The Grandfather Clock

by Jonathan Kile

  “Leaving?” the nurse asked.

  “Yes. I need to check out. Is there paperwork? A bill?”

  “Are you sure? You don’t need to...” I eased on my good foot. The nurse unhooked the IVs, leaving the needles in my arm. With Klara on my arm I put weight on my left foot. Sharp pain shot up the side of my leg and I had no strength. A second step and it was equally painful, slightly stronger, but there was no way I was going to get around on it.

  A few minutes later the nurse returned with a set of aluminum crutches and a small prescription bottle. There were about eight generic Vicodin. Klara called Celeste while the nurse had me sign a single sheet of paper, with a charge of 40 pesos for everything. I’ve had cups of coffee that cost more.

  “Celeste will be here in a few minutes.”

  My heart sank. There was no good time for this conversation.

  “Klara,” I said, wincing as I sat back on the bed. “I need to tell you something.”

  She looked at me, uneasy.

  I continued, “Something happened in New Orleans. And I can’t keep it from you because... because I care about you. You are all that matters in my life.”

  A tear streaked down her cheek. She shook her head.

  “I sorry, it was a mistake. A massive mistake,” I spoke quicker. “I don’t know, Claudette had died, we were drinking. Don’t blame Celeste, because I...”

  “I know. I knew.” She stopped me. “She told me. On the plane.”

  “She...”

  “She is sick with guilt,” Klara paced the room. “She said that she... she said she’s been trying to get you, she didn’t know why, and she wanted to hurt Marco. It’s Celeste, it’s how she works.”

  I hung my head.

  “Michael,” tears flooded down her face, “I don’t know why. You and Celeste are the two most important people in my life. I love Celeste, with all her faults. And I love you. I know it. I thought you loved me, but that is my fault, not yours.”

  “Klara, I do.”

  “Don’t. You wouldn’t have done this to me.”

  “I know. I can’t explain. I’m so stupid. I’m so sorry.” I had nothing in my defense. Here I was, barely a week from cheating on her, and I was trying to get my ass out of the fire by telling her that I loved her.

  “Michael. I’m glad you told me,” she tried to compose herself. “And Celeste, at least she didn’t lie, for what that’s worth. Truth is, it was something I worried about.”

  “It’s my fault.”

  “Michael, as upset as I was when she told me, I think it is harder on her. And you... when we got here and you were missing. And the feeling that I had when they found you... I was so relieved.”

  “Klara, I’m so sorry.”

  “Michael. I’m not happy about it. But right now I can’t punish my best friend, and my boyfriend, if you are still...”

  “Yes.”

  “Then let’s get out of this room,” she kissed my cheek, “and never speak of this again.”

  I offered a weak smile.

  “You’re lucky,” she said, getting almost nose-to-nose with me. “If you hadn’t turned up beaten to a pulp, I’d have done it to you.”

  12

  The air was cold and fresh compared to the stuffy hospital room. There was no ritual of wheeling me to the front door. Celeste had arrived with clothes and helped on one arm, Klara was on the other. By the time we reached the door, I insisted on going on my own power. I’d sprained enough ankles playing volleyball and basketball that I knew how it felt, and I knew what I could and couldn’t do. What I couldn’t do was walk without a single crutch. I left one leaning against the wall near the door.

  A taxi was waiting. Celeste began to tell the driver to take us to the hostel.

  “No,” I said. “Um. Cuarenta. Forty? East. Est?”

  “Qu’est-ce?” Klara asked.

  I continued, “Y, um. Dos, tres, uno. Norte. Two thirty-one. Comprende?

  “Que?” the driver asked. “Cuarenta?” He pointed east.

  “Sí, y...”

  “Y dos, tres, uno,” he held up fingers for each number.

  “Sí.”

  “Donde?”

  “Cerca de Inalco,” I said, watching the driver’s eyes. “Sabes Inalco?”

  “Creo que sí,” he said, with a little uncertainty.

  I wanted to find my satchel. It had my passport, my computer, and the phone that worked.

