The Grandfather Clock Page 12

  “Interesting,” Brandt said. I was in the final throes of my pitch.

  “It would be an excellent chance for your bank to build its reputation here, and it would be a boon to the museum.” Brandt stared at the table. “Napoleon and Hitler. It doesn’t get much bigger,” I added.

  “What kind of money are we talking about?” Brandt asked.

  I took a deep breath. “My arrangement here provides for my room and board in the Malmaison director’s apartment and about 200 Euro per week. I need my situation to be more permanent, and I’m sure she’d like her place back to normal. And we’ll need funding to conduct proper research. All we would ask during this phase would be for Bank USA to underwrite my position, for six months.”

  “For six months, what do you require?”

  “Twenty-five thousand Euros.”

  “Twenty-five thousand Euros? For six-months salary in Paris? No.”

  I was deflated, but tried not to show it.

  Brandt was still shaking his head as he continued. “Forty thousand is more like it. But first I want to see this museum and your mysterious discovery. We like a good American story, especially when we can bail out the French.” My approach appealed to Brandt’s arrogance. I had my first success for the museum, and Brandt had his Normandy.

  Any sense of unease between Marianne and I was eliminated with my success at Bank USA. I even got the hint of disappointment that I would be moving out of her apartment. On the car ride home she said, “You’ve been good for Celeste. I think you open her eyes.”

  “To what?” I asked.

  “To how decent people can be.”

  In some ways, Marianne was as hard to read as her daughter. I was jubilant that evening. I called Claudette who said she always believed in me. I told her that I was lucky and she said that I made my own luck. I wasn’t so sure of that.

  “You know,” Marianne said, “this will make your work permit simple. I’ll be honest, I was worried.”

  “Wow, thanks for telling me,” I laughed.

  “With an American company sponsoring you, I can show that you are more qualified than any French citizen.”

  “So that’s all I had to do? Be more qualified than every single person in France?”

  “Actually, the European Union. Michael, you are the only person with Le Tromblon de Napoleon,” she smiled.

  In the back of my mind, I needed to figure out how to fix the dumbbell situation. I hadn’t thought about how I’d handle it if Marianne wanted to get it from the safe and show someone. I thought I might have to come clean with her.

  Klara was exited when I texted her, mostly by the fact that I would be staying at least six months.

  Marianne announced my coup to Celeste at dinner, to which she exclaimed, “That’s amazing!” putting her hand on my arm.

  That Friday, Klara made plans with Celeste to have dinner and drinks after work. I arrived to the apartment and Celeste was still there.

  “Klara and I are going out.”

  “That’s good,” I said. “Where to?”

  “Don’t know yet. Thought we might go to the Latin Quarter. Greek.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “So what happened?” she said bluntly.

  “What do you mean?” I said, not sure what “what” she was talking about.

  “She calls me to go out. Doesn’t mention you. Did you hurt her?”

  “What? No, no, no. That’s not it.” I sighed. “But you two don’t always need me around. I am what they refer to as a ‘third wheel.’” What I didn’t say was that I had encouraged Klara to make plans without me.

  “I lived in London, I know what a ‘third wheel’ is. If anyone is a ‘third wheel,’ it’s me.”

  “Well, I don’t want you to feel that way,” I said.

  “Well, Michael, I can’t bear the thought of you sitting here, doing whatever you do. Let’s all go, and have fun.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Certain. Listen,” she leaned away, looking down at the kitchen counter, “I’m sorry about Sunday. With Marco gone, and maybe not coming back... I was feeling down and you were just so kind.”

  “There was the guy at the party, then the guy here,” I chuckled.

  She blushed and covered her face. “I know, I know. First, the guy at the party was an old friend. That was dumb. But then Saturday, when I realized you were with Klara, I was just angry. Don’t mind me. It’s nothing.”

  “Clearly,” I said sarcastically.

  This irritated Celeste. “Can I tell you something?” She looked me in the eyes. “I’ve traveled. I know interesting people. You are – what is the word? – a freak.”

  “What?”

  “You show up, with your American face. You have a total stranger feeding you and putting a roof over your head because an old gun fell out of a clock. You walk into one of the largest banks in the world and walk out with forty thousand Euro. And you find an amazing girl. What is it with you?”

  “Celeste, my life was not going this way two months ago.”

  “Better be careful,” she said seriously. “Shit always evens out.”

  February was a month of changes. I started looking for an apartment. I was looking at 1500 euro a month or more for something with a little space and some light. I wanted to do it right, so I kept looking. Marianne was putting no pressure on me.

  With Bank USA on board, I focused on the research again. One of the first things I did was go back to Dr. Desjardins. I told him that I would pay him for his time. He walked me back to his office again. This time he had pulled some books.

  “So, what have you learned since we last met?”

  “Not much,” I said. “Although Bank USA loves the story and is interested in underwriting my work for now. I just need to find out the whole story.”

  “Where is it?”

  “In the safe at the Malmaison.”

  “What?” Desjardins half stood from his seat. “You fool! Some bureaucrat is going to hear about it. They’ll claim ownership.”

  “Well, good,” I sighed. “Actually, I have it.”

