The Paris Key

by Juliet Blackwell

  “Would you like me to get it?” Genevieve asked.

  “No, no, don’t be ridiculous. I am still the man of the house. You sit; you have been working hard all day.”

  Genevieve opened her mouth to protest—her day hadn’t been particularly grueling, after all—but then realized there was no point in going up against one so determined as Philippe D’Artavel. So she did as she was told, sipping her wine and studying her surroundings.

  One edge of the little basement door was visible from her seat at the table. She gazed at it and wondered. Could there be actual ghosts down there in the catacombs, forever roaming the tunnels beneath the streets of Paris? If the bones of millions were stored in the ossuary, surely the law of averages would suggest that there would be at least one or two confused spirits, wouldn’t there?

  Not that Genevieve believed in that sort of thing.

  But . . . there were ghosts, and then there were ghosts. Philippe was probably right: It was the living who kept the ghosts alive, carrying them around, whether as protective talismans, or as prisms through which to view their lives, or as a stone around their necks set to drag them into the depths.

  Genevieve feared she kept her mother’s ghost alive, kept it strapped to her back like a proverbial monkey.

  “Look who is here!” Philippe said as he tottered back to the kitchen. “Look who drops on to us!”

  Down the hall behind him came the Irishman, Killian O’Mara.

  “Hi,” said Genevieve as she stood to greet him. She didn’t buy for a second Philippe’s “surprise” that Killian had stopped by uninvited; witness the third wineglass on the table.

  “Good to see you again, Genevieve.” Killian’s voice was deep and warm. He gave her the Parisian double kiss, one on each cheek. She felt the slight abrasiveness of his whiskers on her cheeks, caught the scent of him: soap and an ever-so-slight musk. A manly scent that didn’t come from a bottle. “Oooh, cheese puffs!”

  “Très délicieux,” said Philippe as he shoved the bowl toward Killian and poured a glass of wine.

  “This house is incredible, Philippe,” Killian said, looking overhead to the beams and intricate moldings. “When was it built, do you know?”

  “It was my grandparents’ house, and then my father’s. And it was old even before that! The main part of it is eighteenth century, but old houses are like castles: many start small and then get bigger with the years; each generation builds more. So there is no one year they are built. The cave, for example, it is very old, as l’Américaine discovers today.”

  Killian turned to Genevieve, eyebrows raised. “The cave?”

  “It’s more than just a wine cellar. There are several rooms down there.”

  He was clearly intrigued, and Genevieve remembered the kind of photographs he took. They chatted for a while: about what kind of work Killian was doing in Paris, and how Genevieve should approach the authorities about getting a business license (the theme of French bureaucracy being a favorite trigger for unsolicited advice, apparently), and then Philippe told them about his daughters and grandchildren.

  He teared up when he spoke about his wife, Delphine, who had passed away more than twenty years ago.

  “But it is like yesterday,” he said. “She was . . . a wonderful woman. She made me laugh! I miss her every day. Soon I will go to be with her.”

  Killian met Genevieve’s gaze across the table. It was hard to know how to respond to something like that: People here seemed to have a matter-of-fact, straightforward attitude toward death, but it was difficult to conceive of Philippe no longer existing on this earthly plane. He seemed so very alive, so vibrant, and Genevieve was sure the world would be a sadder place without him. Just as it was without Dave.

  “Philippe,” Killian said finally, changing the subject. “You might be the man to ask: Any idea how I can get into the secret underground tunnels, les souterrains?”

  “There are tours,” said Philippe with a nod. “Tours of the bones every day, but I think maybe you have to make the reservation.”

  “No, I’ve seen that, actually. It was fascinating. But I was more interested in the other tunnels, the ones that aren’t open to the public. Folks seem quite secretive about them.”

  Philippe pushed his chin out, shrugged. “They are interdits.”

  “We were just talking about the tunnels,” said Genevieve. “I hadn’t realized they were used by the resistance when they were fighting against the Germans—and also by the Nazis themselves. Philippe says there are underground bunkers.”

