The Grandfather Clock

by Jonathan Kile

  “Oh, god, Michael, you have to tell her,” Celeste laughed.

  “Shit. Okay,” I gulped. “Celeste is probably talking about the fact that I was engaged.”

  “Really?” Marianne’s jaw dropped.

  “Is it so hard to believe?” I joked.

  “No, of course not.”

  “She was fine. But not right for me.”

  “Tell her the rest,” Celeste demanded, grinning from ear to ear.

  “I broke up with her at a wedding.”

  “What!” Marianne gasped.

  “She insulted me. She was drunk and she insulted me for no reason, in front of three bridesmaids.”

  “It gets better,” Celeste muttered.

  “What on earth did she say?” Marianne asked.

  I sighed. “It’s going to sound petty. You know who Ben Affleck is?”

  “No, she’s French, we don’t have television. Of course she knows who Ben Affleck is,” Celeste cracked.

  “Well, I guess it was my clothes. Maybe my hair that night. Maybe they were drunk. But the bridesmaids said I looked like Ben Affleck...”

  “You do! In a certain way,” Marianne nodded.

  “Not really,” I said, “But thanks. My fiancée sneered at them and basically said I didn’t look like Ben Affleck because he’s ‘hot.’”

  “Oof,” Marianne grunted.

  “And he breaks it off. Just like that,” Celeste added, finishing my story.

  “It was not just that. It was the last straw, um, I was fed up.”

  Celeste rolled her eyes, “Don’t give this guy any criticism.”

  “Celeste, he’s our guest,” Marianne admonished.

  “Hey, I know I don’t look like Ben Affleck. Is he that good looking anyway? But she didn’t have to be nasty about it. I can see she didn’t like me talking to three bridesmaids, but she was rude to them, and clearly had a low opinion of me.”

  Marianne came to my defense, “It shows a lack of regard.”

  “Thank you. And it was just an example of deeper problems. Rather than drag it out, I ended it.”

  “It isn’t easy, and life is too short,” Marianne nodded.

  “Two sides to every story,” Celeste grinned.

  In a weird way, it felt like a family dinner. I could tell that there was a side to Celeste that was guarded. We’d had a great time on Saturday night, but there was a side she wasn’t showing.

  I rode with Marianne to the museum on that first day on the job. I wore black pants and a blue button up dress shirt and a gray tie. She said I looked “smart.” I felt like I was getting a ride to school from my mother. We pulled up to the back of the chateau via the service entrance. It was not as well maintained in the rear. I wondered if Napoleon had a trash dumpster. He definitely didn’t have a recycle bin.

  On the short ride, she explained to me that my arrangement was unusual. “If anyone asks for details, just tell them you are a visiting curator from New Orleans. Maybe Louisiana State University sent you.”

  Maybe, I thought. I wasn’t wild about suddenly feeling illegitimate, but at this point in my life, I had to roll with it. It wasn’t like I’d sent out two dozen resumes and interviewed for a job in my field. I had talked to Sam on Sunday night after dinner. He was going to work on getting me an appointment with someone at Bank USA in Europe. Perhaps I could make an early score and earn people’s confidence. It was a piece of advice I’d received from Dr. Adamovich at Florida State. He said you’ve usually got several weeks between getting a job and starting a job. Try to have something good for when you get there. At the end of the first week, they’ll see a month’s worth of work and think you are brilliant.

  Between the blunderbuss and setting a major appointment, I hoped to earn some credibility. Then I could figure out what I was actually doing. Marianne showed me a small desk in her office. I had brought my own laptop. I liked the situation. If I’d been given some office with my name engraved, I would have felt self-conscious.

  Marianne introduced me to Antoine, who was their assistant catchall. He was setting up for a guest group to have a morning meeting in a parlor room. Apparently you could borrow space in Napoleon’s house. There were three docents who would arrive shortly before opening..

  Marianne pulled a business card off her desk. “This is Dr. Jean Desjardins. He can tell us about the gun. I have told him only that we have an American bringing him an item of interest. He is at the Louvre. When does the package arrive?”

