A Paris Apartment

by Michelle Gable

  Chapitre XI

  Paris, 24 April 1891

  Well, today was the day. The glorious Jeanne Hugo finally married Léon Daudet, allegedly merging two celebrated republican dynasties into one. What utter mayhem. The crowds! The trumpets! The constant dowry speculation! All for France’s Jeanne au pain sec: Jeanne with toast. That this was Victor Hugo’s nickname for his cherished granddaughter tells you a little something about the girl. The man was famous for his skill with words, and this is his chosen description? Jeanne with toast? I prefer Jeanne or toast, in which case I pick the toast.

  Who in this country does not know of Jeanne Hugo-now-Daudet? Yet what does anyone really know? She is beautiful. This is her raison d’être but ultimately not a compliment in the slightest. Instead it is the one positive thing anyone can say about her, and even the word as applied is debatable. I once saw a circus nudist who bore more than a passing resemblance to our fair Jeanne au pain sec. In fact the horse upon which she rode called to mind Madame Daudet’s bone structure. In fairness to the equine, he did not sport the same ungainly fine black mustache. In fairness to the bareback rider, her personality was far more alluring!

  Having been raised in a convent, I should endeavor to be more gracious. The nuns certainly taught me better. But Jeanne’s physical unsightliness is a fact. Allow not your heart to weep on her behalf. Our new Madame Daudet is not a pitiable, gangly-faced thing unable to stop her nose from crooking or teeth from jutting. She is ugly because of what’s inside, because of the things she’s done. Jeanne herself has allowed the gradual blackening from the inside out. Most people do not understand this of her. To the public she is a silly girl sipping Pernod and buying the dearest gowns because she can. I, of course, know better. My connection runs deeper.

  Nonetheless I feel some modicum of remorse for my uncharitable thoughts. I picture Sœur Marie and see her sour displeasure. Of course this would not be the nun’s only quibble with me. That I stole from her is the reason I’m in Paris at all. Alas, nous sommes qui nous sommes.

  We are who we are. Ironic when you are speaking of Jeanne Hugo. Ironic when you are speaking of me.

  In the end my distaste for the bride could not keep me from witnessing the biggest wedding of my lifetime. Along with the throngs of thousands (someone said the number was closer to a million!), I squeezed myself onto the rue de la Pompe to view her marital procession. I needed to see the spectacle up close. I wanted to witness Jeanne and this new husband, a man so lauded even his reputed flatulence could not keep him from society’s upper echelons. But the crowd was too thick, and the only piece of supposed dynasty I saw was Jeanne’s pale, corpulent brother. Georges was barely able to stand upright, as is customary. I am surprised he would venture out in public, given his gambling debts. He is fortunate no one stabbed him.

  The atmosphere was festive, I will allow Jeanne that much. People spoke to strangers, exchanged embraces, and beamed at one another as the Daudet carriage passed. For a moment we were one expansive, all-encompassing Parisian family.

  My own streetside neighbors included an elderly couple and their grown children as well as a thin, shaky girl vagabond. She said her name was Marguérite, and though she claimed to be fifteen I would place her closer to twelve. I am not sure where she lives, and she was very clearly not there to see the bride but instead to pick pockets. Nonetheless I liked her immediately, no doubt because the first thing she said to me was, “Is there anyone more loathsome than Jeanne Hugo?”

  I laughed and said I felt much the same.

  Though the fledgling pickpocket probably despises Jeanne for her wealth, this is not what bothers me. It is not what Jeanne has that I find so disagreeable, but who she is. Not just now, but before. Forever. I cannot help but feel she stole a piece of me, even if she refuses to acknowledge it.

  Chapitre XII

  “Ça va, Avril?”

  April shook her head.

  “Yes? Okay? What?”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  She placed the journals on the table and laid both hands over the tops, as if to protect them.

  “Your question?” she said. “I’m sorry. I missed it. I was engrossed in the diary.”

