“I’m grateful that you want to be here. But you’ll get bored hanging around while I’m at work, and I’m working on a big project right now.” He knew that she sometimes stayed at the office even later than her co-workers and brought work home on weekends.
“I’ve been thinking that a temporary job in Paris might be fun, just for a few months. I’ve never worked in France, only in England.” He had legal residence in England and the necessary work papers, and his French passport allowed him to work anywhere in the European Union, so he had many options.
“They don’t have big houses that are fully staffed in France anymore, not like they do in England,” she said. They were rapidly disappearing in England too, but he knew that she was right, and grand homes and large formal staffs had been gone in France for a long time, and with socialist governments and punitive taxes for the rich, no one liked to show wealth in France. A butler was a flashing red light to the tax authorities and shone a spotlight on a way of life that indicated big money.
“I thought I’d leave my name with an agency here, for qualified domestics, and see what turns up. It would only be temporary, until you get tired of me.”
“You know I never will,” she said gently, and patted his hand. He was a good son, and always had been. She had been lucky with him. Javier was her heartbreak.
After dinner that night, they talked about what he’d seen in Argentina. It brought back memories for her, both good and bad, and she thought about them late into the night as she lay in bed, and then drifted off to sleep peacefully. She didn’t want to be a burden on her son, but she was glad that Joachim would be staying for a while. He was tucked away in her guest room sound asleep.
* * *
—
When Olivia got to Paris, she moved into the apartment she had rented for four weeks. It was on the top floor of a well-kept building on the quai Voltaire and was as modern and well decorated as the photographs had indicated. She had paid in advance. The guardian had the keys for her and showed her around. It had a big, spacious living room, sliding glass windows, a terrace, a single bedroom, bath, and modern kitchen. It was obviously owned as an investment to rent, so it lacked a warm personal touch. But it was wonderfully located, with a beautiful view of the river, with the barges and tourist boats drifting by, and a good view of the buildings on the Right Bank. It was perfectly adequate for a short-term rental, but she had a hunger to stay longer. The idea had been gnawing at her. She could even study French, not having the language might turn out to be a handicap, and she loved the idea of staying for six months or a year. She had no anchor anywhere now, no job, no family, no man in her life. Her relationships had never been long-term ones, or very successful. She had an aversion to getting too attached to anyone. For all of her adult life, and especially the last ten years, all her energy and passion had gone into her work, which hadn’t saved her magazine in the end. For the first time in her life, she had no obligations and no reason to be anywhere, and thanks to what her mother had left her, she could afford to take a year off. Sooner or later, she would need another job, for her head as well as her bank account, but she was in no hurry, and had no acute need at the moment, as long as she was reasonable and somewhat careful about what she spent.
Once she was in Paris, Olivia knew she wanted to stay. She had no friends here but hoped to meet people. She was in touch with Claire Smith, her assistant from her defunct magazine, who had just taken a job in L.A., and encouraged her to try a change of scene too. They were unattached women who had put everything into their careers and were free to go anywhere they wanted now. It was both the upside and downside of having invested everything in their jobs and being unmarried and unattached at their ages. Claire had just turned forty, and had taken a job with Architectural Digest as their rep in L.A. Olivia was forty-three. It shocked her sometimes to realize that she was probably halfway through her life and still trying to figure things out, where she wanted to live, and what she wanted to do when she grew up. She was supposed to be grown up now, but didn’t always feel that way, especially lately. She was starting over, and now she wanted to take a year off and sidetrack herself while she rethought her life and what her goals were. She didn’t want to start another magazine, nor go to work for someone else, after having been her own boss for ten years, but she realized she’d probably have to. At least for now, there was no pressure on her to make any decisions. She could just enjoy Paris and adjust to all the recent changes in her life. She had no man she was involved with at the moment but had never wanted to base her life on any man, or to depend on one. She had seen what that had done to her mother, and the high price she had paid for it emotionally.
After Olivia unpacked, she flipped through a magazine, and saw an ad for Sotheby’s real estate agency in Paris. She assumed they’d speak English and decided to call and see what kind of rentals they might have for six months or a year. She felt brave and adventuresome when she called them and spoke to a woman agent with a British accent. She promised to get back to Olivia after she checked her listings. She recommended the seventh, eighth, and sixteenth arrondissements when she heard where Olivia was staying. They were the three most elegant and desirable areas of Paris, as well as the first arrondissement, around the Place Vendôme. She asked if Olivia wanted a furnished or unfurnished apartment, and if a house would be acceptable. Olivia said she thought a house might be too big, and perhaps not as safe and protected as an apartment. She didn’t care whether it was furnished or not. She thought it might be fun to furnish a place sparsely with special things she found and could ship back to New York when she left. Her apartment in New York was tired and dreary anyway, and some new pieces from Paris might improve it when she went back. It all sounded like fun to her now and was part of the adventure. What mattered to her was that she live her life fully, meet new people, do new things, breathe the air of Paris, and be completely alive, not buried in a job going nowhere, tied to a man who never came through for her, with her life on hold, waiting for a miracle that would never happen. Seeing how empty her mother’s life had been right to the end had been a powerful wake-up call. It was everything she didn’t want and was determined she wouldn’t let happen to her. Her mother’s life had seemed like a living death. She had sacrificed her whole life to George and what suited him, and in the end, he had died with his wife at his side, not Olivia’s mother.
