The Grandfather Clock (15 page)

Friday rolled around and with Marco
gone, Celeste included me on her plans with Klara. It was a loosely
organized dinner party with about a dozen people. The woman hosting
the group put me on the spot. I was hit with questions about
American politics, the standard of living, and Miley Cyrus. I
reassured them that I had voted for Obama, that our consumptive
society couldn’t touch the pleasures of France, and I wouldn’t know
a Miley Cyrus song if I heard one. I was given a seal of approval
as one of the “good Americans.” My improving command of French also
helped.

I was looking over the vinyl
collection when Klara picked up Simon and Garfunkle’s Greatest
Hits.

“
Where have you gone, Joe
Dimaggio?” she sang.

I spoke to her in French: “You don’t
have an accent when you sing.”

“
It’s a great way to learn
English words. Start spreading the news! I’m leaving today! I’m
gonna be a part of it! New York, New York!”

“
Not bad! You like
American music?”

“
Of course,” she
said.

“
I don’t think I can name
a French musical act. Does Celine Dion count?”

“
No,” she scowled.
“Canadian! I should play some Dalida for you.”

“
Who are they?”

“
She. She was a great
French singer. Actually Egyptian, but she was known for her French
songs. She died in the 80s. Committed suicide. She was amazing. My
mother would play music while she cooked.”

“
I’d like to hear her
sometime.”

“
Good. I was beginning to
think I wouldn’t see you after our shopping trip.”

“
Where would I be without
you? I’m so stylish now,” I said, admiring my dark blue
double-pocketed shirt.

“
You should come over
tomorrow. We’ll play music. I’ll make crêpes for lunch.”

“
I’d like
that.”

Ambient techno music played as Klara
bobbed her head. She looked like a 1920s flapper. I looked through
the kitchen bar. Celeste was kissing a guy wearing a fedora. She
seemed to be coping with Marco’s absence just fine.

At the end of the night, and
thankfully a reasonable hour, we all went back to the apartment.
Klara slept in Celeste’s room again. By mid-morning, I set out on
my own for coffee and breakfast. A call came in from Howard. He
wanted to tell me about a book-signing event at Shakespeare and
Company, an English mystery author. I didn’t have my own
transportation, so I walked the suburban streets on the edge of the
business district, La Défense. I found myself near a large
university and I spent the morning people watching and attempting
to understand the newspaper.

On my way home a text arrived from
Klara: “Musique et crêpes?”

I found my way to Klara’s place
without help. Less than a month since I’d arrived, I was starting
to feel settled in. She introduced me to one of the owners of the
house she lived behind. Klara had lived there two years. She taught
on the other side of Paris and complained about the train. Music
was playing when we walked in. She had tidied her place and the
curtains were open, letting in the mid-day light. She played a few
French songs before insisting that I plug in my iPod so she could
hear what I listen to.

“
No Michael Jackson? No
Madonna? No Britney Spears?”

“
So sorry.”

“
No Snoop Dog? Are you
really American?”

“
I do have a song by Snoop
Dog, but it’s performed by the Gourds. You want to hear something
American, listen to this,” I said as I played her a blue grass
version of “Gin and Juice.”

I noticed a framed picture of her and
Celeste. They were younger.

“
My twentieth birthday,”
she said. “We’ve known each other since we were girls. Even when
she was living in London, we’d always got together when she came
back to visit.” I was understanding her French almost perfectly. It
made me relax.

“
That’s great,” I said. “I
wish I was the same way with my friends. After college, you lose
touch. Now it’s all email, or dinner if I’m passing through
someone’s town.”

“
But you have the great
stories to tell. I’m still here.”

“
Millions of people would
give anything to live in Paris.”

“
I know. I do love it, but
the Paris suburbs can be boring too. I visited Celeste in London.
I’ve been to the Alps. Munich. But I don’t get away much. My mother
got sick when I was a girl. My dad comes and goes.”

I wasn’t going to pry as to what that
meant. I couldn’t tell if I was missing her meaning in French.
Perhaps her explanation was meant to be clearer.

“
It’s hard to get good
work here. We are competing with the whole world for jobs in Paris.
Celeste is always trying to date her way out.”

While we talked, Klara made crêpes. I
commented on her impressive skill. She admitted to working in a
crêperie for a while. “I got fat.”

“
I can’t believe
that.”

“
True. Ten
kilos!”

I laughed. “I’m not sure what a kilo
is. Is that five or fifty pounds?”

“
I was never good with
pounds,” she laughed. “When I first started working there, I got
asked out once in a while. After three months, no one asked me out
anymore.” She looked up at me and frowned. “Now I’m twenty five,”
she said, as if that were old.

We ate savory crêpes with ham,
potatoes and goat cheese. We sipped red wine. We followed with
crêpes filled with Nutella, bananas, and caramelized
apples.

The afternoon sun put a soft glow into
the room. I looked at the clock.

“
I have an idea,” I said.
“There’s a book signing at Shakespeare and Company. An American
that I met is going. Would you go with me?”

“
Of course!”

Klara threw the dishes in the sink and
began pulling clothes from her closet. She disappeared again behind
the screen and came out in a dark gray skirt with random white
lines and black leggings underneath. She always wore layers of
textures and something bright in her hair. It reminded me of the
artistic crowd in college. If I’d spotted her near the Sacre Cœur I
would have pegged her for a gypsy. The J Crew version.

We rode the train into the city. Klara
asked me about my life in Florida, before I ended up in New
Orleans. She loved the idea of living at the beach year
round.

“
The United States has
everything,” she said.

