The Grandfather Clock (10 page)

I was a little surprised. It was
better than hiding the gun inside a clock. “Okay. I’m sure
something could be worked out. I could loan the gun for display.
People do that sort of thing all the time. If it’s
authentic.”

“
I have a feeling it is,”
she said in a low voice. “Michael. You’re too talented to be
pouring drinks for me here every day. I told her that your French
was good, and that you could help the museum in some small way.
Maybe big!”

That was a stretch. “Claudette,” I
said leaning in, “I don’t know anything about raising funds for a
museum. Much less in French!”

“
How hard could it be? You
meet with wealthy people, corporate people, and ask them for
money.”

“
First, it helps if those
people know who you are. I mean. Has no one...” I was at a loss for
words.

“
She wants to see
you.”

“
Well, that’s going to be
tough, isn’t it,” I said.

“
No, because on January
5th you are flying to Paris.”

“
What?”

“
Think of it as a job
interview. You meet her, see if the fit is right.” She reached into
her purse and pulled out an envelope with a Christmas tree on it.
“Here is your ticket.”

“
I can’t accept this. You
don’t have the money...”

“
What do you know about my
money?” she snapped. “Merry Christmas. My gift to you for the
delicious turkey.”

I took the envelope and couldn’t hide
a huge smile. I was excited about this.

Then she added, “I used frequent flier
miles. There’s no return trip, I’m sorry.”

“
I could have paid for my
ticket,” I said.

“
You wouldn’t have
gone.”

My last night working at Ol’ Toons was
a celebration. Dan put Kronenberg’s and Kir Royales on special. The
after-party went until sunrise. I had become good friends with
Melissa, the single mother. She hung out until the wee hours of the
morning. Brian’s apartment resembled Jonestown, with bodies strewn
at every angle around the room. Melissa and I sat on the balcony as
the sun streamed between the peaks of the old French Quarter
buildings. We tip-toed past the sleeping revelers and went to a
café for breakfast, making short work of eggs benedict and
pancakes.

“
I’m so happy for you,”
she said.

“
Thanks,” I said. “I’m a
little nervous.”

“
Good. You should be.
You’re doing it right. Follow your dreams.”

“
This wasn’t my dream,” I
said.

“
Whatever. You know what I
mean. You are going for it. Whatever it is.”

“
I’ve got a one-way ticket
to Paris to see a total stranger on the premise that I can help
them with something I knew absolutely nothing about.”

“
Well,” she said as we
paid the bill, “at least you’ll have a good story to
tell.”

I accepted Claudette’s offer to drive
me to the airport. I unceremoniously locked my apartment and
dropped the key in the mailbox. She had convinced me to sell my
car. She said it was a symbol of my commitment to starting a new
life. Like a mother dropping her son off for college, she shed a
tear and kissed me on both cheeks as she dropped me at the
curb.

5

I pulled a single suitcase and a Swiss
Army backpack. I didn’t know when I was returning, but I decided
that I really liked traveling light. The gun would be arriving via
a special delivery service in a few days. It was insured and packed
in a custom-made wooden box. I hailed a cab and nervously told him
the address. The ride took me through the outskirts of Paris. I had
visited Paris once after college. I had taken a backpacking trip
that started in London, and hit Paris, Switzerland, and returned
via Munich.

The red-eye flight was a different
kind of experience, since I was used to being up all night. I only
caught a few hours of sleep, but I adjusted to seeing the sun. I
looked forward to cup of good coffee. I had spoken to Marianne
Demers once on the phone. We spoke for nearly an hour almost
entirely in French. It was the longest conversation I’d ever had in
French and it left me exhausted. She complimented me on the
beautiful “piece,” as she referred to the blunderbuss. She talked
about the Château de Malmaison being a place with great potential;
an underappreciated gem. We talked about showing the gun to an
expert scholar, and finding out its story. The story would
determine how we moved forward. It was reassuring to hear she had a
plan. I apologized if Claudette had exaggerated my French skills.
She said that it wouldn’t take long for me to improve.

The arrangement that Claudette had
worked out on my behalf was simple. Madame Demers would arrange for
my lodging and board. On top of that, I would receive 200 Euro each
week, which was about $275. Without rent, and basic food, I thought
that I could make that work.

There was a not-so-small issue of my
work permit. Some research revealed that getting a work permit
would not be simple. As a citizen of a non-E.U. country, I was
supposed to prove that I was more qualified for the job than any
citizen of an E.U. country. First, I wasn’t really sure what the
job was. I knew they wanted me and the story of the gun, to help
them raise money for the museum. Perhaps that made me more
qualified than 500 million Europeans. When I questioned this,
Marianne mentioned a special cultural program that neither I nor
Google could identify. The sense I got was that the gun was
greasing the wheels for me. A gun I still wasn’t entirely sure was
authentic.

It was a little odd getting dropped
off in the morning at Château de Malmaison. The house wasn’t open
yet. The gate was locked and lone worker loitered on the other
side. The chateau stood beyond its empty grounds, at the end of a
wide driveway of light colored gravel. It immediately struck me as
a remarkable, yet simple example of French grandeur. It wasn’t
Versailles. Not even a corner of Versailles. Just three stories
high, it had more than a dozen windows from end to end, with gray
facade and a roof of French blue.

I waved to the middle-aged woman who
stood a few yards back from the gate. She waved me off. “Quinze
minutes!” she said.

I attempted my best French. “I’m here
to see Mrs. Demers. I’m supposed to meet her.”

“
She is not here,” she
said, eying my suitcase suspiciously.

