“My family lost their winery; we had to leave our home,” said Marie-Claude. “I find this hard to forgive.”
“There are two sides to every story,” said Daniel.
“I meant to ask,” said Genevieve after an awkward pause in the conversation. “Did you happen to know my mother, Angela, when she was visiting my uncle, a long time ago?”
“We were away when she arrived,” said Daniel. “No one stays in Paris in August!”
“But we met her briefly, after she was hurt,” said Marie-Claude.
“What happened, do you know? How was she hurt?”
The couple looked at her with curiosity; only then did Genevieve realize how strange it must sound, that Angela’s own daughter did not know how her mother had been injured.
“She only told me that something had happened here, in Paris,” Genevieve continued. “I never learned the details.”
Now Marie-Claude and Daniel exchanged a significant look. When Marie-Claude spoke, it was in French. Genevieve thought she said:
“There was an accident, and soon after, she went back home. But it is so long ago. It does not matter now.”
Chapter Thirty-eight
The day was gray but the rain held off; a dozen people milled about rue Saint-Paul, carrying shopping bags, peeking into storefronts. Genevieve glanced up to the second story of the building across the street: The lights were on in Killian’s apartment.
She hesitated for a moment, but then again . . . the Irishman had repeatedly offered his help. And, as Mary had pointed out, what were the chances some good-looking guy would show up, quite literally on her doorstep, the day she arrived in Paris? It seemed almost like fate.
Not that she was interested in anything of a romantic nature. Not at all.
Genevieve thought back on her awkward phone call with Jason. She had been consciously trying to avoid thinking about it, but the truth was . . . the small, scary truth was that maybe what had happened between the two of them wasn’t Jason’s fault. He was a decent, hardworking man, and in the big scheme of things, they were a very fortunate couple. And he wanted to please her—how many times had he demanded, “Just tell me what I can do to make you happy, Genie. Just tell me, and I’ll do it.”
True, he had said it in an exasperated tone, but still.
Maybe there was some deep part of her that was lacking. Jason had certainly insinuated as much: that she was locked down, closed up—more affectionate toward her ancient locksets than toward him.
Perhaps . . . perhaps having her mother die so early had damaged her irreparably. Or maybe she was more like her silent, brooding father than she had ever wanted to admit.
Probably what she really needed to do was get some therapy—not Catharine’s dream interpretations, but something solid. She would do that, Genevieve decided, just as soon as things settled down a little more. Already she was settling into a routine in her new home, so within a month or two she would figure out how to get certified to work, and find a professional to talk to. (Surely there were Parisian counselors who spoke English!) In the meantime, her therapeutic plan was to walk the streets, linger in parks, write in her journal, and meander through the Louvre “slow looking,” as Philippe had taught her.
In any case, Genevieve thought as she approached Killian’s apartment building, since she didn’t trust (or even like) men at the moment, this Irishman would remain a harmless friend. An innocent flirtation at most.
Stroking the key that hung at her neck, Genevieve screwed up her courage and rang the bell at the front door. Killian buzzed her in without a word. She climbed the steps to the second floor to find his door left wide-open. She approached it cautiously, finally sticking her head in.
“Hello?” she ventured.
“J’arrive,” he said from the direction of the bedroom.
As before, she was struck by his photographs. Old mansions ravaged by time, abandoned, debris-strewn hallways. The most poignant and unnerving images depicted rooms that looked as if their inhabitants had just left, with pillows thrown carelessly on the bed and bath towels still hanging from a railing over a tub. One image showed a table with six place settings, dusty but intact, with vegetation peeking through open windows.
They looked . . . haunted. Like Philippe’s basement.
Some buildings seemed to carry a certain something in the air. Could it be the spirit of their former owners? She and Jason once went to a formal dinner party at a historic Bernard Maybeck–designed house that had miraculously escaped the Oakland fire. Genevieve kept losing track of the conversation, as wrapped up as she was in the sensations of other lives having been lived in that same space, their wants and dreams and desires leaving a residue just as real as dust in the grain of the wood, the cracks and crevices. She wouldn’t have been surprised had some apparition floated by in a flapper dress.
Jason made fun of her afterward, when Genevieve asked him if he’d felt the same; she hadn’t confided in him again about such thoughts.
“Genevieve?” said Killian from the doorway of his bedroom.
She jumped, dropping several photos on the table.
“Sorry if I scared you,” he said.
“Guilty conscience,” she said with a rueful smile.
“I thought you were someone else, but it’s lovely to see you. How is everything?”
“Good, thank you. Keeping busy. I was wondering, since you offered, whether I might impose upon you for a couple of things.”
“Of course. What can I help you with?”
“Ordering Internet service. And also, since my French is so bad, do you think you could call two clients who had unfinished business with Dave and schedule appointments with them for me next week? I’m sure I can make myself understood when I see them in person, but I get intimidated over the phone. I think I need body language.”
He laughed. Then he got on the phone and placed an order with a company to begin Internet service at Dave and Pasquale’s apartment. They were supposed to send a box and instructions, but since it was a new service, he also set a date for the installation.
