The Paris Architect: A Novel (34 page)

Beginning in her early twenties, Bette made a careful analysis of all her men, past and present. Like an anthropologist conducting a field study of the tribes in French Equatorial Africa, she devised categories and lists of salient characteristics of her subjects. There were the basic categories like wealth, breeding, intelligence, education, physical attributes, marital status, and sexual ability, then more specialized ones for alcohol consumption, thoughtfulness, strength of character, and affection. She filled notebooks with data to analyze it in broad strokes, to see connections between types of men. Bette thoroughly enjoyed conducting her study. She would have liked to become a professor who could specialize in this type of work. Most women in France would go out with one or two men then be forced by society and family to marry. Since Bette had ignored that pressure and had countless men in her life, she had what the anthropologist would term a broad sampling group, which allowed her to discover certain patterns of behavior. Some results were expected—rich men were usually selfish, bored, and demanding; the more handsome a man, the more he treated her like shit.

She had liked Lucien right off; the fact that he was creative was unique. He was one of very few creative men, aside from some painters and sculptors who wanted her to model in order to sleep with her. But he had another unique trait.

The “character” category was the one where men failed most miserably. Her study convinced her that men had no character or backbone. Horses, she felt, had more character. She had enjoyed Lucien’s company and his lovemaking, but once she found out about Pierre, Lucien’s character rating moved very high. In fact, Bette was bowled over by the revelation. She’d never had a man willing to die for something. This single act of courage was very attractive to her, more enticing than a man with a villa or a Bugatti. She could say she was doing the same thing with her two foundlings, but she had an innate woman’s compassion, which was entirely different. Lucien stirred something in her heart that none of the scores of others ever had. As Bette got older, she had a keener sense of what was love and what was not. She knew she was falling in love with Lucien.

“I’ve got an interesting idea,” said Bette, breaking the long silence. “Since Monsieur Labrune was kind enough to give you the afternoon off, why don’t you show me all the buildings you’ve done in and around Paris after lunch? I’ve already gone to see the wine shop on rue Vaneau.”

““You saw it?” asked Lucien, who was shocked and at the same time very flattered.

“Oh, yes. I like the way you curved the storefronts into the entry. It sort of sweeps the customer into the store, doesn’t it?”

“That’s exactly what I intended.”

“The front door has a beautiful metal grate…is that bronze?”

“Yes, so are the door handles.”

“The interior’s very elegant. I saw the shelves where the bottles were displayed. It was very clever of you to design them that way. They sort of swell in and out. Much better than just ordinary straight shelves.”

“Yes, I put a lot of thought into that.”

“It’s very creative.”

Lucien had planned to make love to Bette all afternoon, but now he began to think of all the locations of his projects in Paris and the best routes to get to them.

56

“It’s a great pleasure to finally meet you, Monsieur Bernard. I’ve heard nothing but good things about you.”

Whenever a German paid a Frenchman a compliment, one had to decide whether it was a backhanded compliment or whether he was being sincere. Lucien sensed Schlegal was being honest, but because he had a weakness for compliments, he could’ve been mistaken. Finally, Lucien relaxed a bit in his wooden chair; he had been scared stiff waiting twenty minutes for Schlegal to come in. In that time, Lucien couldn’t keep himself from looking constantly out the window to the flat at 12 rue des Saussaies—which, to his rotten luck, was just across from Schlegal’s window.

When Lucien got the telephone call from Schlegal, he almost fainted, he was that frightened. He would’ve jumped in the Citroën and driven straight into the English Channel. But the Gestapo officer was effusive and cheerful, saying that he knew what great work the architect was doing for the armament division’s construction and engineering section. Lucien immediately thought that Herzog had told Schlegal about him, so he didn’t panic. Schlegal asked him to come in, and Lucien assumed it was about some design work. But then again, it could be a trap to lure him in and torture him until he revealed what he knew about Manet’s operation. His ego, though, convinced him that this meeting was all about his architectural talents, so he came. He knew he had to. After his encounter with the Resistance, Lucien had convinced himself he wasn’t a collaborator. But working for the Gestapo was something different. If he was forced to design for them, there could be some serious repercussions, like being garroted or shot in the head by the Resistance. They’d probably watched him go into Gestapo headquarters. Again, his first thought wasn’t about himself, but of what would happen to Pierre.

