Lost in Paris

by Elizabeth Thompson

  When Marla doesn’t answer me, I walk into the bedroom.

  She is standing in the same place she occupied yesterday, staring at the collection of gilt-framed paintings on the bedroom wall.

  “Did you hear me?” I ask.

  “What?” Her voice sounds detached. “Uh, no. Sorry, what did you say?”

  I stand next to her and look at the paintings and try to understand what is transfixing her. They’re of Ivy, no doubt. Frankly, I find it uncomfortable to stare at my great-grandmother in the nude.

  So Granny Ivy was young once and took off her clothes. I’m tempted to ask Marla if she got pregnant with me through immaculate conception. But she seems truly bothered by the art.

  I let her have a moment.

  Finally, she gestures at the wall and the portraits and says, “This is so strange to me. My grandmother… the grandmother I remember was so… different from this.”

  She was stern and matronly.

  “I only knew her as a young child knows a great-grandmother. She was always a little… frail. She sewed clothes for me and encouraged me to read books and she was passionate about writing letters. Do you remember that?”

  “I do.” Marla turns to me and looks surprised, as if the memory just occurred to her. “She used to write letters urging leaders of foreign governments to free political prisoners and to enforce human rights.”

  “I knew it was something important,” I say. “I remember the card table that was set up in her bedroom at Gram’s house. It was always piled high with envelopes grouped into some semblance of order that only she understood. I remember wanting to connect with her, trying to understand what she was doing. Since letters seemed to be so important to her and she was always writing to others, I decided that I was going to write her a letter. I sat at her table and borrowed some paper and took an envelope from one of her stacks. I guess I messed up the order of the mailing she was working on because I got in trouble. I was never allowed to go into her room again.”

  “Yeah,” Marla muses. “That’s how I remember her, too. I think I got in trouble just about every time I was around her. Mean ol’ woman.”

  “She wasn’t mean,” I say as I try to reconcile the austere woman who freaked out over me using one of her envelopes with the woman in the sensual paintings—the woman who owned this apartment—but it’s hard to do.

  “Okay, maybe she was a little mean,” I concede.

  “Well, yeah,” Marla says. “Why else would you keep an apartment like this a secret from your family? We could have been vacationing here all these years. Callie and I could’ve stayed here when we came to Paris that summer.”

  We’re startled by a knock at the door.

  Marla’s eyes widen and she whispers, “Do you think that lady across the hall called the police?”

  “If she thought she saw something suspicious, I hope she did,” I say in a full voice as I head toward the door.

  “No! Stop!” Marla hisses. “Don’t answer it.”

  “Why not? We’re not doing anything wrong. It’s not like we broke in. We own the place and we have a lawyer on speed dial.”

  She blinks at me, seemingly at a loss for words. Because I’m right.

  “We should’ve introduced ourselves to the neighbor. The sooner we let her know we own the apartment, the better. Besides, it might be the guy from the hardware store delivering your vacuum,” I call over my shoulder.

  There’s no peek hole on the door, so I have no choice but to answer it without knowing who is on the other side. I remove the white mask and adjust my posture, holding my chin at a level that I hope projects more confidence than I feel inside, despite my sure words to my mother.

  When I open the door, rather than the police or a band of vigilante neighbors, I find a very handsome man dressed in a suit and tie under an open black topcoat.

  “Bonjour—uh, good morning.” His smile hits me like a thousand-watt bulb. For a moment, I’m at a loss for words as I drink in his tall frame and dark George Clooney–esque good looks. A musky, manly smell mingles with stale cigarettes and expensive cologne, but the way his brown eyes crinkle at the corners and his one incisor tilts rakishly sideways make up for the vague body odor.

  “I am Gabriel Cerny.” He smiles again, as if I’m supposed to know him. His English is excellent but laced with enough of a French accent to make my toes curl in my sneakers.

  And then I remember how I’m dressed, with the ridiculous hot-pink bandanna in my hair and the safety goggles covering my eyes. As I yank them off, I realize I’m not wearing makeup because of the cleaning mission. Shit.

