The Grandfather Clock Page 8

  “When we see the gun, we might know more.”

  “It’s exciting,” I said. “Isn’t it?” I added, less sure of myself.

  “Michael,” she said, choosing her words, “That gun may be very valuable, as you know. Its history may be complicated. We need to be thorough so we don’t bring trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “People may not like its story. Someone may claim to own it. Someone may not believe that you found it in a clock in America.”

  “But... you believe me.”

  “I have no reason not to.”

  “So you think it’s authentic,” I said, trying to change the direction of the conversation.

  “I like to believe in these things,” she smiled.

  “Celeste thinks it’s a fake.”

  “Celeste is cynical. She gets it from her father.”

  I wasn’t sure whether to take the bait on that one. “So I assume that he isn’t around anymore.”

  “Ha! He’s a Londoner. I met him there. I got pregnant with Celeste. We tried. London is not for me. It didn’t work.”

  “I didn’t mean to pry.”

  “All I asked was that he give up his London women!” she chuckled. “Celeste loved him, and then despised him. She had her phase where she wanted to be like an English girl. Thank god the pendulum went the other way. Now she’s too French!”

  “And her boyfriend is Spanish?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Marco? Argentine. He came here to play small time football. I’m waiting for him to go back. She’s been interning at a state bank since she finished school. It’s nothing.”

  “Jobs are hard to come by, aren’t they?” I asked.

  “Good ones,” she said.

  I took a gulp of wine and decided to tread on the topic that had me nervous. “So you think I can help the museum?”

  She smiled, like she knew a secret. “Think about it. A tall dark American, with a good handle on French, meeting with the elite who can make something happen for the museum. And the gun could be the story to sell the idea.”

  I didn’t want to betray my uncertainty, but I couldn’t pretend to be so confident. “I will do everything I can. I think I’ll need some help.”

  “You’ll do fine. Relax. We’ll get to work next Monday. Take some time to get acquainted with the city.”

  And I did. I rode the Metro all over the city. I hit the must-sees: Louvre, Orsay, the Latin Quarter, Notre Dame, and Luxembourg Gardens. I walked some of the neighborhoods in between the sights. I went to the business district looking at the names of the major corporations. I took the plunge and got an iPhone. As I wandered, the thought of putting on a suit and setting a meeting with some corporate foundation officer was beyond intimidating. It was not like anything I had done before.

  I emailed Sam and asked him if he had any French connections. I used my new technology to send updates to my parents and Claudette. I ended each day exhausted and slept on that tiny futon like it was a king bed. On Friday I decided to go to the Shakespeare and Company bookstore for some English reading. I picked up Catch-22, a book I’d tried and failed to finish multiple times. I thought that my exile in Paris might give me the motivation to finish it.

  Around the corner was a tea shop that had a few open tables inside. I’m not a tea drinker, but the setting was perfect for a couple of hours of reading. I ordered an Earl Gray because most of the descriptions were baffling, and “Earl Gray” stood out on the menu. I opened Catch-22. A few pages in, a booming voice said, “You must be staying a while.”

  I looked up to see a heavyset man in his sixties. He wore dark rimmed glasses and had a stray clump of hair that had given up on hiding his baldness. He wore a plain gray, button-up shirt and black pants. He was easy not to notice, but his slight New York accent stood out to me.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Catch-22? That isn’t vacation reading.”

  “Well, you’re right. I just got in this week and it looks like I’m staying for a little while.”

  “Work? School?”

  “Work.”

  “What kind?”

  “Um. Museum project. It’s a long story,” I said. “I take it that you’re here a while?”

  “Four years, going on five.”

  “Wow, that’s excellent. What are you doing here?”

  “Photographer. Freelance. Fashion stuff.”

  I would have believed almost anything else. This big guy had an Ernest Hemingway vibe going, and fashion photographer didn’t fit.

  “Part time,” he added. “I’ve got a commission to do a book. My editor has been trying to find me for a year. Not really.”

