The Paris Key (36 page)

Laughter all around, people clapping one another on backs, already making plans for a neighborhood dinner in the courtyard after the fair.

Marie-Claude came forward: “You know that I do not agree with Monsieur D'Artavel often. But in this, he is right, Genevieve. I think you are in your home, here.”

“She is right,” Philippe spoke again, taking Genevieve's hands in his. “Do not cry,
ma petite
. You are loved, you see? You are very loved. And you have very much work to do here. What about Madame Velain's door?”

Genevieve smiled, sniffled. “I'm not supposed to work anymore, remember? Even for free, it is not allowed.”

At this Marie-Claude turned on Monsieur Lambert once again, and the crowd joined in. Finally he threw up his hands and said something in rapid French.

Sylviane smiled broadly and thrust the sheaf of papers toward him, insisting on his signature. He took a sleek fountain pen from his breast pocket and signed his name in several places, shaking his head and muttering the whole time.

“You see, Genevieve?” Sylviane said as she waved the papers in triumph. “What do I tell you? You cannot surrender to bureaucrats!”

She passed them to Genevieve, who saw that they now carried Monsieur Lambert's coveted signature.

“I still need the stamp.”

Monsieur Lambert said something in rapid French.

“He say you will need to stand in line for that,” translated Catharine. “Down at the employment offices. I will write down the address for you.”

“We should go together,” said Sylviane. “I know what we do! We go on my day off. It is not far from the rue du Commerce, we buy new dresses, have lunch.”

“It's . . .” Genevieve let out a long, shaky breath. She studied the faces around her: Marie-Claude and Daniel and Jacques and Anna and other neighbors; Philippe and Catharine and Sylviane and Killian; even Monsieur Lambert and the numerous passersby who were now peeking in through the windows, trying to figure out the cause of the commotion. Did she want to leave them, to go back to her half-life in California? Wouldn't it be better to stay here, to dig in and work with her beloved locks and become part of a city and a neighborhood that made her feel more alive than she had in years? Time to move on from her past and free herself, now.

“Are you going to let yourself be defeated by a little lock? Remember, Genevieve: Love laughs at locksmiths! Trust your old uncle.”

In the photo of her standing on the Love Locks Bridge, Genevieve looked a lot like her mother, but she was her own person. And she wouldn't repeat her mother's mistakes. Only she could make herself happy.

And she was happy in Paris, at Under Lock and Key in the Village Saint-Paul
.

“I guess you know the secret to life in France by now, don't you, Genevieve?” Killian said in a low voice.

“Ne te rends jamais,”
Genevieve said with a nod, surrendering. “Never give up.”

G
enevieve had a dream in which she opened the door.

There were no dismembered bodies once she stepped through the doorway. Instead, it opened onto an octagonal room that looked like it was out of one of Killian's photographs of abandoned places. There was a queen-sized bed with an old-fashioned iron bedstead, covers neatly turned down; an old tricycle she had seen in Philippe's basement; a bookshelf of dusty tomes; a globe, a child's shoe, the christening outfit from Pasquale's closet she had packed up for Catharine. Papers strewn about the floor, everything covered in dust.

And at the center of the room was a table covered in keys: old-fashioned skeleton keys, the iron burglar's ring, modern blanks and various sets of modern house keys, and a few newfangled electronic models.

With a jolt Genevieve realized that the octagonal room had a door in each section of wall.
There were seven more doors to open.

But rather than feeling frustrated or afraid, Genevieve stood in the middle of the room, turning around slowly to look at each door. Then she started to twirl faster, began to laugh.
She had all the keys!

She awoke laughing. And wondering: What would Catharine make of
this
?

She checked Dave's watch. It was early, not even six in the morning. Perfect timing.

Genevieve brushed her teeth and splashed some water on her face in the tiny washroom. She made herself a cup of coffee, carried it over to her uncle's desk, picked up the heavy telephone receiver, and dialed an international number she knew by heart.

She caught Jason at a good time: It was evening there; he'd had a glass of wine with dinner. So he was well fed, relaxed. If Jason didn't eat and sleep regularly, he got cranky, like a toddler. This was a trait Genevieve had found charming when they first got together, but later it annoyed her no end. Now, when she thought about it, she was filled with a sense of fond acceptance that comes with having known someone for many years. Her anger toward Jason had started to mellow, transforming into feelings of vague regret and familial connection.

After they'd traded stories of “How's it going?” Genevieve closed her eyes, thought for a moment of what she needed to do in order to start her new life in Paris with her whole heart. And then she took a leap.

“I wanted to tell you that it wasn't just you,” Genevieve blurted out. “I know you went outside our marriage, but . . . I was part of why you were looking for something else. You needed more. I see that now.”

There was a long pause. Finally, he said, “I never meant to hurt you, Genie.”

“I know. I never meant to hurt you, either. I know we care for each other, Jason, and I hope we always do. I mean that sincerely. But—”

“Uh-oh, here comes the ‘but,'” he said in a lightly teasing voice.