  “I am supposed to pick it up this afternoon,” I said.

  “Good. Until then, make yourself comfortable. Something you might start looking into is how your grandfather came to possess the gun.”

  That was indeed a good question. I spent my first morning sending emails to my mother and brother, since it was too early to call. I asked them both if they had any old photos that might show the gun when it was displayed on the mantle or if there were any journals or postcards from my grandfather’s trip. Then I remembered the slides. The little wooden boxes of slide pictures that my grandfather had left. They were in a box that I left with Claudette. I would have her send them. I was almost certain that pictures from his trip would be in that collection, along with all the family holidays, and trips to the Redwoods and the Grand Canyon.

  At lunch the property closed. Guests were shooed out and the gates locked for ninety minutes. Marianne drove me to the train station and I went into the city. The shop was on Haussman near the Paris Opera. Despite the cold weather, the streets were busy with a mixture of business people and tourists. As I approached my phone rang. It was Claudette. She had seen my email and would find the slides and send them right away. There were about twenty boxes, each one about six inches long and three inches square.

  “So, how are you getting along with Marianne and Celeste?”

  “Very well. Celeste took me out on the town on Friday. We were out until almost dawn.”

  “She’s a nice girl,” Claudette said. “She can be aloof. She took her father leaving very hard. Marianne pretends it didn’t happen, which makes it even worse.”

  “And how is Ol’ Toons without me?”

  “Not the same. Not the same. But I’m happy every time I think of you.”

  “Thanks for all of this, Claudette. It means so much.”

  “It was you who made it happen. And the gun.”

  “Speaking of... I’m here to pick it up. Assuming it arrived in one piece. I am supposed to take it to a Dr. Desjardins.”

  “Go! Let me know what happens!”

  “Au revoir,” I said.

  “Listen to you, ‘Au revoir.’ C’est bon! Bye bye, Michael.”

  I had the gun sent by a custom shipping company. They had built a small wooden box. Inside it sat in a custom Styrofoam mold. The slatted blond wood looked like a cartoon box of dynamite. It had a rough rope handle built into it. I was impressed. I walked a couple of blocks to a bench near a large church.

  I opened the latches on one side of the box, which was crudely hinged. It was not meant to be opened and closed many times. The molding had a flat section covering the gun. I peaked only quickly. I didn’t want a bystander to be alarmed at the sight of the weapon, even if it was over two hundred years old. It was all in one piece.

  I pulled out the card for Dr. Jean Desjardins.

  I zipped up my fleece as I waited for the phone to ring.

  “Desjardins!” came a loud voice on the other end.

  “Uh, Jean Desjardins? Dr. Jean Desjardins?”

  “Oui. Qui est-ce?”

  “Um, Michael Chance. Le Américain. Marianne Demers m’a dit de vous appeler.”

  “What? American?”

  “Parle-vous anlgais?”

  “No, not a word. Now what do you want?”

  “Marianne Demers, from the Château de Malmaison said I should call you. I have an interesting item that I need some opinion on.”

  “An ‘interesting item,’” he repeated. “And what is this ‘interesting item�
�?”

  “It’s a blunderbuss,” I said. “A gun.”

  “I know what a blunderbuss is. And why is it interesting? There are literally thousands out there. Don’t tell me you found it in your uncle’s attic.”

  “Close. It has some interesting markings.”

  “There’s that word ‘interesting’ again. What are the markings? I will tell you if they are interesting.”

  “Well, one reads ‘Veni Vidi Vici.’”

  There was a pause. “Hmmmm.”

  “I’d like to show it to you. I ask for just a few minutes of your time.”

  “Come to the Louvre tomorrow morning. Call me when you are outside and I will walk you in.”

  It was almost closing time at the museum when I got back. Marianne was eager to see the gun in person, but didn’t want anyone else to see it. She told me to keep it under wraps until we got back to the apartment. When we got there, Celeste was curled up on the couch crying. She tried in vain to conceal it when we walked in.