  “But they are dangerous,” Philippe said, picking up the plate of crackers and shuffling into the kitchen. “I think it is best you not attempt to go in there.”

  “Did I say something wrong?” Killian asked Genevieve in a low voice after Philippe left the room.

  “He was just telling me about losing some of his fellow resistance fighters down in those tunnels,” she answered. “Maybe he’s feeling sad.”

  Killian and Genevieve grabbed the rest of the bowls and glasses and brought everything into the kitchen.

  “Philippe, would it be all right with you if I came back sometime to photograph the house?” Killian asked. “I have a small camera with me, but I’d really love to bring my good equipment and take some decent shots.”

  “This house? Bien sûr! Okay! You come back with Genevieve, she show you around. She knows how to get in now; she does not need me. She can—comment dit-on?—get in like the thieves.”

  “Just as she did with me. Quite the housebreaker.”

  “Actually, Philippe, I’ll need another day, at least, to finish all the locks here,” said Genevieve. “I told my cousin I would have lunch with her tomorrow, but I can come in the afternoon, if that works for you.”

  “Non, non. Don’t come back tomorrow, because they say it is going to be a beautiful day. Go to see the sights! This is a beautiful city, la belle France! And Catharine lives in the twentieth arrondissement,” Philippe said. “Too far.”

  “She says it’s not far from where I went to visit my aunt. Métro stop Blanche.”

  He nods. “Near Montmartre, the famous hill for artists. You should visit this while you are there. Also, it is right near Pigalle.”

  “What’s Pigalle?” Genevieve asked.

  Philippe laughed and bright red flags of a blush appeared on his cheeks.

  “It’s the naughty district,” Killian explained. “Strip shows, sex shops, and the like.”

  “That doesn’t sound much like my cousin Catharine.”

  “It’s been cleaned up in recent years—it’s also the home of Moulin Rouge and a few other famous clubs. You lads seem to love it.”

  “Us lads?”

  “Americans.”

  “Ah.” But I’m not the typical American tourist, Genevieve thought as she gathered up her uncle’s tool bag and put the dossier back together. With Philippe’s permission, she stashed the canvas bag full of locks in a hall closet.

  “But then,” Killian added, “I suppose you aren’t much like a typical American tourist, are you?”

  Genevieve looked up from her task, startled that Killian seemed to have read her mind.

  Their eyes met and held for a moment. There was something about Killian’s easy, smiling, helpful manner that seemed familiar. . . . She couldn’t quite put her finger on it the other day, but now she realized what it was: He reminded her of her uncle Dave. No wonder he and Philippe were already getting along like long-lost pals.

  Still . . . warning bells went off in her head whenever she was near him. Probably Mary was right—it was the result of her twisted view of male-female relationships lately. But still.

  “Okay, I am busy man so you two must leave now,” said Philippe. “Killian will walk you home, Genevieve,” he said as he escorted them both to the front door. It had started to rain, so he shoved a large black
umbrella in Killian’s hand. “You make her to stay dry, okay? Okay! Je vous souhaite une bonne soirée!”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Killian put his arm around Genevieve, lightly, to be sure the umbrella covered her as well as him. She could feel his warmth and once again caught the scent of him: not of cologne like Philippe, just a really good manly smell, mingling with the scent of damp wool, and rain on city streets.

  She felt two strong emotions, simultaneously: First, she wanted to be back in the quiet apartment among her aunt and uncle’s things, the rusty keys and antique locks and incessantly ticking clocks; and second, it felt exciting, thrilling even, to be walking through Paris on a rainy day, quite literally in the arms of a charming, interesting man.

  Genevieve didn’t expect—or even want—anything to happen with Killian, but she couldn’t deny the cinematic perfection of the scene: the big umbrella, the Hermès scarf, the way their legs moved in step along the cobblestones, dodging puddles and downspouts.

