The Grandfather Clock

by Jonathan Kile

  I attempted to explain American football as Claudette set a small table. The house smelled like Thanksgiving.

  “Michael is the son I never had,” Claudette said. “He is how I would have raised a son.”

  “Vous voulez soulever un barman américain?” Celeste asked.

  It was a biting remark and I knew she’d forgotten I understood some French. I picked up on “barman américain” and smiled.

  “J’avais l’habitude de travailler pour une banque,” I said, pointing out that I had been working for a bank.

  She blushed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean it that way,” she said. “It was a poor attempt at humor.”

  “No problem.”

  “Michael is just in transition. He had the courage to change his life. He seized the chance to be happy,” Claudette said, coming to my defense.

  “Happy isn’t the same as content,” I said. “After the holidays, I’ll be looking for an opportunity.”

  “You’ll visit me,” Claudette said.

  “D’accord,” I said.

  Standing over my duffel bag, Celeste had an odd look. “Do all Americans carry weapons wherever they go?”

  “Oh, that’s the musket. It has an inscription. Some is in French.”

  “Let’s see,” Celeste said, reaching into the bag. “If you don’t mind.”

  “No, please. I don’t actually carry weapons with me, usually. That’s why I brought it.”

  She lifted the gun. “Whoa, heavier than it looks.”

  “It’s beautiful!” Claudette said. “If it’s French, maybe your mother can tell us something about it!”

  “My mother doesn’t know anything,” Celeste deadpanned.

  “Nonsense. She runs a museum.”

  “She curates a rotting old house,” Celeste responded.

  On the stock, just behind the trigger, was a silver colored plate. The writing was so ornate, and the words unfamiliar, I hadn’t really given the translation much of a try.

  Celeste squinted and tilted the gun back and forth slightly to catch the light. She read slowly. “Armurerie de l’Empereur. Armory of the Emporer,” she repeated in English. “Then it looks like, ‘Honneur, Patrie.’ Honor. Home or homeland.”

  “Interesting,” said Claudette.

  “This isn’t all in French,” Celeste said. “Veni. Vidi. Vici. Whatever that is.”

  “Latin,” Claudette said without hesitation. “Julius Caesar. Didn’t you both go to university? ‘I came. I saw. I conquered.’”

  “So it’s an old gun,” Celeste said.

  “Let me see that,” Claudette said. “Amory of the Emperor. This was used by Napoleon’s army. Where did your grandfather get this?”

  “I have no clue,” I said.

  “It’s really interesting.”

  “If it’s real,” said Celeste. “Look, on the other side.”

  Claudette turned it over. “Maybe a replica souvenir. It has Napoleon’s mark.”

  On the opposite side of the gun was the engraving of an “N” inside a wreath.

  Celeste explained, “You can buy all sorts of things with the ‘N’ on it. Plates, silverware, stationery. I saw one etched on the back of an iPhone. The gift shop my mother runs is full of that stuff.”

  “Take a picture and send it to your mother,” Claudette said. “Let’s eat.”

  The Wednesday before I left town to visit Santa Fe for Christmas, Claudette intervened in my life.

  “Michael, I need to tell you something that I have done,” she said with hesitation. “You must not be angry with me.”

  “What?” I asked nervously.

  “I spoke to my sister, Marianne, in Paris. She is Celeste’s mother. The one who runs the museum.”

  “Okay.”

  “I told her about the gun you have.”

  “Why would I be angry about that?” I asked.

  “Well, her museum has been struggling. I told her that you were a man from the financial world. I told her you might help her. That maybe you could display the gun, to help them raise funds.”

  I was a little surprised. It was better than hiding the gun inside a clock. “Okay. I’m sure something could be worked out. I could loan the gun for display. People do that sort of thing all the time. If it’s authentic.”

  “I have a feeling it is,” she said in a low voice. “Michael. You’re too talented to be pouring drinks for me here every day. I told her that your French was good, and that you could help the museum in some small way. Maybe big!”