Then Killian placed phone calls to Madame Corrine Gerard and Monsieur Jean-Paul Angelini, Dave’s two other outstanding clients, chatting and laughing with them on the phone. He set up two appointments for the following week.
“Thank you so much for your help,” Genevieve said.
“No problem at all. Although . . . I was half hoping you were here to invite me to look through Philippe’s house.”
“I will, I promise, next time I go. He said he would be back next week, and we’ll set a day then. I’ll let you know.”
“All right, then. He’s quite a guy, isn’t he? How old do you suppose he is?”
“I was trying to figure that out. If liberation was in 1944 . . . that was seventy years ago.”
“Right. And he was already fighting, so even if he was very young at the time . . .”
“In his nineties, I’m guessing.”
“Amazing. He seems to have his head, though—I’ll give him that.”
“Yes. He really is quite a character.”
She considered asking Killian about what the neighbors had said about Philippe, but then Killian knew Philippe even less than she did. And the last thing she wanted to do was to become a gossip, spreading stories about a little old man who had been extremely kind to her. The village was like a small town, after all. She remembered her mother telling her about the wildly efficient gossip network in the small Mississippi town where she was raised: “The tyranny of the tongue,” she’d called it.
“This is really nice of you,” she said. “I’m sorry to bother you on your day off.”
“Not at all. Happy to help.”
“Everyone seems happy to help. In fact, besides the rude waiters, everyone has been so nice here, I’m a little shocked. I thought Parisians were supposed to be
cold and standoffish.”
“That hasn’t been my experience. Not at all, in fact. It’s sort of like a small town, especially neighborhoods like this one. France is still old-fashioned that way, a bit like Ireland. Maybe that’s why I like it so much. The countryside is even more so—the people are cautious at first, but once they realize you’re trying to speak their language and you’re not a jerk, they welcome you with open arms.”
“I’ve never been outside of Paris.”
“What, never?”
“It’s only my second time to France; my first, I was fourteen. I came to stay with my aunt and uncle after my mother died, but Dave and Pasquale were working and even though they offered to send me to the country with relatives, I wanted to stay with them.”
“We should take a trip. I know you lads are used to long car trips—gas is more expensive here, but it’s still worth it. Or there’s the train, of course, but with a car you can get off on the rural roads, little narrow highways threading through tiny villages. Within a couple of hours outside of Paris you can be in Bourgogne, or go the other way toward the Loire Valley. I like the Dordogne, myself. The Southwest is really lovely, truly craic.”
“Crack?”
“It’s great, fabulous.”
“Ah. Where I’m from that’s the name of a street drug.”
“Of course, I should have known that from the movies.” He smiled, his eyes crinkling as he did so. Their gaze met and held for a long moment.
“Bonjour?” came a voice from the door. It was a woman, pretty and chic in that oh-so-Parisian way. Ice-blue linen sheath dress, heels in which Genevieve would have pitched face-first into the cobblestones before managing her first ten steps. Tiny little leather purse in metallic silver.
“Bonjour, Liliane, ça va?” said Killian, hurrying over to her. Genevieve watched as they did the usual double-kiss greeting. “Liliane, this is a new neighbor of mine, Genevieve Martin. Genevieve, this is Liliane Monnier.”
The women exchanged bonjours and kissed cheeks. When Genevieve leaned in she was surrounded by a very subtle cloud of perfume and powder.
“You are American?” Liliane asked.
“Oui. Sorry.”
“Why do you apologize?” the woman demanded. She hadn’t yet cracked a smile.
“I . . . uh, it was a joke. Sorry. I mean, sorry for being sorry earlier. I was just . . .” Liliane continued to stare at her as though confused and displeased. Genevieve could feel her cheeks flaming. What was wrong with her? It wasn’t as though she was in competition for Killian, for heaven’s sake. Of course he had a girlfriend. He was charming, kind, good-looking, gainfully employed. He was what Mary would have called a Unicorn, that mythical creature so many women—and in the San Francisco Bay Area a good percentage of the men—were looking for.
And Liliane was a perfect Parisian girlfriend.
“Genevieve’s just moved here. Quite a change from California, as you can imagine,” Killian said, coming to Genevieve’s rescue. “Genevieve, we were just stepping out to get a bite to eat. Won’t you join us?”
Liliane’s perfect eyebrows raised, just a smidgeon.
“No, no thank you,” said Genevieve. “I’m headed out to meet a friend myself. Thanks again for all your help, Killian. Bon appétit, et à bientôt.”
Genevieve did her best at waving a breezy wave, and left.
Chapter Thirty-nine
Angela, 1983
The shop buzzer rings. Dave goes to see who it is; it is evening, far too late for shop hours, but sometimes there are emergencies. Dave hates to see anyone locked out.
He returns to the apartment a moment later.
“It is for you,” he says to Angela.
She enters the shop. Xabi is standing outside the closed door. Waiting patiently, despite the rain. He is still; unspeaking, unmoving. Wet, soaked through, without an umbrella. Their eyes meet through the pane, raindrops streaming down the glass like tears.
“You should tell him to go,” says Dave from behind her.
