He hurried away from Pierre’s mournful figure and wove his way through staff members milling about, conversing in rapid French. After ten years he might have expected some fanfare, some sort of closure. He loitered in the doorway for a moment and then walked out into the sunshine.
“I thought I might find you here.”
David looked up, not only shocked to see that he’d walked all the way home and was now in front of Jeanne’s bistro but that Catherine was standing in front of him.
“I was just on my way back from the Sorbonne.”
“How did Pierre take it?” she asked, taking his hand.
“Let’s not talk about it. Come upstairs. I think I have some champagne,” he said and pulled Catherine towards the apartment door.
“It’s a little early.”
David smiled and put his arm around her waist as he led her up the stairs.
“I love the view from up here,” she said a few minutes later, standing at the kitchen sink and looking out the window down Rue Saint-Jacques.
“As I love this view,” he said, setting down his glass with a merry tinkle, and putting his arm around Catherine’s small waist.
The image of Jeanne’s husband, being dragged down the alley, his brains shot out of his skull and onto the mucky pavement, tore through his mind. Only the smell from Catherine’s neck banished the image. It made his hair stand on end and his toes curl in his shoes. Catherine turned around in his arms and was working her lips against his before he had time to think.
DAVID’S EYES FLICKERED OPEN. The room was so comfortably warm he could hardly move. Catherine’s naked body lay curled in his arm, her leg draped gracefully over his own. He closed his eyes again, basking in the rhythm of Catherine’s slow, deep breaths and the softness of her arm against his chest. It was so like their time in Cannes; it was as if the cramped bedroom had become the sun-soaked suite and filled with the sound of the waves and of cavorting tourists rolling through the open windows.
“Mmmhmm.”
He looked down to see Catherine’s eyes blinking in the afternoon sun. She stretched languorously and pulled the sheet around her body, smiling. David tightened his arm so that Catherine had to roll closer.
“How do you feel?” she said, playing with the hairs on his exposed chest.
“I can’t remember feeling better,” he said, kissing her forehead.
“I expected you to have flown back to America.”
“Why?”
“I’m not sure … I thought you might have changed your mind.”
“Something I rarely do.”
Catherine sat up at this, pulling the sheet along with her. David was reluctant to meet her gaze.
“He was still your father.”
“Catherine, don’t press the issue.”
“I’m not pressing. I want to understand why you don’t want to be with your family right now.”
David closed his eyes, pressed his lips together and tried to force the words back down his throat.
“My family is not my source of comfort.”
“The only picture in your flat is a picture of your brothers.”
“That’s for a good reason. I was sure I had lost both of them during the war.”
She sat up, clutching the sheet closer to her chest. David leaned back against the headboard; the sounds of the sea had disappeared back into memory. He didn’t want to argue. He wanted to lay with Catherine, stroke her back, and perhaps excite her into a frenzy again.
“I don’t understand you.”
“Why does it mean so much to you?”
“Because … because how could you cut them out of your life? How can you go pretending that you don’t miss them terribly? That you don’t care?”
“I do care.”
“You don’t. Or else how could you bear to be apart?” she said, furiously blinking back tears.
“Because after my arm was gone my father never looked at me the same way again. The first family portrait I remember, my father had me posed so my sister stood in front of my right shoulder … so that no one could see the deformity. I was the weed that cropped up in his otherwise beautiful garden.”
David left the bed and pulled on his underwear. He moved to stand beside the high circular window and peered out over the city.
“I’m sure he never saw you as a weed. How could he? You’re his son.”
David turned and looked at her for a long moment before he spoke.
“What do you want me to do?”
Catherine looked aghast.
“I want you … I want you to give them a second chance. I don’t want you to write them off because you’re too proud to make conversation,” she said, her voice rising an octave.
“I will make more of an effort, in the future. I won’t go home now though.”
“David, you know I love you. I don’t want you to regret anything. There’s nothing worse than growing old and laying on your death bed and not being able to make anything right.”
“Love,” David whispered.
“Yes.”
“You haven’t said that before.”
“Well, it’s true,” she said, lifting her head to look squarely at David, locking him in a ferocious gaze.
“You just haven’t said that before.”
She tugged the sheet free of the bed, wrapped it around her thin frame, and walked over to rest her head on David’s chest.
“Promise me.”
“Promise what?”
“Promise, you’ll try. You’ll try not to have too many regrets.”
“I promise,” he said.
His stomach squirmed uncomfortably at the lie, to hold her in his arm and promise what he couldn’t deliver. But he wrapped his arm all the more tightly around her warm body, kissed the top of her head, and then took her back to bed again, hoping beyond hope that she would drive away his guilt.
CHAPTER SEVEN
5 June 1970
DAVID LEFT HIS APARTMENT the next morning clutching a croissant wrapped in wax paper. The sidewalks radiated a scorching heat. He tugged at the collar of his shirt, uncomfortably aware of the beads of sweat that pooled on his back. It was a mercy that Paris was so quiet. The streets were virtually empty. Those who were there were far too concerned with their own discomfort to spare a glance for anyone else. The rooms Gilbert had insisted on renting were close enough to make it a waste to take the metro on a day like today. David couldn’t bring himself to crowd in with the rabble and sit in the pressure cooker of the trains.
