The Paris Key

by Juliet Blackwell

  “Um . . . sure,” said Genevieve.

  “Alas, I’m sorry to say I have to run,” said Killian. “I have dinner plans, and I have to change into something dry. Genevieve, as always, a pleasure. Here’s my number. Please let me know when you plan on going back to Philippe’s so I can tag along and photograph the place. Unless you prefer to work alone?”

  “No, that’s fine. I’ll let you know.”

  He gave Genevieve a double kiss good-bye, then spoke to Sylviane in French, excusing himself. Both women watched as he ambled down the boulevard.

  Genevieve felt Sylviane’s curious eyes on her.

  “A pastis?” Genevieve took the seat across from her. The iron chairs were painted robin’s-egg blue, spindly yet sturdy. In French, she ventured to ask: “Qu’est-ce que c’est?”

  “You don’t know pastis?”

  Genevieve shook her head.

  “No? But you must know this. You like absinthe?”

  “I thought absinthe was illegal.”

  Sylviane made an impatient, dismissive gesture. “It was. But that was a long time ago, when it made people go crazy and . . . what is the word when you cannot see? When the eyes do not work?”

  “Blind?”

  “Yes, blind,” she gestured with her pointer finger: Exactly. “Absinthe, before, it used to make people be this sometimes.”

  “But it doesn’t anymore?”

  “No, I don’t think so.” She shook her head, a little wrinkle of a frown between her eyebrows; then she stuck out her chin and shook her head again, with finality. “No, I’m sure it is no problem; that is why it is no illegal now. Is a shame, though, probably the ingredients were what helped all that creativity, what do you call? For the artists and musicians. But now it is safe.”

  She let out a deep sigh, as though lamenting the passage to safety.

  “So . . . pastis is like absinthe?” Genevieve asked.

  “Oh! Similar, but I like it better. You like . . . what do you call? Licorice? Smell.” She lifted her glass to Genevieve.

  It was a slim, tall glass, with one ice cube and a milky amber liquid. It smelled strongly of anise.

  “I . . .”

  Sylviane signaled to the waiter standing by the door. She gestured with her chin, holding up her glass in one hand and her pointer finger with the other.

  “So, Genevieve, tell me: You are here for little visit? A vacation?”

  “Not really. Actually, I’m hoping to take over my uncle’s locksmith shop. The serrurier on rue Saint-Paul.”

  “Dave? Locksmith Dave is your uncle?”

  She nodded. “Was my uncle—he passed away.”

  “Yes, yes, I know. I was so sorry; he was a wonderful man. He make us laugh!”

  “He was always joking,” Genevieve said with a nod and a smile. “I remember him taking me to your shop a long time ago, when I visited as a teenager.”

  “The Maréchalerie is the best boulangerie. Everyone, they know this.”

  “Do you like working there?”

  “Like? What do you mean, like working there?”

  “I just . . . you seem a little grumpy when I go into the shop in the mornings.”

  “What means ‘grumpy’?”

  “Um . . . unhappy. Triste.”

  She shrugged. “My grandparents work at the bakery; my parents work at the bakery; I work at the bakery. My whole life, I smell like bread.” She held out one slim arm. “Smell! Smell me. Fresh bread, isn’t it so?”

  Genevieve stifled a smile and made a show of smelling her arm.

  “Most people think that’s a good thing,” Genevieve said. “People love the smell of fresh bread.”

  Sylviane made a rude-sounding snort, sipped her pastis, and stretched back in her chair.

  “You know, there aren’t many women bakers in Paris,” said Sylviane. “The men, they think the women can’t do it, but my father, he has five sons: Jean-Luc, Jean-Baptiste, Jean-Marc, Jean-Paul, Jean-Claude. But not one wants to be a baker. Not one!”

  “You have five brothers named Jean?”

  “Comment? Non, they are Jean-Luc, Jean-Baptiste, Jean-Marc . . . oh, I see what you are saying. Huh, never have I thought of this! Anyway, not one want to learn to be baker, so now it’s me. Like you, I think. Or there are many women locksmiths in America?”

