“You are homesick I think?”
No. Homesick was about the last thing she was. Genevieve needed to go back at some point to deal with Jason and the divorce, true, but she didn’t have to move back for that. She was leaving because . . . because Paris was not her home. Not really. It was too painful now. She had no home. No real family, no real friends, nothing. But at least in the U.S. she spoke the language and she didn’t worry about being arrested for working or deported for overstaying her visa. At the very least, there was that.
Besides . . . who becomes a locksmith in this day and age? It was an old-fashioned, antiquated occupation. And to try to become one in France? What had she been thinking?
She would sleep on Mary’s couch for a little while, pick up a few copyediting projects, and try to figure out her next steps.
“This is stupid,” said Sylviane, hugging a package of papers to her chest like a child with a beloved toy. “If you go back to no home, not even near movie stars, why you don’t stay here in nice apartment in Paris?”
Genevieve let out a long sigh.
She had hoped to slip away undetected, but Sylviane had stopped by and, when Genevieve didn’t answer the buzzer, had come around into the courtyard and spied her through the window, suitcase splayed open on the bed. After that, there was no stopping her.
“I think you are stupid,” Sylviane repeated.
“Gee, thanks.” Genevieve handed Sylviane the notices she had received, warning her against operating the business as a “foreign national.” “What about those?”
Sylviane shrugged, hitched her hip up onto the open windowsill. Last night’s storm had washed the city fresh, and the day dawned with a brilliant sun that warmed the wet streets and brought floods of customers out to the village’s biannual antiques fair. The courtyard was packed with antiques of all kinds—rocking chairs and dolls and credenzas and kitchenware—along with display tables strewn with tchotchkes; dozens of people milled about, looking for bargains and soaking up the atmosphere.
“I tell you the secret of French bureaucracy, but you don’t follow my advisements.”
“I just . . .” Genevieve trailed off, wondering how she might try to explain everything to Sylviane, whether it was even worth the effort. She had given her the broad strokes of the story, but Sylviane didn’t seem to grasp why she was so upset.
“I don’t understand why it is such a great offense, what you tell me about your mother and this man. I mean, things were different then. It was the eighties. Do you remember seeing pictures of the fashions? Big hair, big makeup, everything very different back then.”
“This isn’t big hair, Sylviane. It’s adultery, and me having a different father than I ever knew about.”
“I was thinking, though, this means you are a true Parisienne,” she said, waving her finger in the air as though she had just alighted upon the winning point. “Conceived here in Paris! Think about that! Perhaps you tell the bureaucrats that!”
“Really? You think informing the authorities that I’m the daughter of the man suspected of bombing the Spanish embassy is going to help my case?”
Sylviane shrugged again, sighed dramatically, and looked outside at the milling crowd.
Genevieve continued packing, trying to fit everything into her various bags. How had she managed to attain so much stuff when she’d been in Paris only a little more than a month?
Sylviane shouted something in French out the window. Genevieve looked up to see Marie-Claude, with Daniel on her heels. Behind them came their son, Luc, and Jacques. Soon there was a whole crowd around the window. Speaking in a mix of French and English, they conveyed their dismay that she was leaving, full of advice on how to deal with the authorities. An elderly neighbor named Madame Velain asked who would fix her door.
This is a nightmare, Genevieve thought as she tried to close her crammed suitcase. Her head still throbbed with the aftermath of the migraine she’d suffered all night long, and the last thing she wanted was to have to say good-bye to everyone, face-to-face. How could she possibly explain everything she was feeling? She checked her watch: The taxi was supposed to be here in fifteen minutes.
The shop buzzer sounded and Genevieve fought the Pavlovian response that made her want to answer it.
She steeled herself. No more. Paris would no longer be a dream; it was not her escape valve. She had to go back and face Real Life, as Jason would put it. Surely she could figure out some sort of win-win situation. Eventually.
What if that buzzer was the taxi? The driver was supposed to call the phone number when he pulled up, but what if he rang the buzzer instead?
