She was overcome by a grumpy, American sentiment: Couldn’t we just get something easy, maybe a drive-through? Why did everything have to be such a big deal in Paris? But she kept quiet and allowed herself to be escorted to the back of the line, cattlelike, with the others. She kept their place while Killian availed himself of the restroom to wash up.
“Now, it’s a good thing the line’s long, because there are a couple of things I need to know from you,” said Killian upon his return.
“Um . . . okay . . . ,” Genevieve hedged, her stomach sinking. This was the last thing she wanted, to have to get up close and personal with some guy. Why couldn’t she have kept her big mouth shut? Why did she allow Sylviane to sway her? Why had she wiped a smudge off Killian’s cheek?
“First, do you want your sandwich with all the add-ons, and second—and, most important—do you want harissa?”
She smiled in relief. Questions about food, she could handle. “Yes, the works, but no onions; and second, I might, if I knew what harissa was.”
“C’est piquante. . . . Hot sauce.”
“Oh yes. Definitely hot sauce.”
The man in front of them turned around. “Haven’t had these before?”
Genevieve shook her head.
“You’re in for a treat,” he said in a jolly accent that she assumed was Scottish. It didn’t sound like Killian’s Irish lilt, and it was more charming than the standard British inflection.
They chatted for a few minutes; then he turned back to his wife and started speaking what sounded like fluent Vietnamese. Genevieve realized that the young men behind them were speaking something that sounded like Hebrew, and she caught snippets of American English and Spanish.
Genevieve looked at Killian and raised one eyebrow: “You brought me to a tourist attraction? I thought this was some secret gem only the locals knew about.”
“Well, now, it’s hard to keep a place like this a secret once Lenny Kravitz starts tweeting about it. Paris is the most visited city in the world—did you know that?”
“And you’re saying just about everybody who visits winds up at L’As du Fallafel?”
“Sooner or later. This, and the ice cream at Berthillon.”
Genevieve smiled, remembering the kids whining for ice cream while atop Notre-Dame. Perhaps it was hunger, but it was dizzying to consider how long ago it felt she had been mingling with the gargoyles, even though it had been only a couple of weeks. And Oakland was another lifetime entirely. She had a moment of feeling out of time and place: How could Genevieve Martin be standing here in this place, in this time? Her eyes landed on yet another plaque, which declared that forty-eight people had been deported from the corner during the war. Little children, old women, it didn’t matter. No mercy.
And now Genevieve and Killian stood in an absurdly long line awaiting falafel and schwarma stuffed into pita bread, and the toughest decision they were facing was whether they wanted harissa. Surreal.
Even though Genevieve had plenty of time to formulate her French sentence asking for what she wanted, when they finally got to the head of the line and handed their ticket to the men at the window, she was struck by stage fright. Killian stepped in and ordered for her, joking around with the servers in fluent French.
Within seconds, Genevieve and Killian were walking away holding fat, heavy, foil-wrapped sandwiches so stuffed with fillings it was hard to know how to approach them. In what seemed like a highly un-Parisian scene, dozens of people stood around, leaning against buildings, and eating right there in the alley. Killian and Genevieve found a section of wall to lean against and joined in.
Killian watched as Genevieve took her first bite of falafel. Raised his eyebrows. “Worth the wait?”
“Mmmm,” she replied, nodding, her mouth full.
Halfway through they switched, so they each could sample the falafel and the schwarma. Both were delectable, enhanced by salted cucumber and shredded cabbage and roasted eggplant and harissa and tahini.
“It’s great to see this neighborhood coming back like this,” said Killian as they ate. “It was emptied out, of course, during World War II. The Jewish deli there on the corner? It used to be a jewelry store; it was bombed in 1942.”
“Bombed? I thought . . . people were rounded up and taken away. I didn’t realize there were bombings.”
“The anti-Semitism had been building for some time. Nasty stuff.” He shook his head. “Bombings . . . so impersonal. Horrific.”
His eyes took a far-off cast, and there was something about the way he spoke that made her wonder.
“Is there still a problem in Ireland, with the violence?”
“Not nearly as bad as it once was, but yes, there are still tensions. I wasn’t involved in any of that, but I spent a lot of time and energy making sure I kept out of it. There’s . . . there was right and wrong on both sides, plenty of violence. It’s not an easy situation, nor is it an easy truce.”
After they finished their sandwiches, they strolled through the ancient neighborhood of the Marais. The streets were full of cafés and shops, tourists and locals alike.
On one largely residential corner they passed by a building with a sign: MUSÉE CARNAVALET.
“Have you been in here yet?” Killian asked. “It’s a great museum, focuses on the history of Paris. Look, they’re doing an exhibit about one of you lads, Josephine Baker.”
“That’s right, my cousin mentioned Baker lived here.”
“Shall we go in? It’s free.”
“Free and dealing with ‘one of my lads’? How could I refuse?”
The exhibit included early film footage, reels of Baker dancing virtually naked, covered only in endless strands of pearls and feathers, or in a skirt made of bananas. Her dances were raunchy even now; Genevieve thought she must have been a phenomenon back in the day.