  “Let’s take the long way back,” Killian said. “There’s something you absolutely should see.”

  “Thanks, but I really should get home.”

  “You sure? This is France, Genevieve. Even though Paris is a big city . . . the pace is different here. What are you rushing home to, exactly? D’ya have a cat to feed?”

  Genevieve opened her mouth to say it was none of his business, that she could plan her day as she saw fit. It would be easy enough to claim she wanted to get out of the rain, that she was tired from working (all three hours of it!) and wanted to relax. But the words didn’t come.

  Killian was right. Why was she in a rush to get back to the Village Saint-Paul? To go through Dave’s files, read more about Philippe’s house, see if she could find any other tidbits of information about it and that one Schlage side pin that was driving her nuts . . .

  But there was plenty of time for that. And she was in Paris.

  “Like I told Philippe, I’ve set aside tomorrow for sightseeing.”

  “This isn’t a typical tourist spot, to be honest. But it’s something that a locksmith absolutely has to see, and, if at all possible, it’s best seen in the rain. You willin’ to chance it?”

  She smiled, gave in. “Sure, okay.”

  Ten minutes later they arrived at the Seine and strolled along it toward the Palais-Royal.

  “All the bouquinistes are closed because of the rain,” Killian said, shaking his head. “What a scaldin’. It’s not as though it’s bucketin’, is it?”

  “Sorry, you lost me. What language are we speaking?”

  He laughed. “I was saying it was a shame these big green boxes aren’t open, since it’s not raining that hard. The bouquinistes sell—”

  “Oh, I remember these!” said Genevieve. The green wooden stands were set out in a long line bordering the Seine. They were locked up tight at the moment, but when their tops were flipped open they displayed used books, old maps and drawings, calendars, and a few tourist tchotchkes. “I used to love looking through the old papers. My uncle bought me a map of the Île de la Cité and an old engraving of a gargoyle.”

  “Here’s an interesting factoid about Paris: Did you know in order to have one of these stands, you have to be a librarian or have another relevant degree, else there’s a seven-year wait to receive a license?”

  “Really? That’s . . . impressive.” Though it did give her a funny feeling in the pit of her stomach: If it took seven years (or advanced degrees) to operate a box of used books on the shores of the Seine, how long would it take to receive her locksmith credentials?

  “The French take their books seriously,” said Killian. “It’s one of the things I love about Paris.”

  “I’ve been meaning to go by Shakespeare and Company.”

  “Love that place. Did you know they have beds among the stacks?”

  “Beds?”

  “Apparently it was so overrun with sleep-deprived students, the owner wanted them to be able to nap.”

  Genevieve smiled at the image. “Sleeping among the stacks of books. What could be better?”

  “Spoken like a true book lover. But my very favorite bookstore in all of Paris is Le Pont Traversé, near the Luxembourg Gardens. Not so many tourists.”

  “Have you been to the Red Wheelbarrow, on our street? I’ve tried twice, but it’s been closed.”

  “They’re off on vacation, I think, but they’ll be back.”

  “I finished both my novels, so I’ll have to find some new books soon. And I’m sorry to say my French isn’t good enough yet, so I need English books.”

  “You don’t travel with an e-reader?”

  “I’m old-school. I like paper.”

  He nodded. “I do as well, come to that. I like the feel of them in my hands.”

  “In fact . . . I don’t know, I guess I’m becoming an anachronism. I find some of the old technologies so elegant: like watches, and paper maps. Maybe that’s why I’m so attracted to locks. They’re old-fashioned. My uncle told me the kind of lock and key we still use today was invented in 1871. There have been some improvements, but it’s the same basic device.”

  “Really? I don’t suppose I’ve ever thought much about the history of locks. Fascinating, though, isn’t it?”

  “It is, at least for some of us. There are locks dating back to ancient Mesopotamia—wooden ones, back then. These days things are changing, of course—everything’s moving toward electronic systems, sadly.”