  “Emile Levesque’s colleague?” he prompts. “I have come in his place to offer assistance this morning?”

  “Yes, of course; come in, please.” I open the door wider, step back, and motion for him to enter. Then I realize that his fancy coat will be a dust magnet. “I’m afraid the place is a little messy. You might ruin your coat. Is that cashmere?”

  I resist the urge to reach out and touch it.

  He purses his lips and offers a noncommittal shrug that is so very French as he peers in the doorway to assess the place.

  He makes a guttural disapproving sound and stays put. “Yes, I see. It is quite dirty. And you are?”

  For a split second I misunderstand and think that he’s saying I am quite dirty. Then I realize he’s asking my name.

  “Oh! I’m so sorry; I am Hannah Bond.”

  “And I’m Marla.”

  My mother has sidled up next to me to offer her hand. “Bond. Marla Bond.” She is in full-on flirt mode. I wonder what happened to the woman who, a moment ago, was standing in the bedroom looking crushed as she gazed at nude paintings of her grandmother.

  When Gabriel Cerny takes her hand, I notice he’s not wearing a wedding ring and I wonder how long it will be before Marla ends up in his bed.

  “Nice to meet you, Mademoiselles Bond.”

  Marla titters. I notice she looks pretty, having had the foresight to remove her gear and fluff her hair before making her entrance. She’s like a rose amidst urban decay.

  I guess Gabriel Cerny is somewhere between Marla’s age and my own. I’m sure he finds Marla the more attractive of the two of us. I don’t even know why that popped into my head, but I send the thought packing as fast as it entered.

  Gabriel steps back into the hall. Marla and I follow him.

  “It can’t be healthy for you to be in that apartment among all that filth,” he says. “I shall have my assistant secure a cleaning service for you. I’m sure we can find one by this afternoon to take care of the work for you. A professional crew will have this place tidied up in no time.”

  “No, thank you,” I say. “It’s nice of you to offer, but we’ve already purchased cleaning supplies. Even a vacuum, which should be delivered any minute.”

  He studies me with eyes that look dubious and amused. Then he blows out a pffft. “This is no job for beautiful ladies. You should be out enjoying this magnificent day. It’s warmer outside today, but tomorrow, it is supposed to turn bitterly cold. You must seize the moment while you can.”

  I have no idea what sort of high-maintenance divas he’s pegged us for, but I am perfectly happy rolling up my sleeves and getting my hands dirty. Well, maybe not perfectly happy, but you gotta do what you gotta do, and the apartment won’t clean itself.

  “Isn’t he darling, Hannah?” Marla is gushing full-on now. “Bless your heart for worrying about us, honey,” she says. “I would love it if you would call in a cleaning crew for us.”

  This is her steel-magnolia-in-distress persona.

  “Oui. Right away.” Gabriel Cerny is shaking his head as he stares down at the cell phone he has produced from his coat pocket.

  Then he’s talking into the receiver in rapid French that I do not understand.

  After he disconnects the call, he smiles first at Marla, then at me. His gaze lingers on my face—my eyes, my lips, then back to my eyes—and I refuse to let myself squir
m.

  “A cleaning crew will arrive shortly. Gratuitement.” He smiles. “It is the pleasure of my law firm to give you this… how do you say in American… er… this home-warming gift?”

  “Oh, a housewarming present?” Marla’s Southern drawl has mysteriously disappeared. Clearly delighted, she slants me a glance that seems to say, See what I did? Watch and learn.

  Just as Marla has her helpless damsel-in-distress act, Gabriel must use that smolder he’s turning on me right now to open doors—and a few legs—for himself.

  The little voice inside me that’s ever the skeptic rears up and says, Nothing is free. There’s always a catch.

  Even still, if a crew comes in armed with the right tools, they might have the place fit for human habitation in a day or two, which could save us the cost of staying a week in a hotel. Cost-wise, it might be a wash, and I’d be able to stay in the apartment a few nights before I have to return to London.

