While René bent down to scratch William Morris’s fur, Robert and Rosalie looked almost simultaneously into the dog basket, which, as they could easily see, wasn’t totally empty.
They looked at each other in surprise, then, against their will, grinned, one of them with a feeling of boundless relief, the other with a slightly guilty expression, and then remarkably said the same thing:
“I think I owe you an apology.”
Fourteen
That very evening Rosalie Laurent was, to her own surprise, walking through the Tuileries beside Robert Sherman in perfect harmony. After the discovery of the wallet, which had inexplicably landed in the dog basket, she had apologized shamefacedly. But the American had also done the same. For his unacceptable behavior. Then an embarrassed silence had fallen.
René, in some confusion, had looked from one to the other. Then amazingly the connection between the wallet and the stranger with the American accent had struck him.
“Non!” he shouted. “C’est pas vrai! Is that the psychopath?”
Rosalie went bright red.
“Eh … yes … sort of,” she stuttered. “This is Robert Sherman.” She glanced quickly at the American, who seemed to be enjoying her embarrassment. “We … we were just sorting something out. Let me introduce you. Robert Sherman—René Joubert.”
“Glad to meet you,” said Sherman with great presence of mind.
René drew himself up to his full height. “I don’t share your gladness, connard,” he thundered. He took a threatening step toward the surprised Sherman, who seemed momentarily not to understand the meaning of the word connard, and looked him straight in the eye. “Listen very carefully; I will say this only once. If you hassle my girlfriend again, I’ll break every bone in your body.”
Sherman regained his composure surprisingly quickly. A thin smile played at the corner of his mouth. “Oh, is this your boyfriend?” he asked Rosalie, who at that moment simply wished that the earth would swallow her up. “What is he then? A bouncer in a club?”
He ducked smartly behind one of the postcard stands as René took a swing at him. The blow hit thin air and René spun completely around and shouted at the smirking Sherman: “Come here, you coward!”
“René … stop!” Rosalie threw herself between them before it developed into a brawl in the shop that would surely have knocked over more than just a couple of postcards.
It cost her some effort to explain to her outraged boyfriend that she didn’t need protection anymore, and that Monsieur Sherman had only returned because he wanted to get his wallet back. He’d lost it in the shop, and it had actually—believe it or not—been in the dog basket the whole time.
“Just think, William Morris was lying on it, which is why we couldn’t find it at first,” she said, laughing to defuse the situation.
René frowned and looked suspiciously at the American. “What’s this all about? A wallet? I thought it was all about your book? You told me yesterday that this lunatic kept insulting and threatening you. He trashed your store and then in the evening rampaged around so wildly in the street that you almost called the police, is what you said!”
Sherman raised his eyebrows expressively. Rosalie squirmed uncomfortably as the two men looked at her in confusion. Perhaps she’d been so angry that she’d exaggerated a bit when telling René.
“Well … I suppose ‘threatened’ is a bit too strong,” she said eventually. “But anyway I didn’t get the feeling that you were on a peaceful mission yesterday, Monsieur Sherman.”
“I may have gone a little too far,” Sherman conceded. “Yesterday one thing just led to another—the whole day was more than unpleasant. But as far as the authorship of the children’s book is concerned, I am one hundred percent in the right, and if you hear the whole story, you’ll understand why.”
Rosalie coughed. “I’m all agog.” She thought back to her telephone conversation with Max Marchais. “I have my own contribution to make. We should discuss the matter once more—calmly. Perhaps not here in the store, where customers could come in at any moment.”
They had finally agreed to meet in Le Café Marly that evening. “Now that I have my wallet back,” Sherman had added; finding the wallet had obviously made him feel generous, “we can continue our discussion over a civilized meal. Your friend is also very welcome to come, of course, and can then personally convince himself that I wouldn’t harm a hair on your head.”
* * *
ABOUT HALF PAST EIGHT they were sitting under the arcades of Le Café Marly and had ordered their meal—but without René, who had arranged to meet a friend that evening.