She smiled, squeezed the heavy receiver. “Yes, here comes the ‘but': I just don't think we're good for each other. I mean, we weren't terrible compared to a lot of people. I just . . . You and I want different things in life. I realize that now.”

“You're saying we've grown apart?” he asked, humor no longer softening his tone.

“In some ways. In others, I just don't think we were well suited in the first place. But here's what I really wanted to say: It wasn't really your fault. I didn't know what I wanted myself, so how could you know? How could you have pleased a woman who didn't even know what she wanted?”

“And have you found what you wanted in Paris?”

“Not exactly, but I think I'm on my way to finding it. To creating it, maybe.”

There was a long pause, and she heard ice cubes dropping into a glass. She could hardly blame him. It was tough to find the win-win in the death of a marriage, even when it was for the best. Reason enough to pour oneself a good, stiff drink.

“Have you ever read Simone de Beauvoir?” Genevieve asked.

“Please, Genie, I'm not sure I can deal with feminist theory right now.”

“No, it's nothing like that. But I read something recently: She wrote that women often love to escape ourselves, rather than to find ourselves, and that because of that, loving a man can become a danger, rather than a source of life.”

“Like I said, I'm not really up for philosophy.”

“I know, I'm sorry. It just struck me, is all, because I think I did that: I was looking to you as a way to escape myself, somehow, when what I really needed to do was to
find
myself. My point is this: It wasn't just you. There were two of us in the marriage, and we both screwed up.”

“But the upshot is: You're staying in Paris, and you want the divorce.”

“Yes, yes, I am staying. And I do want the divorce.”

She heard ice cubes tinkling, the sound of him swallowing. When he didn't say anything else, she continued: “I'll come back, if I need to, to resolve the paperwork. But we can probably do a lot of it by e-mail. I've got the name of a lawyer here who can give me some basic advice, but I don't want much. Just enough to cover the locksmith shop and expenses for a few months. I'll send some numbers by e-mail.”

“Okay, I'll talk to a lawyer, get the ball rolling. Genie—thank you for calling. And for saying what you said.”

“You deserved the truth. We all deserve the truth, at the very least. Oh, speaking of which—you'll be receiving a rather hefty bill from a Paris department store at the end of the month.”

She heard him chuckle. “Paris really has gotten to you, hasn't it? You're not one to spend much on clothes.”

“It was sort of a hostage situation with a very eager Parisian friend who is, I should hardly have to tell you, ever so much more put together than I am.”

“I'll bet you look great.”

“Thank you. I think I do, actually. Well, then . . . good night, Jason.”

“Good night, Genie,” he said.

But it was morning in Paris. And she was just waking up.

T
he buzzer sounded just as Genevieve was putting the last of the tools she would need into her uncle's locksmith bag. Killian stood at the door, smiling.

“Ready?” he asked.

They were headed to Philippe's house, where Genevieve was to finish up with the last of the locks and Killian was to take a set of more formal photographs of the house, the basement, and the entrance to the catacombs. Philippe was going to meet them there with his daughter and her husband, who had decided to apply for a grant from the government that would help them to redo the grand old home into a school for children with special needs. Killian's photos would become part of the application.

Also, they had decided to close up the entrance to the catacombs for good, bricking it over.

When Genevieve mentioned the special lock on the trapdoor, Philippe said: “After your mother went back to America, Dave came and worked down in the
cave
for a while. He insisted on putting on new locks. Special locks. I don't really know why. You want to take it off, maybe put it in the book you are writing about locks? Okay!”

Genevieve felt somewhat sad that the home would be converted into a public space, but as Philippe said, “Is for the best. The house, she is a relic of the past, like me! She must change with the times, do some good while she still can. And it will save her, ultimately, you see?”

Philippe had one other project he was working on: He had discovered that Marie-Claude and Daniel had an autistic grandson, as well. “We have more things in common than we know,” he had declared, and he had invited them to help plan the new school. They had spent several late afternoons over
apero
, clarifying the past and planning for the future. “You see, Genevieve,” Philippe had said with a wink, “it is never too late to heal old differences. We French, we are very dramatic, but this is okay! We must talk a lot, and it's always best over
apero
.”

As they walked to Philippe's house, Killian said, “You mentioned you haven't seen much of the French countryside.”

“Make that
any
of the French countryside.”

“Well, it just so happens that I have a lead on an abandoned château in the Dordogne.”

“You've moved on from the catacombs?”

Ironically, two days after they had discovered the entrance from Philippe's house, Killian finally succeeded in making contact with a group of full-fledged cataphiles, who maintained intricate maps of the tunnel system and who gave (slightly illegal) tours, for a price. After spending a few days tracking through the depths of the city, he seemed to have gotten his fill.

“When it comes right down to it, it's pretty much stone tunnel after stone tunnel,” he said. “Loses its charm after a while—for me, anyway. Guess I didn't get bit by the catacomb bug like some of those lads; I prefer signs of people, of life. Best place I found down there was this old place that looked almost like an underground restaurant–slash–art gallery. Bunch of gorgeous graffiti, real works of art, and some tables with candles and old wine bottles and the like.”

“Sounds kind of cool.”