  That was a stretch. “Claudette,” I said leaning in, “I don’t know anything about raising funds for a museum. Much less in French!”

  “How hard could it be? You meet with wealthy people, corporate people, and ask them for money.”

  “First, it helps if those people know who you are. I mean. Has no one...” I was at a loss for words.

  “She wants to see you.”

  “Well, that’s going to be tough, isn’t it,” I said.

  “No, because on January 5th you are flying to Paris.”

  “What?”

  “Think of it as a job interview. You meet her, see if the fit is right.” She reached into her purse and pulled out an envelope with a Christmas tree on it. “Here is your ticket.”

  “I can’t accept this. You don’t have the money...”

  “What do you know about my money?” she snapped. “Merry Christmas. My gift to you for the delicious turkey.”

  I took the envelope and couldn’t hide a huge smile. I was excited about this.

  Then she added, “I used frequent flier miles. There’s no return trip, I’m sorry.”

  “I could have paid for my ticket,” I said.

  “You wouldn’t have gone.”

  My last night working at Ol’ Toons was a celebration. Dan put Kronenberg’s and Kir Royales on special. The after-party went until sunrise. I had become good friends with Melissa, the single mother. She hung out until the wee hours of the morning. Brian’s apartment resembled Jonestown, with bodies strewn at every angle around the room. Melissa and I sat on the balcony as the sun streamed between the peaks of the old French Quarter buildings. We tip-toed past the sleeping revelers and went to a café for breakfast, making short work of eggs benedict and pancakes.

  “I’m so happy for you,” she said.

  “Thanks,” I said. “I’m a little nervous.”

  “Good. You should be. You’re doing it right. Follow your dreams.”

  “This wasn’t my dream,” I said.

  “Whatever. You know what I mean. You are going for it. Whatever it is.”

  “I’ve got a one-way ticket to Paris to see a total stranger on the premise that I can help them with something I knew absolutely nothing about.”

  “Well,” she said as we paid the bill, “at least you’ll have a good story to tell.”

  I accepted Claudette’s offer to drive me to the airport. I unceremoniously locked my apartment and dropped the key in the mailbox. She had convinced me to sell my car. She said it was a symbol of my commitment to starting a new life. Like a mother dropping her son off for college, she shed a tear and kissed me on both cheeks as she dropped me at the curb.

  5

  I pulled a single suitcase and a Swiss Army backpack. I didn’t know when I was returning, but I decided that I really liked traveling light. The gun would be arriving via a special delivery service in a few days. It was insured and packed in a custom-made wooden box. I hailed a cab and nervously told him the address. The ride took me through the outskirts of Paris. I had visited Paris once after college. I had taken a backpacking trip that started in London, and hit Paris, Switzerland, and returned via Munich.

  The red-eye flight was a different kind of experience, since I was used to being up all night. I only caught a few hours of sleep, but I adjusted to seeing the sun. I looked forward to cup of good coffee. I had spoken to Marianne Demers once on the phone. We spoke for nearly an hour almost entirely in French. It was the longest conversation I�
��d ever had in French and it left me exhausted. She complimented me on the beautiful “piece,” as she referred to the blunderbuss. She talked about the Château de Malmaison being a place with great potential; an underappreciated gem. We talked about showing the gun to an expert scholar, and finding out its story. The story would determine how we moved forward. It was reassuring to hear she had a plan. I apologized if Claudette had exaggerated my French skills. She said that it wouldn’t take long for me to improve.

  The arrangement that Claudette had worked out on my behalf was simple. Madame Demers would arrange for my lodging and board. On top of that, I would receive 200 Euro each week, which was about $275. Without rent, and basic food, I thought that I could make that work.

  There was a not-so-small issue of my work permit. Some research revealed that getting a work permit would not be simple. As a citizen of a non-E.U. country, I was supposed to prove that I was more qualified for the job than any citizen of an E.U. country. First, I wasn’t really sure what the job was. I knew they wanted me and the story of the gun, to help them raise money for the museum. Perhaps that made me more qualified than 500 million Europeans. When I questioned this, Marianne mentioned a special cultural program that neither I nor Google could identify. The sense I got was that the gun was greasing the wheels for me. A gun I still wasn’t entirely sure was authentic.