  “Consider it a welcome-to-Paris gift from the law firm Levesque, Racine, and Cerny.”

  Of course, he says the word Paris so that it sounds like par-ee, which is so darned charming I hear myself thanking him and telling him he didn’t have to do it. To which he shrugs and says, “Why not? I am a partner in the firm. I make the rules.”

  Ah. Wow. “So, you are the Cerny in Levesque, Racine, and Cerny?” I know he is, but I’m trying to make conversation.

  “But of course.”

  His brow goes up.

  “Hannah, he’s trying to impress you,” Marla says.

  I force a smile and make a mental note to call Marla out for this verbal elbowing later. If she got out of raising me, she forfeits the right to embarrass me now.

  “When will the cleaning company be here?” Marla asks. “Are we supposed to wait here for them to show? I mean, if they’re coming to do the dirty work, there’s no sense in us hanging around. Is there a way we could give them Hannah’s cell phone number and go get some breakfast? All we had was a croissant, and it is not sticking with me.”

  “That is a magnificent idea.” Again, Gabriel directs the words to me.

  “Breakfast is on us,” Marla says. “It’s our way of thanking you. It’s the least we can do.”

  Fifty bucks says she’ll do the fake purse reach and Gabriel will end up picking up the check.

  He arranges for the cleaning service to phone him before they arrive, then calls for his car and takes us to his favorite café in the area.

  After we’re seated, Gabriel says he’s already eaten breakfast. Since I don’t have much of an appetite in the morning, I’m still full from the coffee and croissant I had before we went to the hardware store. He and I order café au lait. Marla orders a traditional American breakfast with fried eggs, sausage and bacon, hash browns, and wheat toast (because it’s healthier than white).

  “You don’t have to wait with us, if this is keeping you from something,” I say to Gabriel.

  Marla kicks me under the table.

  I try to suppress a grunt.

  “Is something wrong?” Gabriel shifts toward me. He’s a little too close, and I catch a whiff of his tobacco-and-coffee-laced breath. I sit back in my seat and make a mental note to chew a piece of gum after I finish my café au lait.

  “Nope. Not a thing.” I glare at Marla. She’s munching on her toast as innocently as a child. “We don’t want to tie you up if you need to be somewhere.”

  He takes a long sip of his coffee, watching me over the top of his cup. He sets it down on the saucer. “That is very gracious of you. But please know that my assistant blocked off my morning for you.”

  I can see a virtual meter ticking over his head.

  “This hidden apartment is somewhat of a novelty, no?” he asks. “I must admit I am quite curious to see it once it is cleaned up.”

  His phone buzzes and he picks it up, looks at the message. “As a matter of fact, I hope you don’t mind, but I have taken the liberty of hiring a photographer to record the before and after.” He points to his phone. “She is ready to meet us at the apartment when we are finished.”

  “The before and after?” Marla asks.

  Gabriel nods. “It is not every day that one opens the door to a place such as this that has been lost to time. It is a city treasure.”

  Now it makes more sense why a named partner of a law firm would clear his schedule to help us “get settled in” and clean up this grimy apartment. There’s something in it for him and his firm. Of course, the history buff in me is thrilled at the prospect of having a record of the way it looks before we scrub away the past. Despite my skepticism, it seems like a win-win.

  Marla frowns. “Let me be very up-front. We don’t have money to blow on a professional photographer. The one I hired for my last wedding cost an arm and a leg. So, if Levesque, Racine, and Cerny wants to spring for pictures, knock yourself out, but I—er, we—can’t chip in.”

  Marla punctuates the statement by slurping her coffee.

  Gabriel answers with that pursed-lip shrug. “My firm is happy to cover the cost of the photographer.”

  “Do you have other plans for those pictures beyond saving them for posterity?” I ask.

  “If you are willing, we could offer them to the press,” he says. “If you want to sell the place, it will go a long way toward driving up the price you could demand. Everyone wants to own a piece of history. Some are willing to pay extra to obtain it.”