  “Yes, I know. It’s quite compelling, isn’t it?”

  “Incredibly compelling. Do you think I might meet with your client? Between the journals and a brief interview, I could quickly get all the background required to complete my work.”

  “Ah, so hungry la jolie fille, and you only just ate.” He nodded toward the journals as his eyes skipped over to the mangled piece of bread.

  “Well, to establish provenance it’d be quite helpful—”

  “You and your provenance. I’ve already grown tired of the word.”

  “Shall I use the phrase ‘more money’ instead?” she asked. “Because that’s really what we’re talking about.”

  “Mo’ money, mo’ problems.”

  “Excuse me?” April barked out a laugh, startled by the unexpected phrase. She couldn’t decide if Luc was trying to amuse her or whether he was simply funny without the effort.

  “Is that not what they say in the United States?”

  “Well, if you’re a rapper, I suppose,” April said, still laughing. “Though the French accent adds a unique dimension.”

  “It always does, Madame Vogt,” Luc replied, with just enough confidence to make April blush. “As charmingly as you demand your journals and your provenance-gathering interviews, unfortunately my response must be no.”

  “To which part? Because if I only had a moment with—”

  “The heir does not wish to meet with any curious auctioneers. Oh, my apologies, that is not the correct term. What was it? ‘Auction expert’?” Luc wiggled his brows.

  “‘Auctioneer’ is fine,” April said quickly. “And I understand completely. I don’t mean to intrude. Surely she is grieving now, but if she happens to change her mind—”

  “I did not say the heir is female. And a change of mind is not anticipated.”

  “Very well then,” April said. “The journals should be enough.”

  She glanced down at the stack of documents, skimming their lines, trying to catch another word, another phrase, any reference to the Hugo family or to anyone else.

  “You can hardly stop reading,” Luc said with a wink. “I’ve never had to compete with a moldy stack of paper to secure the attentions of a woman.”

  April bristled. Mo’ problems indeed. What was Luc trying to prove? That he could discombobulate the fairer sex with his innate charisma and rakish good looks? Well, mission accomplished. This Luc Thébault character gave Frenchmen a worse name than they already had. Perhaps she’d been too charitable. His penchant for aggravating her would not be easy to ignore.

  “Seems odd you’d be trying to secure my attentions in the first place,” she said.

  “Ah, funny Avril. I’m only, how do they say it in America? I’m only joshing you.”

  “‘Joshing’ me? They do not say that. They do not say that at all.”

  He laughed. Again. It was as though he was almost always laughing (with, at, about). And that damn smirk, forever lingering as if she’d caught him approaching a smile or at the tail end of one. It left April feeling itchy and impatient, wanting in on the joke but also hoping to catch him outside the smirk.

  “You are an interesting woman, Madame Vogt.”

  “I respectfully disagree,” April said. “Regardless, thank you for use of the diaries.”

  April half rose to her feet and reached across the table.

  “Where are the rest?” she said, stretching, grabbing. “There were a lot more in the flat.”

  “Not so fast, Avril.” Luc himself stood and gently pressed April back into her seat. She curled her hands into her lap, chagrined. “My client wants to see them first—naturally the discovery is news to them as well. You will receive the documents piecemeal, after my client finishes them. Is this acceptable? Or will it hamper your furniture
appraisals?”

  “No, I don’t believe it will,” April said, quietly, and with thanks. “Tell whomever it is thank-you. We greatly appreciate the cooperation.”

  Suddenly a man and his dog paused on the sidewalk beside their table. While the man squawked into his mobile, the dog squatted into position, looked defiantly at April, and relieved his bowels. The owner shouted something into the phone, yanked the leash, and continued on, hardly missing a beat.

  “Merde,” April said under her breath.

  “You don’t like dog shit, Madame Vogt? Perhaps Paris is not the city for you.”