She peeked into the shop. Her heart sank. Again.
It was Killian, holding a gift-wrapped package in one hand.
“Open the door, Genevieve, please,” he said when she hesitated.
Why not? The whole neighborhood would be here soon, apparently. She let him in.
“Listen, I have to apologize—”
“No, you don’t.”
“I do. I sincerely apologize. I really put my foot in it down there, in the catacombs. So I brought you a peace offering.” He held out the package, rather awkwardly wrapped in pink paper with an orange bow.
Genevieve focused on the present so she didn’t have to meet his eyes. “I don’t really like presents,” she said, her voice sounding hollow to her ears.
“Think of it as belated payment, then. For opening my door that first day.”
Reluctantly, she took it from him, set it on the work counter, and opened it. It was a sepia-toned picture of Genevieve standing on the Love Locks Bridge. The solid bank of padlocks formed a low wall behind her; the edges of the photo were warped and out of focus, giving the photo an ethereal, other-timely cast. Wind blew her hair, and she was laughing as she reached up to push a lock out of her face.
Genevieve looked pretty, and happy. She looked like her mother.
Angela and Dave, atop Notre-Dame, the wind ruffling Angela’s hair.
“It’s . . . beautiful. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. And I hope you accept my apology,” he said, his tone husky. His eyes shifted over her shoulder. “What’s going on?”
Through the open door they could see friends and neighbors crowding into the apartment. Sylviane would be calling in her five brothers soon, Genevieve imagined.
“It’s nothing,” Genevieve said to Killian. “It’s the antiques fair today, and . . .”
Killian was already walking past her into the apartment. “What’s with the suitcases?”
Genevieve opened her mouth to speak, but Sylviane beat her to it.
“She is going to sleep on friend’s couch because is too much trouble to write forms for police.”
“I’m sorry?” Killian said.
“The authorities have caught up with me, I’m afraid,” Genevieve explained. “They won’t give me a license to practice in France—”
“She did not try hard enough. You can’t surrender to these people, I am telling her. But does she listen?”
There was a general hubbub among the neighbors. Everyone, it seemed, had an opinion on how to deal with the local bureaucrats.
“It really doesn’t matter,” Genevieve tried to explain over the general air of mayhem. “I’m leaving anyway. I—”
“You’re leaving?” Killian demanded. “You mean, leaving leaving? Where are you going? Why?”
Genevieve tried using her old trick to keep herself from crying. She bit her tongue, imagined peppermint candy. But try as she might, she felt the hot prickle of tears stinging the back of her eyes.
Surely you’re all cried out, aren’t you? After yesterday’s melodramatic, self-pity-and-tear-fueled sprint up Montmartre, Genevieve would have thought she’d be dried out. The migraine had blossomed before she even got home, and this morning she had awakened from fitful, lock
ed-door dreams puffy-eyed and spent, feeling empty and hollow. And her thighs were killing her.
The buzzer rang again. That damned buzzer.
“I’ll get it,” said Killian. “You, stay here—don’t go away.”
Genevieve turned back to the crowd, wondering how to explain—in her mixed French and English and body language—how much they all meant to her, that their caring was not lost on her, that if only she could, she would have loved to have made this work, to have been their neighborhood locksmith and become an essential part of their community, like her uncle before her. But that it had never been realistic. Paris had been a dream . . . and the fantasy had died down in the dank, dark, secret catacombs. In the dizzying depths of the city.
But suddenly there was a rustling by the courtyard doorway, and the crowd parted like the Red Sea, allowing a dandily dressed man through.
“Who are you?” demanded Sylviane, jutting out her chin and physically positioning herself between Genevieve and the new arrival. Despite the situation, Genevieve had to smile at this: Apparently she now had a self-appointed, delicate-looking, bread-scented guardian.
“I am Monsieur Lambert,” said the newcomer. “I am here to make the inspection of the shop of the serrures.”