After a half hour walk, which could have been two hours, he emerged onto a tree-lined street. Gilbert stood by the entrance to a large office building. He flicked away the half-smoked cigarette in his mouth and rushed forward.
“You made it,” he said, his arms thrown wide.
For the expensive part of Paris, which Gilbert had insisted on, these rooms (three in total) were rather drab. The walls were a pale uncommitted sort of grey and around them were a few pieces of furniture, cracked and stained.
“I don’t think this is the best decision,” David said. In one minute he walked around the entire office. It smelt of mildew and cigars.
“You worry too much. Look at the views–the location! We couldn’t ask for a better spot!” Gilbert said, before beginning to prattle on about new furniture.
He’s spending money before we even have any, David thought to himself.
“I admitted that we need a centrally located office, Gilbert, but we only need two rooms and furniture isn’t a top priority.”
“Oh David, David. We must be the best if we want to reel in the best.”
“Serve the best.”
“Of course,” Gilbert said with a smile. He picked up a phone, which sat forlornly in the middle of the dusty floor and twirled the dial.
David walked to the windows and watched the traffic below, trying to block out the sound of Gilbert prattling behind him at top speed. The building was in a prime spot, close to the business center of Pa
ris. The office would need furnishings, not much, just the essentials; perhaps it was possible to rent such things. David leaned his head against the warm glass, closed his eyes, and tried to settle the nausea that rose every time he thought about dealing with money and Gilbert.
Had it really been yesterday that he’d spoken to Pierre? The conversation fermented in his mind. The picture of his mentor rubbing his hands and the pained look on his face when he spoke of leaving the Université de Paris, it haunted David more than he cared to admit. In the background Gilbert jabbered away in rapid French to someone regarding delivering furniture.
“David,” Gilbert said sharply. He jabbed his finger at the door before returning to his conversation.
Georges stood on the threshold, holding his hat awkwardly in front of him, looking over his shoulder at the lift. David rushed over, shook the man’s hand and eased him into the office.
“It is beautiful,” Georges said under his breath. He was standing at the windows and looked out over the city with a frown. “You could almost be taken in by it. You could almost believe that this city didn’t have secrets or didn’t ruin lives.”
“Whatever do you mean?” David sputtered, his mouth hanging open.
Georges just looked over the city, casting his gaze this way and that. He was silent for so long that David wondered whether he’d fallen asleep.
“Don’t mind me,” Georges said, turning around to pat David on the shoulder. “Just an old man’s whining.”
“Don’t look so glum!” Gilbert said, flouncing over, looking as though he was high.
“Monsieur de Granville,” Georges said, extending his hand, “I am Georges Neuve.”
“I know who you are.”
“David, I have furniture coming Monday. You’ll be ready for clients in a week.”
“Have you done the scheduling?” David asked, impressed in-spite of himself.
“No, no, no. I thought that was what your lackey was for,” Gilbert said, waving his hand in the direction of Georges.
“Gilbert …”
“Here. It’s all written down. Names, phone numbers, addresses. You can call and schedule them,” Gilbert said handing over a thin sheaf of paper. “Now, I must go. I have a lunch meeting I simply cannot miss. Au revoir.” With that Gilbert sped from the room. David and Georges stared, dumbstruck, at his loping figure.
“Is he always like this?”
“Sometimes he’s worse,” David said. He turned to the windowsill and rifled through the papers that Gilbert had handed him.
“Shall I?” Georges held his hand out.
“We should contact them to set up their first appointment and to see what day and time works best for their lessons.”
Georges nodded and headed to the phone, where Gilbert had dropped it, back on the floor. He watched as Georges sat down, legs crossed, and flicked through the pages.
“We are going to need a few things right away,” David said. Georges nodded and pulled a pen from the recesses of his threadbare coat.
David left him there, confident he would be fine with the phone, and hurried out of the building. It was uncomfortable, going from store to store, looking for the necessities for the office, all the while baking underneath the summer sun.
ON HIS RETURN TRIP he stopped in the middle of the block, almost toppling into a light pole. David was flooded with embarrassment and anger. He looked in on a window display full of well-made suits–a tailor’s shop. He jogged the last couple of blocks, cursing himself for the lapse in manners. The heels of his shoes clicked feverishly against the pavement.
David deposited his bags on the floor next to Georges as sweat streamed down his head. He plucked at the back of his shirt, trying to air out some of the dampness.
“I’ve contacted most of them,” Georges said, pointing out his work.
“A ledger for you,” David said handing over an appointment book. “Also, and I apologize for not thinking of this before, this check is your first installment on your wages. Get an apartment, some clothes, and stock your refrigerator.”