  It was a little odd getting dropped off in the morning at Château de Malmaison. The house wasn’t open yet. The gate was locked and lone worker loitered on the other side. The chateau stood beyond its empty grounds, at the end of a wide driveway of light colored gravel. It immediately struck me as a remarkable, yet simple example of French grandeur. It wasn’t Versailles. Not even a corner of Versailles. Just three stories high, it had more than a dozen windows from end to end, with gray facade and a roof of French blue.

  I waved to the middle-aged woman who stood a few yards back from the gate. She waved me off. “Quinze minutes!” she said.

  I attempted my best French. “I’m here to see Mrs. Demers. I’m supposed to meet her.”

  “She is not here,” she said, eying my suitcase suspiciously.

  “I just came from the United States. I’m a guest of hers.”

  She gave me an annoyed look. I looked beyond to the chateau.

  Just then a worn green Peugeot pulled up.

  A woman leapt out of the diver’s seat and greeted me. “I’m so sorry, I’m running late. You must be Michael,” she said taking my hand and offering an air kiss on both cheeks. “Traffic getting here was... Anyway, how was your flight?”

  “No problems,” I said.

  “Reneé, please open the gate,” she said. Reneé complied without haste.

  “I’m going to take my car in through the service entrance. I can’t have my tire tracks through here. I will meet you there.”

  Alone, I dragged my suitcase through the gravel to the front door of Napoleon and Josephine’s house. I waited under the eye of Reneé. It was at least ten minutes, and I could see guests begin to make their way in the gate. One snapped a picture as I awkwardly waited with my luggage on the front step.

  On that first morning, Marianne attended to the needs of the chateau while I was free to walk the grounds on my own. At lunchtime guests were sent out and the front gate was locked, which I thought was a curious practice for an aspiring tourist destination. The chateau was beautiful inside and out. It wasn’t just a house. It looked as if an Emperor had lived in it. An extravagant dining room, bedroom big enough to host a party, and no wall or ceiling was unadorned. There were noticeable nicks and scratches and dust, but one could forgive that for the small entrance fee. It was the sort of place you could visit for an hour or two. If you were on your first visit to Paris, you would never go there. It was out of the way, and there were far more grand things to see. But if you visited frequently, or had an extended stay, it was a side trip into a fine neighborhood. The house was originally built as a country home, away from the city. The city had since made its way out to Château de Malmaison, but it didn’t swallow it.

  Sensing my jet lag, Marianne drove me to an apartment, explaining in English where the train stops were. Marianne had indeed arranged for my lodging. I was given a futon in a small office in her flat, which was in a suburban apartment building that, to me, looked like an American’s idea of an apartment building given a French theme. It was close to the “RER” and within just a few minutes I could be in a café on the Left Bank, climbing the steps of the Sacré-Cœur, or visiting the Mona Lisa.

  I was surprised that I was to be living with her. I felt like a thirty-year old exchange student. She was younger than Claudette, and thinner, but the resemblance was there. I guessed she was in her early fifties. I knew that they had both spent time in London as children. Her English was fair and we switched to French occasionally. She complimented my French, which I had been studying hard in the few days I had before the unexpected move. I told her that if I made a mistake, she could blame Claudette.

  If I was shocked to be living with Marianne, I was really thrown to find Celeste living there as well. She was walking out the door when we arrived.

  “Bonjour, Michael,” she said with a slight smile and kisses on both cheeks. “We meet again.”

  I offered a weak response, “Yes, I’m as surprised as you are.”

  “Well. Welcome,” she said before telling her mother that she was going to the library.

  “You know Celeste, of course,” Marianne said.

  “Yes,” I said, “We had Thanksgiving together.”