  “Some streets around here are more shit than sidewalk,” April murmured. “If that guy was in New York and didn’t pick up after his dog, he’d have a medium-size mob chasing after him. Paris is an amazing city, but you can hardly enjoy the view. You have to keep your eyes plastered on the sidewalk, forever on the hunt for merde, lest it end up on your big, fat American shoes.”

  “Hmm. Well, I do not find it particularly odd that a person might not want to hold a steaming pile of shit in his hand, nothing but a thin barrier of plastic protecting his skin.”

  “If you want a dog, it’s the price you pay,” April said.

  “Speaking of paying the price, tell me about le mari.”

  “My husband?” April did not miss the irony, that a conversation about shit quickly dovetailed into one about marriage. “How does that relate to paying a price?”

  The question was rhetorical; April already knew the answer.

  “I am only joshing,” Luc said, doing his best to keep a straight face. “Tell me about your husband.”

  “I’m not sure what to say.”

  “Not sure? This is a normal query, non? Regular chitchat between colleagues?”

  “Well, his name is Troy.” April inhaled. Only the facts. “We’ve been married seven years. He is a smart man and a tremendous father.”

  “Father? You have children?” Luc’s brows jumped so high they almost left his face entirely.

  “Well, no, technically they’re h-h-his,” she stuttered. “But mine, too. Stepdaughters. They’re teenagers.”

  “Ah, evil stepmother,” Luc said. “I like it. I like it very much. You said your husband was in finance. What does he do?”

  “Runs an LBO fund.” April peeked into the breadbasket and snatched away one final piece. “He does big deals.”

  “Wall Street?”

  “Oui.” April blushed. Wall was not the Street it once was. Instead of connoting money and power it now called to mind shysters and deadbeats. Not that Troy technically worked on Wall Street, but April felt the need to explain that her husband was not a Ponzi schemer, inside trader, or any other kind of financial pariah. He simply bought and sold companies using leverage and cash.

  “My brother is also a solicitor,” Luc said. “He works with corporations, doing big deals, as you say. Perhaps I know of your husband’s company.”

  “You might. They’ve had a few transactions in France and throughout Europe,” April said, stopping herself from launching into a full résumé of the Stanhope Group. She wouldn’t have been surprised to find a connection or two between Luc and Troy, but it wasn’t a connection April wanted established. “Your brother would probably recognize the name, they’re fairly well known.”

  “Notorious?”

  “No. Well known. Respected.”

  “It’s great to be well known,” Luc said and threw a fistful of euros onto the table. “Shall we depart? I’ll pick up the tab. You can get us next time.”

  “Oh. Okay.” April blinked.

  “Are you going to…” he nodded toward the papers sitting beneath April’s napkin. “The journals?”

  “Right. I guess the family hasn’t had a chance to read these yet,” April said, realizing she had to give them up.

  “Actually,” Luc said and paused. “Why don’t you take them? I’m not due back in Sarlat for a few days. It’s fine for you to hold on to them in the interim. I’ll let my client know. You seem very conscientious. Doubtless they are in great hands.”

  “Oui! I will take excellent care. My entire career is based on taking excellent care. Thank you,” April said, extending her arm for a departing handshake. “Again.”

  Luc reached for her arm, and much like their first meeting, pulled her closer.

  “Thank you for a delightful meeting, Avril,” he said, politely kissing each cheek, this time, though, lingering a moment longer than he had earlier in the day. His scent was still smoky and perfumed, but now also tinged with the smell of the wine they shared. “I’ll be in touch.”

  April watched him walk away. To any outside observer she appeared obvious and gawping. April knew this, yet could not stop herself from staring, nor could she stop the feeling that was right then crawling through her gut, a result of the wine, no doubt, and access to the journals. Yes, it had to be those things. There was no other explanation that was acceptable, or that April could afford to entertain.

  Chapitre XIII

  April’s flat was no match for Marthe de Florian’s.

