by Nan
The pain was very comforting. It confirmed a reality Claude feared was lost. There was indeed a time before the Simons and the Benjamins. Another time. Another Champagne. Another France. He did not even grimace at the pain. He was too grateful for it.
Etienne held open the door to the East Reception Room on the first floor of the Elysée Palace. Everyone turned and applauded. Claude stepped into his own worst nightmare. Perhaps he was dead. Isabelle applauded. Pierre applauded. Marie-Thérèse. Le Comte. Robert. Nicolas. Edouard. Emile. Even Marcel. He looked from face to face, having to reconfirm that they were not mere look-alikes, but that both ends of his life had intertwined to strangle him.
“Don’t look so surprised, Claude,” Isabelle said cheerily. “Thirty-five years haven’t made you any younger either.”
“I’m sure you remember me.” Le Comte shook his hand. “Although neither I nor my champagnes are celebrated for aging well. We have at least survived, Claude. Let us be grateful for that.”
Edouard stepped forward. “It was incredible that Meurice was behind it all.” He looked past the words into Claude’s eyes. “We know, Le Dom, how much courage it took to do what you did.”
Claude turned away. He clasped Edouard’s hand tightly, then nodded and patted both Robert and Nicolas on the shoulders.
“You have saved us once again,” Robert said softly.
Claude smiled as he came to Marcel. “From Strasbourg?” he asked, embracing him.
“I do not understand all this,” Marcel whispered.
Claude did not answer him. Marie-Thérèse threw her arms around him and kissed him. “Oh, Le Dom. My hero. It is you I love.”
“Le Dom,” he smiled. “Le Dom? No. He is not here. I am sorry. But instead of Le Dom there is only Dom Quixote.” Claude looked at Pierre. “Don’t you agree?”
Pierre was smirking as he shook his hand. “I thought it would be appropriate to bring together this group you had not seen in so many years. I was so impressed with your story of how Meurice was caught that I suggested this little reunion.”
“You are very thoughtful, Pierre.”
“You must remember that when you are back at work tomorrow.”
“I will not be coming back,” Claude said.
“Claude, do not let this get out of perspective,” Pierre said.
Marie-Thérèse grabbed hold of Claude’s arm. “But I have already written to Dwight that I was leaving him! You cannot be serious!”
“No, I cannot be serious. But still, I shall not be back.”
Etienne shouted breathlessly. “He’s coming! Le Président! Attention! Attention!”
Preceded by the flashing of cameras, the imposing figure of the President of France stood in the doorway. Claude looked directly at his executioner. Following the instructions of the photographers, the President walked across the room and posed near a door to the garden. Etienne grabbed Claude by the elbow and pushed his way through the crowd.
“Monsieur le Président,” Etienne said loudly, “I have the pleasure to introduce to you my dear personal friend, Claude Picard.”
Claude waited to be acknowledged. “Monsieur le Président,” he said, nodding and shaking his outstretched hand. He thought back to the way Meurice had described his meeting with De Gaulle. The way you wear your hat . . .
The President of France leaned over and held Claude by the shoulders. Then he kissed him on both cheeks. “Claude Picard,” he said sonorously, “the Republic of France is in your debt today. And I understand this is not the first time you have served your country well. I have been told of your efforts during the Second War. You have again saved your country from a madman.”
The way you sip your tea . . . Claude spoke softly. “Meurice Rochet was a patriot. What he did, his plan, could only have come from the heart of a patriot.”
The President of France nodded. “Yes. I understand. But we do not govern by the heart. We do not live by the heart.”
The mem’ry of all that . . . The President’s aide handed him the blue, white and red ribbon from which hung the medal. After clearing his throat to alert the cameramen, the President of France began to speak. “It is with great pride that I present you, Claude Picard, with this decoration for valor. Your daring rescue of the hostages has put the nation in your debt. This act of heroism has proved to the world that France has now, as always, an outstretched hand with which to greet visitors from every corner of the globe. It is because of you, Claude Picard, that we shall expect to receive ever-increasing numbers of welcome travelers from abroad. God bless you for this legacy.”
