by D. B. Gilles
In the distance she could decipher the gas-lit outline of The Arc de Triomphe at the other end of Champs-Elysées. She looked up and to the right towards the 7th Arrondissement hoping to catch a glimpse of The Eiffel Tower, which she knew had opened officially six months ago to the day, but a morning fog blocked her view.
Her thoughts returned to Peter Hillyer. Where was he? What could’ve gone wrong? It worked perfectly in the practice run the night before.
She recalled how Peter was concerned about what to do if one arrived and the other didn’t. How long should whoever arrived first wait? For that matter, how would they know who actually arrived first? They agreed that if they didn’t arrive at the obelisk together, or a few seconds or minutes apart, each would wait for thirty minutes. If the other still didn’t arrive the person who was there would go to The Eiffel Tower at the Exposition Universelle, more famously known as The World’s Fair of 1889. They would meet at the base of the southeast tower.
“It’ll be easier to blend in there,” Peter had said. “There will be throngs of people. Lingering at the obelisk at Place de la Concorde could draw attention, especially for you as a woman alone. Because the Worlds Fair will be going on, prostitutes will be rampant throughout Paris. You don’t want to be approached by a gendarme. In fact, if you get to the obelisk first, don’t wait there. Go across the street to the park where The Tuileries Gardens are. You’ll have a clear view of Place de la Concorde. If I’m not there after thirty minutes go to The Eiffel Tower. I’ll do the same when I arrive.”
A secondary plan was also agreed upon. If for whatever reason Eliza arrived and did not find Peter at The Eiffel Tower, she would wait no more than three hours.
It’s going to turn out all right, she thought, then walked quickly across the street to The Tuilleries Garden to wait for Peter.
Chapter 18
As Dalton poured over Eliza’s notes and drawings, he thought about his father. He regretted that they had let their egos prevent them from recapturing the relationship they had when he was growing up.
Dalton felt a vibration in his coat pocket of his iPhone. He saw Tash’s name on the Caller ID.
“I need to tell you something,” the old man said. “Didn’t want to say it in front of Proctor. You need to know that when your father spent those twenty-three hours in Paris, he left something behind. There’s a letter for you in Paris.”
The information stunned Duncan. “My father wrote me a letter?”
“He was concerned that The Brimstone wouldn’t work and that he wouldn’t be able to get back. It was a father’s message to his son, so he didn’t tell me what he wrote, but from what little he did say he had a hunch that somehow, some day you would find out about all of this and try to go back to eighteen-eighty-nine yourself.”
“Why would he think that?”
“A man knows his son. And look at you... You’re doing exactly what he thought you might.”
Dalton’s eyes started to tear up.
“When you get there, you owe it to yourself to find that letter. It’s in The Luxembourg Gardens, by The Medici Fountain. Buried under some bushes.”
Dalton’s stomach clenched as the call qi mdfo lxg bounced into his brain. It suddenly made sense. Medici Fountain. Luxembourg Gardens.
Dalton remembered it well. He and his father had eaten a picnic lunch there the first time Peter took him to Paris. He was seven years old.
“When I was a kid I had a fascination with ducks,” said Dalton. “While we were eating lunch about five baby ducks congregated in the pool connected to the fountain in front of us, each one looking at me. I fed them. One of them jumped out of the water and kissed me. It was my first memory of Paris.” He heard Tash laughing. “But he left the letter over a hundred years ago. Would whatever he left still be there?”
“It wouldn’t be over a hundred years. You’ll be arriving in Paris on October sixth, one day after he did. He put it in a snuffbox. The letter will be there, fresh as a daisy.”
A snuffbox, thought Dalton. There’s a letter from my father waiting for me in Paris. In a snuffbox.
Chapter 19
Luger found a parking space on Thirty-seventh Street almost directly across from The Morgan Library and Museum. He often posed as a Catholic priest and had the proper parking identification, which he placed on the dashboard. He headed to the front entrance on Madison Avenue. As he paid the admission fee, he noticed a sign stating that The Library would be open until 8:30 p.m. He checked his watch. It was coming up on 6:30.
He needed to find out if Proctor Newley was still there and the location of his office. He had learned that sometimes the easiest way to find information was to ask. As he strolled through the lobby pretending to read the flyers and pamphlets advertising the various exhibitions he’d picked up at the counter, he noticed several guards, each positioned at the entrance to different galleries. He knew that most museum guards were cold fish, as his grandmother used to say, but if he could find one who was friendly, he could get the information he needed, mainly: was Proctor Newley still in the building and where was his office?
Before searching for the right guard, he did a quick check of the structure. There were three floors, one beneath the main lobby, and two above. One could get from floor to floor via glass-enclosed elevators. There was no indication as to where the executive offices might be.
As he meandered about, he realized that there was a private entrance for employees on the Thirty-seventh Street side of the building. All the museum visitors came in through the front door, as did he, but this smaller side entrance had no traffic. Approaching it he noticed a small sign that said Employees Only.
Of all the guards on the first floor, the only one who didn’t look bored out of his mind was the chubby African-American guard standing by the Employee entrance, who happily answered questions from visitors.
