The Grandfather Clock

by Jonathan Kile

  “Dr. Desjardins,” I said, still contemplating, “how would you like to help me out? You might be the hero of this story.”

  “I’m intrigued.”

  “I need you to make a phone call for me, and set a meeting…”

  That afternoon we made the drive out of the city to Llao Llao, the alpine hotel that was to have been my original meeting place with Oskar and Marco. Klara had secured a Fiat. She commented that it was a good choice for me because it had a hatchback and it wasn’t a Volkswagen. The hotel was as Stephen King might imagine a Patagonian mountain lodge. Majestic and eerie, it dominated a high piece of land almost completely surrounded by water. It was the sort of place that tourists visit just to see, even if they aren’t staying, but it was not ski season, so it wasn’t busy.

  We told Celeste that we should go there on the off chance that Oskar was connected to the place. Perhaps someone there could help us find him. I thought we might be able to ask some innocent questions and maybe catch a break. It was a weak excuse, but we were dead in the water. Celeste didn’t mind the excursion, because it was clearly heading in the wrong direction. Klara and I were on the same page. The longer we were idle, the slimmer the chance of retrieving the gun.

  The wood-adorned lobby reminded me of the lodge at the Grand Canyon. The place was impressive. It was 3:00 when we arrived. We took a seat at the bar. I ordered a cup of coffee while the girls had wine. For ten minutes we feigned surveillance of the lobby, making notes of the employees, hoping someone might be helpful. The bartender was likely the most knowledgeable, but might be less likely to be open. It went with the territory. The concierge? No. The bellman? Maybe our best bet was the front desk. Underpaid, overworked, and resentful of other positions in the hotel.

  He walked in at 4:55. Five minutes early, Marco was checking his watch, tennis bag over his shoulder. Then Oskar. My heart sank. He wasn’t supposed to be there, but I figured he would show. Celeste had her back to them, and we were tucked where, if we were lucky, they might not see us right away. I nervously pulled out my phone and Klara made an awkward attempt at casual conversation, to keep Celeste’s eyes off the door.

  “Yes,” I said into the phone, “I’m a guest in the hotel. I’m embarrassed to say that I keep my valuables in a tennis bag. I can’t seem to find it.”

  “What room are you in?”

  “What room is this? I’m not sure. Listen, I’ll come down to the desk. I have a photo of it.”

  “I will alert the bellmen and valet. I’m very sorry sir. I’m sure it is just misplaced.”

  Celeste gave me a confused look.

  I stood up. “Stay here, Celeste.” I hobbled around the edge of short wall dividing the bar from the lobby and caught Marco and Oskar by surprise.

  “Before you try to walk out of here, hotel security is looking for a man with a tennis bag. I suggest you go sit with Celeste at the bar.”

  Marco had a look of shock. Oskar’s was anger.

  “Go,” I said.

  “Marco?” Celeste was puzzled. “What’s going on?”

  He looked at her with the same confusion. Klara struggled to suppress a smile.

  I leaned on one crutch and stared at Marco, while Oskar looked around nervously.

  “Celeste?” Marco offered feebly.

  “Don’t look at me,” she fired back. Her sharp French accent cut the lobby air. I hoped Klara was following the English.

  “I got a call from a man in Paris. Dr. Desjardins. I’m supposed to meet a man from the Lou...”

  The color left Celeste’s face. “Meet who? What? Marco, you are...”

  Klara couldn’t bite her tongue any longer. “You lied about your mother, Celeste.”

  “No, Klara, you’re wrong!” She searched for her phone as if it could provide proof.

  “She never called Desjardins,” I said, “because you never told her to.”

  “Well,” she sputtered, “she obviously did. Marco, you said...” She was still having trouble processing the situation.

  “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Oskar muttered.

  “Leave the bag,” I said holding my crutch up.

  “Fuck you,” Oskar said, stepping up to me and whispering, “I will kill you this time.”

  I stared at Oskar, but addressed Marco. “Marco, that gun has no value. When this is over, the whole world will know how it was stolen, and by whom. You can hand it over, and take your chances walking out of here, or you can risk your whole life.”

  Oskar mocked, “Are you going to call the police? I’ll give you my uncle’s number.”

  “Oskar, I’ll call your mother. We’ve met,” I said. The minute I started the sentence I knew that I was about to get hit. He lunged at me. With my knuckles through the handle of my coffee mug I smashed my right hand into Oskar’s face. It was enough to double him over. Celeste screamed. Not one second after I’d put the mug in his forehead, I grabbed my crutch with both hands and brought it straight down on the back of Oskar’s head. I fell to the ground and hoped for intervention before Oskar recovered.