“Monsieur Lambert,” Genevieve said, realization dawning on her. “I am so sorry, I completely forgot that I made the appointment for today. I’m really sorry I wasted your time. Je suis désolée, pardonnez-moi. I’m leaving anyway, so it won’t be necessary.”
“This is the man?” Sylviane asked before Lambert was able to say a word. “Quel connard! This is the little bureaucrate trying to chase Genevieve from Paris, ça me fait chier.”
The neighbors set upon him like buzzards on roadkill. Several women began poking fingers into Lambert’s thin chest and making hand gestures that reminded Genevieve of the ones she had witnessed between drivers on her very first trip to Paris. She had a hard time keeping up with the French, but she understood snippets: her neighbors talking about the cultural tradition of the Village Saint-Paul, suggesting he grant an exception on the basis of heritage; several reminded him of the contributions of Americans to defeating the enemies in both world wars. Sylviane threw in the optimism and romance of American movies, sprinkling her language with a hefty dose of swearwords.
“Genevieve!” came a new voice from the direction of the shop. A cane tapped loudly on the tiled floor.
Genevieve turned to see the final nail in the coffin of her nightmare: Philippe.
“What is going on?” he asked. “You are having a party without me?”
“No, she say she is leaving,” said Sylviane. “C’est des conneries!”
“But this is not possible. Pourquoi, Genevieve? Why do you leave us?”
“Look, everyone, thank you so much, really,” said Genevieve. This situation was rapidly spiraling out of control; she had to rein it in. “Monsieur Lambert, I’m so sorry about all this, and you don’t have to worry because I’m leaving anyway. I’m going back to California; the taxi will be here any minute to take me to the airport.”
This last caused another roar of voices, everyone talking at once.
“Genevieve, ma petite, pourquoi?” Philippe asked her why in a heartbreakingly gentle voice.
She couldn’t fight the tears anymore. She shook her head as they started to fall. “I’m sorry, Philippe. I—”
“You have friends here. Family, too.” He nodded at the door, where Catharine now stood. Everyone started to greet her like the long-lost neighbor she was.
“He is right, Genevieve,” said Catharine. “I came by to wish you farewell, but I see I am not the only one! Your neighbors who seem to love you. They never act like this when I try to leave!”
Laughter all around, people clapping one another on backs, already making plans for a neighborhood dinner in the courtyard after the fair.
Marie-Claude came forward: “You know that I do not agree with Monsieur D’Artavel often. But in this, he is right, Genevieve. I think you are in your home, here.”
“She is right,” Philippe spoke again, taking Genevieve’s hands in his. “Do not cry, ma petite. You are loved, you see? You are very loved. And you have very much work to do here. What about Madame Velain’s door?”
Genevieve smiled, sniffled. “I’m not supposed to work anymore, remember? Even for free, it is not allowed.”
At this Marie-Claude turned on Monsieur Lambert once again, and the crowd joined in. Finally he threw up his hands and said something in rapid French.
Sylviane smiled broadly and thrust the sheaf of papers toward him, insisting on his signature. He took a sleek fountain pen from his breast pocket and signed his name in several places, shaking his head and muttering the whole time.
“You see, Genevieve?” Sylviane said as she waved the papers in triumph. “What do I tell you? You cannot surrender to bureaucrats!”
She passed them to Genevieve, who saw that they now carried Monsieur Lambert’s coveted signature.
“I still need the stamp.”
Monsieur Lambert said something in rapid French.
“He say you will need to stand in line for that,” translated Catharine. “Down at the employment offices. I will write down the address for you.”
“We should go together,” said Sylviane. “I know what we do! We go on my day off. It is not far from the rue du Commerce, we buy new dresses, have lunch.”