  I extended my hand. “Michael Chance.”

  “Howard Nixon.”

  We drank tea and talked for an hour. I told him that I had some work to do with a museum, but didn’t tell him about the gun. I told him about Claudette and the surprise of being sent to Paris. He told me about coming to Paris to do a shoot for Vogue. He had met a younger Frenchman and stayed. They’d broken up a year ago but he had no interest in going back to New York. We exchanged email addresses and promised to meet again.

  It was late afternoon when I got back to the apartment. Celeste was there. I hadn’t seen her since she departed with Marco on my first day. She was standing in the kitchen opening a bottled water, “avec gas.”

  “Oh, hello!” she said, with the most cheer I’d seen her exhibit.

  “Bonjour!” I said. So far, aside from café workers, everyone was speaking English to me.

  Celeste responded by rattling off something that I had no hope of catching. But I knew it involved a “dinner” and “tonight.” But I didn’t want to assume that she was asking me to dinner.

  “Perdon?” I asked.

  “Do you want to go to have drinks and dinner with me and one of my friends? If you haven’t already made friends.”

  “That would be great.”

  “She only speaks French, so you better keep up.”

  I was treated to a very different Paris experience. We never made it within sight of the Eiffel Tower. We started at a crowded suburban bar full of people who had just gotten off work. It was in an old two-story house. People brought dogs, carried in their own food, and made themselves at home. We were there for a few hours without even thinking about dinner. Celeste was more animated than I had seen her. At Thanksgiving she was reserved. Now I was on her turf, and she seemed to let her guard down a little. She introduced me to four or five friends who stopped by to chat.

  Her friend, Klara, indeed didn’t speak much English. She dressed in a bohemian style and wore her sandy blond hair in a loose bun. We ordered carafes of wine. While Celeste was distracted, my conversation with Klara was at the limits of my French. I could hold my own when I knew what the topic of conversation would be. Without more clues, I struggled in the noisy room. We established that she was a teacher, that I grew up in California near Mickey Mouse, and we both liked the beach. Klara and I agreed to get together again. At least I thought so. I tried to joke that the last school teacher I had met had run off at the last minute, but I think the humor was completely lost in the translation.

  It was getting late and we hadn’t eaten. I’d had three or four glasses of wine. I didn’t have a care in the world. Celeste was the dark haired modern French girl, and Klara had the natural bohemian beauty. They were both interested in everything I had to say about America. They wanted to know all about California. They laughed and corrected the mistakes in my French, and I appreciated the help.

  We were about to go someplace for dinner when Celeste took a call outside. Klara swirled her wine and asked, “So, you don’t have a girlfriend?” At least, I picked up the word for “girlfriend,” replayed the rest of the sentence in my head and quickly figured it out.

  “No,” I said. “I had one, but it was over.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay. She was not good for me.”

  “W
hen?”

  “Last summer.”

  “How long are you in Paris?” asked.

  “I don’t know. We will see,” I said. I wanted to explain more, but I was still struggling with nuanced thoughts.

  “You will love it here.”

  Celeste returned. “There’s a taxi waiting. Let’s show him Paris.”

  I woke up the next morning, it was nearly noon. My head was a cinder block that I could barely lift. I could smell coffee. I stumbled toward the kitchen and Celeste was sitting on the living room couch, with a cup of coffee, reading Le Monde, eating a croissant. It was hard to be more typical. I nodded and walked to the bathroom and washed my face under icy water.

  Images of the previous night trickled in. We’d taken a cab to a restaurant called Aux Trois Mailletz. It was a good thing I ate a hearty meal, because our next move was down a set of stairs into a cavernous room where a variety show of jazz, pop music, and belly dancing went until three in the morning. Next was a twenty-four-hour café that I wouldn’t recognize if you put me back in it. We drank, danced, and laughed until we were all asleep in the cab home.

