Bender at the Bon Parisien (A Novel) (23 page)

Tears
began to swell in Trudel’s eyes, but she didn’t let the emotion take her. There
was a moment of silence, before she composed herself.

“I,
too, will be leaving,” she managed.

“Trudel,”
Fleuse said.

“Oh
god,” she said with an exasperated tone. “What?”

“Please
let me take you to dinner.”

“Dinner?!
Fleuse, it’s almost breakfast time.”

“Anything,
madame
,” he answered.

She
thought for a moment, and looked at Janie and me before answering him.

“You
may walk me down the street toward a café. I’ll decide when we get there if I’m
going in,” she said with her nose in the air.

Fleuse
was very pleased. They started for the curtain before Trudel turned around.

“One
more thing, American.”

“Yes?”
I asked.

“How
did you get the coin?”

I
looked to Janie.

“I
have no idea. Truly I don’t. I checked the shirt earlier, and I swear it wasn’t
there.”

“Well,
if we’re retracing steps, you all must suspect that I removed it from the
clock,” she admitted.

“When?”
Fleuse asked.

“Before
you arrived. I was going to leave, but you showed up too soon. I have no idea
when I lost it, though,” the opera singer said.

“Jacques,”
the clockmaker sighed.

“God,
I hate impressionists,” Trudel grunted. They turned, Fleuse pulled back the curtain
for her, and he followed her through it.

Janie
and I were finally alone again in the room.

“So,”
Janie said. “This has been fun!”

“I
can’t believe I got shot.”

Janie
came over to hug me. “I can’t believe you’re not even hurt,” she said.

“Maybe
I should go to the hospital or something. Just to be sure.”

“Let’s
just go get some breakfast and let this night sink in.”

I
nodded. In truth, I was starving and feeling drunk. As we walked toward the
curtain, I turned to take one last look back at the wreckage. The bar looked
just as beautiful to me as it had the first time I’d seen it twenty-four hours
earlier. We poked our heads through the curtain to scout the area and scurried
to the door unseen.

Outside the Hôtel des
Bretons, morning light gently crept over the city neighborhood.

“Were
we really in there all night?” Janie asked.

“Guess
so,” I answered. We began to walk toward the river. Twelve hours in the Bon
Parisien was already fading into memory. Somewhere deep in my skull, a small headache
was gently sparking to life.

“I
can’t believe that just happened,” Janie muttered with a little laugh. She must
not have been feeling the drinks the way I was.

“I
know.”

Café
lights made the sidewalk glow in the next block. “Let’s stop up there,” I
added.

“No,
let’s put off breakfast just a bit longer. We could watch the sunrise over the
river from the Pont des Arts.”

Despite
my hunger and the tiny headache, I let the moment win my attention. “You’re
right. When are we going to be able to do that again?” We turned to pass
through the Tuileries.

Fine
stones on the path crunched softly underfoot. For the first time, I realized
exactly how exhausting the all-nighter had been. Shadows along the ground and
in the trees exaggerated dimension. Colors seemed abstract and inexact. Lack of
sleep does that. This was the same feeling from the morning before as I looked
out our window. Paris is perfect for that type of surrealism. You know it’s really
out there, but you can’t believe it.

We
arrived at the bridge, hearing the wooden planks knock under our feet. Listening
to the rhythm of our steps mingle with the lapping of small river ripples
beneath, Janie and I made it to the center of the bridge without exchanging a
word. We rested our elbows on the rails.

Sunlight
was visible as a gentle glow, still under the horizon. Silhouettes of structures
created a jagged line between city and sky.

Gradually,
the light grew and turned up the heat on the navy blue morning. We only needed
to wait for a few quiet minutes before the sun peeked over the ancient city
like a match being struck in the distance, and the Seine was seared white with
its reflection.

“I
can’t believe we made it,” I said.

“I
know,” Janie answered.

“There
were points in the night when I didn’t believe we’d get to see this.”

“I
know,” she said again with a nod.

