“Yes. They’re . . . so sad.”
“This helps keep it alive. And so there was a great nationalism after the Germans are defeated, this is only natural, I think. But the younger generation, we look back and see it more complex. The Algerian people—they were a colony; it was wrong what we were doing there. The Pieds-Noirs, the French people who lived there, I understand it was hard to leave their country, and they saw it this way. But the Algerians saw it as their country; this is only natural, too.”
Genevieve nodded, thinking of Vietnam, Iraq, and all those other places she knew about only vaguely. Politics had never been her strong suit. But she knew how involvement in such wars could divide a nation.
“So Philippe, and even Sartre and a lot of other people, asked the question, why are we there, in Algérie? But you can imagine, a lot of people don’t like that idea.”
“That makes sense, I guess,” said Genevieve.
“Is very complicated. This is why I don’t like politics. I like romance more. So tell me about the Irishman. Comment s’appelle-t-il?”
“Killian?”
“Oui.”
“There’s not much to tell. He works in computers.”
“Vraiment? Really?” She stuck her chin out in a very French move. “He seemed more interesting than that.”
Genevieve laughed at how Sylviane’s thoughts mirrored her own. But then she felt compelled to be fair.
“There are a lot of interesting people working in computers,” she said.
“Oh, I know, I know.” Sylviane made a rolling hand gesture. Genevieve always thought of Italians being the ones who used their hands to talk, but lately she realized the French did as well. “But what else is his story?”
“He’s a photographer. He likes to take pictures of abandoned buildings.”
“Ah! You see, I knew there was something more. Why abandoned buildings?”
“I don’t know. I guess the same reason some of us like cemeteries.”
“Huh,” she said, as though conceding the point. “Has he been to the Frigo?”
“The frigo . . . ? Doesn’t frigo mean ‘refrigerator’?”
“It does, yes. The Frigo used to be a place where they made ice. A factory. But it was abandoned, so the artists moved in and made it into their atelier.”
“Really? That’s great.”
“I don’t know . . .” She shrugged. “The neighbors complain, of course, because the artists are young and loud. They take over buildings a lot. The city tries to get them out but they refuse to leave. So the city buys the buildings and lets the artists have their atelier and gallery.”
“They gave the building to the artists?”
“What else could they do?”
Genevieve smiled. “I don’t know . . . I think in California there might have been tear gas involved.”
“What is ‘tear gas’?”
“I just mean to say the police probably would have moved in and arrested the artists, if they wouldn’t leave.”
“And then what would happen to the building?”
“It would probably be left to rot. Either that, or turned into expensive lofts for people who work in the computer industry. Anyway, I think Killian’s more interested in the catacombs. Les souterrains. Do you happen to know how to get in—not to the tourist part, but the other section?”
“Les souterrains . . . they scare me.” Sylviane shook her head and shivered, pulling her shoulders up to her ears. Genevieve could hear her mother’s voice: “A goose walked over your grave.”
Upon reaching the gates, they both turned back and took one last look back at Cimetière Montparnasse. It was a peaceful place, with merely a handful of people—mourners and tourists—strolling among the headstones, birds tittering in the trees. Genevieve was only sorry they couldn’t hear gypsy music in the background; it would have made it perfect.
“Okay, enough of death,” Sylviane declared. “How about we do something fun?”
“Like what?”
“We need to go clothes shopping.”
“Clothes shopping?”
“I saying, just look at you.”
Genevieve glanced down at her jeans and sweater. “What?”
“I think you must dress better if you wish to secure the love of this Irishman.”
Genevieve laughed. “I have no intention of securing the love of any man, Irish or not.”
Sylviane hit her lightly on the arm and made a hand gesture of exasperation. “What are you talking? He is a beautiful man.”
“The problem isn’t him; it’s me. I’ve separated from my husband, but I’m not in any way ready to be in a relationship.”
Sylviane spoke with exaggerated patience, as though she were explaining something to a stubbornly dimwitted student. “I am not saying a relationship. You do not need to be with him, just attract him. It is always good to attract the man; this does not mean relationship.”
“And besides, I think he has a girlfriend.”
“Of course he has a girlfriend! He is a beautiful man. This is no reason not to make him fall in love with you. At least a little.”
Genevieve laughed. “I see I have a lot to learn about romance.”
“Mais oui, bien sûr. Of course, romance was invented in Paris, did you not know this? This is why the Frenchwomen, we know how to attract the man.”
“So, speaking of that: What about you? How is your love life?” Genevieve asked as they started down the boulevard Edgar-Quinet.
Sylviane let out a long sigh. “I don’t so much know about the men here. Hey! Maybe I need American man, eh? Maybe a rom-com type? You know any I might like?”
“I don’t think I’m the best matchmaker at the moment. And I’m sorry to say, I don’t think most American men are like the heroes of the movies. No one is, to be fair. Have you noticed how rom-coms always come to an abrupt end after the marriage proposal? It’s all downhill from there.”
Sylviane shrugged. “Anyway, I am going to take you to Galeries Lafayette. You need new dress. It is a fantastic mall, good boutiques, and from the roof café there is the best view in all of Paris.”
