The Paris Key (10 page)

Angela, 1983

I
t is after midnight by the time they finish their meal in the back of the restaurant.

“Where are you staying?” Thibeaux asks.

“With my brother. In the Village Saint-Paul,” says Angela.

“Of course you are,” says Xabi in a sardonic tone. Angela wonders what it says about her that she is staying in the village, what he finds objectionable. But she hesitates to ask.

“Xabier, why don't you walk her home?” Pablo suggests.

“It's all right,” Angela says with a quick shake of her head. “I'll be fine.”

The wine has made her a little hazy, just enough to make her feel confident, yet simultaneously to doubt herself. She remembers a time when she walked everywhere, anytime, at three in the morning, no problem. Back then she hadn't given a thought to being out on the streets alone, unaccompanied, and a little tipsy from wine. Now, of course, she realizes it is foolish to take the risk. But there is a part of her that admires that old self, the audacious girl she'd once been, ready to take on the world. Unafraid, unabashed, undeterred.

Now she knows enough to be afraid. Now she is afraid of so many things.

“He is going your way,” says Pablo, cajoling. “It is easy for him. And what is better for a man than to escort a beautiful woman? You will take her, Xabi?”

“Bien sûr,”
Xabi says with a frown. He pulls on a worn brown leather jacket. “Of course I will take you.”

Angela thanks Pablo, Thibeaux, everyone, for the night, feeling awkward as she does so, as though she is thanking them for afternoon tea. But what is the proper etiquette after spending the evening drinking wine and eavesdropping on revolutionaries?

She nearly laughs aloud at this thought and thinks,
It is all right,
she will never see any of them again and will simply remember this night with fondness: a perfect souvenir from Paris, so much better than a commemorative key chain.

Xabi leads the way down the glistening cobblestone street. It is no longer raining, but the sidewalks are freshly washed from the downpour and the streetlamps and restaurant lights reflect brightly off the wet concrete. Angela wonders about Xabi's chalk painting: Has it been washed away, a multicolored kaleidoscope of pigments swirling in the puddles?

He lights a cigarillo. Offers her one. It is brown like a cigar, but much slenderer than the cigarettes back home. Delicate. Exotic. Angela takes it, though she doesn't smoke.

This. Walking together in silence. The air damp and cool, scented with rain and old stone and the Seine. A cigarillo in her hand because she is no longer Angela Martin, wife and mother. She is An-zhel Mart-ann, a woman who walks the wet streets of Paris with a handsome escort in the wee hours, a little bit tipsy on unfiltered red table wine, smoking.

Breathing. She is breathing. Finally breathing, with a smoke in her hand. Only in Paris.

Paris at midnight is not like any other city she has ever seen: certainly not San Francisco—which shuts down so early it's hard to find a meal past nine at night—or even New York. Here people are out in droves: huddled over coffees and beers in outdoor cafés, or lounging on benches, heads bent closely. There are couples walking arm in arm; others are leaning up against walls, lingering under bridges, pushing into one another, kissing.

Angela remembers watching an old movie set in Paris (what was the name?) in which one character tells the other:
“It's midnight. One half of Paris is making love to the other half.”

“They have no large homes,” Xabi says suddenly.

“Excuse me?”

“People who live in the city—it is very expensive here. The houses, the apartments, are very small. So they . . .”

“Make love on the street?”

He looks over at her, surprised.

She laughs. Oh yes, she may have had a little too much wine.

“Yes, sometimes. Or they meet at cafés, like their . . . what do you call the
salons
?”

“Living rooms?”

“Yes, like this, like the living room. There are many thousands of cafés in Paris.”

“So, you're not from here, are you? Thibeaux said you are Basque?”

He nods.

“What is it like there?”

“It is . . . complicated. I have family in both France and Spain. But the legacy of Franco is still with us. It is still brutal in some ways.”

“Franco died a while ago, didn't he?”

“Not soon enough.”

“Is that why you came to Paris?”

“I came to Paris because here, the people support artists. Not the Americans so much, but others are very supportive. They throw coins, enough to live on.”

“I'm sorry you don't like Americans.” Is it the man, or the place, that makes Angela feel free to be someone she is not? To say the things she wouldn't say? “It's a shame we can't be friends.”