  “Your Spanish is impressive,” Celeste said in English.

  “Yes, but can we go back to française, s’il vous plait,” Klara said.

  The conversation turned to what we were going to do next. I asked Celeste if she thought she could find Marco. My feeling was that while he was certainly with Oskar and his thug, he wasn’t exactly part of their plan. It was good to switch to French, so that the driver wouldn’t know what we were saying.

  “Michael, this can wait?” Celeste said. “Why not rest until tomorrow?”

  I looked in the mirror behind the sun-visor. Washing off the dried blood made a slight improvement. “We need to act now, while they think I’m out of the picture.”

  “But what can you do?” Klara asked.

  “Celeste, I think you keep trying to reach Marco. These guys are not his friends. Perhaps he suspects that. I could see the doubt in his eyes.”

  “Marco hates me,” Celeste said. “And he hates you.” Then she darted a look at Klara and then at me. She didn’t know that I knew she had told Klara. “Just that, he never liked you,” she added, attempting to cover her remark.

  “It’s okay,” Klara said. “He knows.”

  Celeste blushed.

  “Just leave it,” Klara said. “We move on. So you need to convince Marco that he’s made a mistake. You made a mistake. We all made mistakes. Except me.” I hoped she was smiling. She wasn’t. She looked tired.

  “We pretend to be a buyer,” Celeste offered.

  “I tried that,” I said. “They won’t buy it.”

  “They don’t need a buyer,” Klara said. “They need someone to launder the gun.”

  “You’re right,” Celeste said. “We need someone who knows about the gun. Who might know it was stolen... but doesn’t care about Michael.”

  “Desjardins,” I said. “What if he reaches out? Perhaps he could convince Marco that he can help.”

  “They have the money to offer,” Klara said. “They might be naïve enough to buy it.”

  “Gullibility is often driven by greed,” I said, summoning a lesson from the banking world.

  “I could have my mother tell Marco. She could implore him to talk to me, and not listen to the Louvre. He’ll do the opposite.”

  “Your mother makes the story real,” I said.

  I had the driver slow down as we reached the point in the road where I thought my car had been. The ride had stiffened my ankle and it was hard to get going again. I struggled up the smaller hill and looked down the side. The driver waited in the cab.

  Luck was on my side. I sent Klara down the hill where everything was safe in my bag. The phone was dead. I stood looking into the woods. Where was the gun now?

  “Michael, let’s get out of here,” Klara said.

  I hobbled and slid down the hill and got back into the cab.

  Having Klara and Celeste by my side gave me new energy. My head pounded, and the looks on people’s faces reminded me that I looked like I’d just lost a prizefight. It was like a bad hangover combined with dental surgery. Several of my teeth actually felt loose as I tried to eat a stack of pancakes at a hotel restaurant.

  Celeste tried once to reach Marco, only to get his voicemail. She left him a message pleading with him to call her.

  “Did you tell him that you are here?” I asked.

  “No,” she said. “I was trying to preserve the element of surprise.” “Can we at least assume he’s getting his messages?”

  “I... can access his voicemail,” Celeste said.

  Klara’s head fell dramatica
lly to the table. “Now you tell us this?”

  “I didn’t think of it.”

  “We need to use that sparingly,” I said. “If you call his number a bunch of times checking his voicemail, he’ll know. He may know the first time you do it.”

  “Then I should check it now, listen to his saved messages.”

  “No, wait a few minutes,” Klara said. “If he’s played your message, we’ll know he’s got his phone and is ignoring you. And then we can have Marianne call him.”

  Klara sounded like she’d done this before. The pain meds were wearing off and I was beginning to feel rough. I was hesitant to take a Vicodin.

  “Man, you look bad,” Celeste laughed. “I’m sorry, not funny.”

  “He looks like a tough guy,” Klara protested. “Did you at least get a shot at them?”

  “Yeah. No,” I said. “I sprained my ankle before they got to me, jumping off a balcony.” They both giggled. “I’m glad you are enjoying this.”

