The Paris Key (9 page)

I
nside her uncle's bag of picks and sweeps Genevieve found a little foam pad to kneel upon; nonetheless, she was uncomfortable after a few minutes. She felt like a reluctant penitent, worshipping at the doorknob. But at least the lock was straightforward: a Garrison seven pin. She had cut her teeth on locks like these. It wouldn't take her long to open.

Killian was leaning against the wall, arms crossed casually over his chest. The hallway was narrow and disappointingly utilitarian: acoustic ceiling tiles, indoor/outdoor carpet. Though the building was historic, the corridor retained little charm.

“What brings you to Paris?” he asked.

“My uncle's death,” Genevieve answered plainly, noting with mean satisfaction that the man retreated a bit, his easy smile faltering with her straightforward words.

“Sorry,” he said. “A bit bold on my part.”

“No,
I'm
sorry. I'm just . . .”

“Headache, still?”

She nodded, though the truth was that the pain had subsided. She had caught it in time. Either that, or the headache would hunker down at a low level for a while, hiding, fiendlike, ready to pounce when she went to sleep. She couldn't count the number of times she had drifted off with a muted thrum of faraway pain and awoken to the sickening sensation that her head was a melon under pressure, ready to crack open at any time.

A few moments of silence passed as she worked on the lock: probing blindly back and forth, forward and aft, taking note of the bumps and voids as she felt them, drawing a map of the mechanism in her mind, feeling the pins drop into position.

“So, you must be a good photographer,” she said to Killian in an effort to make amends for her earlier rude comment.

“Sorry?”

“To afford downtown Paris. I hear it's pretty pricey.”

“Ah, sure, 'tis. Truth to tell, the photography is just a hobby. I'm here working in computers.”

“They're importing the Irish to work in computers?”

“Sure, yeah. English is essentially the technical language now, which makes it easier. And d'ya know that Ireland is a high-tech country these days?”

“Actually, I didn't know that.”

“They call it the Celtic Tiger. At least, they used to. Unfortunately, the floor fell out of the industry a while back, so I'm a bit of a wanderer.”

“Oh, that's too bad.”

“You Yanks are still going strong, though, aren't you?”

“I guess so.”

One of the prime reasons, Genevieve thought with sudden ferocity, for leaving the San Francisco Bay Area was so she no longer had to talk about computers. She knew—
lord
, did she know—that they were the future, that if only she'd majored in computers like her father had wanted her to, they'd all be sitting pretty today.
“With your math skills, you could have walked right into a program, made good money straight out of college,”
he'd said, the man who rarely spoke finding his voice when it came to trying to push his daughter into something she didn't want to do. Apparently forgetting that when his own parents wanted him to become a lawyer he'd refused, instead pursuing several hippie-inspired venues before deciding to “return to the land” and becoming a farmer, a vocation his own father saw as a repudiation of the upwardly mobile life he had worked so hard to achieve and pass down to his children.

Instead of majoring in computer science and engineering, Genevieve had studied English with a minor in the history of architecture—not even
actual
architecture, mind you, where she might have had a shot at a decent job. And then, to make matters worse, she told him she was thinking about becoming a locksmith, a job that just skirted along the definition of working-class, a job well on its way to becoming obsolete. A strange, old-fashioned profession.

“You might as well go into mapmaking,”
her father had said, teasing her over a dinner of whole-wheat pasta topped with organic vegetables. His softly spoken words carried a subtle but distinct edge hewn of anger.

“It could be worse,”
said Nick, matching his father's faint smile.
“She could become a watchmaker.”

“I thought I'd start making hourglasses in my spare time,”
Genevieve had replied, her words dripping with sarcasm.
“I hear it's the wave of the future. Just like small-scale family farming.”

In the end, she hadn't pleased her father or herself. Instead, she had become a freelance copy editor, mostly of technical manuals. Sure, it sounded boring . . . actually, it
was
boring. But it paid decently and gave her a lot of flexibility with her schedule. And she worked alone.

•   •   •

“I
'm only here on a temporary contract.” Killian's voice brought Genevieve back to the here and now. “My sister married a Frenchie, so I thought it'd be nice to spend some time with her, get to know my nieces and nephews. You okay?”

