Marla doesn’t seem to get that yet.
On the horizon, I see the Eiffel Tower stretching up like a beacon at the end of the long stretch of green Champ de Mars. Along the way we glimpse the gold dome of Napoleon’s tomb.
Now that Gram is gone, Marla is the only person I have. Marla and the ghost of Ivy.
What would it be like to work with Marla? Work and live with her?
I shudder. It’s a frightening prospect. However, she seems to be sincere about changing her ways.
Even this walk through Paris has a different vibe from when we got lost in Pigalle that first day.
I’m opening my mouth to concede just that when Marla’s phone rings.
“Who in the world is calling me?” she says as she pulls her cell out of her purse, squints at the number, and answers with a tentative, “Hello?”
Her face goes from suspect to wide-eyed.
“Oh my, well, hello indeed. I really didn’t expect to hear from you, but I’m glad you called.”
She makes eye contact with me, then turns and walks away a few feet, but I can still hear her. “Per chance can I call you later? I can’t really talk right now. I’m out in the middle of Paris with my daughter.”
She nods. “Yes, sure… Right… Uh-huh… Okay, I’ll call you then. Oh, at this number, right?”
She smiles. “Okay, wonderful… I am thrilled to hear from you.”
I think I hear her say something about London, but I can’t be sure because a woman walks by pushing a stroller with a crying baby.
The only other thing I hear Marla say is, “Bonjour, for now.”
I think she means to say adieu, but I’m too distracted by the way she smiles at the phone to correct her.
“Who was that?” I ask.
“No one.” She slides the phone back into her purse. “It was a wrong number.”
“I heard you say you were thrilled to hear from them. I’m fairly certain you wouldn’t be thrilled to hear from a wrong number or a telemarketer. Unless that’s your new way of making friends.”
“Hannah, maybe it’s none of your business. Did you ever consider that? I don’t have to tell you everything, you know.”
“You do need to be straight with me if we’re thinking about living and working together. Are you reconnecting with Don?”
“Don?” She looks genuinely taken aback. “You have nothing to worry about with him. I blocked his number. He doesn’t know where I am so there’s no way he can get in touch with me. That’s how serious I am about starting over.”
“I don’t want to get in your business, but I have a right to know what’s going on. You gave me your word that living in our apartment would mark a big change for you. If there’s a new man, I deserve to know about it.”
We’re at a standoff. Literally. She’s standing there with the river lapping behind her, crossing her arms and staring me down like it’s a contest to see who will blink first.
Then my phone rings.
I almost don’t answer it. Aiden called me today when we were on the train returning to Paris. He left a message saying it was nice to see me and he was sorry we didn’t get to talk more. He told me to call him. I still haven’t decided if I want to. The Jemma situation muddies the water. Plus, even if there is no him and Jemma, there is Paris and me.
It appears to be a French number.
“Hello?”
“Allo, may I speak to Hannah Bond, s’il vous plaît?” It’s a woman speaking heavily accented English.
“This is she.”
“Mademoiselle Bond, this is Brigette from Professeur Louis Descartes’s office at the Sorbonne. He asked me to call you and tell you that his finding is inconclusive. The work is not one of Andres Armand’s previously published books. It could be something unpublished, but Professeur Descartes cannot be one hundred percent certain. He said that he’s done all he can do, and you are free to retrieve the papers at your earliest convenience.”
I’m stunned, and Brigette hangs up before I can ask, Now what?
“What’s wrong, Hannah?” Marla asks. “Is it bad news?”
“It was Professeur Descartes’s assistant calling to say that they can’t be sure the manuscript is the work of Andres Armand. So, they’re done. We can pick it up. I think he just blew us off.”
“Well, what are we supposed to do now?” Marla asks.
“That’s what I’d like to know.”
“As much as I hate to involve the filthy salopard,” says Marla, “maybe we should call Gabriel and ask if he knows anyone else who can help us.”
“How did you learn to cuss in French?”
“He’s a bastard. That’s why I looked up the word. Gabriel Cerny, inspiring women to cuss, one slimy move at a time.”
She looks pleased with herself. It’s not lost on me that Marla has used this opportunity to redirect the spotlight away from her phone call. But she’s right on one account: Gabriel is probably our best bet for figuring out our next move.
Surely someone out there can tell us for sure whether or not this is authentic Armand. I place the call to Gabriel and leave a voicemail explaining the situation.
In the meantime, I need to keep reading Ivy’s diaries and look for someone to translate the manuscript for me.
I know the identity of the author must be hidden somewhere in those pages.
November 1927
Paris, France
Dear Diary,
I wonder how Andres gets any writing done.
When I ask, he says creativity works in mysterious ways. Words don’t flow like water from a faucet. He can’t turn it on and off at will. He insists that to write something truly great, a writer needs to give the idea time to marinate before it develops full flavor.
He is very lucky that he has a trust fund to support his marinating. Nevertheless, he is always so generous, surprising me with flowers and candy.
Lately, he has been urging me to quit my job at the boulangerie and move in with him. As much as I’d love to, I can’t take him up on the offer. What if something happened? It took me long enough to find this position. As meager as it is, it allows me to support myself.