I
threw my hands up. “And you know what?”

“What?”

“I
forgot to take the gift you stole for me from the bar.”

“The
little Balzac?”

“Yeah,”
I uttered. “Feels like that happened days ago.”

“I
wouldn’t worry about it.” Sunrise light made Janie’s face glow, but she was
beaming anyway. “It doesn’t matter. I got you something else.”

“Okay?”
I asked, unsure of what she could possibly have taken.

Janie
stuffed her hand into her pocket and fished something out. When she opened her
palm, my stomach turned and my eyes popped. There it sat, a piece of Paris with
near mythological history. The much-sought-after trophy during our bender at
the Bon Parisien rested in my wife’s tiny little hand. She had Peukington’s
coin.

“Jesus!”
I yelled as I jumped. “Where the hell did you get that? How did you …?” My
voice failed me.

“Pistache
never should have taught me the Sailor’s Revenge,” she said with a sly smile.

I
was speechless.

“And
he never should have offered to hug me before he left,” she added.

I
frantically looked up and down the bridge, believing Renard or Peukington
himself would leap out of nowhere to hurl us over the side. Luckily, we were
alone.

“I
don’t believe this, honey,” I stammered. My disbelief took a few moments to
fully sink in. I searched my memory for the moment of Janie’s lift. I suddenly
remembered it all: the hug, her look, and her shift.

“Plus,
he really doomed himself in the end,” she continued.

“How’s
that?”

“So,
I watched him make that last drink as he said his goodbyes.”

“The
one with the dirty glass? So what?”

“No
one noticed,” Janie continued, “but he emptied the bottle of
poison du
poisson
into that glass and downed it right in front of us.”

“The
crazy stuff that makes you black out?”

“Yep.
He said it himself. It looks and tastes like normal whiskey. He’ll have no idea
what happened tonight. He might not even realize that he
thinks
he left
with the coin in the first place.”

“Oh
my god, Janie.” I muttered, staring back off into the sunrise. “If they find
out we have it, they’re going to kill us. I love you, but you realize they’re
going to come after us for this, right?”

“Peukington
will never believe Pistache,” she remarked casually. “And, if they do believe
that he can’t remember anything, they will probably think he lost the coin.
He’s might very well be unconscious somewhere right now. Seriously.”

“I
suppose.”

“When
I saw him down that fish crap, that’s when I decided to do it. What an idiot.”

My
mind raced. “I don’t know. Let’s say they do trace it back to us somehow. What
do we do?”

“We
won’t have it.”

“Honey,”
I laughed as I looked at the coin sitting in her hand. “How do you figure that?
You want to sell it? They’ll know.”

“No,
I don’t think we should sell it.”

“What
then? Do you want to give it to a museum?”

“Not
exactly,” she said. “If we do that, Peukington winds up claiming it. He’s rich
and pretty famous. He’ll just wind up getting it right back.”

“So
what’s wrong with that?!”

“Pete,
he literally tried to murder you. I don’t want him to ever have it back.”

“Well
now I’m a little worried that he’s going to try again.”

“No
listen,” she said trying to calm me. “I’ve thought this through.”

“Oh
that’s good to know,” I said as my forehead immediately felt hot. “You’ve
thought it through, have you? You’ve taken the last sleepless, drunk hour to
really give it some solid rational thought?”

“Take
it easy, Pete. Very funny.”

“Okay,”
I brainstormed. “So we just leave it sitting somewhere maybe. We just walk
away.”

“Why
would we do that?” Janie asked.

“I
don’t know. I’m thinking we’ll just totally separate ourselves from it. We’ll forget
all about it.”

Janie
nodded as she considered it, finally maybe coming around.

“Besides,”
I continued, “someone new could maybe find it. That might be a nice next step
in the life of the coin. After all, these kinds of histories never stop. It’s
only chapters that end.”

“I
guess,” Janie said. “Only problem with that is they might also try to appraise
it or sell it. That route probably finds its way back to Peukington, too.”