She nodded and resumed what she was doing; her thoughts had careened from her father's unwanted career advice to her dream about the door she couldn't unlock.

“Probably I'll end up in your neck of the woods next,” he said. “Not that I particularly want to. No offense, but I don't much fancy working in Silicon Valley.”

“I don't blame you,” Genevieve said. “Sunnyvale isn't exactly Paris.”

Finally she felt the mechanism give, that remarkable moment when the side pin slid, the cylinder released, the block was overcome.

She looked up at Killian, a triumphant smile lighting up her face.

His eyebrows rose in surprise. When he spoke his voice was quiet. “If breaking into my apartment makes you smile like that, I'll lock myself out every night.”

Genevieve could feel her cheeks burn and looked back at the handle in front of her. She turned it and pushed the door in, then started to gather her tools.

“Seriously, Genevieve, that's a handy job, isn't it? You're good.”

“This was an easy one.”

Killian crouched opposite her and began to toss tools into the bag, where they clanked.

She stilled him, placing her hand over his. “I'll do it, thank you. They were my uncle's.”

“Sorry.”

“No worries, I'd just rather do it myself.”

She felt his eyes on her while she stowed the picks and rakes, placing each piece carefully and precisely in her uncle's velvet-lined leather bag. Little soldiers, all in a row. Genevieve had always wondered at this: that her uncle surrounded himself with mess in all aspects of his life but this one. When he opened his locksmithing bag, it was a symphony of order.

She pressed the last one, an S pick, into its molded slat and snapped the bag shut.

“What do I owe you?” Killian asked.

“Oh, um . . . nothing.”

She wasn't set up to conduct business; in fact, she had no idea when—if ever—she would receive the certification allowing her to work in France. The French were prickly about foreigners taking jobs from the native-born. Genevieve had been hoping she might qualify for some sort of exemption since she was Dave's niece and Catharine was happy for her to inherit the business, but she hadn't heard back yet on her request.

“Ah, c'mon, you did me a real favor. Let me pay you for your time and expertise.”

“As I said, I'm not really conducting business. I'm just . . .” What
was
she doing here? “I'm just looking after things. I'm not set up to take money.”

“You have to brave the famed French bureaucracy to get certified as a foreigner working in Paris, eh? Take it from me—it's not easy. My advice? With the civil servants here,
non
doesn't mean ‘no.' Just keep politely insisting on what you need, don't let the paperwork get you down, and keep showing up at their offices. Eventually they'll give you what you want, just to be rid of you. It's a battle of patience. Remember what they say:
‘Impossible' n'est pas français
.”

“‘Impossible' isn't a French word?”

“Exactly. But ‘bureaucracy' most certainly is.”

“Thanks, I'll remember that,” she said with a smile as she peeked through Killian's door to the apartment beyond. Funny, it had never dawned on Genevieve before that “voyeur” was also a French word. Like “entrepreneur,” or . . .

Jet lag again. She was having a hard time concentrating. That, combined with the fuzzy hangover effect she felt after experiencing a migraine, even one she had managed to head off.

“At least come in, then, let me get you something,” said Killian. “Probably it's hard to believe, me bein' Irish, but I'm not half-bad as a cook.”

“I thought you were rushing to a dinner date.”

He glanced down at his watch, making a sound of exasperated surprise. “You're right. Clear forgot. But I could make you another cup of coffee before I go, at least.”

She would love one, but she didn't want to make small talk with this man. Or with anyone, for that matter. How was it everyone in Paris seemed to speak English? That hadn't been the case last time she was here, as a teenager. In fact, she had welcomed the linguistic divide. The less she understood, the less she would have to interact. She had been expecting to be able to pass a significant amount of time not having to speak to anyone beyond simply ordering a baguette.

Just her luck, to meet up with a native English speaker who lived right across the street.

Still . . . she looked through Killian's open door, curious. Peeking into other lives was her weakness.

“Would you like to take a quick look at the place, at least?” Killian asked, noticing her gaze. “The building's quite old. I'm subletting from a friend of a friend, or I'd never have found such a great place in this location.”

“You don't mind?”