  “Oh dear. What is the matter?”

  “Nothing, Mother.”

  “Something is the matter.”

  I set the box on the kitchen bar, walked to the office and took off my tie. I could hear them switch to French and speak in a low tone. Marianne had a tendency to speak English around me. She said it was good practice for her.

  I had a good idea of why she was crying. In my brief interaction with Marco, I knew he was a handsome athlete with a cool attitude. She was young, still living at home. It would be hard not to fall under his spell.

  Marianne called for me to open a bottle of wine, and Celeste and I helped Marianne make dinner. I chopped onions and garlic for a green bean dish, while Celeste made a salad. Marianne baked a chicken. It was comfort food at its best. At the end of dinner, Marianne cleared a spot on the small table and insisted on seeing the gun. Celeste moved to the kitchen and began washing dishes.

  “Don’t you want to see it, Celeste?” Marianne asked.

  “I saw it, remember? In New Orleans.”

  “Well, that was two months ago. Come see.”

  Celeste seemed to give her mother friction on a constant basis. She came to the table without a word.

  “Here we go,” I said. I opened the box, removed the piece of foam and lifted the gun from the box. I gripped the bell-shaped muzzle so that Marianne could see the inscriptions. The muzzle’s combination of wood and metal came together smoothly and I started to appreciate the craftsmanship. It needed a cleaning. It was dusty, and tarnished, but it was a solid piece.

  “Can I hold it?” Marianne asked.

  “Sure,” I said. “It’s not loaded.”

  Celeste laughed.

  “Beautiful,” said Marianne.

  Celeste jumped in. “Look on the other side. The ‘N’ is there.”

  Marianne turned it over. “Très bon.”

  “What do you think?” I asked.

  “I think it may be a significant find, Michael. I really do.”

  Celeste leaned over it, her dark hair falling into her face. “How did your grandfather end up with it? This was probably in a museum? No?”

  Marianne stood up abruptly. “The experts can help us answer that.”

  Celeste and I cleaned the kitchen together.

  “Sorry about earlier,” she murmured as she washed the plates.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Crying.”

  “Oh, no. Don’t apologize.”

  “Marco is going on a tryout to Argentina. I hoped he would take me on the trip. But it’s... impractical.”

  I didn’t know what she wanted me to say. “I’m sure he’ll be busy with the tryout and he’ll need rest,” I offered without conviction.

  “His whole family will be there. Making him meals. Helping him prepare. He’ll be gone two weeks.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “But he’ll be back. He is going to a camp with a team in Dijon. They looked at him a few months ago, but his ankle was still hurt. So he might stay here. The pay is better.”

  “It will work out,” I said.

  “Maybe.”

  Marianne’s secrecy about the blunderbuss and her odd behavior confused me. My visit with Dr. Desjardins shed some light on the mystery. On the train ride in, I emailed Howard Nixon to see if he was free for lunch. It was only my second day “on the job,” but I loved the feeling of working through the city. I felt like I was doing something. Instead of tending bar and hearing everyone else’s stories, I now had a story.

  Cold wind blasted the square in front of the Louvre. I called Jean Desjardins. I had pictured a tiny French academic but was greeted by a man who looked like a retired athlete. He was easily taller than my six feet, two inches. He had long dark hair, with a neat ponytail and a receding hairline that gave him a dramatic air. His handshake could break bones.

  Ignoring the line of tourists stretching into the plaza, Desjardins took me through a side entrance. We walked down two long halls until we reached an office. The ceilings must have been twelve feet high. Desjardins had a computer with an enormous monitor. His bookshelves seemed organized. In the corner, at a small desk, a young woman sat typing with headphones in her ears.

  “Ellen. Ellen!”

  She turned and removed an ear bud.

  “This is Michael Chance, the American,” he said in French.

  “Bonjour,” she said, and returned to typing.

