Not in Time

by Shawna Seed

  Julien paused, one arm in his coat, one out. “You’re not serious.”

  “Afraid so,” Genevieve said, waving the printout. “I should have read it before we scheduled. I guess we can’t just blow the meeting off, can we?”

  “When I called, I told her Théodore Lazare was my great-great-whatever uncle and she didn’t act like it was odd we’d want to talk to her,” Julien said. “And you’re right, it would be rude not to show.”

  Genevieve put on her coat. “If this is horrible, I’m never going to hear the end of it, am I?”

  Julien just smiled as he held the door for her.

  Genevieve had pictured Suzanne Marchand as a dotty academic with messy hair, pasty skin and a fraying cardigan.

  She was wrong.

  Marchand was 40 at most. She was tall and impeccably dressed in a crisp gray suit with a white blouse unbuttoned perhaps one button too many.

  She beckoned them into her office, giving Genevieve a quick up-and-down that left her feeling very much the hick from Wichita Falls. Then she did the same with Julien, staring at him with a frankness Genevieve found startling.

  Julien greeted her with his most charming smile and a few words in French. Then he said, “I wonder whether we could proceed in English, for Ms. McKenna’s benefit?”

  “But of course. Now, Mr. Brooks, tell me, what is it about Théodore Lazare that brings you and your assistant all this way?” She smiled. “I am at your service.”

  Genevieve wasn’t sure what galled her more – the blithe assumption that she was the assistant, or the blatant flirting with Julien.

  “Ms. McKenna is the researcher,” Julien said, gracefully handing the reins to Genevieve.

  Suzanne Marchand’s smile slipped a little. “My apologies. How can I help?”

  “I read your most recent article,” Genevieve began, “and I know you’ve done considerable work on 19th century courtesans...”

  “Yes, it’s remarkable how they were able to manipulate the patriarchy to their benefit,” Dr. Marchand broke in. “And so many of the courtesans were associated with the noted artists of their time, an inspiration to them.”

  Julien raised an eyebrow at Genevieve. If the whole half-hour progressed like this, he would never let her forget it.

  “Now, Théodore Lazare had little to do with courtesans,” Dr. Marchand said, as though this were a mark against him. “Although his personal life was not without intrigue.”

  “So you’ve researched him?” Genevieve pulled a notebook from her bag.

  “Not specifically,” the professor said. “But he was the subject of much gossip in the letters of the era.”

  “Really?” Julien said.

  Dr. Marchand leaned toward him, flashing a bit of cleavage. “He was thought to be devastatingly handsome, did you know?”

  Julien smiled, a little too smugly, Genevieve thought.

  “What was the gossip about?” Genevieve asked.

  “A love affair,” the professor said. “A young woman from a very good family. There was the issue of his... milieu.” She paused awkwardly. “You understand?”

  “Because he was Jewish, you mean,” Julien said.

  Dr. Marchand shrugged. “The times,” she said.

  “Her parents forbade it. The gossips hint that they continued to meet in secret. We know Lazare’s brother sent him to Florence. Perhaps to forget the girl? The story goes that he came back with a gift for her, a necklace, which she refused to accept.”

  Genevieve and Julien exchanged a look.

  “They say she is the model for two paintings. The first is Pyramus and Thisbe, which is in the Louvre. Thisbe is partially nude, but Lazare obscured her face. It’s also said he used her in Tristan and Iseult but showed her face. Lazare’s brother took control of the painting and refused to exhibit it. Because of the scandal?”

  “Who was this woman?” Julien asked. “What happened to her?”

  “That I cannot tell you,” Dr. Marchand said. “The letters were coy. Lazare, of course, went off to Morocco and did those Eastern paintings, which were not very good – if you’ll forgive me saying so – and then caught some fever and died.”

  The professor discreetly checked her watch. “And that is all I can tell you of Théodore Lazare.”

  “Did he leave letters? Or perhaps his brother?” Genevieve hadn’t given up the idea of a trove of Lazare letters in some dusty Paris archive.