  Celeste sighed. “Honestly, what’s the worst thing that can happen now? So we don’t get the gun back. It’ll turn up. We come out with the story in the newspapers and they won’t have options.”

  “And I go back to tending bar in New Orleans.”

  Klara looked down when I said that. I don’t know if she had totally forgiven me, or Celeste for that matter, but I could see she cared. Aside from the fact that I hated the idea of losing the gun to Marco and a band of Nazi thieves, I was chasing the gun because I wanted to stay in Paris.

  The pancakes left me nauseated. We slowly made our way back to the hostel where Klara and Celeste had arranged for a private room. I plugged in my phone and my computer. We had a plan with more moving parts than I liked. We needed Marianne to tip off Marco that the Louvre would contact him, to make him believe that Dr. Desjardins was approaching as a legitimate buyer. A lot could go wrong. And the plan had beginning, but no end. If successful, we would flush out the gun again, but they were dangerous. Perhaps I was meant to die in that trunk. What would they do if given a second chance?

  “I think you should call Marianne,” Klara said when Celeste went to take a shower.

  She was right. We were asking for her help to lend the plan credibility, and the gun would be safe if I had listened to her. I dialed the number.

  “Marianne,” I said, my voice still weak.

  “Michael?” she said in an alarmed voice. “Are you okay? Celeste said you were badly hurt?”

  “I’ll be okay,” I said. “Listen, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for not putting the tromblon in the safe. I was afraid I would never…”

  “It’s done, Michael. I understand why and now we deal with it,” she said.

  “I had it in my hands before they caught me,” I said. “I think we still have a chance to get it.”

  “Have you lost your mind? Do not lead Celeste and Klara into harm’s way,” she said.

  “It’s Celeste’s idea. We are going to ask Dr. Desjardins to contact Marco. He’ll tell him that the Louvre is willing to work with them discretely. Offer cover for their version of how they got the gun. We need you to call Marco and demand he talk to us, and not listen to the Louvre.”

  “Because you think he’ll do the opposite,” Marianne said.

  “Yes. Because he resents your disapproval of him.”

  I was off the phone when Celeste walked out of the shower, barely covered by one of the hostel’s tiny towels, as if she were that comfortable with me. I could see Klara tense up. A part of me wondered if Celeste was still playing her game, or if it was an honest mistake. I caught Klara’s eye and shook my head knowingly. She gave me a frown I pondered until I fell asleep.

  “How long should we let him sleep?”

  It was Celeste’s voice. The light in the window was dim. Dawn or dusk? I cracked my eyes open. Klara was squeezed onto the bed next to me with the computer open. Her light brown hair was down over her bare shoulders. She was wearing a white camisole that she often wore under her shirts. She might have two or three just like it. It was an image that sent me back to her little apartment in Paris. I wanted to be there.

  I attempted to smile. Pain shot though the side of my mouth.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Worse,” I managed to say.

  She handed me the prescription bottle. “Just take one,” she said. “Stop being so tough.”

  Within a few minutes the pain had lessened and I felt an uneasy high. Waves of nausea folded into fleeting moments of euphoria. I never liked pain pills, but this was better than doing without. Klara helped me into the shower. If my nose hadn’t been full of blood I might have realized how bad I smelled. The hot shower was perfect. It felt good to wash the edges of my wounds. Remove the remnants of crusted blood around my stitches. My lip had already reduced in size, the raw cut less visible, but it was still not quite normal. My torso was a sick mixture of purple and black. Anything more than a shallow breath was painful.

  In the bathroom alone, Klara whispered encouragement as she helped me into my clothes. Her soft French words were soothing. “There you go.” “You’re already getting better.” “We’re going to be okay.” I wondered exactly what she meant.

  She gave me a brief, gentle kiss on the lips. I just looked at her. I wished we had some privacy to have a longer conversation.

  “I meant it,” she said. “I do love you.”

  “I love you, too,” I said.