Again he looks startled. Discomfited. She is glad.

“I never said . . . I never meant to say that.”

“No, really. I understand. A lot of people don't like Americans.”

“It is . . . the policies of the government. Not you.”

She smiles. Smokes. They walk the rest of the way without talking, but somehow the silence between them feels companionable, not awkward. There is something about this man . . . the way he holds himself, the intense way he looks at her, as though there isn't anything else—anyone else—in the world.

They arrive at the Village Saint-Paul. Xabi steps back to read the sign on the front of the building.

“Your brother is a
serrurier
?”

She nods. “Yes, a locksmith.”

“He opens doors? Is he good?”

“The best. Look.” She pulls a pendant out from under her blouse. “He gave me this. It's a key from ancient Syria.”

Xabi reaches out to lift the rusty metal, his light eyes studying it intently. The nearness of his hand to her chest makes Angela's heart pound, her senses sing.

“It doesn't look like a key,” he says quietly.

“No, it doesn't, does it?”

“What does it open?”

“Only my heart,” she says with a little laugh. Her joke falls flat, though, as Xabi gazes at her for a long moment without speaking.

Finally he drops the key, wishes her good night, and walks away.

T
hat night Genevieve studied her French with renewed enthusiasm. Pawing through her phrasebook and dictionary, she pulled words together and jotted down several phrases in her notebook:
Il faut = I need, it must; J'ai mal à la tête = I have a headache; Est-ce que vous pouvez m'aider? = Could you help me?

Though she wasn't able to fall asleep until well past one in the morning, her rest was blissfully free of locked doors, of any dreams at all, actually. She was awakened a little after nine by the sound of tapping at a window. Pulling on a black Oaktown sweatshirt over the T-shirt and shorts she used for pajamas, she went into the main room to investigate.

A middle-aged couple stood outside the kitchen window.

He was short and compact, with wide, slightly bulging eyes topped with wire-rimmed glasses. She was unsmiling and wore no makeup, her graying hair swept up in a severe chignon.

After a round of
bonjours
, they introduced themselves as Daniel and Marie-Claude Goselin. Marie-Claude spoke, while Daniel stood at her side, smiling and nodding. Much of Marie-Claude's meaning was lost in translation, but Genevieve did glean that these were the neighbors responsible for leaving the food, the
nourriture sur la table
.

“
Oh, merci, merci beaucoup. J'aimais
 . . .” Genevieve tried to say, “Thank you for the food. I loved it,” but finally trailed off, foiled once again by gendered pronouns and the past tense. Still, the point was made. She hoped.

“We meet you when you are visiting when you are very small; I think you do not remember us. You are here now to tackle on your uncle's business?” the man asked in tortured English.

“Yes, I would like to, but . . . it is difficult to know how,” Genevieve responded in equally tortured French. “I think I must get the papers of the government.”

This engendered a long discussion between the man and woman, in which they appeared to be telling Genevieve the secrets for obtaining the necessary paperwork with which to conduct a business in the Village Saint-Paul. Because it was zoned as an arts and antiques district, some requirements were unique to the area.

“Ne te rends jamais aux bureaucrates,”
Daniel concluded with a rueful shake of the head. “Never . . .
Comment dis-tu?
”

“Never surrender?” Genevieve translated.

“
C'est ça!
That's it!”

“I've been told that
‘impossible' n'est pas français
.”

“Exactly! This is what Napoléon says.”

So they were taking advice from Napoléon now? As Genevieve thanked her neighbors for their advice, she started to yearn for a cup of coffee. She felt groggy and wondered what time it was in California (probably one in the morning?) but then chastised herself.
You're in Paris; there is no “home” time.

Another man walked up to join their trio; he was large, American-sized, big-boned, and well-padded, with a florid, handsome face. He seemed shy, yet stood closely, as though already part of the conversation.

A conversation that had long ago outpaced Genevieve's linguistic abilities.

