“And have you found what you wanted in Paris?”
“Not exactly, but I think I’m on my way to finding it. To creating it, maybe.”
There was a long pause, and she heard ice cubes dropping into a glass. She could hardly blame him. It was tough to find the win-win in the death of a marriage, even when it was for the best. Reason enough to pour oneself a good, stiff drink.
“Have you ever read Simone de Beauvoir?” Genevieve asked.
“Please, Genie, I’m not sure I can deal with feminist theory right now.”
“No, it’s nothing like that. But I read something recently: She wrote that women often love to escape ourselves, rather than to find ourselves, and that because of that, loving a man can become a danger, rather than a source of life.”
“Like I said, I’m not really up for philosophy.”
“I know, I’m sorry. It just struck me, is all, because I think I did that: I was looking to you as a way to escape myself, somehow, when what I really needed to do was to find myself. My point is this: It wasn’t just you. There were two of us in the marriage, and we both screwed up.”
“But the upshot is: You’re staying in Paris, and you want the divorce.”
“Yes, yes, I am staying. And I do want the divorce.”
She heard ice cubes tinkling, the sound of him swallowing. When he didn’t say anything else, she continued: “I’ll come back, if I need to, to resolve the paperwork. But we can probably do a lot of it by e-mail. I’ve got the name of a lawyer here who can give me some basic advice, but I don’t want much. Just enough to cover the locksmith shop and expenses for a few months. I’ll send some numbers by e-mail.”
“Okay, I’ll talk to a lawyer, get the ball rolling. Genie—thank you for calling. And for saying what you said.”
“You deserved the truth. We all deserve the truth, at the very least. Oh, speaking of which—you’ll be receiving a rather hefty bill from a Paris department store at the end of the month.”
She heard him chuckle. “Paris really has gotten to you, hasn’t it? You’re not one to spend much on clothes.”
“It was sort of a hostage situation with a very eager Parisian friend who is, I should hardly have to tell you, ever so much more put together than I am.”
“I’ll bet you look great.”
“Thank you. I think I do, actually. Well, then . . . good night, Jason.”
“Good night, Genie,” he said.
But it was morning in Paris. And she was just waking up.
Chapter Sixty
The buzzer sounded just as Genevieve was putting the last of the tools she would need into her uncle’s locksmith bag. Killian stood at the door, smiling.
“Ready?” he asked.
They were headed to Philippe’s house, where Genevieve was to finish up with the last of the locks and Killian was to take a set of more formal photographs of the house, the basement, and the entrance to the catacombs. Philippe was going to meet them there with his daughter and her husband, who had decided to apply for a grant from the government that would help them to redo the grand old home into a school for children with special needs. Killian’s photos would become part of the application.
Also, they had decided to close up the entrance to the catacombs for good, bricking it over.
When Genevieve mentioned the special lock on the trapdoor, Philippe said: “After your mother went back to America, Dave came and worked down in the cave for a while. He insisted on putting on new locks. Special locks. I don’t really know why. You want to take it off, maybe put it in the book you are writing about locks? Okay!”
Genevieve felt somewhat sad that the home would be converted into a public space, but as Philippe said, “Is for the best. The house, she is a relic of the past, like me! She must change with the times, do some good while she still can. And it will save her, ultimately, you see?”
Philippe had one other project he was working on: He had discovered that Marie-Claude and Daniel had an autistic grandson, as well. “We have more things in common than we know,” he had declared, and he had invited them to help plan the new school. They had spent several late afternoons over apero, clarifying the past and planning for the future. “You see, Genevieve,” Philippe had said with a wink, “it is never too late to heal old differences. We French, we are very dramatic, but this is okay! We must talk a lot, and it’s always best over apero.”
As they walked to Philippe’s house, Killian said, “You mentioned you haven’t seen much of the French countryside.”
“Make that any of the French countryside.”
“Well, it just so happens that I have a lead on an abandoned château in the Dordogne.”
“You’ve moved on from the catacombs?”
Ironically, two days after they had discovered the entrance from Philippe’s house, Killian finally succeeded in making contact with a group of full-fledged cataphiles, who maintained intricate maps of the tunnel system and who gave (slightly illegal) tours, for a price. After spending a few days tracking through the depths of the city, he seemed to have gotten his fill.
“When it comes right down to it, it’s pretty much stone tunnel after stone tunnel,” he said. “Loses its charm after a while—for me, anyway. Guess I didn’t get bit by the catacomb bug like some of those lads; I prefer signs of people, of life. Best place I found down there was this old place that looked almost like an underground restaurant–slash–art gallery. Bunch of gorgeous graffiti, real works of art, and some tables with candles and old wine bottles and the like.”
“Sounds kind of cool.”
“Ah sure, ’twas. I’ll take you there, if you like. But I’m thinkin’ you might like this château best of all.”
“How far is that from Château des Milandes, the castle owned by Josephine Baker?”
He smiled. “Not far at all. The whole river valley is full of châteaux . . . and plenty of them are abandoned. Also, the Basque country is an easy day’s drive from there. We could go if you like, maybe track down some of the family.”
