A Paris Apartment

by Michelle Gable

  For the last six months (of a twelve-month contract) she consulted on Troy’s version of the ubiquitous “green fund” at a rate of $375 per hour. Ms. Weintraub was contractually in bed with Stanhope Capital. And on one infamous occasion, also with April’s husband.

  “Okay,” Troy said. “I’ll stop saying her name if you tell me what I should say.”

  “Nothing, all right? I’m done talking about this. It sucks, but there’s nothing to discuss. It’s over. I’m over it.”

  “Are you sure?” Troy asked. “Because you keep saying you’re fine, but sometimes I have to wonder.”

  She was mad, but Troy was right. April kept saying she was fine, but like Troy, she also wondered. It was half the reason she’d leaped at the opportunity to go to Paris. The departure was sudden, but they’d been tiptoeing around each other for months. April needed to leave, find some other place to figure things out. She was pretty sure Troy thought she should go, too. He’d never be so rude as to say “get out,” given that he was universally At Fault, but they’d been in love, were maybe in love still, which meant April could read his thoughts.

  From the few friends who knew about the mistake, the unanimous wisdom was that Troy should pack up and hit the bricks. But April understood the uncertainty in their marriage had little to do with whether or not Troy wanted to stay in their apartment or in their marriage. It was April who needed to leave. It was April who needed to give herself the space to decide whether or not to come back. Of course the problem with space was now Troy had it, too. Maybe he’d decide his transgression wasn’t a onetime blunder but the symptom of a larger problem.

  Honesty was the best policy. But honestly? Some part of April wished Troy had never confessed. If he hadn’t, April could go on believing the life she saw before her: a funny, charming husband, two beautiful stepdaughters on Wednesdays and alternate weekends, a lovely apartment, and an occupation that was less like a job and closer to a hobby.

  It was a onetime indiscretion, happening in some foreign country. A mistake. Troy was not caught but turned himself in. He didn’t have to tell her. Why, it was gallant, almost! Thanks for nothing, April sometimes thought. At least one of them could now sleep at night.

  “April? Are you still there?”

  Eyes closed, April held her breath for several moments, the sudden constriction of her jacket a comfort, almost like a hug.

  “I told you, I’m fine,” she said. “But you’re right. I don’t really know.”

  Two long beats.

  “All right,” he said at last. “Fair enough.”

  April could nearly see the pinch of his lips.

  “I really have to go,” she said. For once not an excuse. “I’m actually very late for a meeting.”

  “Yes, me too. One more thing. Your father called looking for you last night.”

  “Oh, god, you didn’t tell him anything, did you?”

  “At this point is there anything to tell? But no, I didn’t say a word. We didn’t even talk. He left a message.”

  “I left him a message, too, telling him I was headed out of the country. I guess he still hasn’t figured out how to work voicemail.”

  April checked her watch. Seven after three; officially more than a few minutes late. She hustled out the door and onto the street, tote slung over a shoulder, papers jammed beneath her arm.

  “I love you, April,” Troy said. “No matter what happens, I hope you know that.”

  What could April say? Nothing. This was both a literal and a figurative truth. She was clutching a phone between chin and shoulder while simultaneously trying to navigate Parisian cobblestones as well as the future of her marriage. Opening her mouth would send the phone crashing to the street, perhaps also the same fate her marriage might suffer if she said what she truly wanted to.

  But April’s lips, her brain—everything—felt gummed up. So instead of good-bye she gave a polite “Mm-hmm” and pressed the Off button with her ear even as she understood Troy was already gone.

  Chapitre X

  Luc was where he said he’d be, reclining casually on the patio of the Café Zéphyr, smoking a cigarette.

  He nodded when April walked up and then stood to pull out a chair, the cigarette barely hanging on between both lips. April mumbled a thank-you and sat.

  “I’m pleased you could join me,” he said. “I took the liberty of ordering a plate of bread. I know you Americans like your snacks.”

  April rolled her eyes.