The man introduced himself as Jacques André. There was a lot of talking and pointing, and Genevieve realized they were trying to tell her where they lived—the couple on the other side of the courtyard's ivy-covered walls, the younger man through the arched walkway. The oft-repeated word
brocantes
—summoned up from her dusty memory, it meant “antiques”—made her suppose they were dealers, as were most residents of the area. Those lucky enough to have inherited homes here were able to live above or behind their shops, as Dave and Pasquale and Catharine used to do, while benefiting from frequent antiques fairs and arts events, as well as everyday foot traffic.

When there was a lull in the conversation, Genevieve volunteered, “Today I am going to visit my aunt.”

It was a sentence from a beginning French class, and yet Genevieve felt inordinately pleased with herself. Already the language felt just a tiny bit easier, like a too-tight pair of leather shoes that, while painful, loosened ever so slightly each time she wore them. She just hoped she didn't develop the equivalent of linguistic bunions in the process.

Marie-Claude mentioned that in France most elderly parents lived with their families, and how sad that Pasquale couldn't live with Catharine, but the facility was very special, very modern. Alzheimer's was such a shame . . .
quel dommage
. Everyone shook their heads and the conversation stumbled to a gloomy end.

Finally, Jacques and Daniel brought out business cards.

Genevieve had to look for the number on the ancient phone to give to them, reading off the faded numbers from under a strip of yellowing tape, written by Pasquale, how many years ago?

But of course, the neighbors already had that number, as it was the same one Dave and Pasquale had had for decades. And besides, as Genevieve recalled, the custom in the village was less about phone calls and more this: to stop by and speak through windows. When they were flung open, it was taken as a sign that the inhabitants were awake and ready to chat. Or, in this case, even when they were closed, neighbors simply knocked and woke a person up.

After they'd bid one another “
bonne journée
,” Genevieve fixed herself a simple breakfast: a hunk of the (already stale) baguette with some cheese and pâté, and a cup of strong tea.

She started a shopping list:
coffee
,
baguette, vegetables, fruit, yogurt.

Catharine had written out very careful instructions for visiting Pasquale, which she had fastened together in a thick sheaf like a handwritten instruction manual: where to find the Métro entrance, how much money was needed for the book of tickets (called the
carnet
), and even a description and diagram of how to use the machines. She included which exit to take out of the Métro station, and a little map of how to walk from there to the Alzheimer's facility.

Genevieve considered what Catharine had said about pickpockets. She doubted they could be any worse here than in San Francisco but supposed it was smart to leave her valuables in the apartment.

The Village Saint-Paul, as a nosy, close-knit neighborhood, felt secure, but just in case, Genevieve hid her passport and extra money in a little hidey-hole under the floorboards in the bedroom, which Catharine had shown her in confidence the last time she was there. She remembered Catharine saying, in a grave tone of voice: “I think they may have hidden Jews down here, during the war.” The opening was only about as big as a breadbox, but the teenaged Genevieve had supposed perhaps it opened further, somehow, her imagination stoked by stories of Anne Frank and her family secreted behind the paneling. Only now did Genevieve realize that Catharine had probably been joking.

She packed forty dollars' worth of euros, a small water bottle, sunglasses, and a dog-eared old paper map of Paris she found on Dave's desk into a small leather satchel, then locked the doors and set out.

Genevieve felt almost like a native as she navigated the streets and found the Saint-Paul Métro stop barely three blocks from the village. Catharine's precise instructions were easy to follow. A gypsy family got on when she did, a little girl dancing, whirling, and clapping, while a man—her father?—played the drum, the loud bangs reverberating off the metal sides of the train. No one gave them money; Genevieve would have, but she didn't have any change with her and couldn't figure out what was appropriate, anyway. They exited at the next stop, without a word.

On the number 2 line Genevieve studied the big subway map and kept track of the stops: place de Clichy came right before her station, and Pigalle right after. She exited at Blanche and took a moment to get her bearings when she emerged from the underground. She was looking for 49, rue Blanche, not far from the famous Moulin Rouge.

On the map Catharine had written,
You can't miss it: It is a modern building, yellow with big crooked white strips in front of it, and stainless-steel details. It is an atrocity in the neighborhood, though some people love it.

Her cousin was right: There was no way to miss the ultramodern façade. The steel-and-glass, yellow-and-white building stuck out like a colorful, modern, bumbling American among the elegant, staid Parisians.