“She was really something,” Killian said as they checked out a mannequin sporting one of her skimpy costumes, made primarily of ostrich feathers. “Did you know she owned a castle in the Dordogne?”
“A castle? Josephine Baker bought herself a French castle?”
He nodded. “She did very well here. Hugely popular. Her theme song was: ‘J’ai Deux Amours: Mon Pays et Paris.’”
“‘I Have Two Loves . . .’?”
He nodded. “‘I Have Two Loves: My Country and Paris.’ She stuck with France through the war, too, and was even suspected of espionage on behalf of the Allies. As you can imagine, this only increased her popularity. She not only bought a castle, but then she adopted a whole slew of children from all over the world, a ‘rainbow tribe’ long before Angelina Jolie thought of it. She was a true original.”
Genevieve referred to the pamphlet (in English) she had nabbed from the kiosk upon entering. She read aloud: “The castle is called Château des Milandes; she lived there from 1937 to 1969. But listen to this: It says she ran out of money and eventually lost the place. Apparently she ‘wound up on the kitchen stoop, confused, asking to be let back in.’” Genevieve looked up from her reading. “That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard. I wish I didn’t know that part.”
Killian turned to Genevieve, stopping her.
“Just because something has a sad ending doesn’t mean the entire interlude was sad, Genevieve. Josephine Baker was a groundbreaker; she lived an extraordinary life.”
She shrugged. “I suppose.”
“And then Grace Kelly stepped in and offered assistance, so ultimately she was taken care of. Oh, look at this.” He stopped in front of photos of exotic animals. “She was a collector of animals as well as of children. She had quite the menagerie.”
“William Randolph Hearst did the same thing in California, but he had to build his own castle to show them off. No genuine articles in the real estate listings in that part of the world.”
“Do you miss it?”
“What?”
“California? That’s your home, right?”
Was it her home? She shrugged. “It’s beautiful. Everyone loves it. You should go.”
“That’s not what I asked you. Paris is a beautiful place, too. But some people prefer not to be surrounded by too much beauty. The contrast to their inner feelings can be depressing.”
“You have a very strange way of looking at the world, you know that?”
He granted her a crooked grin and shrugged. “Well, you know the Irish, we’re a morose lot. I do believe we enjoy the gray weather, at least most of the time. It suits our moods and makes it a reasonable choice to go down the pub all day, imbibing and grumbling.”
Perhaps that was why Killian had left Ireland, she thought: He seemed of an ever-sunny disposition. She smiled, and their gazes met and held for a beat.
And then Genevieve remembered she was married. Not for long, and certainly not happily . . . but the knowledge was there nonetheless, the gold band still in her jewelry box.
She turned away, looked at a picture of a pen that had been built to hold a jaguar. The big cat’s eyes seemed huge and sorrowful as it gazed out at the photographer. “The cage seems small, doesn’t it?”
“Aye,” Killian said very softly behind her. “Very small. Depressing.”
Genevieve looked over her shoulder. “Does that mean we should go drown our sorrows ‘down the pub’?”
“I think that’s precisely what it means.”
Chapter Forty-four
“And here I thought ‘down the pub’ was just an expression. I had no idea there were actual pubs in Paris.”
Killian and Genevieve were seated at the Bombadier, in the Latin Quarter.
“It’s a very cosmopolitan city. The tourists want typical Parisian things, of course; that’s understandable. But the locals want the occasional Mexican food, Ethiopian food . . .”
“British food?” She lifted an eyebrow in question.
He laughed. “I wouldn’t go that far. They may be cosmopolitan, but they’re true epicureans. You won’t find anyone rushing to sample British fare, I fear. It’s the scotch they’re after in a place like this.”
“So really it should be called a Scottish pub.”
“You’re a real stickler for details, aren’t you?”
She smiled and took a tiny sip of her whiskey, making her eyes water. It was mellow, aged, excellent. Still, she wasn’t a huge fan of hard liquor, and the smell reminded her of Jason. She remembered how she used to love smelling it on his breath, tasting it on his lips. Whiskey kisses. The memory made her sad and left her yearning for something she wasn’t ready to admit.
“So,” Killian said, “you mentioned you were a copy editor, right? D’ya work on novels, then?”
“No, training manuals, technical booklets, that sort of thing.”
“Ah,” he said, taking a sip of his scotch.
He was too polite to say what Sylviane had: Sounds boring. And it was boring. It took skill and a detail-oriented nature, and Genevieve liked to think she was the best damned freelance copy editor in the business. But really . . . what had she offered to society, to the greater good? Had her efforts kept the world of training manuals free from the scourge of misused ellipses, from the menace of the misplaced comma? And who really cared?
On the other hand, grammatical errors put her teeth on edge, and she did find a certain satisfaction in maintaining standards. And again, she had been able to make a living in the Bay Area, a feat easier said than done, all while maintaining her own schedule.
But she wanted more.
“One great thing about it is that once I have Internet, it’s something I could do from here if I need cash.”
“That is a plus, for sure. And here I thought you weren’t wild about computers,” he said with a smile.
“They aren’t my happy place, but I am as dependent on them as everyone else, I suppose.”