  He chuckled, settling into his seat again. “You know what? I don’t want to know where it is, so don’t tell me. Here,” he said, handing over a heavy dusty book. “This is full of pictures of artwork before, during, and after the war. They are from an allied project to protect art, and artifacts. Mostly paintings. Nothing about weaponry, but take a look.”

  I leafed through the book. It was full of crude photographs of paintings, mostly leaning against uneven walls.

  “The Nazis sent most of their looted artwork to salt mine caves in Germany. When they needed cash, they’d liquidate the art through banks in Switzerland and Sweden. Sweden was Germany’s source of iron ore during the war.”

  “I guess that’s one way for items to make their way west.”

  “True. Tough to trace without knowing where to start. But possible,” he said. “Now, if the Fuhrer really liked something, he’d take it for his own. He had his own personal stash of art, gold, and stolen property. He planned to turn the city of Linz into an art Mecca.”

  Desjardins slid an old news clipping printed from the Internet across his desk. “Hitler Calls Paris Visit ‘Greatest and Finest Moment.’”

  It was short article. “He visited Napoleon’s tomb...” I said, continuing to read.

  “Seems he was fond of him.”

  “What do you think this means?”

  “I would be surprised is some Nazi officer took this off someone’s wall and sent it for storage in a salt mine.”

  “Meaning...”

  “Do I have to spell it out?”

  “You’re the expert,” I said. I knew where he was going with it, but I needed to hear it.

  “I think it is possible that Hitler had your Tromblon de Napoleon at some point.”

  “Wow.”

  “Wow is right. How your grandfather came to have it, well... you tell me.”

  I received a pa
ckage in the mail from Claudette. I brought an old slide projector from the Malmaison to Klara’s apartment.

  “Do you want to take a walk through history?” I asked.

  “What is that?”

  “It’s a slide projector. I have my grandfather’s photos from his travels. He put them all on slides.”

  “Oh my goodness.”

  There were two white rings for loading in the slides. Each one held about 100. I peered at them in front of a lamp, looking for a box that looked like his trip through Europe.

  “How long is this going to take?” Klara asked, as I carefully slipped each slide into the ring, and then filled the second.

  The projector hummed and the room filled with the hot smell of the projector bulb. I struggled to load the cartridge onto the device.

  “You really know how to set the mood.” Klara danced in front of the wall, admiring her silhouette. “Does my ass look that big all of the time?”

  The projector lurched and a black and white photo spread across Klara’s distorted shadow. “Here we go,” I said.

  I was disappointed that most of the pictures didn’t contain my grandfather, because he took them. There were shots of a white ocean liner and picture after picture of water in front of a thin ribbon of shoreline.

  “What are we looking for?” Klara asked.

  “I’m not sure.”

  One hundred shots later, and we’d seen Japan, and the Middle East. Klara’s interest waned and she fell asleep as I loaded more slides. He had taken a lot of pictures for the day and age when film rolls were short and processing was a process.

  The steady ‘kachunk, kachunk’ of the projector put me in a lull. He passed through places I didn’t recognize. The pictures in Paris were remarkable, but didn’t shed any light on the mystery. If my grandfather ever told stories about post-war Europe, I was too young to grasp it. I wished I’d taken the time to hear more stories before he died.

  I continued to advance the slides. Then, he was in London and something caught my eye. It was a shot of a large, white statue of a naked man.

  “Klara. Klara.” She cracked an eye open. “Who is that?”

  “That’s him,” she said sleepily. “Napoleon. It’s a famous sculpture. He’s portrayed like a Greek god.”

  I Googled it. She was right. It was a sculpture of Napoleon as Mars the Peacemaker. It stood in the Duke of Wellington’s house in Hyde Park, London. It was an unintentionally comical tribute, with Napoleon’s head atop the body of a perfect human specimen. We’re taught that Napoleon was short, but at five feet, seven inches he was of average height at the time.

  “I don’t know if this means anything,” I said.

  I Googled the artist, Antonio Canova. Nothing stuck out. A famous sculptor, known for his marble technique, he might be a household name if it weren’t for Michelangelo. I Googled his name with the word ‘Nazis’ added. Nothing. I kept going through more slides. Nothing. I laid down on my side next to Klara. It was late and I would stay the night. I leaned over to turn off the light when I saw the large volume Desjardins had given me, with its plain cover and German title. I turned to the index.

  Canova. There were two page references in the book of stolen art. The first reference was a painting of him. I turned to page 563 and scanned through the page of small photos. The next photo to reference Canova was of a statue of a goddess on a chair, with a severed head under the chair. It was titled Die Muse Polyhymnia. I never had great interest in Greek mythology, so it didn’t resonate with me. But the last photo was clear: Napoleonbuste. A bust of Napoleon. There was a description in German, which didn’t mean much, but what I could tell was that each item had a line listing a previous owner before it disappeared during the war. I knew this because some had names of museums, others had names of people. Many read, “keine angaben.” Google told me that it meant “Unspecified, or No Details.” Under the Napoleonbuste it read: Louis II, Monaco.

  Next I Googled Louis II of Monaco and Napoleon. The connection was getting clearer. Louis II had a massive collection of Napoleonic artifacts. It was his pastime. Did the blunderbuss belong to the Prince of Monaco?