  As Genevieve said this last bit she remembered: Killian is a computer guy. She waited for him to look at her with that mixture of disappointment, curiosity, and pity that Jason always did when she decried the effects of electronics on contemporary society.

  But instead, he smiled and said, “That’s yet one more reason to like Paris. There’s an appreciation here for that sort of thing. Good food, cooked slowly; artisans who make things by hand; books; and probably locks, too. “

  “Old-fashioned photography.”

  “That, too. In fact . . .” He shrugged, looked out over the Seine. A small barge floated slowly past; ducks waddled on the banks; couples held hands as they walked. “I think the French are traditionalists.”

  “As in, conservative?”

  “I wouldn’t say conservative, certainly not politically, but careful about change. The fresh and novel is treated with suspicion. You American lads are quite the opposite, normally: Anything new is considered exciting, good. You’re a very optimistic people.”

  “I’ve never been quite in step with ‘my lads,’ I guess. Either with technology or . . . optimism.”

  She could feel as well as hear the rumble of his laugh. “And on that note: Here we are.”

  They stood at the base of the Pont des Arts, one of the many bridges over the Seine, connecting the Left Bank to the Right. As compared to many of the bridges in Paris, such as the famous Pont Neuf, this one was plain and uninteresting.

  But the rails were covered in padlocks.

  Hundreds—thousands?—of locks. So many that the sides of the bridge looked like great banks of solid metal squares and rectangles, hearts and circles.

  “What is this?” Genevieve asked in wonder.

  “They call it the Love Locks Bridge. Sweethearts attach padlocks marked with their initials or names to the sides of the bridge, then toss the keys into the water below to seal their love. Ce sont cadenas de l’amour.”

  “Wow.”

  “It’s become such a popular tradition that city workers have had to cut out and replace entire panels of fences too heavily laden with locks; occasionally one will fall into the Seine. Which isn’t the end of the world, I suppose—I imagine the Seine’s seen much worse—unless, of course, it happens to hit a passing barge.”

  They stood in the middle of the bridge, studying them.

  “Amazing, isn’t it?” Killian sa
id. “A tribute to love, in the city for lovers.”

  “Looks like a lot of work to me.”

  He burst out laughing.

  “I’m serious,” Genevieve said, though she smiled. “This is the sort of nightmare I’d have when my uncle Dave used to sit me down with locks and make me open them, one after another. He’d get old locks from his antiques-dealer friends, and I wasn’t allowed to get up until they were all open.”

  “That sounds a little harsh.”

  “It wasn’t, not really. He was trying to get my mind off my mother, I realize now. She had just passed away when I came to stay with them. Dave was a sweetheart. He’d make a big show of how I had to open every lock in the pile, but then he’d sit down on the floor with me, cross-legged, and tell me stories and jokes as he helped me work my way through the pile. He was . . .” She sighed. “He was a very good man.”

  Killian looked down at her. “You were lucky, then. To have him in your life.”

  She nodded, feeling a lump in her throat, and gazed at the Seine. Couples were walking along the banks, arm in arm. A child threw bread toward a small group of ducks. A tourist boat chugged slowly down the river, descriptions of the sights blaring out over the loudspeaker, first in Japanese, then in English.

  Genevieve felt the soft weight of a hand on the back of her head. She glanced over her shoulder to see Killian looking at her intently.

  He pushed a hank of hair out of her eyes, blown by the wind off the river. She was afraid he would do more, but after looking into her eyes for a moment, he smiled and edged back a minuscule amount.

  “May I take your picture?”

  “I don’t take good pictures.”

  “I’ll be the one taking the pictures.”

  “I meant—”

  “I know what you meant,” he said with a grin. “But I don’t believe you. May I?”

  “I thought you told Philippe you didn’t have your cameras with you.”

  “I always carry a small one.” He handed Genevieve the umbrella and pulled a small black case out of his backpack. “Just a cheap one, for snapshots. I like to muck with the exposure, so I leave the door open a tiny bit, see?”