The Paris Key

by Juliet Blackwell

  Xabi is consulting his map, flashlight beam fixed on the paper. Angela peers over his shoulder. They are back in the catacombs, exploring.

  “Look, it looks like . . . we are almost directly under Philippe and Delphine’s neighborhood,” she says.

  “Yes, I think you are right.” He glances at the map, then casts his light above, where the arched ceiling of the tunnel cedes to a vertical shaft, one of many, that lead up to the surface: perhaps to a manhole in the middle of the street, or yet another tunnel . . . or to someone’s basement. A rusted ladder is attached to one side.

  When he looks back, Angela is staring at him.

  “Angel, why do you look at me like that?”

  “Did you know that—before? That we were under Philippe’s house?”

  “Why would it matter?”

  She doesn’t know. But it seems significant. “Why were you so curious about the cave the other evening at apero?”

  He stills. Extinguishes his flashlight, then takes hers from her hand and turns it out as well.

  Next he wraps his arms around her, enveloping her with his scent. He whispers, “Always you are looking for something suspicious, I think. But it is your own guilt speaking to you, Angel, making you afraid.”

  “Xabi . . .”

  “I know you and I should not be together. But when I hold you like this . . . how can this feeling be wrong? How can it be denied?”

  Inky darkness flows around her. Again she feels the strange nothingness, the disorienting sensation of being in pitch black, unknown by all in the world but him.

  He takes her hand. “Come, I want to show you something.”

  They walk in the dark, just a few steps. Then he turns his light back on to illuminate a wooden door. When he opens it, she sees there is a small cot made up with sheets and blankets, a tiny table. A candle and a bottle of wine. There is a sketchy mural on the wall over the bed: a man and woman floating in space, surrounded by stars, kissing.

  “What is this place?” Angela asks.

  Xabi smiles. “It is a place for us. Not exactly a castle fit for a queen . . . but a little room that’s just for us.”

  He steps close to her, takes her in his arms. The world comes down to this: to him and her, no names, no faces, just two souls mingling, connecting. Breathing.

  • • •

  When they meet the others at the café that evening, the mood is not as jovial as she has come to expect. Even Pablo seems formal, makes himself scarce. Xabi’s friend, the always-laughing Thibeaux, isn’t laughing. He draws Xabi aside, speaks to him in hushed tones. Xabier shakes him off.

  Thibeaux storms out. There are many significant glances cast about the room, but no one speaks.

  “Maybe . . . I think I should go,” Angela says, standing. She’s not sure what’s happening, but she does not feel welcome. She is an interloper.

  “Don’t go, Angel,” Xabi says. “Wait for me a moment; I be right back. I walk you home, if you don’t want to stay. Wait for me, okay?”

  He slips out after Thibeaux.

  Michelle comes to stand beside Angela. Michelle had always been friendly enough, but now she seems nervous. “Be careful of him, Angela. I say this as a friend.”

  “Who?” Angela asks. “Xabi or Thibeaux?”

  Michelle raises her eyebrows, then shrugs. “Both, I suppose. But I was speaking of Xabi. He is already a ghost. Seriously, Américaine. You should go back to your home. There is only trouble for you here.”

  Angela waits another fifteen minutes, sipping her wine. Eyes are on her, there are a few whispers, a few inconsequential comments traded, but by and large silence reigns.

  Finally, she realizes: Xabi has not come back for her like he’d promised.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  As time passed, Genevieve fell into something of a routine: visiting with Sylviane at the boulangerie in the mornings when she bought her baguette and a morning croissant; making copies of keys for people who refused to believe she wasn’t open for business; and going through Pasquale and Dave’s papers and tchotchkes and hardware and memories, sorting out the precious from the disposable. She bought her coffee at the Caféothèque, walked endless boulevards and tiny cobblestone alleys, and took time to sit in the place des Vosges—or one of a thousand other charming parks—with her journal, jotting down useful French phrases and describing the city around her: the sights and smells, her memories and regrets.