  Two men, guests, got involved. One held Marco at bay while the other contemplated getting into the fray with Oskar. I used my good leg to scoot back. A heavy bar chair fell between us. Oskar was in a rage. I tried to stand, but my crutch was bent forty-five degrees. Blood poured from the back of Oskar’s bald head.

  Two men in hotel uniforms arrived and surveyed the situation.

  “Stop!” Klara yelled in English. Celeste had backed behind one of the hotel employees, urging him to step in. Oskar glared at me while sizing up the hotel staff.

  Klara held up her phone. “All here!” she said. Then she switched to French. “I have it recorded.”

  “Marco, put down the bag and walk away,” I said. Marco stood there, non-compliant.

  Klara spoke slowly, “Do it or it goes on YouTube, and you’re a wanted criminal.”

  Oskar was confused by the French.

  “YouTube,” I said to Oskar. “You understand YouTube.”

  Marco shook his head at Oskar as he dropped the bag.

  “Celeste,” Klara continued, “hand the bag to me. If you can do that much.”

  Celeste was crying now. She picked up the bag and walked it to Klara. “I can explain,” she said in French.

  “I don’t want to hear your story.”

  Oskar panted with his hands on his knees. The bartender had thrown him a white towel, which was now red with blood.

  I stood up against the bar and took the bag. Klara reached her arm out to help stabilize me. I rubbed my eyes and said, “We’re leaving now.”

  “Klara,” Celeste whimpered.

  Klara rolled her eyes. “Come on.” A crowd watched in silence as we walked up the steps to the main lobby and out the door.

  Epilogue

  Spring had finally arrived in Paris. Howard Nixon was right. I came to love Paris in the winter, but the first sign of spring had me signing a lease on an impossibly small space on the edge of the Latin Quarter. It wasn’t near Klara, and that was for a reason. I couldn’t go back to the Malmaison, and I hadn’t spoken to Marianne since I was in Argentina. While we thought Marianne was working for us, she was trying to convince Marco that a buyer could be found if they excluded me. Celeste’s idea of using Dr. Desjardins was a stalling tactic.

  Celeste was horribly ashamed and I felt sorry for her. She had been caught between her mother, who felt I’d betrayed her by not trusting the gun to the safe at the chateau, and by Marco, who had just left her. They were all acting in self-interest. Marco kept his options open and took the bait when Desjardins offered a meeting with someone from the Louvre. He faded away, and continued his mediocre soccer career for the Cruz del Sur soccer team.

  I didn’t see Celeste for over a month after returning to Paris. She made many attempts to clear with air with Klara, but never tried to reach me. Those first weeks back in Paris had their ups and downs. I didn’t feel comfortable attending Claudette’s burial. I didn’t wan
t to risk confrontation with Marianne or Celeste. My phone rang for two weeks with interview requests. Bank USA stuck by me and brokered a cooperative arrangement with the Louvre, the Napoleon museum in Monaco, and the Hans Christian Andersen Museum in Odense. The story of the Tromblon de Napoleon had made papers around the world, so I was nervous wreck when I ran into Celeste before my first speaking engagement at the Louvre.

  She wore an elegant black dress, and she was almost upon me before I noticed her. I was feeling out of place in a suit, drinking a tonic and lime with no one to talk to when she approached. She made a pouting face and extended a hesitant handshake.

  I took her hand and we hugged. “Hello. This is big,” she said looking around the packed room. “Congratulations. Working for the Louvre now.”

  “I wouldn’t be here if you and Klara hadn’t come to save me.”

  “A lot of good I did.” She looked away.

  “It’s okay,” I said, as she looked up at me slowly. “I know why you did what you did. You didn’t mean to... well, I don’t actually know what you meant to do, but it’s done.”

  “No hard feelings?”

  “No hard feelings, Celeste. I’m sorry it went down the way it did.”

  “Your plan was good,” she smiled. “You beat the shit out of that guy.”

  “Yeah, I’m just glad to be walking without a limp.”

  “You look good.”

  “Yeah, I have a little scar,” I said showing her the curving line above my eye.

  “Makes it a better story when people ask what happened. Makes you look like a tough guy. Like that New York Times article.”

  “Oh, jeez. My mother loved that.”

  She sighed. “Klara won’t talk to me.”

  “Give her time.”

  “Yeah.” She sipped a glass of wine. “How’s your place?”

  “Small,” I laughed.

  “Well, you don’t have to share a bathroom with me and my mom.”

  “How is Marianne?”

  “Ohhhh. She’s getting better. She was, um, embarrassed. She got to keep her job. They knew her intentions were good. She won’t be here tonight.”

  “I should call her.”

  “You should. I thought you might come to Claudette’s... you know.”