  Dr. Marchand shook her head. “I do not believe so.”

  Genevieve and Julien stood to leave. Dr. Marchand shook hands with Genevieve and then Julien, holding his hand for just a beat too long.

  “Tell me, have you seen Pyramus and Thisbe? No? You really must. It is so beautiful, so full of longing. Most sensual.”

  Then she switched to French, exchanged a few more sentences with Julien, and showed them out.

  “Well, that was a waste of time,” Genevieve said when they were back on the sidewalk.

  “Was it?” Julien said mildly, scanning the street.

  “Do you want to go back? I’m sure Dr. Marchand can make more time for you.” Exasperated that Julien wouldn’t look at her, she tugged on his sleeve. “What are you looking for, anyway?”

  Julien’s eyes traveled down to her hand on his sleeve, then back to her face. “Why are you mad at me?”

  Genevieve dropped her hand. Busted.

  “It’s annoying that a feminist academic thought I was your assistant,” she said. “And she was flirting with you, which was weird, and then she switched to French at the end.”

  Julien had resumed scanning the street over her head, and it was all Genevieve could do not to stamp her foot. “Sorry, am I boring you?”

  “There it is!”

  “There what is?”

  “The restaurant the professor recommended.” Julien smiled down at her. “At the end? When she was speaking French?”

  He waited for a break in the traffic, then grabbed Genevieve by the wrist and pulled her across the street.

  On the opposite sidewalk, he let go and walked a few doors down to a cafe, holding the door for her. Inside, he signaled the waiter that they would be two for lunch and chose a table.

  Julien settled into his chair and shed his coat. “So, your complaints, in no particular order: Perhaps she assumed you were my assistant because I made the call? But yes, I can see that would be upsetting.”

  The waiter arrived with menus. Julien ordered water, glanced at the menu and put it aside.

  “On the switch to French: She thought she insulted me with the reference to my family being Jewish. English isn’t her first language. I accepted her apology, thanked her for her time, asked her where we should get lunch.”

  The waiter returned with their water. “Do you know what you want? She recommended the mussels.”

  Genevieve hadn’t looked at the menu. “That sounds fine.”

  Julien ordered, and the waiter left.

  “So what does that leave?” Julien took a long drink. “Oh, right. She was flirting. Don’t know what to tell you. I like talking to women. Women seem to like talking to me. I believe you, on occasion, have talked to me in a way that might have counted as flirting. When you aren’t mad at me, that is.”

  Genevieve began to blush.

  “Did you really think it was a waste of time? I guess it didn’t help with the provenance research,” Julien said. “But I thought it was interesting. I never knew any of that about him.”

  Relieved to be on safer ground, Genevieve looked up, hoping the red in her face had faded. “You’re right that it doesn’t really help, but it was fascinating.”

  “You did know the part about the necklace, though,” Julien said. “That day in your apartment, you told me...”

  Watching Genevieve’s face, he fell silent.

  “You really hadn’t heard that story before.”

  “No.”

  “And yesterday, in the studio, when I was going on about the creative energy or whatever, you said you f
elt something too. What did you feel?”

  Genevieve stared out the window. The wind had come up, and people on the street were turning up their coat collars and adjusting their scarves.

  “Genevieve?”

  “It felt familiar.”

  They spent a frustrating afternoon battling French bureaucracy and an arcane record-keeping system.

  Late in the day, though, they had a breakthrough: Julien found a severe-looking archivist in her 60s who proved surprisingly susceptible to his charms. With her help, they were able to identify the notaries who had witnessed four generations of Lazare wills and formulate a plan for the next day. Their progress had been glacial, but Genevieve felt confident they’d have better luck on Day Two.

  As she watched Julien bid adieu to the archivist who’d proved so helpful, she realized something she’d overlooked before: Julien didn’t turn on the charm only for women who were conventionally attractive, and he didn’t do it simply when he wanted something.