“That seems like quite a claim. What about the views from the tour Eiffel or Notre-Dame . . . ?”
Sylviane said something quick and dismissive in French. “Anyway, you will see. Galeries Lafayette. We will get lunch, and new dresses, and then we will have apero!”
Chapter Forty-two
Angela, 1983
“What is this?” Angela asks, her hands shaking.
They are in Xabi’s apartment, the one he shares with Thibeaux and whatever itinerant artist or drunken revolutionary might need a couch on which to sleep. It reminds Angela of a student’s hovel: the mattress on the floor, the stained towels, the threadbare curtains hanging crooked in the window. They have no money and don’t seem to care; the refrigerator is empty but for a single beer and an old Chinese takeout container full of crusty rice.
When Angela suggests that she could bring in some groceries, make dinner, or perhaps even rehang the curtains, Xabi nuzzles her neck and calls her his “little American bourgeois.” She learns it is not revolutionary to be concerned about such things as a nice home, a nice meal.
But then, she is not a revolutionary.
She is, quite simply, a woman in love. A married woman, in love with a man other than her husband. What is she doing here, still?
She holds out the paper for Xabi to see.
He takes it. “That, my love, is none of your business.”
“The writing is in Euskara.”
“Yes.”
“And it appears to be a map of the Spanish embassy.”
“I need to go there to renew my passport.”
“Why all the Euskara, then, with arrows?”
“Why all the questions about nothing?” H
e balls up the paper and tosses it in the kitchen trashcan, where it lands atop a banana peel and coffee grounds. “It is nothing. What is wrong, Angela? Are you angry?”
Last night, late, she lay in Xabi’s bed, drifting between sleep and wakefulness, her body still flushed and subtly vibrating in the aftermath of their lovemaking. In the other room Thibeaux and Xabi and a few others were talking in low voices, in a combination of French, Spanish, and Euskara. Angela knew high school French and spoke a little Spanish but not a word of Euskara. Still, she made out a few phrases:
Spanish embassy. Day after tomorrow. Five o’clock.
She looks into Xabi’s beautiful eyes. They are so deep she wants to drown herself in their depths, like diving into a gorgeous pool of blue. They make her forget, lose herself, what she knows.
“Tell me, Angel,” Xabi says, his big hands holding her arms gently, telegraphing their warmth to her blood. “What is wrong?”
She starts to cry. “I am a married woman, Xabi. I have a son. I shouldn’t be here.”
“Shh,” he says, pulling her to him. Kissing her hair. Speaking soft and low. “I know. I do . . . I know it is impossible. But for here, and now, let us love. That is all. Just for now. We don’t have long, I know. I know.”
Later, when she is lying in his arms, she will wonder whether he meant their time was limited because she will be going back to America, to her husband and son . . . or because Xabi will be gone, the day after tomorrow, after doing something terrible at the Spanish embassy, something spoken of in whispers in back rooms.
She gets up, pretends she needs to use the toilet. The trashcan in the kitchen still holds the banana peel and coffee grounds, but the wadded-up piece of paper is no longer there.
Chapter Forty-three
“You look wonderful today,” said the fourth neighbor Genevieve passed the next day as she headed out to find the bookstore Killian had told her about: Le Pont Traversé.
She was wearing a new blue dress, simple but elegant, with a fitted jacket, tights, and boots. After a halfhearted struggle at the department store, Genevieve had given herself over to the eager Sylviane, who treated store clerks as she did waiters: with imperiousness, as though they were her own personal staff. They, in response, hustled to do her bidding. Genevieve wound up buying several pieces: three dresses, the jacket, slacks, two tops. A nice pair of medium heels. Sylviane urged her to buy a couple of silk scarves and was mollified only when Genevieve said Pasquale had several Hermès at home she could use.
Genevieve’s heart had skipped a beat when she signed the final sales slip. She used the credit card she shared with Jason, so he would receive the bill; she would have to call and warn him and transfer some money from her savings to cover it. But then, she thought with a rueful smile, this was the kind of crisis Jason would be able to understand—would, in fact, probably approve of.
Sylviane had helped Genevieve back to the Village Saint-Paul with all her bags, and after sharing some wine, she insisted on experimenting with Genevieve’s hair, showing her how to sweep it up in a neat chignon, and giving her a few makeup tips.
When Genevieve looked at herself in the mirror this morning she realized the only part of her that looked the same as when she arrived was the antique key hanging from the chain around her neck. Girls’ day out had never been quite so instructive, in Genevieve’s experience.
“Genevieve!”
She turned to see Killian trotting up to her. His jeans were dirty, there were streaks of light brown on his shirt, and his boots were caked in mud. He had his pack slung over his shoulder the way he had the first morning they met.
“I take it you’ve been out exploring?”
“Ah, yeah. A bit manky. Do I look a wreck?”
Genevieve smiled and, in her new outfit, tried channeling Sylviane. “A little smudge on your cheek; hold still.”
She reached up and slowly wiped a little dirt off his whiskery cheek.
“There,” she said in a quiet voice. “All better.”
His gaze held hers for a long moment.
“You seem . . . very Parisian today,” he finally said.