“Not at all,” Killian said. “Feel free to look around. I'll just go grab my wallet.”

The apartment was much more interesting than the hallway: Here the original architectural features remained. The ceilings were tall and decorated with classic French carvings. Cupids and garlands and egg-and-dart moldings were painted a creamy off-white; the walls were a French robin's-egg blue. A tiny kitchen looked out over rue Saint-Paul, and a doorway led to a bedroom; she caught a glimpse of an ornate metal bedstead. An old molded cast-iron fireplace, small by U.S. standards, was surrounded by shelves jammed with books and papers. A notebook computer sat on a small café table, a leather briefcase beside it.

But most fascinating were the photos. They were everywhere: hung on the wall, propped up on the mantelpiece and along the floor, and in messy stacks on a credenza by the bay window.

Some were black-and-white; others, sepia toned; still others showed muted, washed-out colors. Many faded off at the edges, producing blurred effects; some were slightly distorted, with strange, ghostly halos and wisps of light. There were plenty of gargoyles and ornate tombstones, but other, less expected, day-to-day scenes, as well: a pair of birds perched on a stone wall topped with jagged shards of broken glass; a big-eyed toddler who looked utterly alone, standing on a city street; rows of velvet theater seats in a building with a chunk of ceiling missing. Abandoned houses strewn with garbage and dust, their forlorn aspect intensified by the startling presence of a single child's shoe on the stair, or a ripped leather armchair in the middle of an otherwise empty room.

Genevieve was riveted and repelled at the same time. The photos instilled in her a morbid fascination, a strange nostalgia for lives she had never known.

Finally her eyes alit on a framed color snapshot of a pretty woman, two little girls, and a dog. A wife and kids, probably. The decidedly pedestrian nature of the picture, after the sordid splendor of the others, affected her like a shock of cold water.

“I should go,” she called out.

“Let me take you to dinner as a thank-you, at least. Won't you join my friend and me? It's really quite a good brasserie—Philippe was saying it's one of his favorites. Do you have plans for dinner?”

“Thanks, I . . .” She shook her head, trying to think of an excuse. But then realized she didn't need one. She was tired of subterfuge. “No, thanks. I don't want to.”

“Sure, certainly, of course. Sorry to disturb. Thank you, again, for coming to my rescue. Let me know when you think of a way I could repay you for your housebreaking.”

She left him there, knowing that she would not take him up on his offer. A quick peek into his life was all she wanted.

It was enough.

G
enevieve had barely walked in and closed the shop door behind her before the phone in the apartment started to ring.

Damn.

She glared at the old-fashioned telephone. All she wanted to do was lie down with a cold cloth on her forehead, eat her chocolate, and make sure the headache was really gone. Finally, after the fourth shrill ring, she picked up the heavy receiver.

Only then did she realize she had no idea what a person said upon picking up a phone in France. Which was beside the point, really, since, after all, once the person on the other end of the line began speaking French to her she was going to have to hang up anyway.

“'ello?” she answered, dropping the
h
, as though that made the word French.

“Martin?” said a familiar voice.

“Mary!”

“I just had to make sure you made it to Paris. You haven't answered my e-mails.”

“I'm sorry. I don't have Internet here at the apartment yet—it's on my to-do list.”

“No Internet? That blows. Hey, I'm using my friend's phone and he's got unlimited international minutes, so feel free to tell me
everything
.”

“It hasn't even been a full day since I arrived,” Genevieve said with a laugh, but she was filled with warmth to hear from an old friend, and relief at the familiarity of the California accent. Because the phone was an old-fashioned landline attached to the wall with a short cord, she was forced to sit at her uncle's desk rather than walking around multitasking, as she would normally have done.

She closed her eyes and recounted her uneventful trip, the feeling of being back after so many years. Making an idiot of herself at immigration, the taxi ride, the smell of Uncle Dave's pipe, the outrageous feast of wine, cheese, and bread she'd treated herself to on the massive kitchen table. Her current plans for chocolate.

And then she told Mary about being awakened by Philippe and opening up Killian's door.

“No
way
. You're saying you've been in Paris less than twenty-four hours and you've already got two boyfriends?”

