April was surprised when Luc called on a Saturday. Since her return from San Diego they’d exchanged passing hellos in meetings and at Marthe’s flat. All transactions were of a strictly professional nature, though, and April did not expect to hear from him outside of this, a realization that left her more than a little melancholy and nostalgic.
Despite Luc’s downright aggressively appropriate interactions (where were the sexual innuendos?), picking up the phone now felt like a betrayal. They had sex and she didn’t tell Troy (outright, anyway), and this was wrong by most any definition. Answering seemed sneaky and underhanded, complicit even absent any direct foul. Alas, April had no illusion that Luc saw her as anything other than a colleague. It was an unwelcome thought, and her reaction to it more bothersome than how to handle the call in the first place.
“Monsieur Thébault,” April said, unexpectedly thrilled to hear his voice, as if she were speaking to a long-lost and dear friend. Though his friendship was not long, Luc was certainly lost and dear, in his very singular Thébault kind of way. This was her closest friend in Paris, the man who helped her find Marthe, the man who helped her find so much.
“I have une plainte,” Luc announced, his customary playfulness returned and dancing around his words.
“A complaint? Oh, jeez, well, get in line.”
“We’ve had absolutely no fun since you got back from California. It’s all work. I feel as though you’re trying to coerce me into your aggressive Americanism.”
April’s heart pounded against her rib cage. What was she supposed to say to him? Was she supposed to explain? Not much had changed with Troy despite a bit of mutual understanding gained and an agreement that maybe things could work out, though not necessarily. Then, of course, there was Delphine Vidal. What had Luc been doing mucking around with her when Delphine existed? April had so much to say it was probably best to say nothing at all.
“‘Americanism’? I’d do nothing of the sort,” April insisted. “I know you’re set in your Parisian ways.”
“Hmmm. I think I’ve disproved that, non? Tell me, Avril, have you ever been to La Guillotine?”
April laughed nervously. “Not literally, no. But I kind of feel as though I’ve spent some time in a figurative guillotine lately.”
“It is a jazz club,” he said. “In the Fifth. There is a band playing tonight. I have determined we shall go.”
“You’ve determined.”
“It is a perfect idea, your last chance to enjoy the benefits of this city. You leave on Monday, non?”
“Good memory.”
“Only”—he said—“for certain things. We shall go. Tonight. I will not accept your declination.”
April paused and took a sip of coffee. She wanted to visit the Guillotine, yes, but the things left unspoken between them were shouting quite loudly right then. And the last time Luc “forced” her into a night out it resulted in sex.
“I don’t know—” April said finally. Though she’d instigated the Bastille Day dalliance, April had to make clear this would not happen again, and she needed to do this without spelling it out and while still clinging to the last shreds of her dignity. “I guess we can. As long as you understand it’s only the club—”
“Bien sûr! I would never assume otherwise.”
“All right, I guess that sounds fun,” April said, wondering if for Luc this was no big deal. He probably had arrangements and noncommittal flings every night of the week. It explained all the smirking, at least. Not to mention his prowess in the boudoir.
“I’ll arrive at your flat at ten o’clock,” he said. “Wear good walking shoes.”
With that he hung up.
April spent the rest of the morning halfheartedly tidying up catalog copy. For lunch she visited the neighborhood fromagerie, purchased the biggest, stinkiest piece of cheese possible, and washed it down with a glass of Pouilly-Fumé. It was the perfect meal, even if April continued to burp up its taste several hours later.
Luc arrived at her door fifteen minutes late according to the clock, but thirty minutes early based on his usual schedule. As he stood in the hallway in black jeans, a floppy sweater, and his curly, in-need-of-a-trim moptop, April again felt nostalgic. He reminded her of the goofy boys she dated in college, the ones who were privileged but never understood it. The ones who made April believe she had a big, huge lifetime ahead of her no matter what side of fifty-fifty she might fall on.
“Bonjour,” April said and smiled. She felt the inexplicable urge to pat him on the head.
