The Seven Turns of the Snail's Shell: A Novel (15 page)

An hour later, he was sound asleep, and ten hours later, Sunday evening, the 747 landed at LAX.

CHAPTER 26

J
ust outside the door of La Pitié-Salpêtrière, Dr. Charles-Christian Gérard lit a cigarette and hesitated for a moment. He felt numb. He was dead tired after having worked the grueling fifteen-hour-plus night shift for two weeks. Because of the harsh December weather, there had been more than the usual number of accident victims in the trauma center during the past twenty-four hours. He had been there most of that time. Now, even to walk the short distance to the Gare d’Austerlitz to catch the métro would take the last of what little energy he had left.

He crossed the darkened street. It was too early for the café on the corner to be open, but, he thought, he was too tired to eat anyway. At the Gare d’Austerlitz, he descended into the métro, crossed through the turnstile, and walked onto the deserted platform. A derelict curled up in a blanket slept on a bench. The station smelled of urine.

An older man, wearing a beret, appeared on the platform as the train pulled in. Charles-Christian flipped the door latch and entered an empty, brightly lit car. He noticed that the man in the beret had entered the car next to his. The doors slammed shut, and the car lurched forward as the train took off again. Charles-Christian sank into a seat by a window, catching a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror-like pane as the car sped through a darkened tunnel. He saw his graying sideburns, his drawn face, an ashen color, the dark circles under his eyes, the stubble of beard from not having shaved for hours.
Not a pretty sight
, he thought, as he ran his hands through his hair and rubbed his temples.

Life had been grueling in the trauma center since he had returned to La Pitié-Salpêtrière. Working long hours had been his life since he had become a doctor, but now he realized that it had desensitized him. Every night, he coped with blood and chaos. Every night, he had to make instantaneous decisions, life-and-death decisions, and there was no time to consider whether they were right or wrong. It seemed people weren’t people anymore.

At the Jussieu stop, a young couple entered the car, holding hands. They made their way to the back and sat down. Before the car moved again, they embraced in a passionate kiss.

Charles-Christian heaved a deep sigh and glanced at the seat beside him. Someone had left a copy of last evening’s
France Soir
, folded open to the book review section. He picked it up. The lead review was of a book entitled
L’Affaire Imprévue
.

The title intrigued him. He read the first sentence: “If you like tales of romance and intrigue, you’ll love this exceptional novel by an American author, newly translated by Sophie La Félisse.” He scanned the article for the author’s name, and his face flushed as he read it: “Anna Ellis of California has created a good plot and a well-developed set of characters.” He clenched his jaw and held the newspaper so tightly in his fist that his hand hurt.

The train pulled into the Cardinal Lemoine stop. An older lady in a black coat and hat got on, clutching a string filet shopping bag. She nodded to him and took a seat facing his.

“You are a doctor?” she asked in a low voice as she eyed his hospital coveralls under his coat.

“Yes,” he smiled faintly at her over the newspaper.

“I am on my way to market,” she said as if responding to a question. “There will be fresh shellfish today. It’s so rare to get good oysters, clams, and green mussels this time of year. I’m going to make a bouillabaisse for my Robert’s supper tonight. Robert is my husband. He just left for work. It will be a long day for him. He will like the warm stew for his supper.”

Charles-Christian smiled at her again. Taking the newspaper with him, he gave her a nod and wished her “
Bonne journée
,
Madame
” as he got up to stand at the door. Maubert Mutualité was the next stop, his stop. Several people were waiting on the platform, crushing forward as the car slowed. They were all dressed for work. The morning commute was beginning.

Charles-Christian walked the short distance along boulevard Saint-Germain to rue Saint-Jacques. It was a cold morning, and Parisians emerging from their apartment buildings were bundled in heavy coats and scarves, faces barely visible. He reached his apartment building, not even noticing the man in the beret following him as he entered through the heavily carved wooden door and climbed the dark stairs, slowly, to his apartment.

Once inside, he took off his coat, made himself a cup of hot chocolate on the small stove in the kitchenette, and sat down at the tiny table. He spread the newspaper in front of him and read the entire review of Anna Ellis’ latest book. It was not a bad review as book reviews go, he thought. In fact, the reviewer, a woman, rather liked the heroine, though she wasn’t impressed with the hero—“too mean spirited,” she had written. Charles-Christian wondered to himself if Anna had had him in mind when she wrote that character. He sipped his hot chocolate and went to his desk to get a pair of scissors. As he carefully cut out the review, he noticed a box at the bottom of the page. Its heading read “Book Signings in Paris This Week.” Curious, he studied the lengthy list. About a third of the way down was Anna’s name—Librairie La Hune, 170 boulevard Saint-Germain, and Librairie Bonaparte, 31 rue Bonaparte. He cut out the notice and sat back, heaving a huge sigh. The first of the scheduled signings was in two days. Anna would have to arrive in Paris shortly, if she was not already here. The thought of seeing her again made him apprehensive.
What if she doesn’t recognize me?
he wondered.
What if she’s married? What if…?
There was no photo of her with the article, no personal information. He put his head in his hands. His life was lonely. He had no one. At forty, he was certainly not a happy man. He climbed the spiral staircase to the loft and sank onto his bed, too tired to undress or shower, and fell asleep.

