He laughed.
“If you want to know the truth, I think, at least partly . . . I think I’m here trying to capture another time, another moment.”
“Your famous summer in Paris when you were young?”
“In part.” But truthfully there was more to it than that. Her mother had also come here. What had Angela been doing in Paris, all those years ago? There was something about it that had always seemed odd, some doubt niggling in the back of Genevieve’s mind. The way Angela spoke about Paris with such sad reverence, the fact that she never went back again. The photo of her, eyes shining with happiness, in that cabaret beside the handsome young stranger. Her tante Pasquale urging Angela to tell Jim something.
Killian waited for her to elaborate.
“My mother came to Paris the year before I was born. She always told me she was ‘on vacation,’ just a little trip away from her husband and son.”
“Your father and brother?”
“Right. Now I think maybe there was more to it.”
“More, like what?”
“Like . . . maybe she wanted to leave my father, move to Paris.” Genevieve hadn’t put her finger on it until right this moment. Hadn’t allowed the concept to formulate in her mind, as though voicing it would be the catalyst that would unify and harden the vague inklings into suspicion.
“What makes you think that?”
Genevieve searched Killian’s eyes for signs of doubt or skepticism or an edge of lewd curiosity. But all she found was frank interest, sincerity.
“I don’t have any real reason,” she said, still holding back. “Just a few things: My aunt said something, and there was a photo in Philippe’s house.”
“Philippe knew your mother?”
She nodded. “Better than I did, in some ways. I wish I could have known my mother as an adult.”
“A lot of people have troubles in their marriages, Genevieve. It doesn’t make them bad people.”
“I know. It’s not that. I just wish I could have known who she was.”
“You mean as a woman, besides being a mother?”
“Exactly. It seems to me that we start to see our parents as real people—fallible, with needs and desires of their own—only as we become adults ourselves. I had that with my father but not my mother. I lost her when I was still a child.”
“So in your mind she’s more symbol than flesh and blood: an icon of maternal love.”
“Yes. I have vague memories of her: the way she smelled, the feeling of her arms wrapped around me. But . . . they’re all about me, really. Who was she, as a person? What was she like when she was here in Paris, for example, far from her husband and child? Was she . . . happy here? And if so, why did she go back?”
After a long moment, Killian raised his glass in a toast.
“I guess that makes us both ghost hunters, then. Here’s to the two of us, Genevieve. Mad as hatters.”
Chapter Forty-five
Angela, 1983
Angela awakes in the hospital. Her brain is fuzzy. Her head throbs, her skin stings, and she can’t feel her arm, which is strapped close to her body.
The last thing she remembers is going to meet Xabi in front of the opera house, but he never arrived. Then she realized what day it was.
It couldn’t be, could it? He had sworn to her there was nothing to worry about.
Still.
She had wondered. Lay awake at night, worrying. Looked up the address for the Spanish embassy, wondering if she should say something, do something.
So when Xabi didn’t show up at la place de l’Opéra, Angela hopped the Métro to Alma-Marceau, running the rest of the way to the embassy. Yelling at the guards outside the front door, trying to warn them.
An old blue Renault was parked out in front . . . wasn’t that Thibeaux’s car?
And then . . . she can’t remember anything else.
“What happened?” Angela asks the nurse.
The nurse is kind and apologizes for not speaking English well. But she speaks very slowly in French, so Angela can understand.
“There was a bombing. A man ran all the way here, to the hospital, with you in his arms. A very handsome man.”
“Who . . . who was he?”
“Are you feeling well enough to read? Voilà, the newspaper.”
There is an article. No photo of the man who carried the American woman to the hospital, but a description. Dark hair, light eyes. Apparently injured. He is now being sought in connection to the bombing.
The bombing of the Spanish embassy. Three people had been killed, ten wounded.
“Also,” the nurse says, “I am sorry to say this, but the police will need to speak to you. Do not worry; it is just in case you saw something, perhaps, or someone. Because the terrorist bombings are a big problem in Paris, of course. How could they not be?”
“Tell me . . . could you please tell me about the man who brought me here? Was he hurt?”
“He would not stay for medical care, but he wanted to be sure you would be all right. And you will be fine—you have a minor concussion, and your arm was burned, but you should regain the use of it. Also, you have some scrapes and bruises, but nothing serious. I’ll get the doctor.”
The doctor—a large, florid man who smells of tobacco—assures her of the same. She will have significant scarring, he notes, and if she wants plastic surgery she can pursue that at a later date. Right now the main thing is to heal from the wound, keep it wrapped and safe from infection.
“Et ne vous inquiétez pas pour le bébé. No worries at all, madame. Your baby will be just fine.”
“Baby? What baby?”
Chapter Forty-six
Sylviane was enthralled with Genevieve’s cousin’s sand table. From the moment she and Genevieve walked into Catharine’s office, she had been recounting dream after dream and setting up figures at the sand table: She favored pink-and-purple princess motifs, and flowers, with a bottle of booze and a rusty old gear shaft thrown in for good measure.
