The Grandfather Clock Page 10

  “It beats New Orleans,” I said.

  “I know a couple nice girls, I could introduce you, if you want to meet some people your age,” he said. “Models, of course. But they aren’t typical models.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. I’ve made a few friends. The daughter of the woman who I live with, who also lives there. And her friend.”

  “Whoa. Really, my friend? You know better than that.” He laughed. “You can’t date your roommate. And her friend? Sounds like a recipe for disaster.”

  I smiled and shook my head. “The daughter is dating a soccer player. The friend seems single. But I’m not trying to get involved.”

  “Please. Neither was I. Here I am five years later. Wait until spring. This place is intoxicating. My advice is to have fun and don’t get attached.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “How’s your French?” he asked.

  “Not bad. Getting better every day. But not where I’d like it to be.”

  “In a few months you’ll be dreaming in French.”

  I was distracted. Desjardins words were still hanging in the air. “Be careful who your trust.” Did he mean Marianne? No. Marianne was eager, and I worried she might be a little naïve.

  “So, aren’t you going to tell me what’s in the box?” Howard asked, breaking my trance.

  “You’re a photographer, right Howard?”

  “Yeah.”

  “If I’m going to tell you what is in the box, I’ll need your help with a couple of things.”

  “Wow. Intriguing. What do you need?”

  “I need to keep this item someplace safe. I’m not sure my residence is the best place. You’ll understand after I tell you what it is.”

  Howard grinned. “I love it.”

  Telling Howard was a strategy. I wanted a third party, completely uninvolved with my move to Paris, to know about it.

  “I need to take some high resolution, detailed pictures of this.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Now I’m really curious.”

  “Can I get a safe deposit box here?” I asked.

  “Hmm. Not sure. You might need a French bank account, and a permanent French address. It’s probably possible, but may be difficult. And that’s a decent-sized box. You’re not talking about a few documents. How about a train station locker?”

  “Not secure enough,” I said.

  “You can keep it at my place. Depending upon what it is.”

  “No offense,” I said, “But I don’t know you that well.”

  “Maybe a hotel box?”

  “I think I’m going to have to sleep on it. Literally.”

  “Well, what the hell is it?”

  I picked up the box and put it across two café tables.

  “Just a peek,” I said.

  “Fine.”

  “I think I told you that I am working on a museum project.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, until last month, I was a bartender in New Orleans, and before that I ran a credit card call center. In this box is a two hundred-year-old gun called a blunderbuss, or tromblon, in French.”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “It was my grandfather’s. But a long time before that it likely belonged to Napoleon.”

  He gasped. “Unbelievable!”

  I cracked the top open slightly and he looked in.

  “I need to find out where this was before my grandfather got it. And I need its existence to remain under wraps.”

  “You don’t want people coming out of the woodwork to claim it,” he said. “Why tell me?”

  “If something ever happens to it, I want to have someone who isn’t involved to attest that they saw it.”

  “I’ll swear on Vogue magazine.”

  “I just met with a scholar. This was hanging in a museum. There’s a chance that the Nazis took this from whoever owned it, and somehow my grandfather came upon it. He wasn’t in the war, but traveled through Europe a few years later.

  “So, you’re sure he wasn’t a Nazi.”

  “That is about the only thing I can be sure of,” I said.

  “And why the photographs?”

  “If it gets to the point that I’m sharing this with people, I don’t want to be carrying something potentially worth millions around everywhere I go.”

  “Let’s get out of here and shoot this thing,” he said with a wink.

  Howard took me to his apartment not far from the Champs Elysées, in the fashion district. It was small, with fashion magazines piled by title. He had wooden desk with a laptop and about a dozen lenses lined up on it. The walls were covered haphazardly with pictures of models, both women and men, in various states of dress and undress. He pulled out a stack of photos from his last shoot. It had been done in an indoor swimming pool for a watch company.

  “Would I have seen your work?” I asked.

  “Oh, probably,” he said modestly. He thumbed a GQ magazine to a photo of tennis champion Rafael Nadal and a piece of expensive luggage. “Shot this in London right after Wimbledon. It’s up and down. Sometime I’m busy, sometimes I’ve got to hustle.”

  He spread out a black fabric and several lights. For about an hour he took shots of the gun, including extreme close ups, working methodically, end to end. He refused payment for the photos, which we transferred to my phone.

  “I’ll keep all this under my hat,” he said with a wink.

  It was dark when I got back to the apartment. Celeste was walking out the door with Marco. She greeted me effusively and I realized this was a show for Marco. Marianne wasted no time asking about my meetings.

  As she stirred a pot of soup I opened the box on the small side table.

  “Well,” I said with a dramatic pause, “we found this.” I pulled out the curled card.

  She read the card and said nothing.

  “It’s probably a museum placard,” I said.

  “Of course!” she said, almost short of breath. “Or a display in a private home. There’s no telling.”

  “So,” I offered hesitantly, “It’s real.”

  “Well,” she said with a smile, “I thought it was real. But now we know whose it was.”

  “Now I need to retrace its steps.”