CHAPTER 27

I
t was drizzling and the sky was heavy when Anna stepped from the métro. She knew boulevard Saint-Germain well. She had walked the length of the Left Bank’s most celebrated thorough-fare many times. She took a detour past the Sorbonne, crossed the boulevard Saint-Michel, continued past the École de Médecine and the place de l’Odéon to Saint-Germain-des-Prés, the oldest church in Paris, for which the quarter was named. The small bookstore, Librairie Bonaparte, where she was to do her signing, was located just off the boulevard Saint-Germain on the rue Bonaparte in the sixth arrondissement. She turned right from the boulevard Saint-Germain and found the bookstore at 31 rue Bonaparte. The shop was cozy and smelled of old books and dust. There were not a lot of people as there had been in Librairie La Hune. This was more a neighborhood store where the locals came to browse on Saturday afternoons. There were dozens of small bookstores like it along this street. No one seemed to pay much attention to authors who came in to sign their books. But Harry had set it up, and it was an opportunity for Anna to promote her book to the French audience. She would do her charming best.

She greeted the bookstore
propriétaire
, a petite elderly woman with black hair and bright, smart eyes. They had met when Anna had introduced herself two weeks before. The woman had seemed tentative about the signing, but had agreed, she told her, because she had no one else lined up for this particular afternoon.
Nothing like being wanted
, Anna had thought at the time. From the look on the old woman’s face now, she hadn’t much warmed to the idea. Anna hung her coat and scarf on a coat tree and took a seat at the table where her books were stacked. No one approached her. Unlike her experience at La Hune, this was going to be a long couple of hours. She thought about the excitement that Harry had generated at La Hune. He was such a clown. At their lunch with the publisher at Brasserie Lipp, across the street from the bookstore, he had been the life of the party. Flammarion had promised to publish Anna’s new book, which Harry had calmly stated would be coming out next year. Anna had quietly crossed her fingers under the table on that point. Well, Harry had departed for California, and this was the end of it for now. Monique and she had plans to finish their Christmas shopping in the next few days, and then she would fly home.

Anna was so absorbed in thinking about the events of the week before, her Christmas list, and her impending return home that she didn’t notice the man standing in front of her.

“Am I in that book?” The question in French was more a statement than a question. His voice sounded familiar. She looked up.

“Am I in that book?” he repeated. The gray eyes studied her without showing any emotion. He had taken off his heavy winter coat. Underneath, he was wearing the white coveralls of an emergency room doctor. He wasn’t a tall man, and he was fine boned. His bearing was the stiff posture of the French. There was a youthful handsomeness about him, but the first signs of age, crow’s-feet extending from the eyes and gray streaks running through his dark hair at the temples, made him an older, saddened version of himself.

“Do you want a signed copy,
Monsieur
?” It was the
propriétaire
. “This is the author.”

He nodded, and his lips pursed together. “Don’t you recognize me, Anna?”

A tightness caught in her throat. Of course, she did. He was still as slim, elegant, and graceful in his medical attire as the young man who had carried her up those steps in Montmartre and kissed her passionately ten years before. She took a book off the pile in front of her, opened it, and wrote simply:

Pour “C-C”

Anna C. Ellis, décembre 1997

Her hand shook slightly as she handed it to him. “How did you find out I was in Paris?” She had dreamed, even written it in her journal, that when she and C-C saw each other again, it would be like a Hollywood moment, a “
scène classique
.”

Speechless, each of them frozen in place, they stare at each other for a long moment in recognition and disbelief. Suddenly, tears streaming from her eyes, she runs to him. They fall into each other’s arms. She holds his head in her hands, looks into his eyes, her fingers running desperately through his hair, now streaked with gray. They kiss. “What are you doing here? Why didn’t you write?” they each whisper a succession of questions breathlessly.

Hollywood moment gone. That wasn’t what was happening now. They were staring at each other across a table piled with books, neither of them smiling. A shiver ran up her spine.

He answered her question. “I was curious. I saw in the paper that you were doing signings in Paris, Anna. I was at the Librairie La Hune, in the back of the shop, earlier this week, but it was so crowded that I left. I decided to try again today. The book is called
L’Affaire Imprévue
. I wanted to know if I am in it.” He shrugged his shoulders in the manner French men do when they don’t have anything more to say on the subject. He looked an awkward boy of ten.

“No, well, there are of course some situations that you might find familiar.” She glared at him, wondering to herself why they were having this bizarre conversation. “But you are not in it, C-C.” Her response was curt, angry. Why had he come all of a sudden back into her life? All those ignored phone calls and, in particular, the unanswered letters.

C-C paid the
propriétaire
for the book. He gave the old lady a quick smile.
That familiar, crooked smile
, Anna thought to herself.

“
Merci
,
Monsieur
.
Au revoir
,
Monsieur
.” The
propriétaire
waved her hand over her shoulder as she disappeared into a room in the back of the store.

“
Au revoir
,
Madame
.” To Anna he simply nodded and said
adieu
as he pulled his coat on and walked toward the door. Anna stared after him.
That same familiar swagger
, she thought again.
Damn that same sexy, self-confident swagger.
A blast of cold air swooshed into the shop as he opened the door and tucked her book under his arm. Anna shivered again. He was a man of few words, but the few he spoke made their point. “
Adieu
.” Good-bye forever. Not “
au revoir
.” Not “see you again.”
Am I going to just let him walk out of my life?
she thought as she stood up.