“I'd hardly say
boy
friends. One's about a hundred years old—”

“Don't be ageist.”

“And he's about a foot shorter than I am.”

“Now you're being heightist. Is that a thing? Besides, I thought Paris was famous for the whole May-September love-affair deal.”

“I think that's supposed to be between an older woman and a younger man. I'll keep my eyes open for a likely eighteen-year-old.”

“But it sounds like this guy might have a great old house in Paris. Think of the possibilities! You could start an artists' colony when he passes away, name it in his honor. Personally, I think the first fellowship should go to yours truly.”

“He's got bad teeth.”

“Hmm.” Mary pondered this as though they were being serious. “Okay, you're right, that might be a sticking point. What about the other one? Irish, huh? As in red-haired and florid, or dark and romantic?”

“I'd say somewhere in between. Good-looking, but I think he's married, or . . . something. There's something about him I don't quite trust.”

“You might not be the best judge of male character right at the moment.”

“Mmm,” was Genevieve's noncommittal reply. She was eying the
pain au chocolat
Philippe had brought her. It taunted her from the big kitchen table, out of reach.

“Anyway,” continued Mary, “here's what I think you should do: Take 'em both out for a spin.”

“Out ‘for a spin'? And what does
that
mean, exactly?”

“You know what they say: You have to get right back on the horse. Take those two out and, you know, get 'er done. Get it out of your system so you can move on.”

“Get 'er
done
? Get
what
done? What . . . are you suggesting I
sleep
with these guys?”

“You're in Paris, aren't you? It's the city for lovers. What's keeping you?”

“Um, let me see: There's jet lag, and a migraine headache, and general distrust of all men. Not to mention the fear of pregnancy and STDs. . . .”

“Wait, wait,
wait
. Seriously, are you telling me you flew to Paris without any
condoms
?”

Genevieve laughed and realized she had put her legs up on the desk and was twisting the coiled cord around her finger while she talked, like a teenager in an old movie. Was she reverting? Or simply enjoying the moment, like she hadn't in so very long? Maybe Paris truly
was
magical.

“Mary, you are
so
number one on the things I knew I'd miss from home. I tell you what: If you promise to move here, I'll marry Philippe and found that artists' commune for you.”

“You're on, sister.”

•   •   •

J
ust as Genevieve had feared, a glance in the bathroom mirror confirmed that she looked a wreck. Her unbrushed hair was lank and mussed, her cheeks were pale, and smudges of mascara (applied long ago—before leaving Oakland) melded with dark circles of fatigue under her eyes.

Great. Just great.
She was going to have to warn Mary that no marriage proposals were bound to be coming her way anytime soon. Not that she was seriously looking for such a thing—quite the opposite. But somehow looking slovenly upon her arrival in Paris seemed . . . cringeworthy.

So, first things first: She needed a shower. Just as Genevieve remembered, the device was jerry-rigged in a retrofitted closet decorated with jarringly 1970s harvest gold tiles. There was no curb, no curtain. Just a fully tiled floor and walls, with a showerhead sticking out of one corner of the room and a drain in the middle of the floor.

Bathrooms were the one thing in Europe that didn't live up to the American version. Who wanted medieval (or even Renaissance-era) charm in a lavatory?

Still, someone had left a stack of clean white towels, a bottle of herbal shampoo, and a big new bar of lavender-verbena soap. Had Catharine specified that her neighbor should leave these, too, along with the food?

Genevieve thought about the meager presents she'd brought Catharine from the States: a dozen
Star Trek
comic books, a T-shirt, and a coffee mug. Did Catharine still have a fondness for the science fiction series, or had Genevieve based this on an image of Catharine that was almost twenty years out-of-date? Also, two plastic bottles of barbecue sauce, because for some reason the French had yet to discover this American taste sensation and Uncle Dave always used to talk about missing “good Southern cooking.” Along with this were two boxes of corn-bread mix and a can of okra. It wasn't much.

She cringed inwardly. Maybe she should just hide the stuff and go buy Catharine something nice here in Paris. . . . She was in the world's shopping mecca, after all. Surely she could find something worthy, something a person would value beyond barbecue sauce.

