort, a stinky and delicious washed-rind Brie. Even the pear seemed better than the ones she was used to: the perfect combination of tangy and sweet, the juice running down her arm as she ate.

  Sated, Genevieve could barely keep her eyes open.

  She made her way down the hall and fell into the twin bed she had slept in as a girl, in the bedroom she had shared with Catharine. It was a small room full of old books, comics, and two four-poster twin beds; nothing fancy. But the sheets were cool and smelled of lavender.

  Genevieve let out a long sigh, gazing at the cracks in the plaster overhead and remembering making pictures from their spidery lines as she lay awake, crying for her mother, hiding her sobs in her wet pillow, listening to her cousin’s heavy, steady breathing.

  Soon she fell asleep and dreamed of a locked room.

  Genevieve kneels before the door. Her lifting finger is sore. Her knees ache. Tears of frustration sting the backs of her eyes. She keeps dropping the pin stack.

  The pick slips, nicking her finger. A fat drop of blackish red appears.

  Uncle Dave stands behind her, coaching her, his words patient and encouraging.

  You can do it, he says.

  I can’t, she replies, though the truth is she’s not sure she wants to. What lies behind the door?

  Haven’t you ever read the fable of Bluebeard? she demands of her uncle, only half joking. Some doors are not meant to be opened.

  Dave just laughs. See it with your inner eye, Genevieve; feel it. Do you see the pin stack? Apply a bit of torsion with the wrench—just a little—and lift with the pick. When the pins are aligned, the plug will rotate, ever so slightly.

  Finally, finally, the plug begins to turn.

  Feel it? Dave asks. Now repeat, nice and slow. Don’t forget to breathe . . . and when all the stacks have been lifted, the plug is free to turn, and voilà!

  Genevieve rides a surge of victory, relishing the sense of release and relief that comes with defeating a lock.

  She reaches up. Her fingers close around the knob. The brass is cold and hard in her palm, unyielding. But when she tries to turn the doorknob, it doesn’t budge. It is still locked. Frustration floods through her, poison rushing through her veins. She rattles the knob like a rookie.

  Again. Dave’s voice is coaxing, eternally patient. Try again. Will you let yourself be defeated by a silly old lock, of all things?

  She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, forces herself to try again. She inserts the pick, concentrates on seeing the pin stack in her mind, drawing a mental map, feeling the pins aligning . . .

  Genevieve heard a buzzer and awoke with a start.

  Whenever the shop-door buzzer rang, the teenage Genevieve would run to see whom it was. “Vite, vite! Hurry!” Uncle Dave would boom, laughing, while Pasquale would chastise him in rapid French. “Allons-y! Let’s go!”

  Someone was ringing the shop buzzer, over and over again.

  Heart pounding, Genevieve took a moment to register where she was. The cracks in the tall ceiling overhead, the bookshelves lining every wall, Star Trek paraphernalia, the matching four-poster twin beds.

  Paris. Dave and Pasquale’s house.

  The buzzer rang again.

  Genevieve stumbled out of the bedroom, down the short hall, across the salon, to the door to the shop. The brass knob was cool and slick under her hand. She hesitated, but the knob turned easily.

  An impossibly old man stood outside, hands cupping the window, his rheumy eyes trying to peer within the shop.

  Upon spying Genevieve he held up one gnarled hand in greeting and grinned to display crooked yellow teeth. He was wearing a beret, a scarf, and a black overcoat; he leaned on a cane. If only he were cradling a baguette, he could have been featured on a poster as Traditional Old Frenchman.

  Genevieve swore under her breath and tried to gather her wits.

  She had stumbled to the door half-asleep, not even stopping to check her reflection in the mirror. She hadn’t showered since she left San Francisco . . . how long ago?

  Her mind cast around, frantically, for the French words to tell this man to go away. How did you say “closed” in French? All she could remember was the Spanish, cerrado. A lot of help that was.