  She’d seen him chat up an overweight teenage ticket-taker at the movies, an elderly woman in a wheelchair in the LAX security line and a lot of women in between. It was true: He liked talking to women, and women liked talking to him. He seemed to find something interesting in nearly every woman he encountered, and women above a certain age or outside certain parameters of attractiveness weren’t invisible to him.

  When they left the archives building, Julien surprised her by leading her toward the Seine, not toward the Metro station they’d used that morning.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Back by a different route,” Julien said.

  Once they had boarded the Metro, Julien turned to her and said, “OK. Pyramus and... Thisbe? What’s their story?”

  Grateful that he had found another ruse to distract her, Genevieve gave him the abbreviated version.

  “Another pair of star-crossed lovers, this time from Roman mythology. Supposedly Shakespeare based Romeo and Juliet on them.”

  Genevieve closed her eyes for a moment, shutting out the clatter of the Metro and recalling the details.

  “I’m not sure why – probably family opposition – but they meet in secret. One night Thisbe’s waiting at their spot, and she’s startled, I think by a lion.”

  “Wait, did you say a lion?”

  “I think it was supposed to be in Babylon or something,” Genevieve said. “Anyway, she’s startled, and she runs, but her veil is torn, maybe by a thorn? So Pyramus shows up, finds the bloody veil, thinks Thisbe is dead and kills himself. Then she comes back and finds his body and kills herself.”

  “Another happy ending,” Julien said.

  “Well, art imitates life,” Genevieve said, “and for a lot of history, people didn’t choose who they married. It was arranged. Falling in love pretty much guaranteed an unhappy ending.”

  The Metro stopped, and Julien motioned her to her feet. “This is us.”

  “Really? Now where are we going?”

  “It’s a surprise,” Julien said. “But we need to hurry.”

  Julien hustled her to the left outside the train. Genevieve finally saw a sign.

  “The Louvre? But what time does it close?”

  Julien glanced at his watch. “We have 45 minutes.”

  “You expect me to see the greatest collection of art in the world in 45 minutes?”

  “We’re not here to see the whole thing,” Julien said, “just Pyramus and Thisbe.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Julien had to work his magic at the ticket booth, which was closing when they arrived.

  But work it he did, and then he and Genevieve walked as fast as they could – running being strictly prohibited – toward the salon where Pyramus and Thisbe was displayed.

  Genevieve kept falling behind, mostly because she’d catch a glimpse of something she’d always longed to see and linger, just for a moment.

  Finally, Julien firmly grabbed her hand. “We’ll come back. I promise.”

  A guard tried to shoo them out, but Julien just waved and kept going, a man on a mission. They turned one last corner, and then they were there.

  The painting’s background was some sort of ancient tomb. Genevieve remembered that, from the story.

  Pyramus sprawled in the foreground, a white veil splotched with blood clutched to his lifeless chest.

  Thisbe sat on a stone bench, turned away from his body, one arm raised to cover her face as she wept. Her diaphanous blue gown fell away from her torso, revealing one pale breast, and the fabric caught between her knees, showing her bare thigh and calf.

  Genevieve had seen representations of the couple in art before, but never anything like this. Théodore Lazare’s Pyramus and Thisbe clearly had not been meeting in secret to exchange demure glances and chaste expressions of courtly love.

  “Wow,” Julien said.

  He took a step back from the painting. “My mother dragged me all over France to see Lazare paintings, but I am sure I never saw this. I would remember this.”

  “Maybe she didn’t think it was appropriate for a 14-year-old boy?”

  She took a step back, too. She’d initially focused on the figures in the painting, because they were so compelling, but the light was interesting, too. Thisbe seemed to be captured in a stream of pure moonlight.

  “The light’s really unusual,” Genevieve said.

  “It’s good, isn’t it? I’ve always thought he was mediocre,” Julien said. “But this – this is actually good, isn’t it?”