  She wrote a postcard to Jason saying simply: “Doing fine. Hope you’re well.” And several to Mary, fitting as many tiny letters as she could in the available space and trying to capture in words the floating sense of rightness she was starting to feel in Paris, as though she had finally found a place where she fit in.

  Every day Genevieve met more of her neighbors in the village, and she made a Herculean effort to remember all of their names; Anna brought a homemade chocolate mousse as a thank-you for Genevieve’s help, and an upstairs neighbor brought by a welcoming bouquet of flowers.

  Twice Genevieve had offered to finish the job at Philippe’s house, and twice he had demurred, preferring instead to “have the company of a beautiful woman” for day trips: first to the Musée d’Orsay to “make visit” with the Impressionists, which then required a long lunch afterward to recover; and then a day trip, when he hired a car to take them out to the Palace of Versailles.

  Philippe walked so slowly that each trip was limited in scope, but as Genevieve relaxed into the slower pace she realized how much more she saw by not trying to take in the entire palace, but instead focusing on a few rooms: Marie Antoinette’s elaborately draped bed, and the nearly hidden door out of which she was said to have escaped—temporarily—the Revolutionary mobs; the amazing gold-gilt rococo hall of mirrors, out of which the gardens of Versailles were visible in all their formal, manicured glory.

  One day Genevieve screwed up her courage (and, on the advice of her neighbors, packed snacks and water for the long line) and went down to what she thought was the proper governmental office to discuss getting an official work permit, but since locksmithing was a special case, she was sent to another office, and then another. All of which required different forms to be filled out, which she did laboriously, dictionary close at hand. Finally she managed to land an appointment with a horrid little man named Monsieur Lambert, complete with slicked-back hair, quivering bowtie, and the special sort of obstinate self-righteousness common to petty tyrants everywhere.

  The good news was that he spoke excellent English. The bad news was that he read her the riot act regarding the arrogance of Americans taking good jobs away from the French, and the need to schedule a shop inspection; he also informed her that if she wanted to become certified as a locksmith, she would have to serve an apprenticeship. She would not be able to proceed until she had a vital signature on one set of paperwork and a stamp on the other. He handed her a ream of new forms to fill out, and Genevieve finally did what everyone had been advising her not to do: She gave up.

  Not permanently, of course; she just needed a little time to regroup, before she broke down and cried in front of a little weasel like Lambert. Or worse, came down with another migraine.

  Just keeping food in the house seemed to be a full-time job. Genevieve thought back to how gracefully Pasquale had provided meals for her family every day. To do it right, the neighbors had informed Genevieve, one must go to the best butcher, the best cheese shop, the best fish store. These were not necessarily the most expensive, but the best, and one knew about them only by asking the locals. There were occasional disagreements—engendering long and dramatic discussions—but by and large most agreed on which were the finest shops. Then there were the farmers’ markets: there was one near the Hôtel de Ville on Wednesday and Saturday, and others throughout the city on a daily basis. Paris was not like California, where one could buy grapes or avocados out of season. Perhaps such items coul
d be had if one scoured the city, but in general the food available was whatever was in season: squashes in winter, peaches in summer. Many were bio, short for biologique, which meant “organic.” And some came from people’s yards rather than big farms: many came to sell their apples or plums or whatever they happened to be inundated with that week.

  But besides acquiring food, sightseeing with Philippe, taking long walks, and fighting bureaucracy, most of Genevieve’s days were spent listening to old records while she cleaned out and organized the apartment, piece by piece. Catharine had assured Genevieve, repeatedly, that she was not violating anyone’s privacy and that she should help herself to anything she wanted. Catharine also told her it was a comfort to know her petite cousine was caring for the apartment and going through her parents’ things.

  Genevieve began to make a pile of personal items she thought Catharine might want one day, even if it was too soon now: photo albums, Dave’s military ribbons, Pasquale’s (and Catharine’s?) christening gown, packed away in a special box.