“Thank you, Colonel.” He couldn’t really repay the compliment by saying he’d heard good things about the Gestapo’s work; that would sound a bit insincere.

“You’ve done some marvelous buildings for the Reich. I’ve seen them. They’re a bit avant-garde for my taste, of course, but the high command in Paris is quite pleased with the results, and that’s what counts. Isn’t it?”

“The Reich has been satisfied with my work. If they weren’t, they wouldn’t give me more work, I suppose.”

“Exactly. You’re probably wondering why I asked you here today. It’s for a professional consultation on a very unusual architectural matter.”

The flow of compliments had eased his fear and anxiety, but now Lucien narrowed his eyes and gripped the arms of the chair. This
was
about his Jew work. Lucien knew that the very moment Schlegal asked him about the hiding places, the reaction on his face would give him away. He had to keep a blank expression no matter what. The Gestapo officer’s next question seemed years in coming.

“We’ve come across a hiding place. A very ingenious hiding place under a stair. And we’re trying to find out who in Paris could construct such a beautiful piece of woodworking. I guess that’s what you’d call it—woodworking?”

“Yes, that’s the correct term. Please continue.”

“It’s a hinged stair that someone can hide under.”

So Adele was fucking Schlegal. He could see why. He was extremely handsome and, most importantly, all-powerful. He could do or get everything she wanted. The stair was in Adele’s country house, in her bedroom to be exact, which was where she’d been sleeping with this Gestapo officer in addition to him. No doubt, Adele had told Schlegal that he might know something about the stair since he was an architect. If she were in the room right now, he would have strangled her in front of the Gestapo devil.

Lucien was scared, but he knew that the next few minutes could determine his fate, so his performance had to be convincing. He couldn’t panic.

“This is a brand-new stair?”

“No, they cleverly reused the old one.”

Lucien smiled. He enjoyed being complimented in this roundabout manner.

“That is quite clever. And how does it work again?”

“It’s just a flight of four steps leading to a small study. It’s hinged at the top and can be lifted up, enabling someone to slip beneath it and hide.”

“And how did you discover it if it was so well concealed?”

Schlegal paused, searching for the right words. “I…I came upon it completely by accident. I would never have found it.”

“Well, there are a few Parisians who could build such a thing, but two are dead, another I know has left Paris for the south. Those are the only ones I know who could devise what you described.”

“Would they be capable of designing or rather coming up with an idea like that as well as building it? Who’d think up such a thing is what I’m asking?”

Lucien wanted to blurt out that a carpenter could never design such a clever hiding place, that only an architect had the talent and brains to do it, but he kept his ego in check.

“A carpenter could come up with a stair like that.”

“And you’re sure you can’t think of anyone else who could do it?”

“No, Colonel, I’m sorry I can’t.”

“Well, if you ever—”

Schlegal was interrupted by an aide who walked in without knocking. “There’s a Colonel Herzog outside to see you immediately. He’s from the armaments—”

“Goddamn it, man, I know who he is. Tell him to wait a few minutes.”

Herzog pushed through the doorway, shoving aside the aide, who retreated back to his desk.

“What’s the meaning of this, Schlegal? Why is my architect here?”

“Calm down, Colonel. Your man is just advising me on architectural business. I’m not taking him away from you. We all know about the fine work he’s doing for you. He hasn’t been arrested, if that’s what you’re implying,” said Schlegal.

Herzog stared down at Schlegal, who hadn’t bothered to get up when Herzog barged into the room. Lucien, who knew Herzog’s mannerisms by now, saw that he didn’t respect Schlegal at all.

“What architectural business?” said Herzog.

Schlegal hesitated. “There are people who are hiding Jews in secret places throughout the city, Colonel.”

Herzog shot a puzzled look at Lucien, then turned on the Gestapo officer.

“Jews hiding in the woodwork, you say? Where did you get that harebrained idea?”