“I . . . I’ll think about it. Maybe. I think I need a little more time.”
“I understand.”
Killian had helped Genevieve do some Internet research into the events of August 1983. Not only was he better with computers and familiar with several databases, but he also read French fluently. It didn’t take much digging to find the name—Xabier Etxepare—listed as a suspect wanted in conjunction with the bombing of the Spanish embassy. He had become a bit of a sensation, known as the “terroriste amoureux”—terrorist in love—who had risked being captured in order to run to the hospital with an American woman in his arms.
“That’s something, anyway, then,” Killian had said. “He risked himself to save her.”
“Maybe,” Genevieve mumbled. “Anything else?” Was he still alive? Had he known about her?
But Killian just shook his head. “It looks like he disappeared without a trace.”
“A ghost, then.”
“Aye, a ghost. But we’re ghost hunters, you and I, aren’t we?”
• • •
“We must plan the party for the, how do you say, when you open a store again?” Sylviane asked over espressos the next morning.
Genevieve, Sylviane, Catharine, Marie-Claude, Daniel, and Anna and her baby were seated around the little iron table in front of La Terre Perdue, sipping coffee and hot chocolate and snacking on croissants and small pieces of chocolate. The cobblestone courtyard of the village was quiet this chilly morning, with a few neighbors nodding hello as they prepared to open their storefronts for business.
“You mean the grand reopening?” suggested Genevieve.
“Is that it? It sounds so . . .”
“Obvious,” said Catharine with a nod. “In English many words are like this.”
“Hey,” Genevieve said, feeling moved to d
efend her native tongue. “It’s a perfectly good language. After all, we’ve stolen words from all the decent languages of the world.”
They laughed and Marie-Claude offered everyone more espresso. Tomorrow Genevieve was going to venture to the government offices in pursuit of the necessary stamp on her paperwork. In what surely had to qualify as the oddest escort ever, she was to be accompanied by Marie-Claude and Catharine and Sylviane (who had offered to bring plenty of baked goods for the long line). With such French-speaking forces of nature at her side, Genevieve felt sure to prevail. Philippe had put her in touch with Dave’s locksmith friend on the other side of town, and he had agreed to take Genevieve on as an (unpaid) apprentice for a few months. After completing her internship, Genevieve could take her certifying exam and become a full-fledged locksmith in Paris.
“Oh, Genevieve,” said Daniel. “Almost I forget. Inside I have another lock for you. Also, there is a book for you, in English.”
“Thank you, Daniel. How kind.”
“It is a book about Jean-Paul Sartre,” said Marie-Claude as Daniel ducked into the store to retrieve the volume. “I have never been fond of him, but Philippe D’Artavel suggests we read about him and discuss his philosophies, as in days past when people did this. What do you think?”
“I want to be part of such a group!” said Sylviane, nudging Genevieve with her elbow. “It is like what you tell me about Gertrude Stein’s salon. Maybe we make Village Saint-Paul famous for philosophical discussions, and this will attract interesting people to our neighborhood. Maybe interesting American men—who knows? And this is another reason to hurry with the grand reopening.”
“Don’t you think I should get certified as a locksmith before reopening the store?” Genevieve asked with a smile.
Sylviane waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. “What are you talking? It is not too early; how will you fail? This is impossible. And—”
“I know, I know: ‘Impossible’ n’est pas français.”
• • •
After coffee, Genevieve swung by to fix the lock on old Madame Velain’s door. It was an easy job—a simple rosette dead-bolt installation that took her only half an hour, so she made sure the back door lock and all the window latches were working properly, then took time to admire the photos of the Velain grandchildren. Madame Velain invited her to stay for lunch, but Genevieve demurred. She had a lot to do: She still hadn’t finished organizing her uncle’s shop and had a lot of dusty old bins yet to work through.
Her uncle’s old black leather locksmithing bag in one hand, umbrella in the other, Genevieve strolled down rue Saint-Paul, past the Red Wheelbarrow bookstore and several antiques stores; past the café with a cat in the window and the tiny shop specializing in vintage posters. It felt good. It felt like home.
Genevieve opened the door to Under Lock and Key and stepped inside. She breathed deeply the comforting aroma of oil and dust, heard the frenetic ticking of the clocks on the back wall, and felt the gossamer traces of her uncle Dave and tante Pasquale in every crack and crevice of the apartment. In the very grain of the wood and the rust on the locks, the tagine and the needlework and the old pipe. These ghosts she would gladly carry; she would keep them wrapped tightly around her like a favorite shawl.
Twice now, Dave and Pasquale—and Paris—had given her back her life, and her hope.
They had offered her the keys. Now all she had to do was open the doors and see what was on the other side.
A CONVERSATION WITH JULIET BLACKWELL
Q. What first inspired you to write The Paris Key?
A. Like so many people before me, I fell in love with Paris the first time I visited (many years ago). I have returned several times since, and then two years ago I rented a rustic French farmhouse from a friend and spent a month in the countryside—near Bergerac—before heading to Paris. While there I discovered the Village Saint-Paul, a true fairy-tale-like neighborhood. I stumbled upon a dusty old locksmith shop and wound up having a fascinating talk with the elderly shopkeeper about the history of keys and locks. He fixed me a cup of tea, his granddaughter joined us, and neighbors dropped in! From that moment I knew I had to set a novel here, in this shop and this neighborhood and this city.