“If you ask me, he actually seems quite normal,” René had said after Sherman had left the shop again.
That’s what Rosalie thought, too, as she now unobtrusively examined the American who was admiring the view of the Louvre with its illuminated glass pyramid.
“That wasn’t there the last time I was in Paris,” he said. “But that was a long time ago. I was still a kid then, and the only thing I can remember about the Louvre is the Mona Lisa with her strange smile. Did you know that her gaze follows you everywhere? That really impressed me at the time.” He cut a chunk of his club sandwich, and Rosalie tried to imagine Robert Sherman as a little boy.
“How come you speak French so well?” she asked. “I always thought that Americans don’t learn any foreign languages on principle, because they think they can get along anywhere just using English.”
“Strange, I’ve heard the same about the French,” he retorted, and there was no mistaking the mockery in his voice. “I’ve heard that they absolutely refuse to speak anything but their mother tongue. But only out of narrow-mindedness—not because they speak a world language.” He grinned.
“Let’s not start arguing again, Monsieur Sherman, okay?” Rosalie speared a piece of chicken in red-wine sauce. “So, what’s the reason? Or is that top secret?”
He laughed. “No, no. There are no secrets in my life. The whole thing has a rather boring explanation. My mother insisted that I learn French because her family originally came from France. She spoke French to me even when I was very little. I have to admit, if it had been left to me I would never have thought of it. In those days I found the language … well … how shall I put it … kind of unmanly—for a true American.”
“You don’t say!” Rosalie sat up in her chair. “That shows how long you’ve been harboring your prejudices. But I can assure you that the French language is not unmanly—and nor are French men!”
“That makes me very happy for you, Mademoiselle Laurent. I assume you’re speaking from experience.” His eyes gleamed.
“No, don’t be impertinent, Monsieur Sherman. My private life is none of your business. And I’m also very happy for you.”
“Why? Because French men are so manly?”
“No, because your mother had her way. She seems to be a very bright woman.”
“Well…” He reached for his wineglass, and looked into it thoughtfully. “Bright … she certainly was, my mother.” He lowered his gaze. “But not anymore, unfortunately. She died a couple of months ago.”
“Oh.” Rosalie was disconcerted. “I’m sorry about that.”
“That’s all right.” He nodded a couple of times, putting his glass down with a jerk. You could see that the wound still hadn’t healed. “Well—at least I’m happy, too, that she insisted on it. And not only because it will make my stay in your city so much easier.”
When he mentioned the guest professorship he’d been offered, Rosalie could hardly conceal her surprise.
“A Shakespeare specialist? But I think the legal profession suits you perfectly,” she declared.
“Why? Because I insist on my rights?”
“No, because you always insist on being right,” she riposted, chewing contentedly on her chicken.
“And you’re at least as quick on the trigger as Shakespeare’s Kate.”
She swallowed the chicken. Shakespeare’s Kate
meant nothing to her. “Aha. And is that good or bad?” she asked.
“Have you never heard of The Taming of the Shrew? La Mégère apprivoisée?” he added in French with a smile.
“Of course I have,” she replied. “But I don’t know the details.”
“I’ll give you a copy to read sometime, then you can decide for yourself,” he said. “I bet Kate will appeal to you.”
He smiled as if he’d just cracked a great joke, then he looked at her, becoming serious.
“So, Mademoiselle Laurent, we have something to discuss. Which of us should start?”
Rosalie laid her cutlery aside and dabbed at her mouth with her napkin.
“Bon. Then I’ll come straight to the point,” she said. “Your strange accusations allowed me no rest, and so I called Max Marchais this morning.…”
“And?” Sherman leaned attentively. The color of his shirt matched his blue eyes perfectly—the thought shot through Rosalie’s mind. Then she brushed it aside and shook her head.