“Catharine! Tell me, what does this say about me?”
Genevieve had gone to meet Sylviane at La Maréchalerie very early this morning. It was Sylviane’s day off, but Genevieve had asked to see how baguettes were made. The key, according to Sylviane, was using the very best ingredients—not all flour is the same!—and giving the loaves a special twist just prior to baking. While they watched a very handsome young Italian man (biceps glistening in the heat) twisting the dough, then putting raw loaves in the oven and extracting the freshly baked ones, Genevieve told Sylviane:
“I think we need to fix up my cousin Catharine.”
“Fix? She is sick?”
“No, sorry, it’s an expression. I would like to take her out shopping and have you dress her like you did me.”
“She is Parisian, is she not?”
“She is; it’s just . . . she’s a little different. I think she could use your help. Lunch is on me.”
“Good, I love that! You are looking good, you see? Because of me!”
Genevieve smiled. “Exactly.”
So now they stood at the sand table and Catharine interpreted for the overeager Sylviane. Her dreams revolved primarily around love affairs, and many sounded suspiciously like the basic storylines of romantic comedies.
“And you, ma petite cousine?” Catharine turned to Genevieve. “Have you had more dreams about not opening the doors?”
“A few.” Yes. She had been plagued by them, in fact. Which bewildered her, since during waking hours Genevieve was feeling so much happier: worried about her visa, of course, and wondering how to set up an apprenticeship and how she was going to manage to get the shop certified. But she had faith in the advice of her well-meaning neighbors; she had been gathering papers and documentation according to Monsieur Lambert’s list and planned to schedule an inspection of t
he shop as soon as she got it cleaned up and organized.
The truth was, Genevieve was falling in love with Paris and with Parisians. She felt more alive than she had in months (years?), and she intended to follow everyone’s advice and be so stubborn and compliant with the bureaucrats that they would eventually surrender and give her what she wanted. After all, “impossible” n’est pas français.
“Do you know the story of l’oiseau de Fitcher? ‘Fitcher’s Bird’?” Catharine asked.
Genevieve shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“Oh, I do!” said Sylviane.
“I will tell you,” said Catharine, with a quelling glance at Sylviane (“I will tell the story”). “‘Fitcher’s Bird’ is about an evil trickster who captures innocent young women, marries them, and carries them back to his home, which is full of riches. He gives them a set of keys to the whole house but says, ‘This one key, you must not use.’”
“Sounds like the legend of Bluebeard.”
“It is similar. But I like this version better.”
Genevieve smiled. “How come you get to pick and choose the fairy tales that best describe the human condition?”
Catharine shrugged and blew out a cloud of smoke. “Because this is my office.”
“She is right,” said Sylviane in a grave tone.
“Okay, sorry I interrupted. Please go on,” said Genevieve. “I take it the young woman opens the door against his advice and sees something she shouldn’t?”
“Precisely,” said Catharine. “His previous wives, all dead. Very gruesome.”
“Tu as oublié l’oeuf,” inserted Sylviane, then translated for Genevieve: “She forget the egg.”
“Oh, you are right. Yes,” said Catharine. “I forgot to mention the husband also gave her an egg to hold.”
“And what does the egg do?” Genevieve asked.
“When the girl goes in the forbidden room, there is blood everywhere and some gets on the egg,” volunteered Sylviane. She took a cigarette from Catharine’s open pack on the desk. “But of course blood cannot be washed off an eggshell.”
“I thought you quit smoking,” commented Genevieve, not relishing sitting in the small office with two smokers.
“I did!” Sylviane shrugged and got up to open the window. “I don’t buy them anymore. Is different when they are from someone else.”
“Okay, so the blood doesn’t wash off the egg,” said Genevieve, coming back to the story. “Now it sounds like Macbeth.”
“I know you are making fun, but there is a reason so many stories include similar elements,” said Catharine. “Just as our dreams do. We share the culture of humanity.”
One aspect of this idea made Genevieve uncomfortable; she wasn’t sure she wanted to share her most private thoughts and dreams—and symbols—with the rest of the world. On the other hand, it also made her feel connected, and curious as to what the disparate members of humanity held in common.
“When the egg is dropped in the blood, it is stained,” continued Catharine. “This is symbolic of knowledge: once you know something, you cannot go back, cannot unlearn it.”
“Then how come I can never remember my online passwords?”
“You like to joke. I know this. You Americans like to joke; you are always laughing. Smiling. But not everything is funny.”
“I like the funny Americans,” said Sylviane with a shrug.
“Sorry,” said Genevieve, chastened. “Please keep going, Catharine. Blood gets on the egg and she can’t wash it off.”
“Exactly. So then the trickster returns, sees the blood, and she meets her bloody fate in the secret chamber.”
“I’m telling you, these damsels really should have taken a decent self-defense course.”
“Except that they aren’t young women at all, of course,” says Catharine, an edge to her voice betraying her impatience. “They are vulnerable parts of our psyche; this is what I’m trying to tell you. That is why they are always young and most often female. Every character is simply some aspect of us.”