  The next morning I called Marianne before I rode the train into the city with Klara. I told Marianne about the bust which had been taken from the museum in Monaco by the Nazis.

  “What are you going to do?” Klara asked as we shared a handrail in the crowded car.

  “I’m going to try to see Desjardins.”

  “If the Nazis took the gun from Monaco, where did they take it, and where do you think your grandfather got it?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. I felt totally lost. “I may never know.”

  On my third visit, Dr. Desjardins greeted me with less enthusiasm.

  “Did you find anything in the book?” he asked.

  “I did. One thing, that may or may not be helpful. Look.” I opened to the page with the photo of the Napoleonbuste from Monaco. He studied it. “My grandfather had his picture taken with the statue of Napoleon by Antonio Canova in London.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Is it?”

  “The collection in Monaco is extensive. It was mostly untouched during the war. The Nazis were discriminate thieves. Most of their looting was of art in the homes of wealthy Jews and people who did not cooperate. They didn’t empty the Louvre and they certainly didn’t disturb the Prince of Monaco.”

  “Well, they took the Napoleon bust.”

  He typed a few words into his computer and dialed his phone. He left a short message asking for a return call. He cleared his throat.

  “My guess is that the bust was not in the palace when the Nazis took it. Perhaps it was on loan to another museum. But if you want to deliver Le Tromblon to Monaco with a note attached, be my guest.”

  I walked to a busy cafe down the river. I pulled out my laptop and looked for a wireless signal. Over the past month I had Googled every combination of blunderbuss, musket, tromblon, Napoleon, Nazi, Hitler, and museum. I’d searched in English, French and German. I’d seen pictures of a similar gun on the Internet, and every picture of Napoleon and Hitler. It was useless.

  I ordered a coffee and thought about my grandfather, Louis Andersen. Was there a clue in the slides that I had missed? How did my mother not know about the gun? Did my grandfather even know its significance? The only thing interesting I was ever taught about our family was that we were distant descendants of the family of Hans Christian Andersen. It was one of those things we were always told as kids, but I wasn’t sure I believed. I Googled Hans Christian Andersen and Napoleon.

  And everything changed.

  The first thing I learned was that Hans Christian Andersen’s father died fighting in the Napoleonic Wars. The legendary storyteller inherited an admiration for Napoleon and even witnessed the unveiling of the famous statue of Napoleon in the Place Vendome. I’d walked under that statue too many times to count. Perhaps most significantly, the Hans Christian Andersen museum in Odense contains a well-known painting by Jean-Louis Ernest Meissonier of Napoleon leading a group of soldiers on horseback. I didn’t know the painter, but had seen the painting in books. It was similar to Washington Crossing the Delaware. In just a few minutes I established that an item related to Napoleon was in a museum that was connected to my ancestors, and that museum was in a country occupied by the Nazis in World War II. I quickly typed an email to Dr. Desjardins telling him my finding.

  His response was quick. “The original Meissonier painting is at the Orsay. Bring in the slides.”

  I went to Klara’s apartment and got the slides. I was energized by the breakthrough. Two hours later Desjardins led me back to his office where a striking older woman was waiting. She had long dark curls and thick-rimmed glasses.

  “Meet Dr. Myra Gasciogne. She has spent time with the collection in Monaco.”

  “You have pictures of the Tromblon de Napoleon,” she said in French.

  “I do. On my phone.”

  “And you have the t
romblon as well.”

  “It’s safe.”

  She paced the room. “Dr. Desjardins told me that you found it inside a clock.”

  “Yes.”

  She motioned to Desjardins and he turned his computer screen. On it was a picture taken of a picture on a wall: Hitler, in a group of Nazi officers.

  Hitler was holding the gun.

  “This photograph hangs in the palace museum in Monaco.” She paused, as if waiting for the information to sink in. “It hangs where the tromblon itself once hung, as an example of the item taken by the Nazis and never recovered.”

  “Incredible,” I said.

  Desjardins jumped in. “The gun was on display in Denmark when it was taken.”

  “At the Hans Christian Andersen Museum,” I said.

  “Yes,” said Gasciogne.

  “But we don’t know who recovered it after the war,” I said.

  “No.” She smiled. “But if your grandfather had a connection to the museum, perhaps he was attempting to deliver it there.”

  “Maybe,” Desjardins interjected, “it was in some sort of case. Let’s see the slides.”

  Desjardins was right. I had been looking for some picture of my grandfather with the gun. Some record of when he took possession of it, assuming that surely it was an event worthy of a photo. But it was not obvious. In the dozens of photos were occasional shots of my grandfather, luggage in tow, boarding a ship or a train. Appearing for the first time after his stop in Munich was something that he hadn’t carried before.

  “It looks like an instrument case,” I said. “He played French horn.”

  “That’s not a case for a French horn.” Dr. Gasciogne was sitting on the desk, looking at every detail. “It may have been by design. Perhaps that was to conceal what was inside.”

  “Did your grandfather leave any writings behind? Letters, journals?” Desjardins asked.

  “I’m not sure. But I will find out.”