“Tu es belle.”
“Merci.” April fake-curtsied. It was funny, this language. In America you told someone they looked pretty. In France you told them they were pretty, straight up. No looking, no appearing, no temporary condition.
“Tu es prêt?” Luc held out an arm.
“Oui.” April grinned and slipped hers through.
They walked out onto the street and down toward the First Arrondissement. As they went, Luc asked about the funeral, about her father, and about Brian. April found herself able to answer his questions without pretending it had been anything less than torturous. She surprised even herself.
“Ah, so you see,” Luc said when April finished. “I was right. It was a love story. Between your parents, and your parents and their children. What a lucky family you’ve had.”
“‘Lucky’ is not quite the word to pair with Alzheimer’s. But we had … we have … something special. And I’m proud of what my dad did for her.”
April stopped walking for a second. “Can you believe it?” She pointed to the building before them, to the iconic pyramid lit for the night. “Can you believe I haven’t spent one second in there this trip?”
“Mon dieu! What good are you as a tourist if you don’t visit the Louvre? It is time to revoke your passport. I am ashamed on behalf of your entire nation.”
“You should be ashamed on behalf of my multiple art-history-related degrees. I went constantly when I used to live here. At least a few times a week. It was practically part of my routine. And this time? Not once.”
“Well, you’ve been a little preoccupied,” Luc said. “Anyway the best thing to do in Paris is things you haven’t before.”
“Well, then consider this trip a success. I’ve done many things I haven’t before,” April said, then blushed madly. Yes, she had done many things in Paris, not the least of which was Luc. “Anyway! No Louvre tonight. Instead to the guillotine, Monsieur! Off with her head!”
April whipped an arm around her head and marched forward. Luc rolled his eyes, laughed, and followed her down toward the Seine.
As April stepped onto the Pont du Carrousel, she paused to say something to Luc but found he was not behind her.
“Luc!” she called, spotting him strolling along the Seine on the port du Louvre. “Where are you going? We need to cross here.”
“Ah, but we do not. There are better ways to travel.”
“This is the better way,” April grumbled, the soles of her feet already blistered and bruised. She jogged to catch up. “Le port du Louvre is lovely and super-Parisian and all, but is it really the most efficient path?”
“‘Efficient’? Le Port du Louvre is a means to an end, ma chérie. There is another bridge, a better bridge to cross the waters. Le Pont des Arts. Do you know it?”
“Bien sûr! Who doesn’t?”
Le Pont des Arts was a footbridge connecting the Louvre to the French Institute over the Seine. Though the planks underfoot were wooden, its sides were made of iron, like a taller, more visually pleasing chain-link fence. The bridge was famous for its amazing river views as well as its artistic and romantic flair. It was painted by Renoir and now painted upon on a near-constant basis. During the day you couldn’t walk two meters without tripping on an easel.
But perhaps above all else, the Pont des Arts was known for the locks decorating its ironwork sides. In a long-standing tradition, couples hooked these “lovelocks” around the fence links as a symbol
of their enduring bond. Some were gigantic padlocks or combination locks like those seen on school gym lockers. Others were painted or inscribed with poetry. Sometimes the fence even contained a lock of hair.
“Glad you are familiar with it,” Luc said as they stepped onto the bridge. “Otherwise this could be rather embarassant. Madame Vogt, I have something for you.”
He stopped and pulled from his pocket one lock, golden in color.
“A lovelock?” April said, heart racing. This was more traitorous than sex.
“Technically,” Luc said. “But not in the way one might assume. This does not have to be a romantic gesture, you see. It can be, but does not have to.”
He dropped the lock into her slightly quivering palm.
“I’ve written your initials on it,” he said. “Only yours. Remember, I am no sexual badger.”
April tried to laugh, but the sound remained stuck somewhere in her throat.
“You will go back to New York,” he said. “And your relationship with le grand m’sieu will resume. You will be happy. Happier than you were before.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” April muttered.