The Sotheby’s agent promised to call Olivia as soon as she had something to show her. She said she was going to get right on it and do some research. Olivia was excited when she hung up. She went for a long walk along the quais of the Seine, with Notre-Dame behind her and the Eiffel Tower up ahead, underneath a gray Paris sky, filled with fluffy white clouds. She loved the Paris sky. She was happy just being there, and confident that it had been the right move, and good things were going to happen. She could feel it in the air.
* * *
—
The best domestic agency in Paris was surprisingly small, Joachim discovered when he went there for an appointment two days later. He had spent the days putting order in his mother’s apartment. He had reorganized her closets, straightened the papers on her desk, which she had scolded him for, bought all the kitchen implements she was missing, sent drapes to the dry cleaners for her. He had been a whiz around her apartment, and she told him she was afraid to come home at night, for fear of what he might have done while she was at work. She tried to explain to him that she liked the friendly disorder in her apartment, it was her mess and it worked for her. She knew he meant well, but she told him he needed a job or activity of some kind to keep him busy. So he had called the agency to make an appointment, and look for something temporary.
The woman who ran it looked like a plump, friendly grandmother, or a schoolteacher. He filled out an application and handed it to her, and she frowned as she read it.
“Oh dear…” she said under her breath and glanced up at him. “You are ver
y qualified, aren’t you? I see you’ve never worked in France, only in England.” But his French was perfect, and he had listed English, French, Spanish, and German for languages he was fluent in. His documents would allow him to work legally anywhere in Europe. “I’m not surprised you haven’t worked here,” she said kindly. “Unfortunately, there are no great homes here anymore. Most of the chateaux have been closed for years, or sold, most often to people from the Middle East, who bring staff from their own countries. Some are Americans, but they usually don’t have a lot of help. And the French who still own their families’ chateaux don’t have the money to hire anyone and have ancient family retainers who are quietly letting the chateaux fall apart around them. There are no great homes left here as there are in England, or very, very few.”
“I’d be quite satisfied working in a normal-sized house or an apartment,” Joachim said, and the woman nodded thoughtfully, glancing at a list of her current requests, none of which really matched his qualifications, or even came close.
“I don’t suppose you’d want just a driver’s job. We have several of those.”
“That doesn’t really use the full range of my skills,” he said, and she nodded again. It was true. There were so many things on the list of what had been his normal duties. He was an expert, highly trained, experienced butler, and knew how to do things that her clients hadn’t requested in many, many years. And she had the best listings in Paris, for some very important families, and people with noble titles. But what he wanted and was qualified for was an extinct breed in Paris, a dinosaur that had disappeared.
“I’d actually prefer a temporary position here,” he reminded the agent. “I probably will go back to England if the right job turns up there. But in the meantime, I’d like to have something to do, and I can be more flexible than I would be for a long-term job. Although I have to admit that just being a chauffeur doesn’t sound too interesting.”
“You’re probably right. And all the chauffeuring jobs we have on the books right now are for very old people, and they don’t go out much. Although it seems like you were used to that in your last job. Most younger people don’t use chauffeurs anymore. Is there any particular reason why you want a temporary job here?” She wondered if he had a romance going and wanted to be in Paris for that reason. He was a very handsome, distinguished-looking man, and had worn a well-cut dark gray suit to come to see her, with a white shirt and dark navy tie. He looked better dressed and more respectable than most of her clients, but she didn’t comment on it.
“I have an elderly mother here,” he said, and then smiled guiltily, and she noticed that he had a cleft chin when he did. He was almost irresistible, he was so good-looking. He looked more like an actor or a banker than a butler. “She would kill me for calling her that, and she’s very active. But I’ve spent so little time with her, living and working in England. Now that I have a break, I’d like to take advantage of it, and spend some time here, if I don’t drive her crazy staying with her.” The woman smiled. “I only want a live-out position here.” In England, he would have to be live-in to run a house and staff properly, and particularly in the country. Head butler positions were always live-in, even today.
She asked him a few more questions, based on his application, and then stood up. “To be honest, I don’t know if we’ll find anything for you, but I’ll certainly try. Any employer will be lucky to have you, even for a short time. I just don’t know if I have the right prospective employer. You’ll be overqualified for any job, but it’s a question of making the right marriage between your skills and their needs. You never know, something unusual might turn up. One of our Middle Eastern clients might want to hire someone local, but then they’d probably want you long-term. I don’t suppose you want to stay here permanently?” she inquired. He looked hesitant and shook his head.