  “I’m glad my countrymen can be so predictable. It’s like we’re all the same person! You don’t even have to consider how to handle us individually.”

  Warmed by her hurried walk to the café, April shrugged off her jacket and settled into the chair. Around them voices purred and dishes clinked. Cars and scooters whipped around the corner, screeching and honking their clownlike horns.

  “So, are you enjoying your stay in Paris so far, Madame Vogt?” Luc asked and took a drag of his cigarette.

  “Yes, it’s lovely. And please, call me April.”

  “Ah, Avril, like the month. This is the perfect season for you. Your parents loved the springtime, non?”

  “I think they only liked the name.” She pulled a pen and notepad from her tote bag. “All right, so I’m ready to discuss the apartment.”

  “I’m curious. You do not wear a ring, but Olivier says there is a husband. Are you married, Avril?”

  April suppressed a snort. Was she married? That was the question, wasn’t it?

  “Oui.” It was the legally accurate statement, absent ring notwithstanding. “So, about your client—”

  “Your husband, what does he do?”

  “He works in finance,” April said, exasperation inching up her spine. “Je suis désolée, Monsieur Thébault, but I do not have a lot of time. I hate to rush this meeting, but I assume you are billing someone by the hour, so it behooves us both to address the topic at hand.”

  Luc chuckled. “You really are worried about succumbing to my charms, aren’t you?”

  “Not at this time. So let’s discuss the apartment.” April scribbled senseless notes on the pad to give her hands something to do. “I’m ready to listen to whatever you have to say about the woman in the painting.”

  “You despise questions, non?”

  “Questions are fantastic. I love questions. I have about a million of them for you.”

  “Très bien. Then tell me, Madame Vogt—Avril—why are you so interested in the woman in the painting?”

  “If it’s a Boldini we have a rather significant find. That portrait alone could go for a million euros or more. It’d make international news. ‘Continental furniture’ doesn’t usually make such waves. Lord knows it’s not one of the major grossing departments, or even a moderately grossing one.”

  “I did not ask why you were interested in the painting. I asked why you were interested in the woman.”

  “I’m only interested inasmuch as she’s related to the painting and the furniture in the flat.”

  “Uh-huh. Then it makes perfect sense you’d read her private diaries.”

  “As Marc and Olivier told you themselves,” April said and glanced around for a waiter. Luc sipped espresso, but it was obvious she was going to require something stronger. “The diaries will help with provenance, which will boost value. Buyers love a good story. You’ve seen the apartment and all the things in it. It’s extraordinary. I merely want to understand the history of the assets as well as why someone left them behind.”

  “What does abandoning the flat have to do with value?”

  “Valuable items, economically or emotionally, tend to stay in families. They are usually passed on.”

  Usually, but not always, as April knew all too well.

  “You want to know history from a purely academic standpoint,” Luc said, skeptical. “Vraiment?”

  “Yes. Really.” Where was that damn waiter?

  “Well, you were correct in your assumption about the family lineage
. The woman in the painting was Lisette Quatremer’s grand-mère.”

  “Really?” April’s eyes went wide. The waiter appeared behind her. Suddenly she wanted him to go away.

  “Madame?”

  “Uh, yes, hello. Bonjour, je voudrais du vin.” She pointed to the menu.

  “Entre-Deux-Mers?”

  “Oui. S’il vous plaît.”

  “I thought Americans didn’t consume alcohol during daylight hours,” Luc said. “Your kind, a bit of teetotalers, non?”

  “Non. Most definitely non.”

  Suddenly ravenous, April reached for a piece of bread and spared no caution in slathering it with a thick coat of butter. She’d just proved Luc’s theory, that Americans loved their snacking, but April didn’t much care. It was worth it. Along with her memories of every café, every midnight dinner, the thousands of glasses of wine, April remembered the butter. It was creamier in Paris, saltier.

  “Tell me more about the grand-mère,” April said and sat on her hands so she couldn’t physically take another bite. The thought of leaning over and lapping her baguette and beurre cat-style briefly occurred to her. Everyone knew Americans were animals anyway. “Are you certain it’s the woman in the painting?”

