The Paris Key (28 page)

“Y
ou look wonderful today,” said the fourth neighbor Genevieve passed the next day as she headed out to find the bookstore Killian had told her about: Le Pont Traversé.

She was wearing a new blue dress, simple but elegant, with a fitted jacket, tights, and boots. After a halfhearted struggle at the department store, Genevieve had given herself over to the eager Sylviane, who treated store clerks as she did waiters: with imperiousness, as though they were her own personal staff. They, in response, hustled to do her bidding. Genevieve wound up buying several pieces: three dresses, the jacket, slacks, two tops. A nice pair of medium heels. Sylviane urged her to buy a couple of silk scarves and was mollified only when Genevieve said Pasquale had several Hermès at home she could use.

Genevieve's heart had skipped a beat when she signed the final sales slip. She used the credit card she shared with Jason, so he would receive the bill; she would have to call and warn him and transfer some money from her savings to cover it. But then, she thought with a rueful smile,
this
was the kind of crisis Jason would be able to understand—would, in fact, probably approve of.

Sylviane had helped Genevieve back to the Village Saint-Paul with all her bags, and after sharing some wine, she insisted on experimenting with Genevieve's hair, showing her how to sweep it up in a neat chignon, and giving her a few makeup tips.

When Genevieve looked at herself in the mirror this morning she realized the only part of her that looked the same as when she arrived was the antique key hanging from the chain around her neck. Girls' day out had never been quite so instructive, in Genevieve's experience.

“Genevieve!”

She turned to see Killian trotting up to her. His jeans were dirty, there were streaks of light brown on his shirt, and his boots were caked in mud. He had his pack slung over his shoulder the way he had the first morning they met.

“I take it you've been out exploring?”

“Ah, yeah. A bit manky. Do I look a wreck?”

Genevieve smiled and, in her new outfit, tried channeling Sylviane. “A little smudge on your cheek; hold still.”

She reached up and slowly wiped a little dirt off his whiskery cheek.

“There,” she said in a quiet voice. “All better.”

His gaze held hers for a long moment.

“You seem . . . very Parisian today,” he finally said.

She smiled and looked down at her clothes. “I had a makeover by a native Parisian. What do you think?”

“It's not just the clothes,” he said with a slow shake of his head. “It's an attitude.”

She smiled again. “So, shall I deduce from your dirty face that you found your way into the tunnels?”

“Not quite. I found a few short ones, but not the jackpot.”

“They aren't all connected, though, are they? I mean, I heard they were left over from the old quarries; some were used for sewers, others for basements and such.”

“Sure, yeah. Some are, some aren't, apparently. In fact, some of these really old places might have access points—did you happen to see anything when you were down in Philippe's basement?”

Only a strange little trapdoor under a grate,
she thought. Most likely it was some sort of clean-out that led nowhere more interesting than a sewer pipe. Still, why would it have been outfitted with such an elaborate old lock, in that case?

“Anyway,” Killian continued, “I have a couple of other irons in the fire; something's bound to shake out sooner or later. I've got feelers out to a few cataphiles.”

“Cataphiles?”

“That's what they call the fellows who know their way around down there. It's not exactly legal, so it's not straightforward to get in touch. But I am undeterred.”

An optimist.
An optimist willing to color outside the lines, to crawl through tunnels that were
interdits
, forbidden.

“So, where are you headed?” Killian asked.

“I'm on my way to the bookstore you mentioned, the Pont Traversé?”

“Yes, that's the one. Have you eaten?”

“Not really, but . . .” Genevieve trailed off with a shrug.

“What? Tired of me asking, or tired of French food?”

“No, no, believe me, it's not that. I just . . .” Should she confess that she didn't have the heart to eat in a café alone? And since she spent the whole day yesterday with Sylviane, she hadn't managed to shop for groceries.

Eating was such a long, drawn-out affair here. Genevieve respected the custom in theory, but it did make it difficult if you just wanted to grab a quick bite. Sure, there were plenty of people eating by themselves in restaurants, and certainly a grand tradition of people lingering over tables while writing in their journals or reading a book. No one would look askance as they might in a restaurant in the U.S., where they hoped to turn the tables quickly. Here, no one rushed you. If you claimed the table for three hours, dawdling over the cheese plate or your café au lait, so be it. In fact, getting the bill in a Parisian eatery usually entailed waving the waiter down, sometimes repeatedly.

Nevertheless, Genevieve felt awkward, wondering where to put her hands, whether anyone was watching her. Of course, the other night she had enjoyed her meal at the brasserie after Sylviane left her at the table. . . . Perhaps
that
was the secret. She smiled to herself, thinking of writing
Genevieve's Guide to Paris
: Get hazy on
pastis
!

“Sorry,” she continued, realizing Killian was still waiting for her to finish her thought. “I just didn't want to take the time for a sit-down meal. Is that awful? Not very French of me, I know.”

He grinned. “I know the feeling. It takes a while to relax into the lifestyle, I think, especially for Americans. Your lot rushes about, don't they? Eating in cars, all that.”

“I suppose so.”

“I have the perfect solution for your problem: a relatively quick lunch eaten while standing in the street. But it's delicious. And besides, in my muddy state, I shouldn't be imposing myself on a restaurant.”

“Really? Where?”

“Have you been to the Jewish quarter? The Pletzl?” At her head shake, he went on: “It's not far from here, in rue des Rosiers. . . . You'll love it.”

She checked her watch. It was nearly two, and just in case . . . “How late is the bookstore open, do you happen to know?”