  “Excusez moi,” she began, begging the man’s pardon even though he was the one who had disturbed her, not the other way around. “Il n’y a pas . . . nous sommes pas ouverts,” she stammered.

  “We are not open,” she thought she managed to say, though as it came out she realized she’d left out half of the negative in French, the ne that was supposed to go before the verb. Her sleep-addled mind was doing the best it could.

  The man rattled something off in a scratchy voice, still smiling, still waving.

  This is the problem with even attempting a foreign language. You managed to spit something out, and then they had the audacity to speak their language in return.

  “Je ne parle pas français,” she said, finally remembering how to say, “I don’t speak French,” the simple words bubbling up thickly, like crude oil, from her consciousness.

  “This is okay, okay!” the man said, nodding eagerly. “I speak English very good, you see!”

  “I’m sorry, monsieur, we’re closed,” Genevieve said, through the still-closed shop door.

  “This is okay!” he repeated with enthusiasm. “I call myself Philippe. Philippe D’Artavel. I am a friend of your uncle’s.”

  Oh lord, thought Genevieve. Please don’t make me deliver my uncle’s death notice to an old friend, in French, no less.

  “Je suis désolée,” Genevieve said as she opened the front door so they could speak without the pane of glass between them. “I’m so sorry, but mon oncle . . . my uncle has passed away.”

  The old man looked at her, head tilted slightly, as though not understanding. Genevieve remembered the word for dead in French: mort. But surely there was a softer way of saying it, a euphemism like “passed away” . . . ?

  “Dave is . . .”

  “Dead,” Philippe said with a nod. “I know this. He was very old. He was . . . what is the word? Il était prêt. Ready. He was ready to be dead. I am not ready now, but very soon. I am so old, can you imagine? Even older than Dave!”

  Genevieve didn’t know what to say to this.

  They stood there for a long moment, staring at each other. Philippe D’Artavel stooped over his cane of polished wood, topped with a large brass lion’s head. He was several inches shorter than Genevieve. His eyes were a light sherry brown that gave him a kindly expression, and the grin never dropped from his face.

  “Would you like to come in?” Genevieve finally said, stepping back and waving him into the tiny shop.

  “Okay, yes, thank you,” he said. His th was pronounced like a z, making the words sound like “zank you.” Genevieve remembered, as a young teen, trying to coach her cousin Catharine, whose English w
as almost perfect except for her accent. At one point Genevieve actually reached into Catharine’s mouth to pull her tongue out between her front teeth so she could approximate the very un-French th sound.

  “I think you are . . . Vous êtes l’Américaine, n’est-ce pas?” said the man. “You are the American niece, I think?”

  “Yes, I’m sorry.” Genevieve held out her hand, blushing at having forgotten her manners. “I’m Genevieve Martin.”

  The man stepped toward her, and Genevieve remembered that the French preferred kissing to shaking hands. First one cheek, then the other. She leaned down toward Philippe, smelling a minty toothpaste, a subtle aftershave. She had never been a big fan of cologne on men, but this scent was understated, fresh. Expensive Parisian cologne, no doubt.

  “I remember you as a girl,” he said. “One time only. I was away most of that summer. But Dave, he tells me all about you. You are the little locksmith, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Not so little anymore.”

  “But now you are a beautiful woman!” He shook one hand in the air, sucked a loud breath in through his crooked teeth. “Ooh la la!”

  Genevieve couldn’t help but return his smile. This, she had never forgotten. The ability of the average Frenchman to make a woman, no matter her age or appearance, feel beautiful. Their ability to flatter seemed ingrained, as much a part of the culture as wine and cheese. Where the Parisian women were cool, elegant, and distant, the men were flirtatious, teasing, and attentive. And bold: Here was an old man, stooped and wrinkled, shorter than she, with bad teeth. And he was flirting with her.

  Even while she appreciated all this about Philippe, Genevieve felt bleary with sleep, and a headache was creeping up, the tension in her neck, the awareness of the back of her eyes, warning her of an incipient migraine. She needed coffee, and she needed it soon.