Schlegal rose now and stood nose to nose with Herzog. Lucien was sure fists would start swinging any minute. He couldn’t decide who’d win the fight; both were quite fit and the same size.

“I’m sure you’re aware that the Reich considers international Jewry a serious and dangerous threat, Colonel. And that they must be swiftly and harshly dealt with. The Fuehrer has made this his number-one priority.”

“I thought his number-one priority was winning the war against the Communists and the Allies,” Herzog said. “Not scouring Paris for a lot of frightened Jews. The Wehrmacht, which is made up of real military men, doesn’t lower itself for such nonsense. So you’re wasting this man’s time. And that means you’re wasting my valuable time.”

“I’d be careful about what you’re saying, old boy. You’re going to make a lot of people angry with that kind of talk.”

“Next you’ll be calling me a Jew lover, huh?”

Schlegal laughed in Herzog’s face. “Not at all. Just someone interfering with Reich business—and that’s a very serious charge, Colonel.”

“You, sir, can go shit in your hat. Now I hope you’ll excuse me, I have a war to win. But in case you want to report me, here’s Reich Minister Speer’s personal home number.” Herzog scribbled a number on Schlegal’s desk blotter with a pencil. “Give him a call. Maybe he has some Jews hiding under his bed that you can arrest. Come on, Monsieur Bernard, we’re leaving.”

57

“So, Lucien, can you throw some work to your friends—for old time’s sake?”

Lucien had never considered Henri Devereaux a friend. He was a petty, mean, egotistical bastard who, whenever he won an important commission, would immediately call Lucien to rub it in his face. Although he hated him, Lucien wished he could be like Devereaux, who had all the right influential connections to consistently get big projects.

Lucien was shocked that Devereaux had called him up to go out for a drink. That had never happened before the war. The arrogant prick didn’t think Lucien’s talent deemed him worthy to sit at the same table. But here they both were at a café, sipping wine and exchanging phony pleasantries. Lucien knew that Henri would eventually get down to brass tacks and reveal why he wanted to meet him.

“I don’t know, the Boche have their own methods of choosing their architects,” said Lucien.

Both Lucien and Devereaux knew this rang hollow. Other architect friends of Lucien’s had been given work by the Germans. To Lucien’s great pleasure, Devereaux had no work at all and was livid to see him get big commissions.

“I don’t care if it’s German war work,” said Devereaux. “I’m desperate to design something real. All architects do during a war is design imaginary buildings, and that doesn’t count. A design has to get built to be real. I’m going crazy. I’ve got nothing to do—plus, I’m running out of money.”

“What about all those clients and contractors you knew?” asked Lucien, repressing a smile. He was well aware that all of Devereaux’s clients had fled the country, and all the contractors he had insulted and demeaned before the war who now had work would never throw anything his way. He knew they hated his guts for his arrogance, and now they had the last laugh.

Devereaux sidestepped the question and asked, “Didn’t Raoul Cochin get to do the new barracks in Joinville? I recall that he was a friend of yours.”

“Sure, I know Raoul, but I didn’t put a word in for him, if that’s what you mean.”

“So he just got that job out of the blue?”

“Could be. Everybody has some sort of connection, and you know that connections mean work,” replied Lucien in his most disingenuous tone of voice.

“These days, I have no connections.”

Lucien wanted to laugh in Devereaux’s face, but he put on an expression of concern.

“It’s tough in wartime to get work. It must be so hard for you, considering the way things used to be. You seemed to grab up every job in the city, didn’t you?”

Lucien thoroughly enjoyed rubbing salt into this wound, and he found himself pleased that Devereaux was so desperate.

“Yes, I was quite successful before the war, as you well know. I was one of the city’s most prominent architects. I had to turn down work and refer clients to other architects.”

“I don’t remember any referrals.”

“Why, dear Lucien, I could’ve sworn I sent a client or two your way,” said Devereaux, lying through his teeth.

“No, there weren’t any referrals from you. Believe me, I would’ve remembered. An occurrence like that happens as often as Halley’s Comet.”

“You must be mistaken. A Monsieur Renier. I’m sure he came to you with an automobile repair shop. I told him that would be right up your alley.”