  I tried to mentally suppress my hangover and emerged from the bathroom. Celeste was refilling her coffee. She handed me a cup.

  “Bonjour, my dancing friend,” she said.

  “Bonjour,” I said. “Do you feel as bad as I do?”

  “I didn’t drink as much as you did. Klara might not wake up today.”

  “Did we drop her off?” I asked.

  “She’s in my bed. Still passed out.”

  “I haven’t had that much to drink in a long time.”

  “I thought a New Orleans bartender would be used to it.”

  “When you tend bar, you don’t start drinking at 7:00 and then go until dawn. You start at two in the morning!”

  “I see your point,” she smiled.

  “I hope I didn’t do anything...”

  “Like what? Try to make out with us?”

  “No way,” I said. That was not like me.

  “Hmmmm.”

  Celeste disappeared and came back dressed. “I’m late to meet Marco at the farmer’s market. Ciao!”

  I took a very hot shower and shaved. I got dressed and stared at Catch-22. I was getting hungry for a large meal. I didn’t now whether I should just leave Klara there. I picked up my phone. I had an email from Sam – a response to an email from me that included two photos. One of me in the middle of the act of dancing. It looked like I had been tasered. The other picture was Klara putting a big kiss on Celeste’s cheek. Sam’s response was, “Looks like you are making yourself at home. Which one is mine when I come to visit?”

  I had to eat. I went to the door of Celeste’s room. It was cracked. I gently pushed it open a few more inches. It creaked and I could see a form move under the blankets. I decided to wait ten more minutes, and I’d leave Klara a note on the door.

  I never had to write the note. Klara shuffled out of the room. Her hair hung wildly on her shoulders. She wore the long sleeve knit shirt that she had worn under her blouse. Her skirt was gone. She fell into a soft chair next to the couch. She had one sock on.

  “What time is it?” she asked.

  “One o’clock.”

  She smiled and pretended to pout. I got her a glass of water.

  “I’m hungry,” she said.

  “Let’s get some lunch,” I said.

  Klara put on a pair of Celeste’s blue jeans and a sweater. She tied her hair back up in a bun. We walked to the train station and she led us to a place that served eggs, meats, and breads in a dizzying variety of combinations. It was exactly what I needed. At first we didn’t talk much. It took too much effort, with my basic French abilities combined with the hangover. I showed her the pictures on my phone and she laughed.

  As the food and coffee began to take effect she asked, “Did Celeste say where she was going?”

  “She was meeting Marco at a farmer’s market.”

  She nodded. Then she asked me, “What are you doing today.”

  “I don’t know. Nothing.” I told her that I had thought about going shopping for clothes.

  “Good! I will take you!” she said. “I must change out of this.”

  Her apartment was a half-mile walk from the restaurant. Even the winding suburban roads in the outskirts of Paris had their own charm. Everything was just a bit different. Maybe older. Maybe smaller. More quaint. They didn’t go for big things. Her apartment was a little building behind a home. Like a garage that had been converted, but I wasn’t sure it had ever been a garage. A dog from the yard barked at our entry.

  Klara lived in one room with a kitchenette. A love seat was piled with clothes. Not a single solid color existed in her wardrobe. Everything was prints. She made a spot for me to sit. Next to her dresser was a dressing room screen. I didn’t actually believe anyone still used them. I’d only seen them in movies. She took off her clothes and slipped into the bathroom. I picked up a magazine that looked like the French version of People. Five minutes later, she emerged in a towel. She acted embarrassed and I hid my eyes. She quickly grabbed a few things from the couch and disappeared behind the screen again.

  She put on a long brightly patterned skirt, a dark sweater, a pair of soft leather boots and declared, “Let’s go!”