  “I wasn’t actually a locksmith in America. I was a copy editor.”

  “What is that?”

  “I checked publications before they were printed.”

  “Like books?”

  “Technical manuals, mostly.”

  “Sounds boring.”

  Genevieve just nodded.

  “Anyway, this is why I am—what is the word you called me?” Sylviane asked.

  “Grumpy.”

  “Grumpy, as you say. But you know what? I don’t want to talk about bread—I want to talk about California! I love cinema. You like cinema? ‘Movies,’ you say in America?”

  “Sure, I like movies.”

  “Rom-com, you know this?”

  “Um . . .”

  “I love American movies! Especially rom-com.” She squinted, lifted her delicate chin and growled, “Go ahead, make my day.”

  “I’m not sure Dirty Harry qualifies as a romantic comedy,” Genevieve said with a laugh.

  “I like all American cinema, but mostly rom-com. Harry Met Sally—she had a—what do you call? When you have sex and you finish? She had it right there in the restaurant! Quelle coquine!” She leaned over the table and pounded it, letting out a great hearty laugh that seemed incongruous with her petite stature.

  The waiter chose that moment to arrive at the table with a little brown tray holding a tall, slender glass, a bowl of ice, and a small pitcher. He set the glass on the table: It was one-third full of a clear, pale amber liquid. The waiter dropped a single square ice cube into the glass, then added a little water from the diminutive pitcher. As soon as the water hit the alcohol, the liquid started to cloud up, like a chemistry experiment.

  “Merci,” Genevieve said, captivated by the theatrical presentation of the drink.

  The waiter did not respond. Sylviane fixed him with a look of mild disdain, remaining silent until he left. As soon as he did, she leaned forward again.

  “‘You complete me.’ What does this mean?”

  “It’s supposed to mean that he didn’t feel like a complete person until he met her—it’s romantic, I guess.”

  “That’s what I thought.” She waved her hand, dismissing the idea. “But . . . I don’t like that. Men and women don’t need each other like that. You know Simone de Beauvoir? She does not wait for Jean-Paul Sartre. When he is an ass, she does her own thing; she takes many lovers. I like Runaway Bride; did you see this?”

  Genevieve nodded, her mind reeling in the attempt to keep up with Sylviane’s thought processes, careening from de Beauvoir to Runaway Bride in one breath. Thank heavens they were speaking in English.

  “I like Julia Roberts. You remember the movie where she says Chagall paints pictures that look like the way love is supposed to feel? Like, floating. I think that is true, because Chagall was French, you see?” said Sylviane. “I like also when Julia Roberts is a—comment dit-on?—a putain?”

  “A prostitute? You mean Pretty Woman.”

  “Yes! I think I might like to be prostitute in LA—what you think?”

  Genevieve opened her mouth to reply but didn’t know what to say. She wasn’t sure whether Sylviane was joking.

  “I would not be smelling like bread, you see?”

  Genevieve smiled and sipped her pastis. It was strong and a bit cloying—almost overwhelmingly so. It filled her nostrils with the aroma of anise, coated her tongue. The smell reminded her of the fennel bushes on the farm; she had spent half her childhood yanking out those stubborn pla
nts.

  Mostly she liked the setup, so very not American: the slender glass, the single square ice cube, the clear liquid gone cloudy, the tiny pitcher of water sitting at the side.

  “Too strong?” Sylviane asked. “Put more water in if you want. That’s why he leaves the pitcher.”

  “No, it’s good.”

  She smiled and raised her chin. “We make a Parisienne of you, you see! So, tell me, Genevieve, you are living here now, truly? You are to be a serruriere, a locksmith like your uncle? Here in Paris? Vraiment?”

  “Maybe. I’m not sure. I think I would like that. I don’t yet have the right visa, though, or the certification.”

  “You know the . . . Comment dit-on? The secret to bureaucracy here in France? Never give up. Do not listen when they say non; just keep appearing until they get tired and give you your papers.”

  Genevieve laughed.

  “I am not making joke,” said Sylviane. “So you really want to stay here in Paris? Forever?”