  “Yeah. I didn’t want to do that.”

  “It would have been okay,” she said. “You were like a son to Claudette.”

  The lights dimmed. “I guess that’s a cue.” I checked my phone. 6:55.

  I was glad that Dr. Desjardins was there to offer a long and detailed history of the gun, and other valuables stolen during the war. I was nervous that I didn’t have much to add to the story, since everyone had read the account in the press. I didn’t want to come off as arrogant. I talked mostly about the odd circumstances that took me from that bar in Orlando to the mountains of Patagonia.

  If the New York Times story was a thriller, some of the tabloid style newspapers had focused on the story of Christie, and also the deed that set Marco against me. Someone asked if I had heard from Christie. I told them that she had emailed me. I told the audience that I hadn’t been totally fair with her, but that there wasn’t bad blood between us. I commented that my mother was a bit embarrassed at the fact that in the story I not only left my fiancée, but also slept with the best friend of my girlfriend. I was not pretending be a hero.

  A man asked if I felt any bitterness for not being compensated for returning such a valuable item. It was now estimated to be worth $8 million. I told him that I was glad to return it to its proper home and that I had been offered an entry-level position in fundraising and development with the Louvre that included a tuition waiver for graduate work. It was something Dr. Desjardins arranged and I was grateful because it meant that I could stay in Paris.

  A woman asked what happened to Klara and Celeste since the story hit the news.

  I said, “She’ll probably kill me for this. Throughout this adventure I made some bad decisions, but everyone seems to think that I’m worthy of praise, because I returned the gun. Celeste is someone who tries to please everyone. I haven’t seen Celeste in a month, but she is here tonight, and I’m glad she came.”

  I nodded in her direction and she blushed as a few people applauded.

  “And Klara?” a woman in the front row asked.

  “Without Klara, there is no story. This whole thing was probably hardest on her. Me? I get to do this.” I gestured around the ballroom. “Klara has gone back to her life, but it is totally altered. Her most important relationships have changed.”

  A man in dark-rimmed glasses raised his hand. “I read that you had sold the movie rights to your story.”

  “That’s an exaggeration,” I laughed. The truth was I had received a couple of calls. A friend in California told me not to get too excited.

  “Who would you want to play you?” he asked.

  “Oh, I have no idea,” I said, embarrassed.

  “Ben Affleck!” a woman shouted to the audience’s amusement.

  Laughter gave way to applause. Dr. Desjardins stood from his chair and I realized my first speech was over and I had survived. A few people stopped to shake my hand as I made a beeline to the bar for a drink.

  Celeste approached again and gave me a hug. “You never answered the question about Klara. Do you see her?” she asked.

  “I do. I hoped she would be here, but she was coming from a conference.”

  “So you two are...”

  “Yes, we are. Things are good. Don’t worry,” I said.

  “Good,” Celeste said, with what I detected to be a little bit of disappointment.

  And then Klara emerged through the mingling crowd.

  “I made the last fifteen minutes. I’m so sorry!” she said. As she kissed my cheek she noticed Celeste.

  “Oh, hi,” she said, smiling. She hesitated and then offered Celeste a hug.

  “Isn’t this so amazing?” Celeste said, looking around the room.

  “Incredible. It’s so good you came,” Klara offered. “I’m sorry I haven’t called. I just have been...”

  “It’s okay,” Celeste said looking away.

  “No. No, it’s not. I should have called you back. We’ve been friends too long.”

  “But I wasn’t a friend,” Celeste said.

  “Why don’t we just blame Michael?” Klara said with a grin.

  “Everything was fine until he came to Paris,” Celeste jumped in so quickly it made Klara laugh.

  Klara held Celeste’s hand. “Come to dinner. Let’s celebrate. We’re going to Monaco next month!”

  And the three of us walked out together.

  The grandfather clock stands in my parents’ house. My mother has no problem looking at it now. It has a new story. Because of that clock, she got to visit Paris. We took the train to Monaco together where I was part of yet another reception and set of speeches. Friends who heard the story came out of the woodwork with emails. Erica lamented her decision not to go on the road trip with me. And I had almost forgotten Erin’s name when I got an email asking if I was the same guy she met during a bachelorette party in New Orleans. My brother credited me with snapping Mom out of her depression. But I told him that wasn’t true. The clock saved her just like it saved me. We were all just a part of its story.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Jonathan Kile lives in St. Petersburg, Florida with his wife and two children. Visit welloiledwriter.wordpress.com for news on the 2016 release of The Napoleon Bloom, the sequel to The Grandfather Clock. You will also find commentary on writing, working, living and independent publishing. His email is jkilewrites@gmail.com.

 

 

 
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