  “Whoa, slow down there.” Marla pauses, the final forkful of egg and potatoes hovering midair. “Nobody said anything about selling the place.”

  “Well, we might have to,” I say.

  “We haven’t even had a chance to really get in there and see what it’s all about,” she says before shoveling the food into her mouth.

  “Fair enough,” he says. “You need not decide whether or not you want to sell the place now. The media will be interested in learning of the apartment’s existence whenever you are ready to release the news.”

  “Of course, the press will be good publicity for Levesque, Racine, and Cerny?” I say.

  “Absolument.” There’s a challenging glint in his eyes. “Do you mind?”

  Marla and I look at each other.

  “Perhaps we can negotiate a price break in the final legal fees,” I say.

  Gabriel nods and his face slowly gives way to a smile. “I like a woman with a good business head.”

  He leans back in his chair, taking the white coffee cup with him. His eyes linger on mine a bit too long. I can’t quite discern if it’s sexy or predatory… or just French. Whatever it is, it makes my stomach stir again.

  June 1927

  Paris, France

  Dear Diary,

  I didn’t get the job at Galeries Lafayette. The man in charge was very frank that my French was not strong enough to work with the public. They had no openings in tailoring.

  I left the interview distraught, Helen’s defense of naked bodies ringing in my ears.

  Is she right? Are bodies merely flesh and bones, and nothing sacred?

  Before I returned to the apartment, I spent an eternity walking around, trying to sort out my options. I wandered past the Palais Garnier, the opera house where Helen is so desperate to perform someday with the ballet. Even though she is no stranger to rejection, she says she will not lose faith in realizing her dream.

  I found myself back at the église de la Madeleine, the church with the fabulous Roman-looking façade that I had stumbled upon the other evening when I got lost. This time my intentions were more purposeful. I had come to pray, even though I am not Catholic. I felt drawn there the other day when I lost my way. This time, I went inside and got down on my knees amidst the gilded splendor. I figured God answers prayers no matter your religion. I asked him to send me a sign about what I should do next.

  Then I returned to the Tuileries garden, where I watched children launch small boats in the pond and walked past groups of old men playing boules. My favorite area is dotted with ancient st
atues that have withstood the test and trials of time.

  I paused in front of the Nymphe. She stood as naked and proud as the other sculptures, mostly of men wearing clothes. There was a dog at her bare feet and it made me think of the sweet little creature I met the last time I was there. The Nymphe’s head was bent as if she were gazing down at me, saying, I persevered. You can, too… if you’re strong enough.

  Alas, she stood high upon her pedestal, carved of marble. I am but skin and bone. Breasts and bottom.

  I feel like a lost kitten who has strayed away from her home, and Paris is the tomcat waiting to pounce. I’m not equipped to run with the strays, even though I’ve become one myself since leaving London.

  As I stood there, I swore I heard the Nymphe whisper, “We are one and the same, you and I. You will be fine, but you must not be so proud.”

  When I returned to the apartment at dusk, Luc’s friend Pierre Jean, the painter, was there. He offered me the job as his model.

  I’d asked for a sign for what I should do next, though I’m hard-pressed to believe this one came from God.

  Eleven

  January 3, 2019—10:00 a.m.

  Paris, France

  After Gabriel picks up the check for breakfast—as predicted—his driver takes us back to the apartment.

  On the way there, I watch the Paris morning unfold out the window like scenes from a rom-com. People walking dogs with leashes in one hand and to-go cups in the other. A woman running and pushing a baby jogger. An older man ambling along with a bulging mesh grocery bag on the crook of his elbow and a long baguette tucked under his arm.

  When we arrive at the apartment, the photographer, a willowy blonde, is waiting for us outside of the gate. Two guys are helping her. One is arranging a lighting umbrella and the other is holding a couple of camera bodies at the ready.

  It makes so much sense to professionally photograph the place. I can’t believe I hadn’t thought about it until now. Gabriel was right. Much more than a family heirloom, the apartment is a piece of history frozen in time that deserves to be documented. The realization makes my inner history nerd sing.