  “Maybe.”

  Sylviane studied her for a long moment; then her eyes flickered down to her ring finger.

  “You are not married?”

  Genevieve opened her mouth to say, No, I’m not married, but couldn’t quite get the words out. She managed an awkward little squeak, an uttering between an “eh” and an “mmm,” but that was about it.

  “Désolée. Sorry.” Sylviane waved a delicate hand in the air. Her nails were cut short, manicured, buffed. “Maybe you and me trade places, eh? You stay here—I go California. Tell me, you see the movie stars?”

  “Not really. I saw Tom Hanks in passing once, but that’s about it. I live in the northern part of the state, nowhere near LA.”

  She looked disappointed. Explaining to Europeans that Hollywood was only a small section of LA—and a much smaller portion of the whole state—was invariably a letdown to them.

  “It’s a really big state,” Genevieve said. “I think almost as big as all of France.”

  Now skepticism filled Sylviane’s gray eyes. “I don’t think this is so. You exaggerate.”

  “Maybe. I’m not very good at geography. But I do know it takes about six hours to drive from my house to LA, and that’s only about half the state.”

  Sylviane’s eyes widened slightly; she ducked her head and stuck her lower lip out in a way that conceded Genevieve might have been telling the truth. “That is a far way, then.”

  Genevieve nodded and sipped her pastis. Now that the shock of the taste on her tongue had ceded to a luscious licorice glow, it was growing on her. She was starting to feel mellow, filled with a warm sense of well-being.

  Sylviane was watching her carefully, smiling. “You like it, the pastis?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Okay, good! But be careful—it is very strong. More than it seems. Make you dance all night, on the boats on the Seine. So, did you see this movie called Addicted to Love? It has a Frenchman in it—oh, he makes me laugh! He says Frenchman in America is like Superman; he can do no wrong. Is this true?”

  “Um . . . I don’t know about Superman, but it’s true that a lot of people like the French accent.”

  “Like me? You think I would do well with my accent in America?”

  Genevieve smiled. “I’m sure you would. They’d love you.”

  “Or French Kiss—you see that one? They film it right here in Paris! Jacques Brel on the . . . what do you call this? The music.”

  “The soundtrack. I love that movie.”

  “Moi aussi! Me, too! Hey! We have a night to look at movies sometime?”

  “I would like that very much.”

  They exchanged numbers, and then Sylviane insisted on paying the bill.

  “I have to go.” She rolled her eyes. “Dinner with my family. You stay here, finish. No hurry. You keep the table all night if you want; this is how we do in Paris. No hurry. But we will be together soon, Genevieve Martin, serruriere extraordinaire!”

  They did the double-kiss good-bye, and Genevieve breathed in Sylviane’s fresh-bread perfume.

  Genevieve remained at the table, people watching, finally feeling at home and relaxed in a Parisian restaurant. So much so, in fact, that she decided to take Sylviane’s advice and linger, and even ordered a dinner of moules frites, mussels with fries.

  And wine to go with it.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Once again, Genevieve was awakened by the sound of the shop buzzer. She really needed to make up a sign, hang it on the door. She was not open for business.

  In fact, yesterday’s mail had included an official notice: It was bright pink and consisted of many pages. She had worked on decoding it for almost an hour with her dictionary at hand but still wasn’t certain what it meant. All she knew for sure was that it didn’t say, Welcome to Paris! We need all the locksmiths we can get!

  But license or no, Philippe was right: She couldn’t leave her uncle’s clients’ projects half finished; no matter what happened, at the very least she needed to finish up with them. Uncle Dave would have wanted that.

  Genevieve glanced at the calendar: This was the day Catharine was coming back to Paris. Could she be the one at the door? Wouldn’t she come to the apartment door on the courtyard side? Or surely she kept a key to the place?

  The buzzer rang again: loud and insistent. Genevieve finally surrendered, threw on yesterday’s clothes, ran a comb through her hair, and went out to the shop. It was a woman named Anna, with a baby in a stroller. She spoke English well and explained that she was a neighbor, pointing to an apartment building down the street. She had known Dave; apparently he had spoken to everyone who would listen about his American niece.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” said Genevieve after the long introduction. “But I’m not actually a locksmith, and the shop’s not open for business. . . .”