  “Sit down,” he said to me in English. “So, you have an antique blunderbuss. Let me guess, it has markings that lead you to believe it had a well-known owner.”

  “I don’t know what to believe,” I said, taking a seat in the worn leather chair he offered. “Marianne Demers took an interest in it, for possible exhibition at the Château de Malmaison. She sent me to you.”

  “Let’s see it.” Without any care, he flipped the wooden lid open and tossed the covering aside. He pulled it out like he was about to shoot a pigeon.

  “Ah. Heavy,” he said approvingly.

  He pulled out an eyepiece and began examining the inscriptions. He paused and looked up at me with a glint of surprise.

  “Where did you say this came from?”

  “It was my grandfather’s. He passed away about six years ago. I think he picked it up in the late 1940s when he took a trip around the world.”

  “That’s it. He just ‘picked it up’?”

  “I guess,” I said, starting to feel nervous. “I have no idea.”

  “Where is your family from?”

  “California.”

  “No, before they immigrated.”

  “Scotland maybe. England. We don’t really have a strong lineage.”

  “Did he fight in the war?”

  “No.”

  “Was he wealthy?”

  “No.”

  He held the gun as if to aim it. “And who has seen this?”

  “Marianne. Her daughter. And her sister in New Orleans. Some friends.”

  “It will take a little research,” he said. “One can’t be entirely sure, without an original photograph, or some sort of catalog. But the information is out there.”

  “What information?” I asked.

  “Proof. That this belonged to Napoleon.” He leaned back in his chair.

  “Wow,” I said with a slight smile.

  “The bigger question is how your grandfather got it. If he ‘picked it up,’ as you say, who did he pick it up from? This was likely in a collection. Either in a museum, or in someone’s private collection.”

  It started to dawn on me when he said it. Marianne’s tight lip about the gun. She didn’t talk about it with museum staff.

  “The question is, did the Nazis take this gun out of France? Because that is how many items of art and collectibles have found their way into strange places, without explanation. If the Nazis took it, how did your grandfather get it?”

  He opened a drawer on his desk and pulled out a small penlight. He looked into the muzzle.

  “Wel
l! What’s this?” He reached his long middle finger into the muzzle and pulled out a yellowed piece of heavy paper.

  The dusty card read Tromblon de Napoleon Bonaparte, 1816.

  Dr. Desjardins looked at me, mouth agape in a half smile. He used a piece of paper to hold the card under a loupe for a better look. “This is a museum placard.”

  “We need to know more about what your grandfather did on his trip to Europe.”

  “There are pictures. I’ve seen them many times. I’ve sent for them.”

  “It’s a good thing your grandfather wasn’t a German officer. Knowing where this was before the war will answer many questions. Start at the Musée de l’Armeé. You must find out more about your grandfather. You’re aware of what Napoleon’s swords sold for?”

  “Not…”

  “6.4 million euro.”

  “That over…” I was trying to do the math.

  “More than 8 million dollars. Be careful who you trust,” he warned.

  I felt faint as Dr. Desjardins led me out to the plaza.

  “This piece is valuable for its simple antiquity and for its historic significance.”

  “Do you think he carried this in battle?” I asked, immediately regretting the question.

  Desjardins shook his head and murmured, “The biggest battle this piece will see lays before it.” I thought I knew what he meant.

  6

  I felt out of body as I emerged from the Louvre, clutching the box tightly. Be careful who you trust. I thought about what I should say to Marianne. Surely she could be trusted. But who else had she told about the gun? I questioned how my grandfather came to have it and who might lay claim to it. I wished he were alive.

  My phone rang. It was Howard Nixon.

  He gave me directions to a small corner café tucked into a narrow street a few blocks off the river. He was inside drinking a glass of red wine when I got there. The tiny café tables were set up close together and I fumbled to store the box on the floor next to me. We ordered sandwiches.

  “Wait until spring,” he said. “The weather is unimaginable. It’s a different city. The clothes, the women. The women! And I don’t even care about women, but the women in this city are exquisite,” he laughed.