Tonight illustrated exactly how fast life can change course.
At the beginning of the night, everything was fine. We ran into Scott and Zelda at Harry’s Bar. We were a loud bunch, having fun and singing at the tops of our lungs and talking over each other and the music, everyone trying to make a point, like birds cawing all at once.
When we left, Zelda swiped a bottle of champagne from the bar. We passed it around as we made our way to Dingo Bar.
Zelda was whining about being hungry, demanding that she needed something to eat before she passed out in the middle of the street, which would’ve been a feat because we were on the walkway.
To distract her, as we passed a young boy who was loading leftover baguettes from a boulangerie into the basket of his tricycle, Scott hopped on the small bike and took off down the walk.
We all doubled over with laughter as he peddled furiously, his long legs bent at such a ridiculous angle that he looked like a circus clown careening down the fancy walk, barely avoiding hitting several pedestrians in the process.
When the boy caught up to him and tried to pull him off the trike, Scott toppled over. The next thing we knew, he was on the pavement and the boy was pummeling him with his tiny fists and yelling words that were much too vulgar for a garçon.
Scott was fine, of course. The only danger he was in was of busting a gut from laughing so hard.
The boy rode off on his little tricycle and we were getting on our merry way when Pierre seemed to appear from out of nowhere.
He stood in front of me, blocking my way. I hadn’t seen him since that day at his studio when I walked out. And after all this time, he was spoiling for a fight.
He insisted I owed him money since I didn’t finish the job for which I was hired. He bellowed on about not being able to complete the painting series, insisting it was my f
ault that he’d missed the submission deadline.
I told him I didn’t owe him a centime. He had not paid me beyond the six paintings he had completed. It was his own fault that he missed the deadline. He could’ve used the completed paintings as reference.
As soon as I’d said my piece, he unleashed a string of vile words that made me pale. Andres puffed up and stepped between us, and Zelda grabbed my arm and led me into a nearby restaurant. As I walked away, I glanced over my shoulder in time to see Andres landing a punch on Pierre’s jaw, which sent him falling backward.
By the time Zelda and I returned, Andres and Pierre were nowhere in sight. Andres had asked Scott to see me home.
Now that I’m home, sleep eludes me. I can’t close my eyes until I hear from Andres that he’s safe and Pierre hasn’t pulled some dirty trick.
Nineteen
January 9, 2019—4:00 p.m.
Paris, France
We’ve been back in the apartment a couple of hours when Gabriel returns my call.
“I am sorry Louis Descartes disappointed you,” he says. “He could have worked harder on the case if you ask me. Then again, he does not study Armand exclusively. Did you retrieve the manuscript?”
“Yes. We took a cab to the Sorbonne and picked it up right after Brigette called. I figured it was better not to leave it lying about the office too long.”
As I’m explaining why I’m in Paris, not London, Marla walks in from the kitchen holding two glasses.
“Gabriel, I’ve put you on speaker. Marla is here.”
“Bonjour, Marla.” His voice sounds seductive.
My mother rolls her eyes at his greeting and hands me a glass of sparkling water before plunking down on the other end of the sofa.
“I’ve had a chance to do some research,” he continues. “That is why it took me a while to telephone you. I have located a retired professor from the University of Oxford. A Dr. George Campbell. He lives in London. He fancies himself an Armand expert. I spoke with him and he is willing to take a look at the book as soon as we can bring it to him. I am happy to accompany you.”
“Hannah is busy.” Marla’s tone is chilly. “She got promoted and is starting a brand-new book tour here in Paris. Since she doesn’t have time to bother with this, I can take it to London. I don’t need you to go with me, Gabriel.”
“We can talk about that later, Marla.” I shift so my body is angled away from her, hoping she’ll take the hint to be quiet. I guess I shouldn’t have put the call on speaker.
“But you’re so busy with work, Hannah. This is a way I can help.”
When neither Gabriel nor I answer right away, Marla says, “Are you saying you don’t think I’m capable?”
I glance at her. She’s sitting forward on the couch. The sun is streaming in through the window and highlighting the worry lines around her mouth and eyes. “We can talk about it after we’re off the phone. Gabriel doesn’t need to be part of this discussion.”
“I would prefer Gabriel wasn’t involved at all.”
It’s my turn to roll my eyes at her. I mouth, Stop.
She sits back with a harrumph.
“I will let the two of you talk it through,” Gabriel says. “I am happy to ask my assistant to secure an appointment for you with Dr. Campbell. When you decide what you’d like for me to do, please let me know.”
After I thank him and disconnect the call, Marla says, “Why don’t you trust me?”
“That’s not the problem.”
“Well, then what is the problem, Hannah?”
I sigh.
“Did you have to be so rude to Gabriel?”
“You know how I feel about him. I can’t believe you’re sticking up for him after what he did to you.”
“He didn’t do anything to me. He might have tried, but he didn’t succeed. So get over it and mind your manners.”
“That doesn’t mean I’ll let him accompany me to London.”
I don’t remember deciding she would be the one to go to London.
“And as I said,” Marla continues, “you’re busy with work. This is a way that I can help you.”