“It’s . . .” Genevieve let out a long, shaky breath. She studied the faces around her: Marie-Claude and Daniel and Jacques and Anna and other neighbors; Philippe and Catharine and Sylviane and Killian; even Monsieur Lambert and the numerous passersby who were now peeking in through the windows, trying to figure out the cause of the commotion. Did she want to leave them, to go back to her half-life in California? Wouldn’t it be better to stay here, to dig in and work with her beloved locks and become part of a city and a neighborhood that made her feel more alive than she had in years? Time to move on from her past and free herself, now.
“Are you going to let yourself be defeated by a little lock? Remember, Genevieve: Love laughs at locksmiths! Trust your old uncle.”
In the photo of her standing on the Love Locks Bridge, Genevieve looked a lot like her mother, but she was her own person. And she wouldn’t repeat her mother’s mistakes. Only she could make herself happy.
And she was happy in Paris, at Under Lock and Key in the Village Saint-Paul.
“I guess you know the secret to life in France by now, don’t you, Genevieve?” Killian said in a low voice.
“Ne te rends jamais,” Genevieve said with a nod, surrendering. “Never give up.”
Chapter Fifty-nine
Genevieve had a dream in which she opened the door.
There were no dismembered bodies once she stepped through the doorway. Instead, it opened onto an octagonal room that looked like it was out of one of Killian’s photographs of abandoned places. There was a queen-sized bed with an old-fashioned iron bedstead, covers neatly turned down; an old tricycle she had seen in Philippe’s basement; a bookshelf of dusty tomes; a globe, a child’s shoe, the christening outfit from Pasquale’s closet she had packed up for Catharine. Papers strewn about the floor, everything covered in dust.
And at the center of the room was a table covered in keys: old-fashioned skeleton keys, the iron burglar’s ring, modern blanks and various sets of modern house keys, and a few newfangled electronic models.
With a jolt Genevieve realized that the octagonal room had a door in each section of wall. There were seven more doors to open.
But rather than feeling frustrated or afraid, Genevieve stood in the middle of the room, turning around slowly to look at each door. Then she started to twirl faster, began to laugh. She had all the keys!
She awoke laughing. And wondering: What would Catharine make of this?
She checked Da
ve’s watch. It was early, not even six in the morning. Perfect timing.
Genevieve brushed her teeth and splashed some water on her face in the tiny washroom. She made herself a cup of coffee, carried it over to her uncle’s desk, picked up the heavy telephone receiver, and dialed an international number she knew by heart.
She caught Jason at a good time: It was evening there; he’d had a glass of wine with dinner. So he was well fed, relaxed. If Jason didn’t eat and sleep regularly, he got cranky, like a toddler. This was a trait Genevieve had found charming when they first got together, but later it annoyed her no end. Now, when she thought about it, she was filled with a sense of fond acceptance that comes with having known someone for many years. Her anger toward Jason had started to mellow, transforming into feelings of vague regret and familial connection.
After they’d traded stories of “How’s it going?” Genevieve closed her eyes, thought for a moment of what she needed to do in order to start her new life in Paris with her whole heart. And then she took a leap.
“I wanted to tell you that it wasn’t just you,” Genevieve blurted out. “I know you went outside our marriage, but . . . I was part of why you were looking for something else. You needed more. I see that now.”
There was a long pause. Finally, he said, “I never meant to hurt you, Genie.”
“I know. I never meant to hurt you, either. I know we care for each other, Jason, and I hope we always do. I mean that sincerely. But—”
“Uh-oh, here comes the ‘but,’” he said in a lightly teasing voice.
She smiled, squeezed the heavy receiver. “Yes, here comes the ‘but’: I just don’t think we’re good for each other. I mean, we weren’t terrible compared to a lot of people. I just . . . You and I want different things in life. I realize that now.”
“You’re saying we’ve grown apart?” he asked, humor no longer softening his tone.
“In some ways. In others, I just don’t think we were well suited in the first place. But here’s what I really wanted to say: It wasn’t really your fault. I didn’t know what I wanted myself, so how could you know? How could you have pleased a woman who didn’t even know what she wanted?”
The Paris Key Page 33