Genevieve entered through the sliding front doors and signed in at the reception desk. She had practiced a couple of lines in French—
I am here to visit my aunt Pasquale Mackenzie.
Could you please direct me to her room?
—but it wasn't necessary; apparently Catharine had called ahead and told them to expect Genevieve. A pretty, delicate-looking young woman emerged from a back office and greeted her in English.

“
Bonjour.
I am called Solange. Your aunt is on the second floor, room 211. Here behind you is the lift. I will put in the code for you.”

“Thank you,” said Genevieve, following her to the elevator.

“You are American?”

“Yes,” Genevieve replied, trying not to be disappointed that people seemed to guess her nationality so readily. So much for fitting in with the locals.

“This code is for security, so the residents don't wander,” Solange explained as she tapped numbers on a keypad. “We have many security features, because with the Alzheimer's this is a concern.”

Genevieve nodded.

“Just like this, for example,” said Solange, turning toward a stooped, white-haired woman who was shuffling toward them, leaning on an aluminum walker. “Madame Lyon,
pourquoi êtes-vous ici
?”

“Êtes-vous américaine?”
The old woman asked Genevieve if she was American. She reached out and cupped one of Genevieve's hands in both of hers. Her hands were warm and dry, velvety soft.
“Merci, merci pour . . .”

Genevieve lost track of what the woman was saying. She looked to Solange, who translated.

“She say thank you for coming, in the war.”

“The war?”

“The Second World War. She remembers the Americans arriving, liberating her village when she was little girl.”

“I . . .” Genevieve didn't know what to say. She'd had nothing to do with World War II, of course. But did Madame Lyon even realize what year this was? Should Genevieve simply accept the thanks gracefully, acknowledge her gratitude?

“She always does this whenever she hear anyone speaking English,” said Solange, sounding annoyed. She was holding the elevator door open with her shoulder; every few seconds it tried to close, banging her softly. “Don't preoccupy yourself about it.”

“Merci,”
said Madame Lyon one more time. She was still holding Genevieve's hand, her soft grip surprisingly strong.

“Je vous en prie,”
Genevieve said finally, practicing a line she had looked up last night: “You are welcome.” There was a much less formal way to say this:
“De rien,”
which meant, literally, “It is nothing.” But World War II wasn't nothing. Genevieve remembered this from her last visit to Paris: The war was still alive, still acknowledged here in a way it wasn't in the States. France had been invaded, bombed, occupied. It would take more than a generation or two of distance from the events to forget.

Finally Solange led Madame Lyon away, and Genevieve rode the elevator to the second floor. She found her aunt's room at the end of the long hall.

Pasquale was sleeping. Her olive skin was dark against the white sheets; her eyes were closed but seemed to be moving, as though she was dreaming. Not wanting to disturb her, Genevieve took a seat in a molded plastic chair.

Tante Pasquale had always been petite; at fourteen, Genevieve had already stood as tall as she. But now her aunt seemed truly tiny. Time (or was it the disease?) had only intensified her small build, shaving any extra plumpness from her until her bones poked cruelly at tissue-paper skin.

Like Catharine, Pasquale had a wide mouth, strong cheekbones, heavy-lidded eyes. But on Pasquale it lent an elfin appeal: a dark pixie with a sweet, secret smile. When she cast that smile in Dave's direction he would stop whatever he was doing—watching a game on TV, prepping vegetables, oiling his tools—and cross the room to embrace her. He would nuzzle her neck and whisper sweet nothings.

It was a breathlessly romantic gesture that always embarrassed Catharine, who would roll her eyes and snort.

But Genevieve had been enthralled with Dave and Pasquale's flagrant adoration, as well as their romantic story: the young American soldier who had loved a woman so much that he had forsaken his native land and stayed to help rebuild Paris from the devastation of war. Who had rarely returned to the United States, not even to visit. Genevieve's own parents had been devoted to each other, she supposed, but it always seemed more of a civilized partnership than a passionate love affair. Perhaps it was always like this for the offspring, Genevieve thought. Perhaps Catharine didn't recognize the adoration shining in her parents' eyes, or never interpreted it as romantic.