She smiled and looked down at her clothes. “I had a makeover by a native Parisian. What do you think?”
“It’s not just the clothes,” he said with a slow shake of his head. “It’s an attitude.”
She smiled again. “So, shall I deduce from your dirty face that you found your way into the tunnels?”
“Not quite. I found a few short ones, but not the jackpot.”
“They aren’t all connected, though, are they? I mean, I heard they were left over from the old quarries; some were used for sewers, others for basements and such.”
“Sure, yeah. Some are, some aren’t, apparently. In fact, some of these really old places might have access points—did you happen to see anything when you were down in Philippe’s basement?”
Only a strange little trapdoor under a grate, she thought. Most likely it was some sort of clean-out that led nowhere more interesting than a sewer pipe. Still, why would it have been outfitted with such an elaborate old lock, in that case?
“Anyway,” Killian continued, “I have a couple of other irons in the fire; something’s bound to shake out sooner or later. I’ve got feelers out to a few cataphiles.”
“Cataphiles?”
“That’s what they call the fellows who know their way around down there. It’s not exactly legal, so it’s not straightforward to get in touch. But I am undeterred.”
An optimist. An optimist willing to color outside the lines, to crawl through tunnels that were interdits, forbidden.
“So, where are you headed?” Killian asked.
“I’m on my way to the bookstore you mentioned, the Pont Traversé?”
“Yes, that’s the one. Have you eaten?”
“Not really, but . . .” Genevieve trailed off with a shrug.
“What? Tired of me asking, or tired of French food?”
“No, no, believe me, it’s not that. I just . . .” Should she confess that she didn’t have the heart to eat in a café alone? And since she spent the whole day yesterday with Sylviane, she hadn’t managed to shop for groceries.
Eating was such a long, drawn-out affair here. Genevieve respected the custom in theory, but it did make it difficult if you just wanted to grab a quick bite. Sure, there were plenty of people eating by themselves in restaurants, and certainly a grand tradition of people lingering over tables while writing in their journals or reading a book. No one would look askance as they might in a restaurant in the U.S., where they hoped to turn the tables quickly. Here, no one rushed you. If you claimed the table for three hours, dawdling over the cheese plate or your café au lait, so be it. In fact, getting the bill in a Parisian eatery usually entailed waving the waiter down, sometimes repeatedly.
Nevertheless, Genevieve felt awkward, wondering where to put her hands, whether anyone was watching her. Of course, the other night she had enjoyed her meal at the brasserie after Sylviane left her at the table. . . . Perhaps that was the secret. She smiled to herself, thinking of writing Genevieve’s Guide to Paris: Get hazy on pastis!
“Sorry,” she continued, realizing Killian was still waiting for her to finish her thought. “I just didn’t want to take the time for a sit-down meal. Is that awful? Not very French of me, I know.”
He grinned. “I know the feeling. It takes a while to relax into the lifestyle, I think, especially for Americans. Your lot rushes about, don’t they? Eating in cars, all that.”
“I suppose so.”
“I have the perfect solution for your problem: a relatively quick lunch eaten while standing in the street. But it’s delicious. And besides, in my muddy state, I shouldn’t be imposing myself on a restaurant.”
“Really? Where?”
“Have you been to the Jewish quarter? The Pletzl?” At
her head shake, he went on: “It’s not far from here, in rue des Rosiers. . . . You’ll love it.”
She checked her watch. It was nearly two, and just in case . . . “How late is the bookstore open, do you happen to know?”
“Until midnight.”
“Really? Midnight?” She smiled. “I love this city.”
“Come on, then. Best falafel you’ve ever tasted.”
They crossed the busy boulevard called rue de Rivoli, then ducked back into a web of narrow side streets lined with boutiques selling everything from upscale kitchen items to fine children’s clothes.
“I remember my uncle telling me that ‘the Left Bank of the Seine is to think, the Right Bank to spend,’” said Genevieve as they passed by an art gallery.
“I’ve never heard it put that way, but I suppose it makes sense,” Killian said. “The universities and all are on the other side of the Seine, while most of the big stores are over here. Though these days, I’m afraid you spend a lot just about anywhere in Paris.”
“And think just about anywhere as well?”
“One can only hope.”
Rue des Rosiers was a tiny cobblestone street crowded with pedestrians. Whenever a car came by everyone shuffled begrudgingly out of the way—it was slow going. Down near the end of the block the crowd was particularly thick outside a restaurant called L’As du Fallafel. A line ran down the block, and young men with notepads approached to take the order from anyone who lingered long enough to read the big sign with the posted menu, which was, in itself, very simple: a choice of falafel or schwarma, which was a grilled blend of lamb, chicken, and beef.
Killian ordered one of each, saying that they could share or she could have either one; he liked them both equally.
A young man took their money and gave them a receipt. But when Killian guided Genevieve toward the end of the long line, disappointment clutched her. She hadn’t realized the line was for this restaurant, but now they had already paid, it was too late to go elsewhere. Her stomach growled at the thought of food, and the aromas of spices and roasting meat wafting out of the restaurant were enticing.
The Paris Key Page 26