  “Hmm.” She seemed to choose her next words carefully. “Was there any discussion of how it might have gotten away from its original owner?”

  “Only speculation,” I said. “We need to find out if it was taken by the Nazis. I’m going to the Musée de l’Armée tomorrow.”

  “Good,” she said. She had a distant gaze and I could see her wheels turning. “Michael, in your research at the Musée de l’Armée, try to be discrete.”

  “I understand,” I said.

  Marianne watched a French crime drama while I did research on the Internet. We hardly spoke the rest of the night. I liked Marianne, but I wanted her to be Claudette. My connection with Claudette was instant and easy. Marianne was a great host, but she wasn’t as open.

  I fell asleep on my futon with the laptop open. After midnight I heard Celeste come in the door. A few minutes later, I received a text. “Are you up? Join me for a cigarette?”

  I tiptoed to the living room. Celeste came from her bedroom in pajamas and a long coat. I put on my jacket and we slipped onto their small balcony. I hadn’t smoked a cigarette in five years. The dry burn from the first drag went right up into my nostrils. My eyes watered.

  “Are you okay?” Celeste laughed.

  “Yeah,” I said, trying not to cough. “Been a while.”

  The odd French cigarettes were strong.

  “You seem stressed out,” I said.

  “Marco leaves in two days.”

  “How long have you been dating?” I asked.

  “As in, ‘Have I been dating him long enough to go back to Argentina with his family,’ or ‘Have I been dating him long enough to be upset about this’?”

  “Both,” I said.

  “You’re blunt,” she said.


  “I just mean, if you look at it from his perspective, he went to France to play soccer. You said he was married before. How would it look to his family for him to show up with a French woman on his first trip home?”

  She smiled. “The same way my mother felt when I brought home an Argentinean footballer.”

  “And how was that?”

  “Not so good. I think it’s mostly the football thing. Not that he’s Argentinean.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said, watching my cigarette burn down. “He’ll be back and it will be fine.”

  “Unless he makes the team there,” she said. A thin wisp of smoke floated into the cold night sky.

  “Maybe he’ll ask you to move there,” I said, uselessly.

  “Not in million years.” She leaned to the side and put her head on my shoulder. “Enough about me. How’s the Da Vinci Code going with the gun?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” I yawned.

  “It’s real,” she said.

  “Yes. And inside the muzzle was a card saying it actually belonged to Napoleon.”

  “My mother must be thrilled,” she said without a hint of surprise.

  “She is,” I said. “You don’t seem to be.”

  Celeste sighed. “My mother has poured her heart and soul into that old place. I’ve seen her get let down before. Where did it come from?”

  “That’s what I need to find out,” I said. “Someone owned this gun at some point. It’s likely the Nazis took it. I need to find out how my grandfather ended up with it.”

  “And he’s dead.”

  “Long dead. Grandma too. And my mother has no clue. Claudette is sending me a bunch of old photos from his travels. Hoping for a clue in there.”

  “You’ll be rich,” she sighed.

  “I don’t think it’s mine.”

  “That’s too bad,” she whispered.

  She lifted her hand toward our faces and for a fleeting moment I thought we were about to kiss. She took a final drag of her cigarette and dropped it into an empty wine bottle.

  “Thanks for listening to me,” she said. Her face was snow white behind her dark hair. I could see the woman without the harsh modern facade. Maybe I was drawn to her vulnerability. Maybe it was a seed planted by Howard Nixon and thoughts of springtime in the Tuileries, but I was feeling ready to let someone get close.

  I was becoming comfortable with the idea that I would find out that some museum, or perhaps a Jewish collector, had once owned the Tromblon de Napoleon. But the answer was elusive. I went to the Musée de l’Armée. Using my credentials from the Château I was able to go through books of photographs of items in the collection. The contents on display in the museum were a fraction of the many guns, swords, uniforms, and other military paraphernalia in their collection. I thought that Napoleon’s own gun might be a prominent piece, so I started with a book of photographs from the museum display published in the 1920s. I found nothing. It was like the proverbial search for a needle in a haystack. I didn’t want to ask the woman who assisted me in the museum library specifically about the item because I didn’t want to raise the potential for its existence.

  I scored a coup when Sam called to tell me that a friend of his was working in a Bank USA office in Paris. He said he would help me arrange a meeting with someone in charge. The notion spurred me to compile a list of American companies that I had noticed with a significant presence in Paris. It was a start. I set the appointment with Sam’s friend who said he would be bringing a marketing executive to the meeting as well.

  Friday rolled around and with Marco gone, Celeste included me on her plans with Klara. It was a loosely organized dinner party with about a dozen people. The woman hosting the group put me on the spot. I was hit with questions about American politics, the standard of living, and Miley Cyrus. I reassured them that I had voted for Obama, that our consumptive society couldn’t touch the pleasures of France, and I wouldn’t know a Miley Cyrus song if I heard one. I was given a seal of approval as one of the “good Americans.” My improving command of French also helped.

  I was looking over the vinyl collection when Klara picked up Simon and Garfunkle’s Greatest Hits.