Genevieve turned the
chaud
tap on full strength and waited several minutes, but the water never heated up. Not even enough to take the edge off. Then she tried the
froid
, just in case the hot and cold lines had been crossed, but that was no better. Finally she forced herself in, trying to wash herself thoroughly without immersing her body in the freezing water.

She swore, caught her breath. Felt like crying, felt desperate.

First-world problems,
she imagined Mary saying. The thought made her laugh as she emerged and dried off with a fluffy towel, teeth chattering.

No Internet. No hot water. Genevieve was prepared—eager, even—to embrace change in her life, but this was pushing it. She wrapped a blanket around herself and hurried into the main room.

Catharine had left her godmother's phone number on the bottom of her note. Genevieve placed the call, and after she'd stumbled through a few French words the receiver was passed to her cousin. After hellos and quickly catching up, Genevieve asked if there was normally hot water available.

“
Mais bien sûr!
The village may be behind the times in some ways, but yes, we have hot water. But you have to be sure the light is on fire.”

“On fire?”

“The hot-water heater is in the closet in the kitchen, the one with holes in the door. You turn the knob for the gas and light the little fire, and—”

“Oh, you mean the pilot light?”

“Yes, that's it. We don't leave it on all the time, to save gas. I can give you the name of someone if you need help; there are many neighbors who could—”

“No, no,
merci
.” Genevieve didn't want strangers trooping through what she was already coming to think of as her place. Not yet. “I'm sure I can figure it out, thanks.”

“I am sorry my timing was poor.
Désolée
 . . . sorry I am not there.”

“It's okay, really. You had your plans, and I'm enjoying getting familiar with everything. It's good for me to discover things on my own.”

“Oh, good, good. Genevieve, I wanted to ask you: Could you possibly visit my mother while you are there? I told her that I would not visit for a few days, but she forgets things. I left her address and the directions on my father's . . .
bureau
.
Comment dit-on?
Desk. On his desk.”

“Of course,” Genevieve said as her gaze alit on the directions. “I was going to ask you about that—I would love to see Tante Pasquale.”

“Good. I am back in Paris on Thursday. I would like to invite you to lunch. I am in the twentieth arrondissement, near Montmartre. There is Métro nearby. Close to my mother. It is not hard to find.”

“Sure, of course,” said Genevieve, wondering why Catharine seemed reluctant to come to the village, to what was still her home, her property.

“When you are on the Métro, make attention to the thieves. The . . . what do you call them? The ones who take from the pocket?”

“Pickpockets.”

“Oh yes. How . . . obvious. So, everything else is going well? I asked one of the neighbors to leave some food.”

“Thank you! I have been enjoying it. Thank you so much. But that reminds me—your mother always insisted we needed a fresh baguette every day. Is the Maréchalerie still the best
boulangerie
in the neighborhood?”

Catharine's chuckle was deep and smoky. If Genevieve didn't know Catharine and just heard her voice over the phone, she would have conjured an image of a woman with a wide, generous mouth, a voluptuous figure, and lush, long hair. Though Catharine had a few such physical attributes, they somehow added up to someone who seemed asexual. Always had. Even when Genevieve was in Paris as a young teenager, she remembered looking at the then twentysomething Catharine—the young woman still living in her parents' house, sleeping in a twin bed and reading comic books—and thinking she was the last person Genevieve could imagine talking to about sex. It would be like asking a female, geeky version of Mr. Rogers. Here she was in Paris, she remembered thinking, and her French roommate probably knew less than
she
did about the nuts and bolts of human anatomy.

“I'm glad to see you are still a little bit French,” said Catharine. “This is the first question you ask me. Very good. Many Americans, they do not eat bread. I find this . . . confusing. How does a person simply decide not to eat bread? How does this even happen?”

This was another thing Genevieve remembered about Catharine: She always wanted Genevieve to explain America—and Americans—to her.

“I think it's mostly a diet thing. We just don't have the same relationship with bread. Not to mention that ours isn't as good as yours. So . . . about the
boulangerie
?”

“Yes, la Maréchalerie is still the rudest, and the best. So often these go together, don't you think?”

“Only in Paris.”

“Oh, I think not,
ma cousine
,” Catharine said with another chuckle. “I think not.”