“I’m better trained for what I was doing in England, running two or three large homes at once. And I enjoy my mother’s company, but I think she’ll be ready for me to go back to England in a few months.” They both laughed, shook hands, and he left a few minutes later. From what she said, he doubted that they would find him anything, and he didn’t expect to hear from her again.
He went back to his mother’s apartment and watched a movie on TV while he polished all her silver. She had a few pieces she loved that she and Francois had bought at auctions they enjoyed going to. Normally, in his jobs, he had the maids or footmen do it, but it was relaxing, and it all gleamed when his mother came home that night and she smiled when she saw it.
“I take it I have a butler now,” she teased him. He bowed respectfully, and she laughed. He had made coq au vin for dinner. It had simmered on the stove while he polished the silver. He’d had a productive and relaxing afternoon. “I’m going to get awfully spoiled while you’re staying with me,” his mother said, “but I have to admit, I’m enjoying it, as long as you stay out of my closets and don’t touch my desk again!” He laughed at the warning.
The coq au vin was delicious, and they finished it, while she told him all about the family she was searching for and the exquisite Monet waiting for them. It had been found in the basement of a chateau in Normandy that the Nazis had taken over during the war, and they had overlooked the Monet when they left, or it was too large for them to take easily. There were two other very important paintings found with it, which had belonged to another family. The retreating Nazis had abandoned the paintings in their haste when they left. It had happened in other places too. The Americans who had recently purchased the chateau in question had discovered them and very honorably contacted the Louvre to report them. They could have kept them and no one would have known, since the paintings had been missing for seventy years. The organization Liese worked for had been very grateful to receive the paintings so they could do their research on them, which as always had been fascinating. Joachim loved hearing her talk about it. It was always a detective story, and she took huge pleasure in it when it had a happy ending, which it didn’t always, but sometimes it did.
“How did you ever get into this, Mama?” he asked her, as he poured her a small café filtre, and she looked up at him. “Did Francois get you interested in it, or did you find it on your own?” He knew she had worked at the Louvre briefly when she first arrived from Argentina. But she had been doing her artistic detective work for twenty-five years now, and he had never asked her how it started or how she’d found the organization she worked for. It was well known and respected in the art world, but little known to the public.
They worked in the utmost discretion, and worked with tragic family histories every day, mostly caused by the Germans in World War II, and involving the Jewish families they’d exterminated. Almost all of the French Jews had been deported. Their houses and apartments and their contents, vast fortunes, and incredible art and jewels had been taken and distributed among the German High Command, most of it never to be seen again. The stories about the deported children were even more terrible than those about the treasures that had disappeared. Non-Jewish French residents had turned in their neighbors in many instances, and trainloads filled with only children had been sent to the camps in Germany. It was the most ignoble time in French history, one that everyone wanted to forget. But Liese still lived with those stories every day. It was the stories about the children that pained her most. Pairing up living heirs with artwork was always a victory and a joy. The lost children could never be brought back, and few had survived.
Joachim had great respect for her for the work she did, but he had never asked her many questions about it.
Liese looked at him long and hard when he asked her the question he had never asked her before. A long time ago, when he was younger, she would have brushed him off, and responded in some way that the work was fascinating, or she loved working with lost art. There were many answers she could have given other than the true one. But he was older now, and it was different. She thought it wa
s time to tell him the truth. She had always thought he should know one day. It was his history too.
“I always wondered if you’d ask me. You never have before,” she said softly in her deep, smooth voice, like silk on a cheek.
“I guess I never wondered how you started. We get more interested in our parents as we get older, and they become real people to us, not just our parents.” She nodded, knowing that was true. She had been curious about her own father too, and the mother who had died when she was two, whom she never knew. “And we have more time now, since I’m here with you, we’re not in a hurry, and I’m not rushing back to England.” They were both enjoying that, and it seemed like the right time to her to seize the opportunity.
“It’s a long story,” she said thoughtfully, wondering how much to tell him. But he was old enough now to hear the whole truth. He was a man, not a boy, and he deserved to know who his family was. She had been hiding it for years.
“We have time. I’m not going anywhere,” Joachim said, and stretched out his long legs, as Liese looked at her son differently. And as he saw her eyes, he could see that something important was about to happen, and he sensed that neither of them might ever be the same again.
Chapter 5
“I have to go back to the beginning,” Liese said to Joachim as they sat at her kitchen table at the end of dinner, their plates still in front of them. She looked into the distance as she thought about it, and her son watched her intently. He had never seen that look on her face before, of pain, of joy, of longing, and history remembered. “I was five years old when we came to Buenos Aires from Germany, at the end of the war. I remember that my papa, your grandfather, made it sound very exciting, and said we were going to a wonderful place. My mother had died in the bombing when I was two years old. I didn’t remember her at all. I remember how frightened I was during the bombing of Berlin, and at the end. It seemed like a good place to get away from. My papa said there were no bombs where we were going, and it was very beautiful with nice people and lots of flowers.
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