“
I wish we had trains like
this. Only a few American cities have decent trains, and they don’t
connect.”

“
I wish I had a car,”
Klara said. “I had one, but I wrecked it.”

“
I have a car,” I laughed.
“My friend is driving it once in a while for me.”

“
Why did you leave?
Really.”

“
Well, you know that I was
engaged.”

“
Yes.”

“
My job was,” I searched
for the right word, “unsatisfying. I wasn’t doing anything. I just
needed a change.”

“
I’m glad you
did.”

We got off the train at Notre Dame.
The sky was cloudless and a cold gust blew off the Seine. Klara put
her arm through mine, as the wind cut through us. She did it
without thinking, and then lost her train of thought as she
realized that we were now walking arm in arm. She gave me a slight
glance and I smiled to let her know I was comfortable.

“
My friend Howard says
springtime is the best. It was August last time I was
here.”

“
Oh, August! Everything is
closed in August! Spring is pretty. Flowers, wine in the gardens,
long evenings.”

“
I hope I’m still
here.”

“
Me too.”

A crowd gathered at the door of the
bookstore. I spotted Howard and introduced him to Klara. The tiny
shop couldn’t have held more than the thirty people who came.
Author Dupont Marger’s series of mysteries set in 1930s London had
a cult following and he and Howard knew each other. He spoke for a
few minutes and took questions. I bought a copy and we lingered
outside while Marger signed books.

“
Would you two like to
join Dupont and I for dinner tonight? I knew a lovely place for
côte de bœuf.”

We were in the midst of a lively
dinner conversation, in which I attempted to translate the action
for Klara, although most of the attention was on her to begin with.
I couldn’t tell if there was a connection between Howard and
Dupont. I told Dupont an abridged story of what brought me to Paris
that was unconvincing because I didn’t talk about the
blunderbuss.

Howard shook his head. He couldn’t
resist. “I’m sorry, Michael. With your permission, we’ve got to
tell Dupont what is so fascinating about the museum piece that
brought you from tending bar in New Orleans, to this place in
Paris. Surely we can trust the great Dupont Marger.” Dupont stared
at me from beneath bushy gray eyebrows.

“
Fine. We can tell him.” I
was starting to regret telling Howard.

“
Our boy here has a gun,
much like a musket. Two hundred years old. It belonged to Napoleon
Bonaparte!”

“
Magnificent!” Dupont
gasped.

“
Mon Dieu!” Klara punched
me in the arm. “Michael!”

“
You’ve been holding back,
my friend,” Howard laughed. “I thought she knew.”

I shook my head and buried my face in
my hands.

“
Are you German?” Dupont
asked.

“
No.”

“
Well, that’s good!” he
bellowed. “Does anyone know it’s missing?”

“
Not to my knowledge,” I
said.

Dupont checked his phone as another
bottle of wine arrived. It was only 7:45.

“
Gentlemen and lady, I’m
afraid I have a Chunnel to catch,” he said dropping money on the
table.

“
Keep your money,” Howard
said. “This is on me.”

Dupont turned to me. “Michael, if
you’re having trouble finding the origin of that weapon, you might
look for where it was taken.”

He was right. I was only looking for
where the gun had been displayed, assuming that was in Paris. But
if it was taken by the Nazis, it might have been taken to
Germany.

The three of us stayed to finish the
wine. We bid Howard goodbye and walked toward the Metro station.
Klara peeked at her phone, which had vibrated several times over
the last hour.

“
It’s Celeste. Marco is
out of town, so she needs someone to be with.”

“
Should you call
her?”

“
I don’t know. Maybe not.
She’s not going to be happy that we’re out.”

In French I wasn’t sure whether she
was implying that this day had turned into a date.

“
Did she call you?” Klara
asked.

I looked at my phone.
“Yes.”

“
We both didn’t answer,
and we are together. I think we should keep this quiet. I think she
likes you.”

I laughed. “You must have not seen her
kissing someone at the party. She seemed to have found a new
gentleman,” I said.

“
Oh, Albert? Please. She’s
been toying with Albert for years. He lives in Brussels now
anyway.”

“
She was pretty upset
about Marco’s trip to Argentina the other day.”

Klara rolled her eyes. “She just wants
all the boys. Always has.”

Oh boy, I thought. I had a feeling I
was already in trouble. Howard’s advice replayed in my mind. There
were a lot of reasons to steer clear of Celeste. Her initial
indifference, her apparent attachment to Marco, and then her
reaching out to me – it was too much of a game.

Of course it wasn’t the best idea to
go with Klara to her place for a drink. But it was still early, and
I didn’t want to be confronted by Celeste. At least that’s what I
told myself.

It was one stop back to the Marianne
and Celeste’s apartment. My mind couldn’t focus. I didn’t want to
go back. I’d woken that morning with Klara’s light brown hair
draped on my shoulder. She woke slightly and eased her naked body
on top of me and laughed in my ear. She had a small, thin tattoo of
a kite on her ribcage. Her olive skin was unusual for Paris in the
winter. She wrapped herself in the sheet and warmed me a
croissant.

“
So, you have to go back
to the Demers’ apartment.”

“
I know. I
know.”

“
Don’t be weird and not
call me.”

“
I will call you Tuesday,”
I said.

“
Tuesday?”

“
That way you will know
when I’m going to call. No games.”

“
I like that,” she
smiled.

I walked into the apartment. It was
after 9:00. I was startled to find Marianne standing over the open
box, holding the card that said, Le Tromblon de Napoleon. Marianne
jumped when she saw me, as if she were caught reading my
diary.