  She riffled through the other letters in the top drawer of Dave’s bureau, but she found nothing from Angela besides that one note: I’m sorry. She thought back to the missive she had found so many years ago with the antique key she wore around her neck. It had been in her uncle’s upright, all-caps handwriting and had simply read: You hold the key.

  What was with such cryptic notes between a brother and sister?

  Could there be a treasure trove of letters from Dave to Angela, hidden in one of those boxes Nick had taken out of the closet but then stored because none of them could bear to go through them? Were they, even now, moldering somewhere in the back of the barn?

  She considered calling her brother and asking him. But then she imagined his bewildered, exasperated, yet patient response: “I’m up to my ears with turkey hatchlings right now, Gen; you want me to go through all the old boxes to find what? Letters from a dead man to a dead woman? Any particular reason it’s so urgent?”

  And what could she say in return? Why did it matter? Did it matter?

  Not really. Not at the moment, anyway. It could wait. In the meantime, she would follow up with her uncle’s other pending projects: she went through the dossiers, found the locks by their numbered tubs, cleaned and oiled the ones that weren’t already shiny and easily opened.

  Next up, Genevieve was going to tackle cleaning out the shop.

  • • •

  Marie-Claude became friendlier over time, her stiffness fading away bit by bit, on a daily basis. She got to the point where she almost smiled when she saw Genevieve. They communicated with a smattering of English, a little French, and a lot of hand gestures.

  “It is cold to sit outside today,” said Marie-Claude one morning, wrapping her arms around herself and shivering exaggeratedly. “Please, I invite you to join me inside my shop, La Terre Perdue, for an espresso.”

  “I would love that, thank you.” Genevieve had taken to carrying her small phrasebook and dictionary, along with her journal and pen, wherever she went. She wrote down “outside” and “inside,” having made out the words from their context. She asked Marie-Claude how they were spelled; to her American ear, French words sounded so profoundly different from the way they were written, it was daunting.

  She wrote: Outdoors = dehors, sounds like dore (with a soft “r”—almost doh). Indoors = dedans.

  They took seats at a tiny café table behind the register. The shop was crammed full of so many fascinating items that Genevieve could barely take it all in: beautiful antique furniture of course, but also a taxidermied squirrel dressed in a tiny waistcoat, framed paintings of severe-looking matriarchs, a Nazi helmet. There were fanciful Murano glass chandeliers and vintage store signs, rolling pins and a wooden ice-cream maker, dolls and lamps and an old typesetting drawer.

  Daniel appeared and said his effusive hellos, then brought over a shoe box full of old locks.

  “We keep these for Dave, always. But now . . . you want them?”

  There was a rusted iron padlock, and a couple of relatively new locks, which weren’t much good for anything but practice. Genevieve remembered many an evening spent at the kitchen table with Uncle Dave, newspapers spread out, trying for hours to open a lock.

  “Feel it, Genevieve. See it in your mind, draw a mental map of what you are feeling, the voids and the pins. Never give in to frustration!”

  Then a young man—tall, pale, and thin—came into the shop. Marie-Claude introduced him as their son, Luc. He carried an aroma of tobacco so strong Genevieve could smell him across the room. Luc didn’t say much and remained standing by a shelf of antique baby items. Neither did he join in the conversation; indeed, his sole purpose appeared to be to translate when his parents were stuck for a word.

  Marie-Claude inquired after Pasquale and Catharine. They chatted for a few minutes about the state of the village, and Marie-Claude mentioned that while it would be nice to have an American around to translate for the tourists, perhaps it wouldn’t do for too many Americans to move in. Daniel and she began a spirited discussion about how the Americans had taken over one or two sections of Paris and while they both enjoyed Americans, this was simply not right.

  Genevieve sipped her espresso and smiled gamely, attempting not to be too American.

  “Tell us, Genevieve, what do you do while you are in Paris?” Daniel asked.