I didn’t mean to make a face, but I guess I did. Marla puts her hands on her hips. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“No, it’s something. Why don’t you trust me?”
“Have you heard the story about Ernest Hemingway’s first wife, Hadley, losing one of his manuscripts?” I ask.
Marla shakes her head. “No, but do tell, please. You have a book-related story for every occasion, don’t you?”
So what if I do?
“It was 1922 and Ernest and his first wife, Hadley, were still newlyweds. They hadn’t been living in Paris very long. She was taking the train to meet him in Switzerland and had put the typed pages of his work in a satchel. It was his early Nick Adams stories about life in Michigan. He’d been working on them for months.
“Apparently, Hadley found her place on the train, stowed her bags, then got up to buy some refreshments for the trip. When she returned, her bag was gone and so was all of her husband’s hard work.”
“Are you telling me this because you think I might pull a Hadley and lose the manuscript?”
Yes. But—
“What if we printed out copies of the manuscript from the photos you took with your phone?” Marla suggests. “I can take the copy to London for a first read. If the manuscript is as fragile as you say, we should probably keep the original somewhere safe anyway.”
Actually, she’s right. Even though we took photos of each page, we really should have a printed copy at the ready. That way we can keep the original under lock and key until absolutely necessary.
“If we do that, we can mail the package to Dr. Campbell. But I need to make sure he’ll accept a photocopy for the first read.”
“I’d really like to take it to him in person,” Marla insists. “What if it gets lost in the mail?”
Instead of arguing with her, I call Gabriel back and ask about submitting a photocopy.
“I will inquire, though I don’t see why not,” he says. “As long as it is a clean, easy-to-read reproduction. On this pass, he will be looking to see if the prose matches Armand’s style.”
“True,” I say. “But how should we print it? I guess I could buy a printer and ink.”
Gabriel is silent for a moment. Then he says, “Ah! I have an idea. If you drop by my office, I will have my assistant, Ophelia, connect your phone to our copy machine and print it out for you.”
“That sounds like a big job.”
“It should not take long. The copier is state-of-the-art.”
“I’m embarrassed to ask, but what will that cost? The manuscript is more than two hundred pages. I’m not sure I can afford to pay an attorney’s hourly rate for photocopies. Could you direct me to a self-service print shop?”
“Nonsense. We will not charge you. If you come soon, Ophelia will do it while you wait. It should only take fifteen minutes.”
* * *
GABRIEL’S OFFICE IS LOCATED on the twenty-second floor of a skyscraper called the Tour Montparnasse. The sleek lines of the building strike a sharp, no-nonsense contrast to the city’s famously ornate old-world architecture. An added bonus: it’s located right at the Montparnasse Bienvenüe Metro stop.
It doesn’t get any easier than that, especially since the weather had turned colder. Marla stays at the apartment to start a pot of chili for our dinner, and I’m relieved for the break. I could use some time away from her.
The elevator opens directly into a reception area, where a woman is sitting behind a mahogany desk. She smiles at me.
“Bonjour. Puis-je vous aider avec quelque chose?”
I ask her if she speaks English and she nods.
“Thank you. I am Hannah Bond. Gabriel Cerny is expecting me.”
“One moment, please. I shall let him know you have arrived.” She picks up the phone, dials, and speaks into the receiver in a low voice.
The reception area is surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows on three sides. Expensive-looking cordovan leather love seats and chairs are grouped around mahogany coffee tables that complement the main desk. Oil paintings in heavy gold frames adorn the walls. A well-dressed woman is seated on one of the chairs. Her purse is on her lap, and she’s clutching a manila envelope with both hands as if it might fly away if she loosens her grip. We are the only two in the reception area.
“Monsieur Cerny will be right with you,” says the receptionist.
I walk to the closest window and look out at the most incredible view of Paris. What mesmerizes me is the postcard-perfect view of the rooftops—a stunning patchwork of white, silver, and gray—stretching as far as the eye can see.
This is my city now, though I’m still waiting for it to feel real.
In the distance, I spy two of the most recognizable landmarks in the city: the gold-domed roof of Les Invalides and the Eiffel Tower. Across the Seine, on the right bank, the Arc de Triomphe stands tall and proud.
I close my eyes for a moment. When I reopen them, the sun glints off the gilded dome as if Napoleon, who is buried inside, is winking at me to say, This is as real as it gets.
“Hannah? Elllooo, Hannah?”
Gabriel has appeared beside me, looking as handsome as ever in his tailored suit, crisp white shirt, and blue tie. “It is a magnificent view, is it not?”
I didn’t expect him to come fetch me himself.
“It is,” I say. “It rivals the Eiffel Tower.”
“Some would say it is better. You can’t see the Eiffel Tower from the Eiffel Tower, can you?”
We laugh and he holds out his hand. “Your phone, mademoiselle?”
I retrieve it from my bag and hand it to him.
“Thanks so much for doing this, Gabriel.”
“It is my pleasure. Come. You will wait in my office while Ophelia prints the copies. It should not take long.”
“I don’t want to keep you from your work, Gabriel. I’m happy to wait out here.”
“Nonsense. You will be more comfortable with me.”
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