Angela is startled at the sound of his voice. She looks over her shoulder to face her brother.
There has been a palpable distance between the siblings ever since the night in the cabaret. It was a glorious night full of wine and song, and yet Dave kept studying Xabi, turning his eyes back to Angela. It was obvious to them all that Xabi was much more than just a friend. Dave is happy to see his sister happy, but at what cost?
Angela told Dave—and herself—that she would stop seeing Xabi, that she wanted just the one perfect night. And she tried. The next few days she made a point to spend time with Dave in his shop, asking him questions about his work.
He showed her a recent acquisition: a Victorian-era ring of skeleton keys.
“These will open all old locks?” Angela asked.
“Not all of them, but a lot. I am so pleased you are interested. . . . I thought you didn’t care about my old keys,” he said with a wink.
“I guess you’ve worn me down. It’s fascinating, isn’t it? Thinking you can open all the doors.”
“It belonged to a thief, I believe. Either that, or an old locksmith like me, eh? And yes, the keys on this ring will open most doors in old Parisian houses. That’s why something like this is still dangerous, even though it’s an antique.”
And now Angela feels the tug: Dave on one side, Xabi on the other. She should do as Dave suggests, tell Xabi to go. She should book a ticket back to California; she should return to her family.
And yet.
“I need to talk with him,” Angela says.
“Are you sure you know what you’re doing, Angela?” Dave asks.
She does, and yet she doesn’t. For the first time in years she knows absolutely, positively, what she wants. What she yearns for and dreams of. She is breathing so deeply, every molecule of her soul feels vibrant, alive, humming. Because of him. Because of the man standing out in the rain. And yet . . . he had left her at the café. Hadn’t returned for her.
And Michelle had warned her against him. Why?
“I just need to talk with him. I’ll be back soon. May I borrow your coat?”
Dave hands her his big khaki raincoat, the one with the plaid flannel lining. She rolls up the sleeves, kisses his cheek, puts the hood up, and goes outside.
“You abandoned me,” she says without preamble.
His eyes, beautiful and intense.
“I didn’t. I’m so sorry, Angel. I didn’t mean to. I came back, but I know it was too long. It was . . . impossible to come sooner.”
His voice, low and seductive.
“Why?” Angela asks.
“Just please believe me; it was an impossibility. I am sorry. Can you forgive me?”
“I just want . . .” Already she feels lost to him again. Simply standing near him, seeing his eyes, hearing his voice, imagining the feel and the scent of him . . . Reason flees her mind. “I feel like something’s going on. I don’t understand. Someone said . . . someone said you were trouble, and that I should stay away from you. That you were a ghost. What did she mean?”
“It was Michelle, no?”
“What did she mean that you were a ghost?”
“Will you walk with me? I will try to explain.”
They head toward the Seine, then descend stone steps to walk along the banks. The rain is soft; he is soaked already, but neither cares if they get wet.
“You know that for many years, for generations, the Basque people have been ruled by others. Dominated. And you probably know, also—I’m sure your brother has told you, since he does not approve—there were people who reacted to the oppression through violence.”
Angela thinks of the first night when she saw him and his friends huddled around a table in the back room of the Chilean restaurant. She had thought they looked like conspirators, like revolutionaries. Like th
e French underground, fighting the Nazis. It had seemed romantic . . . but this seems base and ugly.
“Are you telling me you’re a member of the ETA, the Basque terrorists?”
“No! What a thing, to assume this conclusion. No, in fact, my whole life I worked to avoid this. But . . . my older brother Rémy, he was involved. Nothing specific, he helped to raise money, he lived in France and managed to find some supporters here. But then he stopped with everything, decided he wanted no part; he walked away from it. He asked me to come work with him, good job at a hotel in a French Basque village in the Pyrénées. Rémy and I. He was . . . he was like a hero to me, my brother.”
“What happened?” she urges when he trails off.
He lets out a long breath. Stops walking. “One night, four men come in—Spaniards. We think they are tourists, like everyone else. They asked for a special Calvados, an apple brandy. I went into the back room to find it, and . . .” He blows out a long breath, gazes at the buildings lining the other side of the Seine. “That is when I heard it: bam bam bam!”
“Gunshots?”
He nods. “The sound of death. The sound of violence finding my brother, hunting him down like a dog. When I came out, Rémy was on the floor. Still awake, but bleeding. I held him, I cried out for help, but everyone had run to hide. I tried to stop the bleeding . . . there was so much blood. I never knew there was so much blood in a person. It was everywhere.”
Xabi looks down at his hands, as though he can still see the blood on his hands. His face is wet, raindrops mingling with tears.
“Finally one of the waitresses called an ambulance, but it was too late. I held my brother, I begged him to stay alive, but I watched as the light left his eyes, felt the spirit lift from him as his blood soaked into my clothes, my skin. I had to call my mother, to tell her she had lost a son that day.”
“I’m so sorry,” Angela says, facing him, wishing she could think of something more apt to say, something more meaningful. She strokes his wet head; he bows it, touching his forehead to hers. Cries.
The Paris Key Page 24