Q. Did Genevieve’s character surprise you in any unexpected ways as you wrote the book?
A. I think Genevieve’s bravery surprised me! I believe most of us have times when we feel like we’d like a do-over in life, but embracing change can be frightening. Genevieve is emboldened by her memories of being happy in Paris as a young teenager, but she’s still taking a huge chance to move to a foreign country. And once there, Genevieve doesn’t simply dwell in the past, but allows herself to shift her way of thinking, to experience the French approach to life. I remember thinking at one point, Genevieve, are you going to get on this whole certification thing? and she answered, Yes, maybe after another glass of pastis. She was embracing the Parisian pace of life! (And, yes, I do “talk” to my characters!)
Q. How much do you think suffering such a deep loss at an early age informed Genevieve’s personality? And in what ways did it impact her outlook on life?
A. I think she shut down certain parts of herself. I was a social worker for many years, and I learned that when we experience trauma at a young age, sometimes parts of us get “stuck” at that age. It makes it hard to move on, to achieve a mature outlook on life, such as opening up to new experiences and taking responsibility for our own happiness. The young Genevieve was hit hard by her mother’s death, but also by what she felt was a second rejection when she was forced to leave Paris, and then by her father and brother’s different manner of processing grief. The adult Genevieve was given a rare chance to “know” certain aspects of her mother (and her uncle, and her father, Jim) that had been lost to her, and by facing them she was able to accept and open herself up to a fulfilling life.
Q. Genevieve’s cousin Catharine and her new friends, Sylviane and Philippe in particular, are such vibrant and unique characters. Did you have a favorite secondary character in the book?
A. I would have to say Sylviane. I just love her energy and fun outlook on life. She has the straightforward, honest, yet sweet and caring style characteristic of many of the Frenchwomen I know. It can be rather startling at first to a Californian who is used to polite obfuscation, but ultimately I find it so charming! And after all, who wouldn’t want a Parisian friend like Sylviane to take you to historic cemeteries and shopping and lunch—and to do a Parisian-style makeover?
Q. Would you ever consider moving to Paris for a year? What about life there most appeals to you?
A. Short answer: Yes! There are the obvious reasons: the wine, the food, the music and romance and art and architecture and history. But there’s so much more. Even though Paris is a sophisticated, international city, things in Europe are still more old-fashioned than in much of the United States: There’s an emphasis on family and long meals and conversation and taking time to relax and enjoy. I find this not only in France, but also in Italy and Spain and Mexico and Cuba. Even though I was born and raised in the area that became California’s Silicon Valley, and even though I use computers every day to write and correspond and reach out to readers, I feel like some human part of us has been lost in the modern shuffle. I relish the slower pace, a chance to sit in parks and dream and read; and the knowledge that the time spent not working is easily as important as the time spent toiling away. And finally, I love to travel: I adore meeting new people and learning new languages and experiencing different ways of life. I think it opens up one’s mind and soul and heart.
Q. What do you think will be the biggest impact of Genevieve’s decision to follow her heart? Do you think she will be more successful at opening herself up to those around her in Paris than she was back home?
A. Oh yes, very much so. The Paris Key is about a moment of transition: not so much of an unhappy woman finding happiness, but
more a shut-down person learning to open herself up to life: to new experiences and friends and love and even heartbreak—because you have to be willing to risk heartbreak in order to truly love. I imagine Genevieve will pursue her training as a locksmith, will continue to get to know her neighbors, and will take on her uncle’s role as a cherished member of the community. Perhaps with Killian at her side, and perhaps not. Either way, I think she will make her decision based not on fear, but on what she wants and needs as a woman.
Q. There’s an undercurrent of mystery running throughout The Paris Key. As a mystery author as well as an author of women’s fiction novels, was that piece important to you?
A. I think all novels are mysteries at their base: Why did so-and-so do what they did? What happened? What was the motivation? What will happen in the future? How will the issues be resolved? As humans, we’re hard-wired to be curious about other people’s lives and experiences. We read in order to hear a story, to find out what happened or what the characters decide, and who they really are. I’ve always been drawn to stories about secrets—especially family secrets—and their long-reaching ramifications. Writing The Paris Key was different from my genre writing in that I was able to delve much more into the psyches of my characters and how the past affects them, rather than trying to uncover a murderer! It felt luxurious, somehow, to recount the sensory details of the Parisian surroundings and to explore the personal reflections and reactions of the characters. And in the end, to find out the whole mystery, since it was unraveled only as I wrote The Paris Key!
QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION
1. Genevieve is sure that a drastic change of scene—moving to Paris—will make her happy. Do you believe in the geographical cure? What do you think about the possibility for new or different surroundings to bring out hidden aspects of someone’s personality—or do they just make familiar problems worse?
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