“
I just came from the
United States. I’m a guest of hers.”

She gave me an annoyed look. I looked
beyond to the chateau.

Just then a worn green Peugeot pulled
up.

A woman leapt out of the diver’s seat
and greeted me. “I’m so sorry, I’m running late. You must be
Michael,” she said taking my hand and offering an air kiss on both
cheeks. “Traffic getting here was... Anyway, how was your
flight?”

“
No problems,” I
said.

“
Reneé, please open the
gate,” she said. Reneé complied without haste.

“
I’m going to take my car
in through the service entrance. I can’t have my tire tracks
through here. I will meet you there.”

Alone, I dragged my suitcase through
the gravel to the front door of Napoleon and Josephine’s house. I
waited under the eye of Reneé. It was at least ten minutes, and I
could see guests begin to make their way in the gate. One snapped a
picture as I awkwardly waited with my luggage on the front
step.

On that first morning, Marianne
attended to the needs of the chateau while I was free to walk the
grounds on my own. At lunchtime guests were sent out and the front
gate was locked, which I thought was a curious practice for an
aspiring tourist destination. The chateau was beautiful inside and
out. It wasn’t just a house. It looked as if an Emperor had lived
in it. An extravagant dining room, bedroom big enough to host a
party, and no wall or ceiling was unadorned. There were noticeable
nicks and scratches and dust, but one could forgive that for the
small entrance fee. It was the sort of place you could visit for an
hour or two. If you were on your first visit to Paris, you would
never go there. It was out of the way, and there were far more
grand things to see. But if you visited frequently, or had an
extended stay, it was a side trip into a fine neighborhood. The
house was originally built as a country home, away from the city.
The city had since made its way out to Château de Malmaison, but it
didn’t swallow it.

Sensing my jet lag, Marianne drove me
to an apartment, explaining in English where the train stops were.
Marianne had indeed arranged for my lodging. I was given a futon in
a small office in her flat, which was in a suburban apartment
building that, to me, looked like an American’s idea of an
apartment building given a French theme. It was close to the “RER”
and within just a few minutes I could be in a café on the Left
Bank, climbing the steps of the Sacré-Cœur, or visiting the Mona
Lisa.

I was surprised that I was to be
living with her. I felt like a thirty-year old exchange student.
She was younger than Claudette, and thinner, but the resemblance
was there. I guessed she was in her early fifties. I knew that they
had both spent time in London as children. Her English was fair and
we switched to French occasionally. She complimented my French,
which I had been studying hard in the few days I had before the
unexpected move. I told her that if I made a mistake, she could
blame Claudette.

If I was shocked to be living with
Marianne, I was really thrown to find Celeste living there as well.
She was walking out the door when we arrived.

“
Bonjour, Michael,” she
said with a slight smile and kisses on both cheeks. “We meet
again.”

I offered a weak response, “Yes, I’m
as surprised as you are.”

“
Well. Welcome,” she said
before telling her mother that she was going to the
library.

“
You know Celeste, of
course,” Marianne said.

“
Yes,” I said, “We had
Thanksgiving together.”

“
She comes and goes, comes
and goes. I ever know were she is.”

Marianne said the food in their small
refrigerator was for sharing. She told me that I could add things
to the shopping list that I liked. I told her that I was sure
whatever she bought would be fine. She heated some vegetable soup
on her small gas range and cut up a baguette and cheese. We talked
a little bit about Florida, about my previous visit to Paris, and
Barack Obama. Before I knew it, she was telling me to get some
sleep. She would be back in the evening and we would go to dinner,
“So we could talk.”

I fell into a hard sleep. When I woke
I had no idea how long I had been sleeping, or what time it was.
What I did know was that there was a man standing beyond the
doorway. I squinted and I heard a “shhh.” Then something about “the
American.” It was Celeste. I sat up, and the man said,
“Bonjour.”

I rubbed my eyes and ran my hands
through my hair. “Bonjour.” I said. “Je m’appelle Michael.” First
grade French.

“
Marco,” he said leaning
against a wall outside the door. He was wearing a suit with
tailored slim pants and a skinny tie hung loosely around his neck.
It was stylish, even if it looked a little worn.

“
Did we wake you?” Celeste
called.

“
No, I um. Just catching
up after the flight. What time is it?”

“
Almost five,” Marco
said.

“
Mother is taking you to
dinner?” Celeste called from what I assumed was her
bedroom.

“
Um, yeah,” I
said.

I walked into the hallway as she came
out of the bedroom.

“
Here’s the trick: In the
shower, turn on only the hot water first. If you turn on the cold
first, the hot never comes. Turn on the hot, then the cold, but
just barely. It’s very sensitive.”

“
Thanks.”

“
We’re going to be late,”
she said to Marco as they headed out the door.

“
Ciao!” she
waved.

Ciao, I thought.

“
Have you been to Relais
de Venise?” Marianne asked as she grinded her car into
reverse.

“
I don’t think so,” I
said.

“
It’s a very famous
restaurant. Maybe a little touristy, but I only get to go there
when I have a visitor. They only serve steak pommes frites. You do
eat meat?”

“
I do. I think I’ve heard
of it.”

It took us nearly an hour to get into
the city with the traffic.

“
We should have taken the
train,” Marianne lamented.

When she wasn’t making me nervous with
her driving, Marianne was a charming host. She pointed out sights
as we went along, including the Eiffel Tower three times. The
weather was cold. There had been a light rain and the street lights
reflected off the asphalt and the exhaust of cars created a fog as
we waited for traffic to move across a bridge to the Left Bank.
From the French Quarter to France in less than a day.