  “Yesterday I went to Notre-Dame and climbed to the top to see the gargoyles. Comment dit-on ‘gargoyle’ en français?” She asked how to say “gargoyle” in French.

  “Gargouille,” said Luc.

  “Ah, easy, then.” They laughed. “It is almost the same.”

  “How about the paperwork?” Daniel asked. They had helped her to decipher the bright pink notice she had received, and sent her to the office from which she had scurried away in defeat last week. “How does it go?”

  She told them of her efforts and her ignoble end.

  They shook their heads, said a few rapid words in French about bureaucrates, sucking air loudly between their teeth.

  “You shouldn’t have told them you were here,” said Luc. “It would have taken a long time for them to figure it out.”

  “Yes, that’s what my cousin said. And it’s true that even without the license I have done a little locksmith work—j’ai travaillé comme serruriere. My uncle left a few projects incomplete, so I have been finishing things at one house. Philippe D’Artavel. Do you know him?”

  Marie-Claude’s lips pressed together in a disapproving line, and she glanced over at Daniel.

  “Did I say something wrong?”

  Marie-Claude mumbled something that sounded like tret. Daniel made a tsking sound and gave her a sharp look.

  “What does that mean?” Genevieve asked.

  “She doesn’t mean this, exactly,” said Daniel. “It is very complicated.”

  “Traître,” Luc repeated. “Means ‘traitor.’”

  Marie-Claude looked it up in Genevieve’s dictionary and showed her. It was spelled virtually the same but when spoken it sounded like tret.

  “My Philippe?”

  “Philippe D’Artavel, oui.”

  “But, I thought . . . I thought he worked with the résistance during the war. He was a hero.”

  “Yes, this is true, in the guerre mondiale,” said Marie-Claude. “But then, you know, with the guerre d’Algérie. Then things changed.”

  “The Algerian War? I don’t . . .” Genevieve trailed off, feeling, once again, as inadequate with history as she had when her uncle had picked her up at the airport, at the age of fourteen. “I’m sorry to say I don’t know much about the Algerian War.”

  Try nothing. She knew nothing about the Algerian War.

  “When was it, exactly?” Genevieve asked.

  “In the fifties, mostly.”

  “The Algerian War was like our
Vietnam,” said Luc.

  “I thought the French were in Vietnam, also,” said Genevieve.

  “Yes, we were. But then we got out in time,” said Luc. “You were there long time, I think. When we are in Algérie, it lasts a long time. Eight years.”

  “My husband and I,” said Marie-Claude. “We are Black Feet. The Pieds-Noirs. This is the name for French people born in Algérie. We were forced from our homes; we had to leave everything and come back to France. My family had a winery there. We lost our land; that is why the shop is called La Terre Perdue.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s complicated,” said Luc.

  A rapid-fire discussion ensued among the family members; tempers flared. Finally Luc excused himself, claiming he needed a cigarette, and left.

  Luc’s departure left Genevieve flipping through her dictionary with renewed fervor.

  “The young people, they don’t understand how it was,” Daniel said. “Luc never lived in Algérie; he does not know what it is to be forced out of home.”

  Genevieve nodded, thinking that if the Algerian War had anything in common with the U.S. involvement in Vietnam, she wasn’t surprised there would be a generation gap. And even with Vietnam . . . Americans had been fighting on foreign soil. What would it be like to be forced from one’s home?

  “I’m afraid I still don’t understand. Why do you say that Philippe was a traitor?”

  “He did not support his country during this time. He was part of a group of intellectuals—they wrote articles, voiced opposition to the war, even sent money for the other side,” said Marie-Claude. “You have heard of Jean-Paul Sartre?”

  Sartre again. Genevieve was going to have to catch up on her philosophical reading just to keep up with conversation.

  “He writes a lot about this,” Marie-Claude continued. “He did not support his country.”

  “It is not because he writes about this that he does not support his country,” said Daniel, smiling, clearly trying to smooth things over. The peacekeeper. “But . . . he sees things differently.”