Georges extended his hand automatically, but then looked at the piece of paper, dumbfounded. David shuffled from foot to foot as the silence drew out.
“I cannot accept. I have done no work.”
“You have. I’ve been gone for two hours,” David said. “Please. I could not allow an employee of mine to beg for his bread and sleep outside of restaurants. You must accept, Georges. I couldn’t bear it if you didn’t.”
“It has been a long time since I was shown such kindness,” Georges said, with a distant look in his eyes.
David smiled but said nothing more. He watched in silence as Georges sat down by the phone and filled in the appointment book.
ON MONDAY MORNING DAVID walked into what he hoped to be, but wasn’t a different office. The rooms were filled with desks and chairs and buffets and a long conference table surrounded by a host of upholstered chairs. Spaced at intervals around the walls were potted plants, and on the mantle was a large ornate carriage clock. Along the walls were several overlarge paintings in ornate gilded frames. David’s breath caught in his throat.
“Mon Dieu.”
David turned around to see Georges standing in the open doorway, mouth open.
“How much could all this cost?” David breathed. The nausea rose again, and he clutched at a new cherry side table for support.
Georges tisked and moved forward into the rooms. A note was taped to the door of the smaller office on which was written, ‘David and Assistant.’ Georges chortled at this and poked his head around the corner: two desks, more paintings, and more potted plants.
“I suppose it will have to do,” Georges said and sat down. The desk he chose was laden with paperwork and, strangely, a coffee maker.
“Who do we have this morning?” David asked. He could no longer confront the idea of the cost of furniture and tried to ignore it. He’d speak to Gilbert later. Make his position known.
Georges consulted the ledger, read out the client’s name and appointment, and resumed contacting clients. David leaned back and stared at the ceiling. It would take weeks to figure out a system to handle each client and to figure out what Georges’ role would be. It was quite one thing to sit in a bar and talk about starting a business, quite another to put it into practice.
“Georges!” David exclaimed, making the older man drop his pen in fright.
“Oui?”
“You look …” David stuttered.
He couldn’t quite form the words but sputtered as Georges looked on in mild humor.
“Is it the suit?” Georges asked, pinching the blue fabric.
“Not just the suit, it’s … you’re a different man,” David said. He realized too late how rude the comment was. Georges wasn’t to be blamed for his previous predicament.
“I found an apartment, it’s the size of a closet, but warm and dry.”
“That is good news. And food too? The suit is quite something.”
“It is a strange story. I found the tailor you mentioned and asked about his prices and quality. He was wary of dealing with such a customer. My clothing was torn and faded and screamed clochard, but I produced your check, and told him of my new job. The man collapsed against the counter and started to sob, right in front of me. I didn’t know what to do. I only stood and patted him a little on the back.
“After a few minutes of hiccupping he calmed down and excused himself. He turned a corner and was out of my sight for a moment before he returned with two suits, black and blue. They were both of impeccable quality. He took me to the dressing room, helped me into the black suit, and began to pin. As he pinned, he told me a story. His father, who had fought in both wars, developed a terrible disease; a disease of the brain. He wandered. He forgot who he was, who his family was.
“One morning, almost a year ago, the family woke and the father had vanished. They looked all over Paris, every place they could think where he would go. After months of searchin
g they gave up hope. The next March, the Police asked for the public’s help in identifying a body of a deceased clochard. The man had no wallet, no papers, no one knew who he was. He had good dental work, though, an army tattoo and the police were sure he hadn’t been homeless for long. The tailor went with his brothers to the morgue. It was their father. He had been living on the streets, slowly wasting away.
“When the tailor heard the story of your generosity he said he could not help but imagine that I had been his father and that kindness still existed in Paris. The suits belonged to his father. The son made them himself, right before his father disappeared. He asked me to have them and wear them with his blessing.”
Georges smiled as he fell silent, his age marked hands lovingly smoothed the soft fabric.
David stared wide-eyed at Georges. “Did he charge you?”
“No,” Georges said as his eyes welled. He drew out a worn handkerchief and blew his nose. “He would not allow me to pay. I could not bear to trespass anymore on his grief, or take advantage, so I went to one of the larger stores for my remaining clothes. I shall never forget that man. He reminded me of you.”
David smiled and turned around to his desk, taking deep, steadying breaths.
“Monsieur Katz?” Georges said.
David, still pondering Georges’ fantastic story, looked up to see a gentleman, nearer to Georges’ age than his own, standing in the doorway, leaning on a battered walking stick, and Georges taking his coat.
“Ah, Monsieur Katz, do come in. S’il vous plaît, sit down,” David said, motioning to the chair in front of his desk.
“WELL, THAT’S OVER,” SAID David as he slouched back into the office after an hour with Monsieur Katz.
Georges looked up, smiled at David, and dropped his gaze to his work.
“What is that?” David asked, moving closer to get a better look at the paper Georges had in front of him.
“I thought I might draft up some exercises for them to do during the week.”
“Good. We will need more. Some clients are far less advanced than others, we need to be able to … “
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