  “She comes and goes, comes and goes. I ever know were she is.”

  Marianne said the food in their small refrigerator was for sharing. She told me that I could add things to the shopping list that I liked. I told her that I was sure whatever she bought would be fine. She heated some vegetable soup on her small gas range and cut up a baguette and cheese. We talked a little bit about Florida, about my previous visit to Paris, and Barack Obama. Before I knew it, she was telling me to get some sleep. She would be back in the evening and we would go to dinner, “So we could talk.”

  I fell into a hard sleep. When I woke I had no idea how long I had been sleeping, or what time it was. What I did know was that there was a man standing beyond the doorway. I squinted and I heard a “shhh.” Then something about “the American.” It was Celeste. I sat up, and the man said, “Bonjour.”

  I rubbed my eyes and ran my hands through my hair. “Bonjour.” I said. “Je m’appelle Michael.” First grade French.

  “Marco,” he said leaning against a wall outside the door. He was wearing a suit with tailored slim pants and a skinny tie hung loosely around his neck. It was stylish, even if it looked a little worn.

  “Did we wake you?” Celeste called.

  “No, I um. Just catching up after the flight. What time is it?”

  “Almost five,” Marco said.

  “Mother is taking you to dinner?” Celeste called from what I assumed was her bedroom.

  “Um, yeah,” I said.

  I walked into the hallway as she came out of the bedroom.

  “Here’s the trick: In the shower, turn on only the hot water first. If you turn on the cold first, the hot never comes. Turn on the hot, then the cold, but just barely. It’s very sensitive.”

  “Thanks.”

  “We’re going to be late,” she said to Marco as they headed out the door.

  “Ciao!” she waved.

  Ciao, I thought.

  “Have you been to Relais de Venise?” Marianne asked as she grinded her car into reverse.

  “I don’t think so,” I said.

  “It’s a very famous restaurant. Maybe a little touristy, but I only get to go there when I have a visitor. They only serve steak pommes frites. You do eat meat?”

  “I do. I think I’ve heard of it.”

  It took us nearly an hour to get into the city with the traffic.

  “We should have taken the train,” Marianne lamented.
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br />   When she wasn’t making me nervous with her driving, Marianne was a charming host. She pointed out sights as we went along, including the Eiffel Tower three times. The weather was cold. There had been a light rain and the street lights reflected off the asphalt and the exhaust of cars created a fog as we waited for traffic to move across a bridge to the Left Bank. From the French Quarter to France in less than a day.

  We sat down and Marianne ordered an inexpensive bottle of red wine. The only food choice was steak. Servers roamed and refilled our plate as needed.

  “This place would go out of business in the United States,” I laughed.

  “Try the sauce,” she said. “This food reminds me of coming here as a child.”

  “Well, Marianne. Let me start by saying thank you,” I said raising my glass. “I love your sister, like family. I just hope I can help.”

  “Let’s talk about the gun,” she said.

  “Absolutely.”

  “I’ve seen the photos,” she said pouring us both another glass of wine. “Any item connected to the Napoleonic Army is of interest to us, but your piece is more ornate. Not a typical weapon. Certainly collectible. A lot of things disappeared during the war.”

  “So, you think it was in a museum before?”

  “Of course. Yes, if it is authentic.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “The Nazis took it, perhaps.”

  I was struck by how casually she mentioned the Nazis. “Then how did it end up in my family’s clock?”

  “That is a question that I thought you might have an answer to. Did your grandfather fight in the war? Perhaps he collected it somewhere along the way.”

  “No. He was a hemophiliac. And I think he was a bit too young. He was born in 1927.”

  “No one else? An uncle?”

  “He had a cousin, but I never heard anything about him fighting.”

  “You are having it shipped?”

  “It should be here by Monday,” I said. It was a Tuesday night. “My grandfather did travel to Europe, once that I know of. It had to be around 1950. He went around the world, hopping freighters. But, this is all a mystery to me, and my mother doesn’t seem to know anything.”