“So
what then? I don’t get it. What’s your plan?”

“Okay,
hear me out,” she began. “I am going to let it be your choice. The coin is my
gift to you. But, I think you should consider throwing it off this bridge.”

“Are
you serious?! What good does that do?!” I exclaimed.

Janie
grabbed my hand and thrust the coin into my palm. The energy in her eyes was
obvious.

“You
can do two things,” she said. “If you want to keep it, I’m with you until the
end. Maybe nothing happens. Maybe it just sits in a box on our bookshelf, and
we can tell this story to other couples when they come over. The big punch line
will be that we have the coin sitting right in our house. No one will believe
us, but we’ll know it happened, and it will be perfect.”

I
liked that idea but quickly found myself running through alternative scenarios.

“And
maybe Peukington shows up, finds it, and his guys murder us,” I offered.

“Maybe.
Who knows? But that’s pretty unlikely if Pistache can’t remember anything. As
far as Peukington and Renard are concerned, they
watched him leave with it.
Pistache will have a hard time selling his story to them.”

I
sighed. “Okay, what’s my other option?”

“Stick
with me on this. You can hold this piece of Paris in your hand right here for
the last time. This thing has seen kings, revolution, an emperor, wars, and all
that stuff. With this little time-traveler, you know that you were part of pure
magic, woven into its story forever. Then, after you’ve taken a minute to think
about all of that, you can aim for the sunrise, send it out over the water, and
return it to the city that really owned it the whole time anyway.”

I
looked down at the coin as she spoke.

“We
can still tell the story, Pete. It’ll end even better this way.”

“But
it’s worth so much,” I stammered, conflicted.

“What
more do we really need?”

She
was right. As we stood on the Pont des Arts, I pictured letting it fly into the
exploding Parisian morning and seeing it shimmer one last time before losing it
in the bright orange. We might not even hear it hit the water.

Janie
smiled at me, waiting. I loved the tone of her skin in the sunrise light. Her
beautiful look conveyed that signature mischief that had brought us to this
moment, and I was reminded again exactly why I’d fallen for her in the first
place. Sensing my thoughts, she touched my forearm, still smiling.

I
turned to the water, now overwhelmingly bright with the morning sun. Breathing
deeply, my fist closed around the coin. I wound up, even then still not knowing
if I’d truly ever be able to let it go.

This story took nearly two years to
complete. I have enjoyed writing it and feel truly lucky that you, the reader,
picked it up. Thank you for reading this book.

Mollie, your imprint is all over this
from our exploration of Paris’ nightlife to the coffee mug you gave me with the
horses on it from which I sip as I write this. Thank you for everything you do.

Cece, I hope your little brother or
sister will be just as perfect as you.

Jennifer Maxson (Mom), thank you for
editing an early draft of this work. Your ideas were extremely valuable and
helped me shape this into what it is now.

Lauren Lastowka, thank you so much for
taking the time to go over the final draft the way you did. You polished this
in a way I couldn’t have. Can’t wait to do some hanging out hopefully soon!

Thank you Jennifer Law and Griffen Tull
for the cover design. You exceeded my hopes. Jennifer, you’re a true pro.

Speaking of the cover, thank you to Jeff
Smith and the bartenders at Brockway Pub in Carmel, Indiana. Your bar is
awesome. Jeff, I think you have a career in hand modeling.

I’d like to thank the following family
and friends, who all lent fresh eyes to this text when mine were extremely
tired: Brad Koselke, Jay and Brynn Pendrak, Richard Hewett, and Dan Maloney. Thank
you all for listening to me talk about this story, then actually taking time to
read it. Your insights were super valuable.

Lastly, I must mention the memory of my
aunt, Caryl Lloyd, who passed away during the process of writing this book. An
educator, scholar, and author, she introduced me to Paris when I was 16. My
love for the city is evident now, and I owe her much of my affection for France
in general. I hope she would have enjoyed this work.