“It was exactly as I thought. Marchais assured me that he thought up the story. And—I quote—‘word by word.’ To be on the safe side I also asked if there was possibly a fairy tale, some kind of source that his book is based on, but that is not the case, either. He became extremely annoyed when I told him about the accusation of plagiarism. And the name Sherman means nothing at all to him. It’s Marchais’s story, and I believe him, no matter what you say.”
“But Mademoiselle Laurent, that cannot be.”
“Then what?! Are you seriously trying to tell me that you wrote the story? When you were five years old?”
“I’ve never claimed to be the story’s author,” responded Sherman in surprise. “I’ve only said that it cannot possibly be by this guy Marchais.”
“What makes you so sure?” Rosalie set her elbows on the white tablecloth, linked her hands together, rested her chin on them, and looked at him quizzically. “It can’t just be the fact that you’re the great Shakespeare specialist.”
“Okay then.” Sherman shoved his plate aside. “I’ll give you my version of the story.”
* * *
ROBERT SHERMAN TALKED for quite a while. He left nothing out. Not the fact that the story of the blue tiger had been his favorite as a child, or that his mother had told him it didn’t exist in book form. When he talked about her death and that she’d mentioned a passage from The Blue Tiger in her very last moments, without his realizing it at the time, Rosalie’s eyes turned black as ink. And as he then told her—his voice breaking—how he’d found the manuscript among the papers his mother had left behind—with the dedication and her final handwritten message—she couldn’t prevent the tears from welling up in her eyes.
Listening to him, she was very moved. What a sad story. And yet, how much love there was in it. It was only when Sherman mentioned the dedication that she realized that his name began with an R just like hers. “Rosalie” … “Robert.” Strange.
“Well, I always thought that the ‘R’ was meant for me,” she said in some embarrassment. “But the way you tell it, that’s hardly possible.”
Sherman looked at her with surprise before continuing. “No, that’s out of the question, the ‘R’ is for ‘Robert.’ After all, my mother did attach that note to the manuscript, and that makes it quite clear.”
Rosalie listened to him in silence, trying to master her confusion. She had naturally assumed that the “For R” in the book had been for her, and Max Marchais had said nothing to the contrary. Nevertheless, she was suddenly less certain.
She tried to recall the moment when she’d thanked Marchais for the dedication. What exactly had he said then? She thought a moment, and then it came back to her: “Don’t say anything.”
Of course she’d interpreted it as meaning that he didn’t want to make a big deal out of it, but perhaps it had just been difficult for him when she discovered the R and assumed it was meant for her. The old man’s obvious embarrassment had touched her, because she’d imagined that his heart beat a little too strongly for her and that he was ashamed of it, even though there was no reason to be. You should never be ashamed of love. But now she asked herself if there could be another reason for the author’s strange reaction. For example, that she’d caught him out in a lie?
Rosalie played thoughtfully with her glass. If Sherman was telling the truth—and she now saw no reason to doubt it—there was an old manuscript that his mother had left him. With a story that Mrs. Sherman had thought up for her little son.
Poor Sherman! No wonder he’d been so shocked when he discovered the book in the window display. And so hurt and furious when he found “his” story between the covers of the book.
By the time Sherman had stopped talking, the Marly was already quite empty. There were only a few isolated customers sitting at the tables conversing quietly. Rosalie said nothing for a while, allowing the literature professor’s words to work on her. What she had just heard made her feel ashamed. She believed the man who was sitting opposite her and who, all at once, had all her sympathy. But she also believed Max Marchais, whose outrage had been totally unfeigned. This was all more than strange.
And what if they were both right? What if there were two truths? she thought.
“What’s up? Don’t tell me you’re lost for words.” Sherman was looking attentively at her.
Rosalie smiled thoughtfully and looked up at him.
“Yes,” she said. “Just imagine, that’s exactly what’s happened.”
“Will you help me to find out the truth anyway?” He had instinctively reached for her hand.
She nodded. “I think the key to all this must lie in the manuscript. Do you think you could get it sent here?”
Night had fallen as they left Le Café Marly. The pyramid outside the Louvre shone through the night like a mysterious spaceship that had been stranded in Paris.