  “Yes, quite. She’s very beautiful, non?”

  “Amazing. She actually reminds me of … someone I know. Anyway, do you know her name?”

  The waiter reappeared over Luc’s left shoulder. April exhaled. Oh, thank god. The wine was finally here.

  “According to Lisette Quatremer’s family, her name was Marthe de Florian,” Luc said.

  “Family? Madame Quatremer had a family?”

  “Well, in a manner of speaking. But not in the manner you are thinking.” Luc sipped from his espresso, the tiny cup looking ridiculous in his big hands.

  “Marthe de Florian.” April let the name settle on her tongue. Marthe. Or Mart, as one would say in English. “Who was she? Obviously someone important, given that Boldini painted her, not to mention the opulence and value of everything I’ve seen in her flat so far. Who was her family? Her husband?”

  “Not married,” Luc said and winked. “Quite the contrary, as a matter of fact. Madame de Florian was a well-known demimondaine.”

  “Demimondaine?” April’s forehead lifted up into her hairline. “Madame de Florian was a courtesan?”

  This was worthy of a drink for sure, and April removed her hands from under her legs in order to grasp the stem of her glass.

  “Oui,” Luc said. “An impressive apartment for a prostitute, non?”

  “Demimondaines were no mere prostitutes,” April said and took another long sip of her wine. “In Madame de Florian’s time there were certainly common streetwalkers. Filles soumises, literally translated as ‘submissive whores.’ Above them were les grisettes, usually working women, dressmakers and such, who used sex to supplement their incomes. Yet another level up were les lorettes. And then there were les demimondaines, a very singular breed.”

  “But still a prostitute.”

  “Technically speaking. But les demimondaines were quite fashionable. The highest members of society mimicked their dress and hairstyles but could not possibly keep up. Even the wealthiest matron had only one husband lining her pocketbook, demimondaines had many. Why settle for a single man’s largesse when you can curry the favor of five or more? Her occupation makes sense, really, given the pieces in the apartment.”

  “Fascinating,” Luc said with a grin. “I admire your deep knowledge of hookers.”

  “Demimondaines,” April corrected him, grinning back. “They were a fascinating group of women. It wasn’t merely sleeping around, either. They had societal duties and even career obligations. And the general consensus was that a cocotte had not arrived unless she’d inspired four duels, a suicide, and had at least one déniaisé.”

  “Ah, déniaiser,” Luc said. “To fuck your lover’s oldest son.”

  April coughed, choking on her last sip of wine as Luc signaled the waiter for two more glasses. This discussion called for reinforcements, it seemed.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “Have I offended your sensibilities?”

  “Yes. Tremendously so. You know how delicate we Americans are.”

  Luc paused, obtaining license to unsubtly look April up and down; as if needing to verify her Americaness. She tried to muster a little outrage. This was smarmy, non? He did just spell out the particulars of an incestuous ménage à trois in the same breath used to order wine, and was now clearly performing a mental appraisal of her physical attributes (Face of piece slightly tired, veneer worn down; given lack of size and visual interest, bosom assumed original). But despite her best intentions, April couldn’t feel disgusted. She would’ve with anyone else and was surprised to find herself giving Luc this pass.

  “You can stop gawking,” she mumbled. “You’ll find nothing out of the ordinary in terms of my Americanism.”

  “It’s curious,” he said as the waiter approached. “Though you are very tan, you don’t look American.”

  Luc plucked their new glasses from the waiter’s service tray—placing one in front of April and the other at his side. It should’ve seemed impatient or arrogant, how he usurped the server’s duty without permission. Instead April felt flattered, much to her irritation. It was as if Luc couldn’t trust anyone else with the task and wanted deliver the glass to April personally.

  Composing herself, she replied.

  “Olive-skinned. Not tan.”

  “Still, not American.”