“And . . . what does your husband do?” said Killian.
“My—how—I mean—is it that obvious that I’m married?”
He lifted one eyebrow.
Genevieve sat back in her chair. “He’s in computers, of course. But . . . we’re not married, or not for long, anyway. We’re all over but the paperwork, at this point.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you. It’s for the best.” I don’t want to talk about it.
“So, tell me about Philippe’s basement,” Killian said after a moment. “Anything good?”
“I’m sure you’ll enjoy it—it’s a bit manky, as you would say. The only thing really odd was a little trapdoor under a grate.”
“A trapdoor? Did you open it?”
“Not yet. It’s locked. It’s probably nothing exciting. Most likely it’s a disposal pipe, maybe a sewer entrance they keep closed to keep the rats out.”
“Still, worth a look, don’t you think?”
“Maybe,” she said with a shrug. Why did she even mention this to Killian? He probably wouldn’t have noticed it on his own. And what was it about the door that bothered her? Her uncle had put a special lock on it. Why?
Her turn to change the subject. “So, tell me, how did you get into photographing abandoned places? I mean, that’s what you do?”
“Essentially, yeah. Some of the gang call themselves Urban Explorers—the whole movement is known as Urbex. But that seems a bit pretentious to me. In fact, I had no idea I was part of a ‘movement’ until my mate pointed it out to me. For me it started out as more of a . . . compulsion, for lack of a better word.”
Genevieve nodded. If there was one thing she understood, it was the unruly desire to enter places that are supposed to be off-limits.
“The first place I went into was this creepy old abandoned house on the outskirts of Dublin. I had passed it a thousand times, and finally I couldn’t fight it anymore. I had to have a peek inside.” He shook his head, looked out into space. “I was so excited, enthralled by the space. Every room, every artifact from a bygone era, from a past life . . . Sometimes I think I’m more a ghost hunter than an ‘adventurer.’”
“Philippe says there are ghosts in the catacombs.”
“I wouldn’t be too surprised.”
“Do you really believe in spirits?”
He paused for a long moment, took a sip of his scotch. Shrugged.
“I like to think that by taking photos of bits of history, the spirits and memories that come through the dust and decay . . . that I can capture part of the essence of the people who once lived there. That’s why I never stage anything—it’s like an Urbex code: You just take photos of things exactly as they are. I think human life leaves traces of energy behind, in the walls and the furniture, just as we leave behind our old curtains or letters or shoes. Does that sound crazy?”
“No, it sounds just about right.”
“Which is not to say I’m looking forward to encountering any real, Hollywood-style ghosts, though, I have to say. I once went into an old hotel. . . . Doors kept slamming, my equipment wouldn’t work. . . .” He played with his scotch, then flashed her a crooked grin. “I’m not saying there were ghosts, but I was pretty happy to get out of there.”
After another sip of scotch, Genevieve ventured, “Liliane is lovely.”
He laughed and nodded. “Yes, she is.”
“Are you and she . . . ?”
He shook his head. “She’s lovely, as you say. But she’s not the right one for me, or maybe I should say I’m not right for her. She just hasn’t figured that out yet. I’ve still got her fooled.”
“And how do you know who’s right?”
“That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it? I’m no expert in love. In fact, I’ve been engaged twice but married nary a once.”
“What happened?”
“Well, the first time hardly
counts. We were both pissed.”
“Drunk?”
“Terrible, isn’t it? Youth. We were kids, really. Anyway, that didn’t work out; we were clearly too young. And then more recently . . . my ex, Claire, is a wonderful woman. I just . . .” He trailed off with a shake of his head. “It sounds silly to my own ears when I say it aloud, but she couldn’t handle my explorations, to be honest. Just couldn’t deal at all.”
“She didn’t like you getting manky?”
“Exactly. And it’s not that my wandering around in empty buildings is more important than the woman I’m with, but . . . if she can’t understand why I’m so interested, I think that signals a problem, don’t you? Case in point: My da, he’s into horses. Just adores them. And my ma loves to go to high tea, see a play. They don’t agree on anything, and that in itself would be okay except that they use their time together to tear down each other’s interests. Ended up despising each other.”
“Are they still together?”
“Oh, yeah, sure. The Irish stick together, makin’ each other miserable till the day they die.” He gave Genevieve a crooked smile, took a drink, then gazed at her. “They’d both like you, though, I’ll bet.”
Genevieve looked around the pub, avoiding Killian’s eyes. It was late afternoon, but the pub started to fill, mostly with men, stopping by after work. In addition to French she heard a smattering of English in a variety of accents from all over the world. Paris truly was a world capital.
“So, you really want to take over your uncle’s locksmith shop?” Killian asked.
“I think so, yes. I’m thinking about it, anyway.”
“And yet you’re working for free?” he teased. “Fine way to run a business.”
“As you said yourself, the French bureaucracy is legendary.”
“Sure. But you have to be tenacious.”
Genevieve shrugged and sipped her scotch. “I’ll get around to it. I’ve done some of the paperwork, even spent a day down at the offices, but I think maybe living in Paris is sapping me of my American can-do attitude.”
The Paris Key Page 27