  The buildings shared the same Haussmann facade, the utterly Parisian look with its height and horizontal lines and scrolled wrought-iron balconies. That’s where the similarities ended, though. Where Marthe had seven rooms, April had only three. Marthe’s flat was so thick with museum-quality furnishings one could hardly walk through without stumbling. April’s flat was so sparse she wondered if there were enough places to rest both her backside and her computer simultaneously. It was a pity, she thought, to throw such a thirdhand jumble of self-assembled furniture into a quintessential Haussmann, even if it was a rental property.

  Despite its lack of decorative charm, April loved the place upon sight. She loved the location, its original thick-plank wood floors, and how one side of the living room was more windows than wall. April imagined herself leaning against the panes at night, a glass of wine in hand, the city twinkling before her. The apartment did not show all it had to offer, but it still showed Paris.

  After checking her e-mail (no impending crises so far), April thumped her tote and BlackBerry onto the white-lacquered dining table, though “dining table” was a rather grandiose term for something that could hold, at most, two dinner plates—or in April’s case, serve as combination computer desk and makeup vanity. She could not imagine an instance requiring multiple dishes.

  All the table-plate contemplation made April’s stomach rumble, though it was not food she wanted to consume first. She was hungry again, despite the bread-scarfing during her meeting with Luc, but instead of trying to find something to eat she reached for the white protective gloves in her leather tote.

  “Oh, be quiet,” April said to her still-roaring stomach as she gently removed Marthe’s journal entries from her purse. Hunger was fierce but the pull of the diaries stronger.

  April’s plan was to spread the pages on the kitchen counter and read them quickly, fast-food style, standing up with her shoes still on. But the language appeared suddenly blurry, smudged, indecipherable. It was as though April had lost the entirety of her French skills in the hour since she last used them. Perhaps it was due to jet lag, or maybe because her only sustenance over the last two days was in the form of wine, bread, and enormous slabs of butter.

  “Food,” April said aloud to no one, a wicked headache spreading across her brain. “I need food.”

  Light-headed and unable to muster the energy to leave the flat, April fished around in her tote for the pack of cashews she had stashed from the flight. Her BlackBerry buzzed from beneath her purse.

  “Dammit,” she groused. “It’s like people want me to work or something. Hello, this is April Vogt.”

  April kicked off both shoes and plunged an arm deeper into her bag.

  “It’s me. Why do you never check Caller ID before picking up? I mean, like ever? Even once in your lifetime?”

  “Oh, Birdie, hey. Sorry. I’m in the middle of a deep investigation.” April found tw
o squares of airline chocolate melted onto the back of a hairbrush. “What’s going on?”

  “I just sent over some files for you to review ASAP,” Birdie said. “We’re supposed to have twenty-five lots coming out of this office a day. We’re, like, way behind.”

  “Yes. Sure. I’ll read them shortly. I need to take care of a few things first. Then I’ll get right on it.”

  April peeled a piece of chocolate off her brush and popped it into her mouth, too ravenous to feel embarrassed about the state of her culinary sampling in Paris thus far.

  “I drafted up the descriptions,” Birdie said. “I think they’re in pretty good shape, if I do say so myself. But Peter needs your sign-off. Also, check numbers three, forty-six, and two-twelve. Your original notes were a little hard to decipher, and some of the descriptions don’t seem to match the time period. Your handwriting is atrocious, by the way.”

  “So they say. I’ll take a look. Thanks for putting it together. I’m sure you did an excellent job.”

  Birdie always did an excellent job. Sometimes April wondered if she should work for Birdie instead of the other way around. Of course anyone who took borderline illegible notes and forgot to eat would make a crappy assistant indeed.

  “I can always send them to Peter,” Birdie said. “If you’re too busy with the apartment.”

  “No, it’s fine. I’m happy to look them over.”

  Happy to look them over was the truth, thanks to Birdie’s always-stellar work product. Normally jet lag, lack of food, and two glasses of wine would make April unable to wax poetic about commodes. But if Birdie had done the heavy lifting, then April could easily correct the grammar and review factual details. She could change the number eight back into a nine.