“Vraiment? Really?” Sylviane perked up at this last piece. “This is very interesting.”
“Why do you think fables are so powerful?” said Catharine. “They are not fantastical tales about girls and wolves, or such a thing. They are about our own inner workings.”
Sylviane smiled broadly and nudged Genevieve. “Your cousin, she is very interesting.”
“You’re right; she is,” said Genevieve, nodding in agreement.
“Then her sister comes,” continued Catharine. “But the sister is clever. She puts the egg in a safe hiding place first, and only then does she open the secret room. And what do you think she finds?”
“I’m guessing it’s not good,” said Genevieve.
“Not at all. There she finds her sisters’ bodies all . . . how do you say, all divided? Arms here, legs there, head cut off?”
“Chopped up? Dismembered?”
“Exactement. Exactly. They are dismembered, but the last sister is able to put the pieces back together and her sisters come alive.”
“So they are parts of the psyche that she is repairing!” Sylviane declared, apparently a convert to Catharine’s interpretation. “So, Genevieve, this means the locked room in your dream is a part of your psyche that’s all locked up! What do you think about that?”
Sylviane and Catharine had a lively exchange in French.
“Couldn’t the dreams simply be a result of me thinking about becoming a locksmith?” asked Genevieve. “And dealing with the inherent frustrations of the profession? Not to mention the ordeal of trying to get my certification from the French bureaucracy?”
Catharine stubbed out her cigarette, agitated, and waved one hand in the air. “If you insist on the most obvious of interpretations, this is fine. But I can assure you, ma petite cousine, there is much more to this than you think. Our dreams are the route through which our inner selves speak to us.”
“But maybe some rooms are meant to remain locked,” Genevieve heard herself saying. “Why can’t that be the lesson of the egg in the story? If you follow orders and don’t open the door, you won’t get chopped up.”
“Just because you don’t see the bodies doesn’t mean they aren’t there,” said Sylviane in a sage tone. “You never see Silence of the Lambs?”
“She is right,” said Catharine. “And, Genevieve, my father used to say that if there’s one thing a locksmith can’t stand, it’s a locked door. And I think you are already more of a locksmith than you know.”
Chapter Forty-seven
“Genevieve Martin, I am come back, you see? Okay!”
Philippe stood outside the shop window, smiling and waving with his cane.
“Philippe! So nice to see you,” Genevieve said as she opened the door. “We’ve missed you.”
“Ooh la,” he said, sucking air in between his teeth and shaking one hand as though burned. “Look at you, you look très parisienne! You have gone shopping, I think.”
Even while Genevieve smiled and thanked him for his compliment, part of her wondered: How unkempt did she look before, that everyone reacted so strongly to her new look? She had never been a fashion plate, but she had always considered herself at least presentable. But, then, this was Paris, she reminded herself. The standards were high.
“You come to my house?” Philippe said. “Finish with the locks maybe?”
“Yes, I’d be glad to. I finished with Monsieur Angelini, so once I complete your job only Madame Gerard is left.”
“But you have many more customers, I think. Always the people need the locksmith.”
“I’m not sure. I’m having some trouble getting my paperwork signed and stamped. Apparently the stamp is very important. And even then . . . I would have to apprentice before becoming certified as a locksmith. It’s complicated.”
; “I know another locksmith, on the other side of Paris—he was a friend of Dave’s. I am sure he could help. I am happy to introduce you.”
“Thank you. Let me get a little further with the paperwork, and then I might take you up on that.”
Genevieve had spent yet another day down at the visa offices, armed with all the paperwork she could think of: passport and visa (of course), a recent utility bill in her name (to show she was actually living in the village and paying bills); a notarized letter from Catharine (notaries were much more formal and expensive here than in the U.S., Genevieve had discovered to her chagrin), testimonials from her neighbors (Marie-Claude and Daniel had gathered the notes and presented them to her as a gift in a bundle, along with a jar of homemade cherry preserves), and the sheaf of forms that had been thrust into her hands by Monsieur Lambert (which Genevieve carefully filled out and asked Sylviane to proofread).
Still, Genevieve had yet to obtain the necessary signatures, much less the treasured stamp. She had been given more forms to fill out and had scheduled a shop inspection.
But despite all of this, Genevieve felt content to remain in her strange limbo. Occasionally she would wake at three in the morning and start to worry, her mind tripping over a thousand hurdles yet to clear and conjuring disastrous what-if scenarios. But in general she was stubbornly not thinking about what would happen if she failed to arrange the paperwork with the proper authorities and never received a work permit. Or, even if she managed that, how would she get through the locksmith apprenticeship? Also, she didn’t want to think about Jason and the next steps in the divorce.
In fact, all she wanted to do was play with her uncle’s old locks and keys, open a door or two, and hang out with Sylviane and Killian and the neighbors and even Catharine. Killian had come by and (with the vociferous assistance of Daniel and Jacques) set up Genevieve’s Internet connection so she had been able to pay some bills, but even so, other than sending Mary a chatty note, she had barely checked her e-mail.
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