Just after midnight, Rosalie slipped into bed. Drunk with sleep, René muttered “Bonne nuit” as she snuggled up to him, and then carried on sleeping.
And the following entry found its way into her blue notebook:
The worst moment of the day:
René calls the American an asshole and there is almost a fight. Lucky there weren’t any customers in the store at the time! This was really embarrassment day: first of all, Sherman finds his wallet in the dog’s basket, even though I’d previously insisted it wasn’t in the store, then René asks, out loud, if that is the “psychopath”!
The best moment of the day:
René has been invited to a seminar with Zack Whiteman in San Diego—he once worked with Jack LaLanne, the famous fitness guru. Never heard of him, but it appears to be something very special—René is completely over the moon. The seminar lasts four weeks, and René swung me in the air and asked if we shouldn’t move into an apartment together when he comes back. He’s never asked me that before!
PS: Another strangely nice moment in Le Café Marly: Sherman asks me if I’ll help him to find out the truth about the tiger manuscript, and briefly takes my hand. The glass pyramid shines and everything is kind of unreal. I said yes, of course, and suddenly had the feeling that I’m an altogether good person. Actually, he’s not such an oddball after all, this American. Even if his image of the French is so ludicrous. The story about his mother moved me deeply.
Fifteen
In the middle of the night his cell phone rang. Drunk with sleep, Robert Sherman fumbled around on the bedside table and held the phone to his ear. Strangely enough, he’d thought it would be Rosalie Laurent, and so he was really surprised when he heard a voice that at first seemed completely unknown.
“It’s me,” said the voice.
“Who is this?”
“Don’t you recognize your own girlfriend anymore?” Rachel asked sharply.
“Rachel!” He grabbed his forehead with a sigh. “Sorry. I was asleep. It’s”—he glanced at his little brown travel alarm—“a quarter past one. What’s the matter? Why are you calling me
in the middle of the night?”
“I’ve been trying to reach you all day, darling, but you never answer.” He heard the crackling on the line. She seemed to be waiting for an explanation.
“I’m sorry. The battery was dead. I didn’t notice it in all the excitement. But it’s charged now.”
“Thank God for that.” She seemed to be a little friendlier. “I was worried, Robert. What’s the situation with your wallet now? Didn’t you get my text? Should I transfer some money to you? I’ve already spoken to the bank.” That was typical Rachel. Efficient as always.
“Oh … yes … right.” He rolled back onto his pillow. “Yes, yes, I got your text. Thanks! But I got my wallet back this morning. Just think, I’d dropped it in a store; I went back yesterday evening, but the owner wouldn’t let me in.” Strangely enough, he felt able to laugh about it now.
“And you didn’t think to tell me?” He heard her making a little annoyed sound.
“I’m so sorry, darling—in all the excitement it completely slipped my mind,” he said sheepishly.
“Excitement? What excitement—I thought you’d just gotten your wallet back! And it took a whole day to do it, if I understand things rightly.”
“Oh, it’s not just the wallet. You have no idea what’s going on here, Rachel.”
“What’s going on? To be perfectly honest, I didn’t understand half of your text yesterday. Why is Paris full of surprises and puzzles? And what about the French bitch?”
Robert sat up in bed with a sigh. He probably did owe Rachel an explanation. As he summarized the events of the previous day, it surprised him to think that he’d only been in Paris two days.
“Can you imagine how shocked I was to suddenly find the blue tiger story in the stationery store in the rue du Dragon?” he ended up.
“‘Shocked’?” she repeated dubiously. “I think you’re exaggerating a little, Robert. It’s not a matter of life and death after all.”
“You may not think so. But I absolutely have to find out what’s behind it, and Rosalie Laurent’s promised to help me. The strange thing is that she was completely convinced that the author had dedicated the story to her, because she’d done the illustrations—and then the ‘For R.’ But of course the ‘R’ stands for ‘Robert.’ You get it?” he said urgently.
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