The executioner put the noose around Claude. As the cameras whirred and the bulbs flashed, as he felt the weight of the medal on his neck, Le Dom died. He would, like Meurice, be buried in Champagne, to be recalled upon occasion between heartbeats, or as a momentary afterthought. No more than that. But, thank God, no less than that. No, No! They can’t take that away from me!
“OKAY, Daisy. You’re on!”
Daisy Rogers looked into the television camera. Her million-dollar face was serious. “I’m sitting in the Salon Murat at the Elysée Palace. It’s here, in this very room (PAN AROUND ROOM) that the French Council of Ministers meets every Wednesday. And it was here, only yesterday, that the French Government was faced with the most bizarre ransom demand ever received, (TIGHT SHOT ON DAISY) Unless all tourists were evacuated for a period of forty-eight hours, these people (PAN ALONG SIMONS AND BENJAMINS) would die. I’m sitting here with noted travel writers Lily and Dwight Simon, and Emma and Clifford Benjamin. They’re going to tell you just how they felt. I’m also sitting here with the man who saved their lives, (MEDIUM SHOT ON PICARD) And he’s going to tell you how he did it. (TIGHT SHOT ON DAISY) My name is Daisy Rogers. And live by satellite from Paris, France, you’re about to go with me . . . Behind the Headlines!”
“Cut. Thirty seconds. Somebody wipe the Frenchman. He’s sweating.”
Claude sat like a prisoner as someone mopped his expressionless face. To refuse the interview would have been inconsistent with his role as hero. He stared ahead, wanting only to look at Emma. He said nothing, wanting only to speak to her.
Emma could not take her eyes from him. She knew what he had done. She wanted to tell him she knew. She wanted to tell him it didn’t matter.
The Simons and the Benjamins, with their monumental hangovers, didn’t have the strength to refuse the demands of the American Ambassador and the French Prime Minister that they appear. Considering the effort and expense in saving their lives, no one could argue. Daisy Rogers was the grande dame of TV interviewers. People watched her because she had a reputation for asking tough questions.
“Be honest with me,” Daisy urged them. “No matter what I ask, you’ll be okay if you’re honest. And don’t get angry. I’m only asking what every fart in Kansas wants to know.”
“Ten seconds!” Daisy took a deep breath and put her notes away. “You’re on!”
Daisy smiled at Lily. “I want you to tell me, Lily, how someone who’s been through the absolute hell you have during the past twenty-four hours can look as put-together as you do. Who does your hair?”
“There’s a little woman named Lily Simon who comes in every day,” Lily said brightly. “I tell you, darling, I learned early on, while we were still in the theater, that I couldn’t always depend upon finding a hairdresser everywhere we went. And to be honest, in those days we didn’t always have the wherewithal to pay for it.”
“But now you do, Lily. For millions of Americans you’re the symbol of the savvy traveler, someone who cares enough to spend for the very best.”
“Thank you, Daisy.”
“Lily, I want you to tell me how you felt being kidnapped by a madman who forced you to drink over a case of champagne, and share a community powder room without even a door for privacy.”
“Well, to be honest, Daisy,” she sighed, “I suppose there are people out there who’ve gone through worse.”
“Did you really think y
ou were going to die?” Daisy asked.
“Well, the first time I had to use it, yes. I did. It’s awesome what the human spirit is capable of withstanding.”
“Dwight, do you think this crazed killer acted alone?”
“No, Daisy. I don’t. It’s my theory he was part of a much larger conspiracy.”
“Would you explain that to our audience?”
“Of course.” Dwight smiled. “You see, I believe someone was seeking revenge for something candid we wrote in our book, Simon Says. We’ve never pulled any punches, Daisy dear, and it’s my belief this entire episode is based upon a grudge.”
“How does it feel to be so powerful that someone would try to kill you merely for rapping their restaurant?”
No matter what the dangers, we will continue our fight against mediocrity.”
“And now let’s turn to the Benjamins,” Daisy said. “You’re the beer-budget part of this champagne tour. How do you feel about what happened, Clifford?”