Luger approached him with a friendly smile. “Excuse me, I haven’t been here for many years. Didn’t this used to be called something else?”
“Yes sir. The Pierpont Morgan Library. Name was changed in two thousand six after a major renovation.”
Luger continued to pepper the guard with harmless questions, learning his name--Kenny--gaining his trust, making him feel important and pretending to be in awe of what he knew about the place. After ten minutes, he got to the point.
“Tell me, Kenny, what with all the galleries, it’s such a sprawling structure. Where are the executive offices located?”
“Top floor,” said Kenny, gesturing to the glass-enclosed elevators.
“Ah. The Director should be commended. What’s his name again, Proctor... something?”
“Proctor Newley.”
“Right. Do you know if he receives guests?”
“You’d probably need an appointment.”
“Would he still be here? I would love to meet him.”
“You’d have to go through his assistant, but the staff leaves at six on Fridays, so she’s gone.”
“Mister Newley has probably left too.”
“No. He’s definitely here. All employees leave through here, even the boss, and I haven’t seen him come through.”
“Would I be able to go to his office and try to see him?”
“Don’t think so. Nobody gets into the executive offices without an appointment and security check. There was a bomb scare two years ago. We have state of the art surveillance.”
“I see.”
“We close at eight-thirty. I’m sure Mister Newley will come down before then. He never stays late on Friday.”
“And you’re sure he’ll leave by this exit? Not the front?”
“Right. His driver always picks him up.”
“Well, thank you, Kenny, for all the information. Think I’ll do more exploring.”
In actuality, Luger walked to the front entrance and left, deciding to wait for Proctor to leave. If he had The Brimstone with him, he would take it. If he didn’t, Luger would persuade him to return to his office
and get it.
When he got to his car he took out his iPhone and Googled Proctor Newley to see what he looked like. The shock of white hair Henri mentioned is what he latched on to.
Should be easy to spot he said to himself.
Chapter 20
The Brontë exhibit, still under construction, was on the second floor, surrounded by fourteen-foot high beige
drapes to shield it from view until it’s official opening.
There were a dozen boxes of mid-nineteenth century dresses, petticoats, jackets, blouses, corsets, slips, shoes and hats designated for the three mannequins that would represent The Brontë sisters. As Juliet sifted through them for items that might fit her, Proctor called his housekeeper and gave her instructions as to which of his clothes to pack.
After thirty minutes, Juliet had found several possible outfits, which she tried on in an anteroom across the hall, then presented to Proctor for his opinion.
“None of the clothing fits you properly, dear, but half the citizens of Paris in eighteen-eighty-nine were poor and wore ill-fitting clothes. Put on whichever outfit feels most comfortable and we’ll go shopping when we arrive.”
After a few minutes, Juliet returned wearing a grey floor-length skirt, black boots, a white blouse, simple jacket, beige scarf and a beige bonnet. She also carried her own clothing.
“It’s not quite my look,” she said with a slight smile.
“It will do.”
“What should I do with these?” she said, indicating her clothes.
“Bring them to my office.” He looked at Juliet with concern. “Juliet, before we go back to my office, I need to say something. If this turns out badly, I’ll leave this world having lived quite an astonishing life. You haven’t even begun to live. Are you sure you want to accompany Dalton and me?”
“When my mother and I found out my sister was declared legally dead, I thought I would finally have closure. But then I found her sketchbook and the wound has reopened. I couldn’t live another seven years or another day without finding out what happened to her. And there’s my mother. The last seven years have been hard on her. She has early Alzheimer’s. She goes in and out. Each day is a challenge. She needs to know the truth too.” She paused for a moment. “Even if I find Eliza and she tells me she wants to stay in eighteen-eighty-nine, I think I could be okay with that. I’ll finally know.”
“Same with me.”
“How so?”
“Being able to go to Paris on October sixth, eighteen-eighty-nine, will be the greatest gift of my life.”
“Is that the place you would have wanted to go if you had a choice?”
“As I understand it, our choices are limited to Egyptian obelisks. Twenty-nine have survived through the centuries. Nine are still in Egypt, Italy has eighteen, fourteen of which are in Rome. There’s one in Sicily, one in Florence, one in Urbino, another in Benevento. Israel has one, as does Poland and Turkey. The United Kingdom has four. Two in London, one at the University of Durham and one in Dorset. And of course the obelisks in New York and Paris. But given a choice, I would go is Florence, Italy in the year fifteen-hundred and the person I’d want to meet is Leonard da Vinci.” He looked at his watch. “We should get back to my office. I suppose we should think about leaving notes to our loved ones, but what do we say? Time traveling to Paris circa eighteen-eighty-nine? Perhaps your sister experienced the same dilemma. By telling the truth, people would have thought her insane. My associates would surely think that of me. If they don’t already.”
He smiled at Juliet. She laughed. As they made their way back to Proctor’s office, she wondered what it must have been like the day her sister arrived in Paris.
Chapter 21
Eliza positioned herself behind a pillar that gave easy view to the obelisk and Place de le Concorde. She didn’t have a watch with her because Peter felt that she should be free of all modern encumbrances. She would purchase one later.