  There should be a joke that starts with an American and a gypsy going clothes shopping because the ending was funny. I had to admit that I was unsure of what attire my job might require. I think the absurdity of the job really hit home when I found myself trying to dress for it. I had been hired to help rescue the museum home of Napoleon Bonaparte from financial ruin. Me. Michael Chance. Former Globe Bank credit card hawker, turned Big Easy bartender, now a rainmaker for a museum in a foreign country. The gun was to arrive on Monday. I was picking it up at a Fed Ex store, so that I didn’t have to worry about being at an address at a specific time

  My wardrobe now consisted of several pairs of slim fitting dark pants and assorted dress shirts. Most of the pants had to be taken to a tailor to let them out an inch and I would never be able to button the top button of any of the shirts. In the United States, I wore a size large. In Paris, I was a giant. Klara treated me like a mannequin, forcing me to try on a kaleidoscope of items that may have been art. I actually bought a couple of t-shirts that she picked out, partially to be polite, and partially in an effort to not look so American all of the time. The shopping trip erased the proceeds from my car.

  The day ended quickly. We were both exhausted as the sun went down in the south sky. We rode the train silently out of the heart of Paris. I had Sunday to get my head together before my first official day at the museum. We parted ways at the train station. Everyone kisses on both cheeks in Paris. Klara didn’t. She leaned forward and hugged me. She waited until the train doors opened before letting go.

  “Au revior,” she said.

  “Le semaine prochaine?” I asked, in hope we could meet next weekend.

  “Je l’espère.” I think the word was “hope.” I took it as yes.

  I got back to the apartment and Marianne was making pasta. She asked me if I had eaten and was glad to hear that I hadn’t. She explained that she’d been to a lunch with cousin earlier in the day.

  “So, you had fun last night? You were out late,” she said with a wink.

  “I was baptized into French culture, I suppose,” I replied, shaking my head.

  “It’s good.”

  I was surprised when Celeste walked into the kitchen. I had assumed she was out with Marco.

  “What did you do today?” she asked.

  “He went shopping,” Marianne responded.

  “I didn’t pack much,” I said.

  “I could have taken you,” Celeste said. “You know, French stores are different.”

  “They sure are. Klara helped me out.”

  “Oh god. I can’t wait to see what Klara would dress you in.” She rolled her eyes.

  “She has a beautiful style,” M
arianne said. “Whimsical.”

  “The Americans call it ‘hippie,’ right Michael?” Celeste asked.

  “Bohemian, maybe. Hippie is more of a costume,” I said flashing a peace sign.

  Celeste smiled.

  “What did you do with Marco today?” Marianne asked, dishing out penne with a bolognese sauce.

  “Nothing much. Farmers market.”

  “Farmers! It’s dead of winter!”

  “Sainte Germaine.” Celeste seemed annoyed at the questioning.

  “Any news on the team?”

  Celeste put her fork down, “No.”

  I avoided eye contact with both of them.

  “Is he still going to Argentina for the tryout?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he ask you to join him?”

  “You will be glad to know he hasn’t. Not yet.”

  “I’m not glad!” Marianne responded. She then looked at me. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to...”

  “It’s okay, Mother,” Celeste said. “Michael is a man. I’ll fill him in.” She then turned to me. “I’ve been dating Marco since the he came here last spring to play football. My mother doesn’t care for him.”

  “For good reason.”

  “We weren’t exclusive then,” Celeste fired at her mother. “He was married when we met. And I was dating someone too. Anyway. He was hurt, but stayed with the team. And stayed in Paris after the season. We don’t now if his contract will be renewed, or if he’ll go back to play in B League in Argentina.”

  I smiled and shook my head. “Please, do not feel the need to tell me anything you don’t need me to know. I am grateful for your hospitality, and,” I turned to Celeste, “your friendship. I wasn’t a bartender very long, but one thing I learned quickly was to listen and not to judge. Everyone has a story. Everyone has their reasons.”

  Celeste smiled again. “So what’s your story?”

  I laughed. “You really want to know? Didn’t you hear enough at Thanksgiving?”

  “Oh please! It’s so boring here,” Marianne said.