  “Yes, you mentioned something along those lines earlier when inspecting my attire.”

  “I meant it entirely as a compliment,” he said.

  “Well, I left my sweatpants and sneakers at home, so I understand the confusion. It’s an utter shame, of course. I don’t want people to think I’m not from the good old U.S. of A.”

  Luc laughed and ground his cigarette into the ashtray.

  “I think you will be an interesting diversion.”

  “I’m here to work, not divert,” April said quickly, trying not to think too hard about what he meant. “Tell me, what else do you know about Marthe de Florian? About the painting?”

  “All right,” Luc said and shook his head, smiling, as he sucked the wine through his teeth. “Back to business. After a quick perusing of some of her journals, we know a few things about Marthe de Florian. Of course this assumes what I’ve read so far is accurate.”

  “Why wouldn’t it be accurate? She wrote them!”

  “The woman was known to exaggerate. Or so I’m told. But if Boldini did in fact paint her in 1898, she was twenty-four at the time.”

  “Twenty-four and also pregnant.”

  “So it would seem. Lisette Quatremer’s mother was born in 1899, so it could make sense.”

  “What happened to Lisette’s mother?”

  He shrugged. “Don’t know. Though I gather her maman died at a young age.”

  “And why did Lisette leave Paris in the first place?”

  “Je ne sais pas. Given she departed in 1940, it was likely related to the war.”

  “But she never returned. How could she abandon all her family’s things? How could she leave Paris and not come back?”

  “You do like questions.”

  “And how come Lisette’s heirs are selling everything before seeing a single piece?”

  Luc shrugged again. “There is only one heir. And I don’t have the answer for you.”

  April tried not to let the irritation show on her face. Luc promised answers yet all he’d really provided was a name, occupation, and year of birth, all things April could’ve gleaned on her own. She didn’t know if he was endeavoring to be a pain in the ass or if it was merely a by-product of his personality. He was, after all, an attorney, and Parisian—and Luc.

  “Do you have any other information about the painting?” April asked, her voice nearing desperation. “About Marthe de Florian? Perhaps your client might allow us to read the journals
?”

  “You are quite anxious about the diaries, non?”

  “‘Anxious’ isn’t the word. However, I believe—”

  “Auctioneers,” he said and turned to reach for the leather portfolio he’d placed on the café table earlier. “Such an urgent breed.”

  “Technically, I’m an auction house expert,” April said, then cringed.

  The title was said with no degree of pomp. When bandied about the office, it was like calling someone a human resources specialist or revenue accountant, the word “expert” almost commoditized. But said to people outside the auction world it sounded downright haughty.

  “Or ‘auctioneer,’” April said. “Whichever you prefer. Anyway, I’m only trying to do my job. This will help your client’s estate.”

  “Yes. I know. Provenance.”

  Luc was so fatigued by the excuse April didn’t bother to respond or make eye contact at all. She’d already grown tired of being the butt of his jokes. However, if April had bothered to look up instead of staring morosely into her wine, she would’ve seen in his eyes the playful spark she’d already come to understand was Luc’s way of showing … something. And she wouldn’t have been so startled by the thud on the tabletop.

  “What the—” April grabbed her glass as if to save the wine from spilling.

  She spotted four blue-ribboned stacks of paper on the table between them.

  “Are those—”

  “Her diaries? Yes, some of them,” Luc said. “I’ve rifled through them a bit since I last saw you.”

  “Rifled?” April gulped.

  “Skimmed. I’ve only read a few but I believe the first one is dated 1891. That’s where you should begin. Maybe, if you’re good, I’ll let you see the rest.”

  If she was good.

  April’s heart sang. She reached for the diaries and thanked Luc, this time looking him straight in the eyes. Perhaps she’d misjudged the man, written him off as a roadblock when instead he could prove an ally. Of course he was still churlish and crusty, but it was a start. Maybe he’d give April what she wanted. She promised herself that no matter how aggravating Luc would get—and she already sensed he would prove quite so—she would at least give him a chance.