Eliza felt it was unusually humid for October. She was well aware of the sweltering temperatures Paris traditionally had in August, but in her research she knew that the weather in October should be pleasant, no higher than in the 70s.
As she waited, she tried to process the fact that, in what seemed like only seconds before, she was standing at the foot of Cleopatra’s Needle in Central Park and now here she was in Paris.
Or was it only a few seconds? she thought.
Maybe it had been minutes or hours? For the first time since she landed, it occurred to her that possibly Peter had already arrived, waited the agreed-upon thirty minutes and made his way to The Eiffel Tower.
This realization enlivened her spirits.
To gauge the time she counted the seconds in her head, minute by minute. She watched and listened to the city come alive with people headed to their jobs, city workers cleaning the cobblestone streets, merchants en route to their shops, tourists starting a day of sightseeing, vendors pushing carts with fresh fruit and vegetables. Every man she saw, no matter how he was dressed or his social standing, wore a hat of some sort and many of the women carried parasols. She took in the fact that the women all seemed to dress the same way in floor-length dresses and blouses buttoned to the neck. Almost all wore scarves, tied in various styles.
Her outfit looked out-dated and didn’t fit well. Getting new clothes was a top priority. She stared in awe at the stream of horse-drawn omnibuses and carriages going every which way. She’d seen horse-drawn carriages in New York, but nothing like this. In thirty seconds she counted nineteen, all moving at a fast clip.
She decided that Peter was right to have her not linger by the obelisk. He was also right with regard to money and her wardrobe. He bought ten thousand francs minted and printed in 1887 from a numismatist he knew. He had kept a thousand for his test runs and gave her the rest. With careful management, that amount of money in 1889 would be enough to tide her over for a year, if she were thrifty, until she found a way to earn a living. She felt confident that being dressed modestly in a long dress, jacket, long-sleeved blouse, scarf and hat—-she would pass as a housekeeper, maid, milliner or shop girl, that even an overzealous gendarme would not misconstrue.
And if for whatever reason she were stopped and questioned, she would have proper identification. Peter had contacted one of his specialists whose area of expertise was forgery and gotten her a United States passport circa 1887 along with a French birth certificate and French passport.
She knew she would have to make the journey to The Eiffel Tower on foot because Paris did not have underground transportation yet. The Metro wouldn’t come until July 19, 1900. She could have hailed a carriage, but decided that she wanted to walk about the city she had come to love through reading, videos on Youtube and watching movies.
And subconsciously, she felt that the additional time would give Peter a chance to find her if he arrived after she did. The walk to Parc du Champ de Mars where The Eiffel Tower was located was a journey Eliza welcomed. She’d traversed the streets of Paris hundreds of times in her head.
Although she had never physically been to Paris, she had researched and studied enough books, maps, websites, blogs, youtube videos, movies and articles to know that the Paris of 1889 was not that much different from the Paris of the present, save for modern conveniences. She knew Paris so well that she joked she could’ve been a tour guide or city planner.
From her reading, Eliza decided that the most interesting route would be to walk down Champs-Elysees until she found a cross street, probably Avenue Kleber, then follow it until she came to the Pont d'Iéna, the bridge that linked The Left Bank to the Trocadéro district on The Right Bank.
It would be a breathtaking sight to see the brand new Eiffel Tower from there in the early morning light. She knew that it had officially opened to the public on May 6th, and that even though the Exposition Universelle of 1889 would be ending on October 31st, the Tower would still be open to the public.
As she moved along Champs-Elysees, besides encountering m
ore people, she got her first glimpse of Parisian shops. There were all kinds: perfume, shoes, dresses, men’s and women’s hats, cigars, bookstores, magazine and newspaper kiosks, chocolates, linens, postcards, greeting cards, china and toys. Some had elaborate window displays, others on side streets had only simple signs: a large shoe to indicate a shoemaker or a large pair of spectacles advertising eyewear.
The longer she walked, a sinking feeling began to overtake her that something had gone wrong and that Peter would not be at The Eiffel Tower. She pushed it out of her mind. Being so lost in her thoughts, she barely took time to notice any of the buildings she’d seen so many times in her research.
What she did manage to observe was the fog lifting and the sun peaking through. This took her mind off Peter momentarily. With great anticipation, she looked south on The Seine hoping to see The Eiffel Tower.
For a moment she wondered if she had gone the wrong way.
Something’s not right she thought to herself.
She wasn’t sure whether to walk faster or slower, but she kept moving until the horrible truth dawned on her.
The Eiffel Tower wasn’t there.
The horrible truth sunk in instantly. She had landed in Paris on the wrong date.
Chapter 22
When Juliet and Proctor returned to his office, they found Dalton staring at a garment bag and small carry-on suitcase that Proctor’s driver, James, had brought moments before.
Dalton smiled when he saw Juliet dressed in nineteenth century clothes. There was some kidding about her appearance and making a fashion statement, then Proctor said, “Dalton, would you mind opening the garment bag?”
Dalton did so. Inside, along with white shirts and neckties, were three black and two dark grey three-piece suits. He lifted out the suits and draped them on the couch.
“For men, black was the color of the day. If these fit, I suggest we both go black.