“Until midnight.”

“Really? Midnight?” She smiled. “I love this city.”

“Come on, then. Best falafel you've ever tasted.”

They crossed the busy boulevard called rue de Rivoli, then ducked back into a web of narrow side streets lined with boutiques selling everything from upscale kitchen items to fine children's clothes.

“I remember my uncle telling me that ‘the Left Bank of the Seine is to think, the Right Bank to spend,'” said Genevieve as they passed by an art gallery.

“I've never heard it put that way, but I suppose it makes sense,” Killian said. “The universities and all are on the other side of the Seine, while most of the big stores are over here. Though these days, I'm afraid you spend a lot just about anywhere in Paris.”

“And think just about anywhere as well?”

“One can only hope.”

Rue des Rosiers was a tiny cobblestone street crowded with pedestrians. Whenever a car came by everyone shuffled begrudgingly out of the way—it was slow going. Down near the end of the block the crowd was particularly thick outside a restaurant called L'As du Fallafel. A line ran down the block, and young men with notepads approached to take the order from anyone who lingered long enough to read the big sign with the posted menu, which was, in itself, very simple: a choice of falafel or schwarma, which was a grilled blend of lamb, chicken, and beef.

Killian ordered one of each, saying that they could share or she could have either one; he liked them both equally.

A young man took their money and gave them a receipt. But when Killian guided Genevieve toward the end of the long line, disappointment clutched her. She hadn't realized the line was for
this
restaurant, but now they had already paid, it was too late to go elsewhere. Her stomach growled at the thought of food, and the aromas of spices and roasting meat wafting out of the restaurant were enticing.

She was overcome by a grumpy, American sentiment:
Couldn't we just get something easy, maybe a drive-through?
Why did everything have to be such a
big deal
in Paris? But she kept quiet and allowed herself to be escorted to the back of the line, cattlelike, with the others. She kept their place while Killian availed himself of the restroom to wash up.

“Now, it's a good thing the line's long, because there are a couple of things I need to know from you,” said Killian upon his return.

“Um . . . okay . . . ,” Genevieve hedged, her stomach sinking. This was the last thing she wanted, to have to get up close and personal with some guy. Why couldn't she have kept her big mouth shut? Why did she allow Sylviane to sway her? Why had she wiped a
smudge
off Killian's cheek?

“First, do you want your sandwich with all the add-ons, and second—and, most important—do you want
harissa
?”

She smiled in relief. Questions about food, she could handle. “Yes, the works, but no onions; and second, I might, if I knew what
harissa
was.”

“
C'est piquante.
 . . . Hot sauce.”

“Oh yes. Definitely hot sauce.”

The man in front of them turned around. “Haven't had these before?”

Genevieve shook her head.

“You're in for a treat,” he said in a jolly accent that she assumed was Scottish. It didn't sound like Killian's Irish lilt, and it was more charming than the standard British inflection.

They chatted for a few minutes; then he turned back to his wife and started speaking what sounded like fluent Vietnamese. Genevieve realized that the young men behind them were speaking something that sounded like Hebrew, and she caught snippets of American English and Spanish.

Genevieve looked at Killian and raised one eyebrow: “You brought me to a
tourist
attraction? I thought this was some secret gem only the locals knew about.”

“Well, now, it's hard to keep a place like this a secret once Lenny Kravitz starts tweeting about it. Paris is the most visited city in the world—did you know that?”

“And you're saying just about everybody who visits winds up at L'As du Fallafel?”

“Sooner or later. This, and the ice cream at Berthillon.”

Genevieve smiled, remembering the kids whining for ice cream while atop Notre-Dame. Perhaps it was hunger, but it was dizzying to consider how long ago it felt she had been mingling with the gargoyles, even though it had been only a couple of weeks. And Oakland was another lifetime entirely. She had a moment of feeling out of time and place: How could Genevieve Martin be standing here in this place, in this time? Her eyes landed on yet another plaque, which declared that forty-eight people had been deported from the corner during the war. Little children, old women, it didn't matter. No mercy.

And now Genevieve and Killian stood in an absurdly long line awaiting falafel and
schwarma
stuffed into pita bread, and the toughest decision they were facing was whether they wanted
harissa
. Surreal.

Even though Genevieve had plenty of time to formulate her French sentence asking for what she wanted, when they finally got to the head of the line and handed their ticket to the men at the window, she was struck by stage fright. Killian stepped in and ordered for her, joking around with the servers in fluent French.

Within seconds, Genevieve and Killian were walking away holding fat, heavy, foil-wrapped sandwiches so stuffed with fillings it was hard to know how to approach them. In what seemed like a highly un-Parisian scene, dozens of people stood around, leaning against buildings, and eating right there in the alley. Killian and Genevieve found a section of wall to lean against and joined in.

Killian watched as Genevieve took her first bite of falafel. Raised his eyebrows. “Worth the wait?”

“Mmmm,” she replied, nodding, her mouth full.

Halfway through they switched, so they each could sample the falafel and the
schwarma
. Both were delectable, enhanced by salted cucumber and shredded cabbage and roasted eggplant and
harissa
and tahini.

“It's great to see this neighborhood coming back like this,” said Killian as they ate. “It was emptied out, of course, during World War II. The Jewish deli there on the corner? It used to be a jewelry store; it was bombed in 1942.”

“Bombed? I thought . . . people were rounded up and taken away. I didn't realize there were bombings.”

“The anti-Semitism had been building for some time. Nasty stuff.” He shook his head. “Bombings . . . so impersonal. Horrific.”