  “The composition is good, his colors are beautiful, the light is extraordinary, but mostly, it’s so alive. Or she is, anyway.”

  “To have had that” – Julien gestured toward Thisbe – “and lose it. Devastating.”

  Genevieve gave him a hard look.

  “What?” Julien’s eyes widened. “Oh, not in a ‘damn, she’s hot’ kind of way. Give me some credit.”

  Julien took Genevieve’s arm and pulled her closer to the painting. “Doesn’t it seem suffused with...”

  “Um, yeah,” Genevieve said.

  Julien laughed. “Well, obviously. But not just sex. Although...”

  “Oh. My. God,” Genevieve said.

  “Oh. My. God. That’s right,” Julien said. “But my great-whatever uncle loves that woman. You can see it. You can feel it. He loves her in a burn-you-up-and-leave-you-in-ashes kind of way. And when she’s gone, he’s going to be like Pyramus there, and he knows it.”

  Julien shook his head.

  “Poor bastard.”

  At breakfast the next morning, Genevieve faced an irate email from D complaining that she had been in France for “THREE FRICKIN’ DAYS” without sending a single update.

  And it was true. The first night, Genevieve had tumbled into bed before 8 p.m., too jet-lagged to email. The previous night, she and Julien had gone to the Louvre, and then to dinner, where they talked for hours.

  They compared notes on growing up in single-parent households. Julien, who had no grandparents and only a handful of distant cousins, had constantly battled his mother’s neediness. He sympathized, given her past, but it irritated him nonetheless. He talked frankly about the painful realization, in his 20s, that much of his mother’s unhappiness had been caused by his father’s affairs.

  Genevieve told him something she’d never spoken aloud, not even to D: How well-intentioned matchmaking efforts on her father’s behalf had terrorized her as a child. She’d lie awake at her grandparents’ house, knowing her father was on a date, visualizing a future in which he’d move in with a new wife and leave her behind.

  It was liberating to talk about it. She’d given up the idea that anyone would ever understand. Pete had accused her of playing the “dead mother” card too often.

  How could she summarize the last couple of days for D in an email?

  “Everything OK?”

  Julien was looking at her over his coffee. “You’re sighing a lot.”

  “A demanding email from D,” she said. “I’
ve been negligent about updating her. Which reminds me, I haven’t heard anything from Thomas – about Philip’s job, the guard in the hospital, nothing. I need to email him.”

  Julien checked his watch. “Make it quick. If we get what we need today, we can sightsee tomorrow.”

  Genevieve was already writing to Thomas. “And shop. I have to get D a souvenir.”

  When they got to the archives, Genevieve and Julien found themselves at odds.

  Julien wanted to look for his grandfather’s will, and his reasoning was solid. Laurent Lazare’s will could place Study for Tristan and Iseult in the hands of the family on the brink of the war.

  Genevieve wanted to look first for the will of Henri Lazare, the artist’s brother. She hoped for an orderly chain of possession, all documented, with no gaps.

  Rather than argue, they agreed to proceed with the idea of meeting in the middle. Genevieve could tell that Julien hoped to make a race of it, one he expected to win.

  By the time they broke for lunch, neither had made much progress. The records were handwritten and hard to decipher. Genevieve had to take a break every 20 minutes and stare at the ceiling to avoid eye strain.

  Midafternoon, Julien discovered he’d been given the wrong volume of records and went stomping off in search of the correct one.

  Shortly after that, Genevieve stumbled upon a faster way to zip through the records, and within a half-hour was frantically waving Julien over.

  She’d found Henri Lazare’s will, dated 1865.

  They scanned through the pages until they found mentions both for the drawing and the painting Tristan and Iseult. The last listing was followed by a sentence that Genevieve couldn’t quite make out, an admonition of some sort. She could read the ne and pas, but the handwriting and French grammar conspired to baffle her.

  When he saw what she’d found, Julien slung his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close, burying his face in her hair.

  “Yes!” he whispered.

  “What does that line say?” she whispered back, pointing.