  “Please, I must get new keys made. You won’t believe my list of things to do today—if you could do this I would appreciate it! I must find a dress; tonight my husband and I have a babysitter. This is rare.”

  The cutting machine sat on the counter, and there were plenty of blanks hanging on the twirling display. The machine was straightforward; Genevieve was pretty sure she remembered how to use it. The keys in the woman’s hand looked like standard models, so if her uncle had the appropriate blanks, it would take her all of five minutes.

  Anna took her whimpering baby out of the stroller and jostled him, bouncing foot to foot, side to side.

  “Bien sûr,” Genevieve said finally, holding her hand out, palm up, for the keys. “Pourquoi pas?”

  Of course, why not? She was already beginning to sound like Dave, Genevieve thought. He had always believed he was a popular installation in the neighborhood because Americans were well liked after the war, but Genevieve knew it was much more than that. After all, Americans had fallen out of favor many times over in the intervening decades. He was popular because he was a smiling, happy soul, glad (eager, even) to do favors for friends and neighbors and passersby. He had the kind of relationship with his neighbors (and his neighborhood) that Genevieve had never known; even when she was a child, on the farm, there was a palpable distance between the Martin family and their neighbors, most of whom were urban financiers who liked to think of the semirural locale as bucolic but who disliked the reality of animal smells and sounds and had urged the city council, more than once, to rezone the area to a livestock-free zone.

  Genevieve offered the still-fretting child a set of keys to jangle. The young mother cast her a grateful smile. Anna’s harried state made Genevieve wonder what it would be like to raise a baby in a city like Paris.

  “You said you have a babysitter coming?” Genevieve said, making conversation as she picked out the appropriate blanks. These were new keys, with a common thickness and size.

  “Oui, but it costs a fortune. My mother and father li
ve in the countryside, near Bergerac. So I have no family here. This is why I must buy a dress, you see? I want the evening to be perfect. What do you call it, a date?”

  “Yes. You’re looking forward to an evening away from the baby, it sounds like.”

  “Mostly I am looking forward to a good dinner. And you know the Parisians: If you want to bring a dog to a nice restaurant, it is no problem, but a child? This is impossible.”

  “Is that true?”

  “The French,” Anna, the Frenchwoman, said with a roll of her eyes. “Impossible.”

  “I thought ‘impossible’ n’est pas français,” Genevieve said with a smile as she moved toward the cutting machine. “You might want to cover your ears; this will be loud.”

  But the baby seemed entranced by the loud whine of the saw. A few minutes later, Genevieve handed the new keys to Anna and explained that she couldn’t take money for the job. The young mother offered some now-familiar advice as to how to deal with French bureaucracy.

  The phone started ringing just as Genevieve was holding the door open for Anna and her baby, who was strapped back into the stroller. Genevieve locked the door of Under Lock and Key behind her, waved, then hurried into the rear apartment to catch the call on the sixth ring.

  “’ello?” She still didn’t know how to answer the phone in France. Put that on the list.

  “Genie.”

  Jason. Genevieve glanced up at the cuckoo clock, but of course its ornate hands were not showing the right time. Still, she knew there was a nine-hour time difference; he must be calling in the middle of the night.

  “Hi,” she managed.

  “So, how’s Paris?” His voice had a chatty, genial quality, with that barely there looseness she knew came after a few drinks. Jason was one of those guys who never appeared particularly drunk, just jovial. She had learned early to take the car keys before he started in on a third drink, even if he seemed perfectly sober.

  “It’s . . . good. Great. Beautiful, of course.”

  “Rainy?”

  Like strangers on a train. Worse, actually. With a stranger, at least, a person wouldn’t feel awkward exchanging small talk about the weather. With a stranger Genevieve wouldn’t feel ice crusting over her heart. With a stranger she wouldn’t feel this nausea in the pit of her stomach at the very sound of his voice.