“Ah sure, 'twas. I'll take you there, if you like. But I'm thinkin' you might like this château best of all.”

“How far is that from Château des Milandes, the castle owned by Josephine Baker?”

He smiled. “Not far at all. The whole river valley is full of châteaux . . . and plenty of them are abandoned. Also, the Basque country is an easy day's drive from there. We could go if you like, maybe track down some of the family.”

“I . . . I'll think about it. Maybe. I think I need a little more time.”

“I understand.”

Killian had helped Genevieve do some Internet research into the events of August 1983. Not only was he better with computers and familiar with several databases, but he also read French fluently. It didn't take much digging to find the name—Xabier Etxepare—listed as a suspect wanted in conjunction with the bombing of the Spanish embassy. He had become a bit of a sensation, known as the
“terroriste amoureux”
—terrorist in love—who had risked being captured in order to run to the hospital with an American woman in his arms.

“That's something, anyway, then,” Killian had said. “He risked himself to save her.”

“Maybe,” Genevieve mumbled. “Anything else?”
Was he still alive? Had he known about her?

But Killian just shook his head. “It looks like he disappeared without a trace.”

“A ghost, then.”

“Aye, a ghost. But we're ghost hunters, you and I, aren't we?”

•   •   •

“W
e must plan the party for the, how do you say, when you open a store again?” Sylviane asked over espressos the next morning.

Genevieve, Sylviane, Catharine, Marie-Claude, Daniel, and Anna and her baby were seated around the little iron table in front of La Terre Perdue, sipping coffee and hot chocolate and snacking on croissants and small pieces of chocolate. The cobblestone courtyard of the village was quiet this chilly morning, with a few neighbors nodding hello as they prepared to open their storefronts for business.

“You mean the grand reopening?” suggested Genevieve.

“Is that it? It sounds so . . .”

“Obvious,” said Catharine with a nod. “In English many words are like this.”

“Hey,” Genevieve said, feeling moved to defend her native tongue. “It's a perfectly good language. After all, we've stolen words from all the decent languages of the world.”

They laughed and Marie-Claude offered everyone more espresso. Tomorrow Genevieve was going to venture to the government offices in pursuit of the necessary stamp on her paperwork. In what surely had to qualify as the oddest escort ever, she was to be accompanied by Marie-Claude and Catharine and Sylviane (who had offered to bring plenty of baked goods for the long line). With such French-speaking forces of nature at her side, Genevieve felt sure to prevail. Philippe had put her in touch with Dave's locksmith friend on the other side of town, and he had agreed to take Genevieve on as an (unpaid) apprentice for a few months. After completing her internship, Genevieve could take her certifying exam and become a full-fledged locksmith in Paris.

“Oh, Genevieve,” said Daniel. “Almost I forget. Inside I have another lock for you. Also, there is a book for you, in English.”

“Thank you, Daniel. How kind.”

“It is a book about Jean-Paul Sartre,” said Marie-Claude as Daniel ducked into the store to retrieve the volume. “I have never been fond of him, but Philippe D'Artavel suggests we read about him and discuss his philosophies, as in days past when people did this. What do you think?”

“I want to be part of such a group!” said Sylviane, nudging Genevieve with her elbow. “It is like what you tell me about Gertrude Stein's salon. Maybe we make Village Saint-Paul famous for philosophical discussions, and this will attract interesting people to our neighborhood. Maybe interesting American men—who knows? And this is another reason to hurry with the grand reopening.”

“Don't you think I should get certified as a locksmith before reopening the store?” Genevieve asked with a smile.

Sylviane waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. “What are you talking? It is not too early; how will you fail? This is impossible. And—”

“I know, I know:
‘Impossible' n'est pas français
.”

•   •   •

A
fter coffee, Genevieve swung by to fix the lock on old Madame Velain's door. It was an easy job—a simple rosette dead-bolt installation that took her only half an hour, so she made sure the back door lock and all the window latches were working properly, then took time to admire the photos of the Velain grandchildren. Madame Velain invited her to stay for lunch, but Genevieve demurred. She had a lot to do: She still hadn't finished organizing her uncle's shop and had a lot of dusty old bins yet to work through.

Her uncle's old black leather locksmithing bag in one hand, umbrella in the other, Genevieve strolled down rue Saint-Paul, past the Red Wheelbarrow bookstore and several antiques stores; past the café with a cat in the window and the tiny shop specializing in vintage posters. It felt good. It felt like home.

Genevieve opened the door to Under Lock and Key and stepped inside. She breathed deeply the comforting aroma of oil and dust, heard the frenetic ticking of the clocks on the back wall, and felt the gossamer traces of her uncle Dave and
tante
Pasquale in every crack and crevice of the apartment. In the very grain of the wood and the rust on the locks, the tagine and the needlework and the old pipe.
These
ghosts she would gladly carry; she would keep them wrapped tightly around her like a favorite shawl.

Twice now, Dave and Pasquale—and Paris—had given her back her life, and her hope.

They had offered her the keys. Now all she had to do was open the doors and see what was on the other side.