  “We’re going to be okay?” she said again, only this time it was a question.

  “Yes,” I said.

  When we emerged from the bathroom, Celeste was returning to the room.

  “I talked to my mother,” she said. “She was touched that you called her. I asked her to call Desjardins first thing in the morning, because it will be so early here.”

  “I hope this works,” Klara sighed.

  “Let’s get a drink,” Celeste said.

  The idea of a drink made my stomach turn. Ever since my body was pulled out of rental car trunk I’d been fed pain killers. I was coming out of that fog and even the best drink was repulsive. I struggled to finish a beer while Klara and Celeste drank red wine. Celeste was actually having fun. She was connecting with the music and she looked like a student on break. Klara was drinking to suppress her anxiety. I was acutely aware that she was still coping with the news that the man she loved had slept with her best friend and was calling it a “mistake.”

  The second beer went down easier. I marveled at the carefree lives of the backpackers enjoying the camaraderie of the hostel. Everything seemed so simple.

  Celeste left to use the restroom. Klara leaned in with a low voice, “I hate to say this about my friend, but I don’t trust her.”

  I shook my head. “I know, I know.”

  “No, not that. I’m not talking about you. I’m talking about her mother. This plan. “

  “What do you mean?”

  “Her mother contacting Desjardins, when you’re the one who had been working with him the entire time.”

  “What could they do?” I was too out of sorts to play through the scenarios in my mind.

  “Michael, remember that you deceived Marianne in the first place. Perhaps the best way for the Chateau Malmaison to benefit from the Tromblon de Napoleon is for her to cut you out of it. Marco, Celeste. They can make that happen.”

  “I think you’re being paranoid. You think Celeste came all this way to...”

  Celeste returned with another round of drinks.

  “How are you feeling, Michael? You look like you need something stronger than beer.” She walked back to the bar where three shot glasses were waiting for her.

  “No shots,” I said.

  “Come on.”

  “I’m on pain medicine,” I protested.

  “Just one. Take the pain away.”

  I looked at Klara, who quickly did her shot, and then to Celeste’s surprise, took my shot too.

  I woke the next morning feeling a little better. I was up before 5:
00 because I didn’t want the morning in France to get away from us. My face was now the correct size, even if it was still a rainbow of colors on one side. To my surprise Celeste was not in the room.

  Klara began to stir and gave me a puzzled look when she noticed Celeste’s empty bed.

  I whispered, “Klara, I know you are suspicious. But even if you are right, we can’t let her think that we don’t trust her.”

  “I have to follow my instincts.”

  There was a coldness in the way she said that. I was in a bad spot. I wasn’t thinking sharply, the aftereffects of a concussion and medication. Celeste was running things and Klara was isolating herself.

  Celeste returned and informed us that Dr. Desjardins was in meetings, but that he was willing to pose as an agent from the Louvre. The story was that someone inside the Malmaison had tipped him off that the gun was missing and they wanted to leave me out of it. Born of a rivalry in the museum world, the Louvre would buy it and keep it from being returned to Monaco. She said that Marco was told to meet a Louvre representative in the town square that evening.

  I retrieved Dr. Desjardins’ phone number from my email and waited for an opportunity to call. Celeste seemed to be trying to reach Marco. Each time she’d fail and Klara would roll her eyes. I suggested we track down the soccer facility. Celeste didn’t like the idea. We were wasting time.

  I tried to loosen my ankle. I was beginning to get used to the crutch. “I’m going to call my brother,” I said. “He’s probably up by now.”

  But I dialed Desjardins.

  “Bonjour,” came his quick answer.

  “Dr. Desjardins. It’s Michael Chance.”

  “Mr. Chance,” he said. “How are you doing? Any luck in Bariloche?”

  “Good luck and bad. I found the gun, actually had it in my hands. Then it didn’t go so well.”

  “Oh? You had it? Are they trying to sell it?”

  I was flooded with disappointment. “You have talked to Marianne. Demers.”

  “Marianne? No.”

  Klara was right.