  “Where have you gone, Joe Dimaggio?” she sang.

  I spoke to her in French: “You don’t have an accent when you sing.”

  “It’s a great way to learn English words. Start spreading the news! I’m leaving today! I’m gonna be a part of it! New York, New York!”

  “Not bad! You like American music?”

  “Of course,” she said.

  “I don’t think I can name a French musical act. Does Celine Dion count?”

  “No,” she scowled. “Canadian! I should play some Dalida for you.”

  “Who are they?”

  “She. She was a great French singer. Actually Egyptian, but she was known for her French songs. She died in the 80s. Committed suicide. She was amazing. My mother would play music while she cooked.”

  “I’d like to hear her sometime.”

  “Good. I was beginning to think I wouldn’t see you after our shopping trip.”

  “Where would I be without you? I’m so stylish now,” I said, admiring my dark blue double-pocketed shirt.

  “You should come over tomorrow. We’ll play music. I’ll make crêpes for lunch.”

  “I’d like that.”

  Ambient techno music played as Klara bobbed her head. She looked like a 1920s flapper. I looked through the kitchen bar. Celeste was kissing a guy wearing a fedora. She seemed to be coping with Marco’s absence just fine.

  At the end of the night, and thankfully a reasonable hour, we all went back to the apartment. Klara slept in Celeste’s room again. By mid-morning, I set out on my own for coffee and breakfast. A call came in from Howard. He wanted to tell me about a book-signing event at Shakespeare and Company, an English mystery author. I didn’t have my own transportation, so I walked the suburban streets on the edge of the business district, La Défense. I found myself near a large university and I spent the morning people watching and attempting to understand the newspaper.

  On my way home a text arrived from Klara: “Musique et crêpes?”

  I found my way to Klara’s place without help. Less than a month since I’d arrived, I was starting to feel settled in. She introduced me to one of the owners of the house she lived behind. Klara had lived there two years. She taught on the other side of Paris and complained about the train. Music was playing when we walked in. She had tidied her place and the curtains were open, letting in the mid-day light. She played a few French songs before insisting that I plug in my iPod so she could hear what I listen to.

  “No Michael Jackson? No Madonna? No Britney Spears?”

  “So sorry.”

  “No Snoop Dog? Are you really American?”

  “I do have a song by Snoop Dog, but it’s performed by the Gourds. You want to hear something American, listen to this,” I said as I played her a blue grass version of “Gin and Juice.”

  I noticed a framed picture of her and Celeste. They were younger.

  “My twentieth birthday,” she said. “We’ve known each other since we were girls. Even when she was living in London, we’d always got together when she came back to visit.” I was understanding her French almost perfectly. It made me relax.

  “That’s great,” I said. “I wish I was the same way with my friends. After college, you lose touch. Now it’s all email, or dinner if I’m passing through someone’s town.”

  “But you have the great stories to tell. I’m still here.”

  “Millions of people would give anything to live in Paris.”

  “I know. I do love it, but the Paris suburbs can be boring too. I visited Celeste in London. I’ve been to the Alps. Munich. But I don’t get away much. My mother got sick when I was a girl. My dad comes and goes.”

  I wasn’t going to pry as to what that meant. I couldn’t tell if I was missing her meaning in French. Perhaps her explanation wa
s meant to be clearer.

  “It’s hard to get good work here. We are competing with the whole world for jobs in Paris. Celeste is always trying to date her way out.”

  While we talked, Klara made crêpes. I commented on her impressive skill. She admitted to working in a crêperie for a while. “I got fat.”

  “I can’t believe that.”

  “True. Ten kilos!”

  I laughed. “I’m not sure what a kilo is. Is that five or fifty pounds?”

  “I was never good with pounds,” she laughed. “When I first started working there, I got asked out once in a while. After three months, no one asked me out anymore.” She looked up at me and frowned. “Now I’m twenty five,” she said, as if that were old.

  We ate savory crêpes with ham, potatoes and goat cheese. We sipped red wine. We followed with crêpes filled with Nutella, bananas, and caramelized apples.

  The afternoon sun put a soft glow into the room. I looked at the clock.

  “I have an idea,” I said. “There’s a book signing at Shakespeare and Company. An American that I met is going. Would you go with me?”

  “Of course!”

  Klara threw the dishes in the sink and began pulling clothes from her closet. She disappeared again behind the screen and came out in a dark gray skirt with random white lines and black leggings underneath. She always wore layers of textures and something bright in her hair. It reminded me of the artistic crowd in college. If I’d spotted her near the Sacre Cœur I would have pegged her for a gypsy. The J Crew version.

  We rode the train into the city. Klara asked me about my life in Florida, before I ended up in New Orleans. She loved the idea of living at the beach year round.

  “The United States has everything,” she said.

  “I wish we had trains like this. Only a few American cities have decent trains, and they don’t connect.”

  “I wish I had a car,” Klara said. “I had one, but I wrecked it.”

  “I have a car,” I laughed. “My friend is driving it once in a while for me.”

  “Why did you leave? Really.”