“The trip to California. You came back and told me you will be happy. You didn’t say a word about it, but you told me nonetheless.” He smiled wistfully, wrinkles gathering around his eyes. “Don’t look sad, ma belle! This is a good thing. Not everyone ends up where they truly want to be.”
“I’m not sad,” April said. “I’m just … I can’t explain it.”
“You don’t need to. I understand. I understand completely.” He placed a palm over the lock. “I got this for you, a reminder. Although you will go back to New York, to your home, Paris will be a part of you forever.” He latched the lock onto the fence. “And you will forever be a part of Paris.”
“That is incredibly kind.” April said. She was so stopped up with emotion the only thing she could do next was make a joke. “Except you know city workers cut these down on a regular basis, right? I’ll only be part of Paris for approximately ten days.”
Luc threw his head back and laughed.
“Always so practical, Madame Vogt. Alas, does it matter? This is life, ephemeral, transient. Just because it’s gone doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”
“Thank you, Luc.” April smiled and leaned in for a hug and a double-cheek kiss. “This means a lot to me.”
“And you have meant a lot to me.”
April didn’t know what to say. She stood in place watching the lock wink in the streetlight. Luc nudged her in the ribs to get her going again.
Still in a stupor, April trailed him off the bridge and down into the Fifth, to La Guillotine and ultimately Le Caveau des Oubliettes, the Cave of the Forgotten, though nothing that happened in that city, or with Luc, would ever be.
Chapitre LXVIII
“Here we are,” Luc said as they walked through the front door of the club. “La Guillotine.”
“It’s cute. Very pubby.”
“Ah, but we are not staying aboveground.” He nodded toward the back. “Le Caveau des Oubliettes. Down we go. Into the Cave of the Forgotten.”
Together they lurched down a dank, tight, dimly lit set of stairs decorated with rusted handcuffs and chains. They then stepped into a room that was one dirt floor shy of being an actual cave. According to Luc, it once housed prisoners awaiting execution, thus the name was almost literal. April could almost smell the impending death. It was a bit like urine and vomit, non?
The cave fit only twelve tables, most of which were already full. April picked a seat as Luc fetched two glasses of wine. He sat down and scooted his chair close. April wondered briefly about her stinky cheese lunch.
“So,” he said as the musicians set up on stage. “Before the band begins and we are therefore prohibited from hearing one another, I have some favorable news to share. Agnès Vannier is ready.”
“What do you mean ‘ready’?” April said evenly. Not this time. She wasn’t going to get ahead of herself. “Ready for a nap? Death? Ready to dance?”
“Dance? De quoi parles tu? I mean ‘ready.’ We can go see her at any time.”
April laughed, but in a laughing-crying-borderline-hysterical manner. Now that she was one foot out of town, of course the woman was ready to chat. Luc called it “favorable news,” and it would’ve been had the matter not become so painfully moot. There was no way April could stay in Paris a second longer. Plus the inevitability of the “Private Collection” label meant that Madame Vannier’s take on Marthe and her assets was nothing more than old-lady scuttlebutt.
“Ça va? You look as though you’ve developed a case of l’hystérie.”
“It’s just my luck. I have to leave and now she’s ready. And no jokes about my lack of concern for Madame Vannier’s welfare, please. I get that I’m a single-minded and cruel-hearted auctioneer.”
“Je ne comprends pas? I feel you’re not listening to me. We can go see her. We. You and I.”
“But I leave in three days.” April looked at her watch. “Two days.”
“I know. And so we see her before then.”
“Is that even possible?” she squinted at him. “It’s the weekend. I leave Monday. Early.”
“I said we can see her, more times than I should’ve, given your cognitive ability.”
“‘We can see her,’” April repeated.
“Oui.”
“Really?”
“Oui.”
“Really, really?”
“Oui, oui. Are you hard of hearing? I am really growing quite concerned.”