“Unlike the Simons, we’ve always tried to help our readers enter a community as though they were a local. It’s our belief that travel isn’t a one-sided experience. We think the people being visited stand to benefit as much as the visitor himself.”
“Then how do you explain the ransom demand? Why do you think someone wanted to stop you Penny Pinchers as well?”
Clifford thought for a moment. “I don’t. I agree with Dwight. I think someone was out to get him.”
“And you just happened to be there?” Daisy asked. “What does that kind of coincidence make you feel like, Emma?”
“I feel very lousy, Daisy. My head is killing me. My stomach. My feet. Everything. And I don’t have a little woman named Lily Simon coming in to do my hair, as you can see. But I can tell you, I understand what these people must have been feeling. You know, tourists are really uninvited guests. The people of Paris or of any city aren’t asked whether they want their streets filled with strangers. Not that I think anything’s wrong with it. But nobody asks them. It just happens to them. They have no choice. It’s very provocative when no one asks what you want.”
Claude looked across at Emma for the first time. Why wasn’t she wearing the watch? Hadn’t Antoine followed his order? How else could she know that he loved her?
Daisy turned to Claude. “And what about you, Claude Picard? You’re the man of the hour. I should explain to those in our audience who might not know, affluent tourists in Paris often sip a Tequila Sunrise while swapping stories of how the famous concierge at the Louis Q got them the last seat at a sold-out opening, or the best table at a packed restaurant. Tell me, Claude, how did you feel when this insane beast called to tell you he had kidnapped four of your very favorite guests?”
“Meurice Rochet was a hero of World War Two. He fought bravely with the Résistance to protect his country. He was my friend.”
“And lucky for us he was,” Dwight said.
“Tell us what happened, Claude.”
“I received a call from Meurice. He wished me to share his pride in what he had done. I took the first train to Epernay, certain he was holding them in a secret room we had discovered during the war. I tried to persuade him to set them free. He was angry at my wanting to help them. He called me a traitor, a cheat, a liar, a fraud. He took out out his gun. We fought. I killed him.”
“We’ll be right back after this message,” Daisy said, smiling.
“Cut. Thirty seconds. Stand by on minicam remotes.”
Daisy lit a cigarette. “It’s a terrific spot. You’re all going to sell a lot of books.” She looked at Claude. “These people have a lot more than their lives to be grateful to you for.”
“Ten seconds.” Daisy coughed and put out her cigarette. “You’re on!”
Daisy looked into the camera. “That’s only part of the story. You met the Simons and the Benjamins and the hero who saved their lives. Let’s go out now into the streets of Paris. Let’s go . . . Behind the Headlines and hear what some Parisians have to say. First, we’ll take our live minicam into that bastion of fashion, the house that Coco built. Gloria Mason at Chanel.”
“Daisy, I’m standing at the counter where only a few days ago, I would have had to wait in line to buy one of these lovely silk scarves. And today? Tell us, Lucille Toulon, how many customers have you had today?”
“I have had no customers today.”
“And how do you feel about that?”
Lucille shrugged. “It is very boring to stand here and have no customers.”
“Tell me, Lucille, if your job were like this every day, and if you never had any customers, would you still want to work here?”
“No. It would not be interesting to work here.”
“Well, Daisy, that’s what it’s like for one Parisian shop-girl. It would not be interesting to work here, she said. And I agree. This is Gloria Mason with a live minicam unit at Chanel.”
“Thanks, Gloria. We go now to Arnold Sawyer, who’s standing by at the Café Norma on the rue de la Paix. Arnold?”
“Daisy, I’m standing here at the Café Norma on the rue de la Paix. Now, the Norma is generally mobbed at this hour of the day. But as you can see, there are only two people in an outside area that seats over two hundred. Let’s see if we can’t talk to this gentleman here. Sir, are you a regular patron at this café?”
“No, no. I am on the television? It is my first time here.”
“Do you live in Paris, sir?”
“Yes, of course I live in Paris. I live around the corner. I have lived there for twenty years.”