April let the news sink in. Madame Vannier. They were going to see Madame Vannier, Lisette’s heir, overseer of all physical evidence of Marthe’s life. April would finally have her answers. The answers might not matter to Sotheby’s or to a single bidder, but they mattered to her.
“I can’t…” she said, feeling at once giddy and drunk. “I don’t know what to say. I’d given up. I figured it wouldn’t happen.”
“Given your timeline, I did have to press Madame Vannier a bit on the matter,” Luc said. “She was quite amused by your interest in the cause.”
“Oh, I’ll bet she was amused.” April rolled her eyes. “She probably thinks I’m a nut job of the highest order. I don’t even care, though. This is what I’ve been waiting for.”
“You have been rather single-minded in your pursuits,” Luc said, grinning.
“My mind was on a few other things,” April said and smiled in return. “But Madame Vannier is up there. Full disclosure, though—this is probably not going to help the auction. Despite my efforts, the house won’t budge and at this point it’s futile to keep pressing. So I can sit here and crow about provenance but it’d be merde. I’m doing this not for Sotheby’s but for myself.”
“So you won’t keep pressing on the auction? On getting Marthe her own affair?”
“Nope.” April took a gulp of wine. “I’ve given up.”
“‘Given up’? That does not sound like my favorite American.”
“Eh.” April shrugged. A man onstage played a few notes on his saxophone. “I tried but I’m stuck. You can only bang your head against a wall for so long.”
“What if there is no more wall? What if someone else already went through it? “
“I think you’re screwing up your idioms again.”
“I’m not trying to use any idioms. I’m trying to tell you some news, some news about the head-banging auction.”
“For the record, a head-banging auction would probably involve music albums and cans of hairspray. But, do tell, which auction are you referring to? One of Marthe’s?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes.”
“Which one? Furniture or paintings or the ever-exciting silver, gold boxes, and vertu?”
“None of those. The one auction. In October. For all of Madame de Florian’s estate.”
“What are you talking about—”
“She will have her own auction, Avril.
Just as you wished.”
April stared at Luc’s face, waiting for a smirk or a wink or some other expression indicating he was full of shit. He had to be full of shit. Full of shit was his thing.
“Not funny,” she said.
“I’m not trying to be funny.”
An instrument squeaked. April shook her head as if trying to clear her brain.
“A few weeks ago a birdie told me—” Luc began.
“No more of your lame attempts at American idioms, please. What ‘little birdie’? Who told you and what did they say?”
“Birdie,” he said again. “This is not an idiom, I don’t think?” He tightened his lips in concentration. “She said Birdie was her name. At least I think that’s what she said.”
“Birdie!” April gasped. Could it be? Did Luc know what he was talking about? “My assistant! Is that who you spoke to?”
“Yes, yes. She said she was your assistant.”
“When? Why? What happened? How did she even—”
“You sent her Marthe’s journals, non?” Luc asked with a touch of disapproval. “I was not aware you shared them.”
“Yes.” April cleared her throat. “I did. But for our records. And for research. Birdie is my research assistant. Provenance.”
“That again?”
“And, not to worry, I used the proper procedures for scanning old documents.”
“Avril.”
“Okay, fine. I sent them to her. Copies of them. It was for our files, yes, but also my own prurient interest. I also showed them to my dad and my brother and one of my stepdaughters, and I don’t regret it. Sorry, but I don’t.”
“Well,” Luc said and took a sip of wine. “It’s a good thing you have such a big mouth.”
“I see the Luc Thébault charm is in full effect—”
“I am being serious. You shared these with your assistant and it seems this assistant shared your same viewpoint, about the auctions.”
“Bien sûr! Of course! She has a brain in her head. But I still don’t understand why she spoke to you.”
He shrugged. “She rang. Told me what I needed to do.”
“What do you mean?”
“One has a lot of sway when one threatens to take his business elsewhere. One can get the exact kind of auction he desires.”
A Paris Apartment Page 34