“And you’ve never been to the Café Norma?”
“No. I could never get a seat. Whatever time, night or day, it was always crowded.”
“And how do you feel now, after twenty years of not being able to find an empty chair at the café around the corner?”
The man shrugged. “It is very depressing.” He pointed to the man at the other table. “That is my landlord sitting over there. I do not need to come here to see him. Not at these prices. Garçon! L’addition, s’il vous plaît!”
“Waiter, I wonder if you’d mind coming over here for a minute. We’re live on satellite back to the USA. Can you tell our viewers how you feel about a Paris without tourists?”
The waiter cleared his throat. “It is very bad for the tips.” He pointed to the man at the far table. “Over there is my landlord. He will not leave me anything.”
“He is your landlord too?” the first man asked.
“Yes,” the waiter said.
“But he is also my landlord. Where do you live?”
“I live around the corner.”
“No! I do too. At Number 73.”
“But that is where I live!”
“Daisy, this is Arnold Sawyer on the rue de la Paix.”
“Thank you, Arnold. We’re going now to Dave Bennett at the noted restaurant, Le Musée. Dave?”
“Hi, Daisy. I’m standing here with Armand Valençay, owner of the Le Musée restaurant. Armand, tell me, how many lunches have you served today?”
“None.”
“Why is that, Armand?”
“It is because this country is being run by Communists. No one else would have given in to the demands and said to hell with management. I am going to sue the Government for restraint of trade! Do you think I can afford to keep a staff with no one to serve? They are all trying to ruin me!”
“Why don’t you have any French customers?”
“A Frenchman would never pay these prices,” Armand said proudly. He looked directly into the camera. “For God’s sake, bring the tourists back before I go out of business!”
“Daisy, this is Dave Bennett at Le Musée.”
“Thanks, Dave. Speaking of the tourists’ coming back, for our final remote we’re going to Driscoll Harris at the Arc de Triomphe. Driscoll?”
“This is Driscoll Harris at the Arc de Triomphe. As you can see,” he shouted above the hammering, “there are stands being erected here to
greet the tourists when they return tomorrow night. This enormous grandstand is only one of dozens being put up at key points throughout Paris. With the city empty of tourists now for less than twenty-four hours, there’s a growing nostalgia in the air. On my way here I passed vendors who usually roast chestnuts. They were selling American, British and German flags. There are signs going up everywhere. ‘Welcome Back, Tourists! Bienvenue!’ By noon tomorrow, Daisy, authorities expect the stands to be filled, and the streets lined with thousands of joyful Parisians welcoming back their friends from overseas. This is Driscoll Harris on the eve of a celebration that’s expected to rival the liberation of 1944. Daisy?”
“There you have it. Will we ever really know who all the people were behind this incredible plan? Maybe not. But we do know one thing: the plan failed. They may have moved the tourists out of the city physically. But they didn’t manage to move them out of the hearts of the Parisians. This is Daisy Rogers saying You’ll have to travel far and wide to find a warmer welcome than you’ll get in Paris. Au revoir for now. And merci beaucoup for coming with me . . . Behind the Headlines!”
Friday
AS the ornate elevator doors opened, Murphy yelled, “Freeze!”
Dwight and Lily groaned as they saw the crew of photographers and publicity people in the lobby of the Louis Q. Between the gritted teeth of a forced smile, Lily said, “Oh, God!”
“Don’t ‘Oh, God’ me,” Murphy warned. “Remember Paragraph 36. We are permitted to photograph you during working hours insofar as our documentation does not prejudice or cause to be prejudiced the services you are evaluating.” He smiled meanly. “I remember how fond you are of quoting Scripture.”
“And what is it you’re documenting now?” Dwight asked between weary smiles for the cameras.
“The resurrection!” he replied.
“Dear Murphy,” Lily spat. “Here’s one for you. ‘He who lives by the paragraph shall die by the paragraph.’ It may be of interest to know you’re about to be slapped with a two-million-dollar suit for not having provided adequately for our safety.”