The Grandfather Clock (21 page)

“
I’m sorry I was rude to
you when we first met,” she said.

“
Ancient
history.”

“
I was being guarded. I
thought Claudette was just being like my mother. I didn’t realize
that she was right about you. A find.”

“
A find?” I
laughed.

“
You... if you were
available, are a find,” she said.

“
It’s not like I’m some
stable, established career man,” I said. “Believe me, most mothers
don’t want to meet me.”

“
That’s why you’re a
find,” she said. “You’re going places.”

“
I am? Where?”

“
No one knows. But you
won’t miss an opportunity. I see that.”

Music blasted from the open doors of a
corner bar. It was someone’s rendition of “American Woman” and
Celeste grabbed me by the hand and danced us through the door.
Before I knew it, we were in a crowd and she was dancing in front
of me, while I held both of our drinks. She was playful and sultry
at the same time, singing in her French accent. We both began to
sweat in the lights and the crowd. Her black blouse came down a
button as she held the neck open for air.

“
I can’t believe you left
this city,” she said.

“
There aren’t many I would
have left it for, but Paris is one of them.”

“
I’m glad you
did.”

I could see where it was going. I
could see it from a mile away. I was getting drunk and so was she.
I couldn’t stop watching her body. Her shirt was open just enough
that I kept thinking that I could see more, only to have it
disappear again. She wore tight gray pants and I caught quick
glimpses of her pale stomach and back as she danced. Her dark hair
was loose. I was in danger of making a mistake, and karma was not
going to be kind.

I woke up at 4:30 in the morning with
a pounding headache, my sinuses full from booze and cigarette
smoke. The bathroom light was on and the fan was humming. Celeste
was lying next to me, completely naked on her side. The blankets
were on the floor. I wanted to forget everything, but I remembered
it all. We said things like, “We shouldn’t do this.” And, “It would
have happened eventually,” and “Just this once.”

And once the act was committed, we
continued to explore each other’s bodies and then we did it again.
I hated myself. I had the control. I didn’t blame Celeste, although
Klara would hate us both. In spite of the alcohol coursing out of
my system, I lay awake for an hour. It was midmorning in Paris and
Klara was probably enjoying her Saturday, waiting until it was late
enough to call me.

When the sun broke through the window
Celeste stirred and pulled her body against mine. She straddled me
and sat up. I looked at her through dry squinting eyes.

“
Michael,” she said. “Last
night … I have wanted that. I have thought about it. But it was a
mistake.” Tears formed in her eyes. “I can’t believe I did this to
Klara.”

I reached for her face to console her
and she fell on top of me in embrace. She kissed my neck. Then she
stopped and was still. We must have lain there for an hour without
moving, each knowing this couldn’t happen again. She was the
irresistible wrong woman. The one who alternately beguiled me and
turned me off. She had shown me the way to Klara, who was open,
free, and beautiful in her simplicity. But I didn’t trust Celeste.
And I didn’t know what she would do now.

The events of that night had one
positive effect. It erased all tension in the air between Celeste
and I for the remainder of the trip. By the time our plane touched
down in Paris, I was feeling relatively comfortable in the thought
that Klara might never know. We had never discussed monogamy, and
while it was a horrible thing to do, we had only been seeing each
other for a little more than a month. Had it been any other woman,
it might be chalked up to the early stages of dating. But it was
Celeste, and that complicated the matter.

On the flight home, Celeste encouraged
me to stay with Klara. And I did. It was Wednesday morning when we
landed back in Paris. I went straight to her place and I slept all
day.

I was nervous about seeing her and
sleeping with her again, afraid she would see my shame all over me.
But we shared a bottle of wine in her room when she came home. She
wore a loose tunic with no bra that erased my anxiety. The next
morning sent us back into routine. I went to the museum and Klara
went to teach. The night with Celeste was just a few days removed,
but it faded quickly. Maybe it was a false sense of calm that had
set over us. I don’t think even Celeste knew then how unrealistic
we were to try and forget it.

What I didn’t know was that Celeste’s
return to Paris coincided with Marco’s departure. I also did not
know that she had decided that his punishment for leaving her was
to tell him about us, two days before our flight back to Paris.
Celeste’s effort to hurt Marco was blatant, and Marco reacted. Long
before we landed in Paris, the next chapter of my life was already
unfolding.

I might have never known how it
happened. When I finally returned to the apartment, I set down my
suitcase and my heart sank. Le Tromlon de Napoloeon was gone. I had
left the gun in the tennis bag under my futon while we were in New
Orleans. Until then, I regularly carried it to and from Klara’s,
the Malmaison, and the apartment, in a ruse to give the impression
that I was indeed playing tennis and carrying a racket. It was not
a well-thought-out plan, and I sometimes only carried it once a
week, but I always put the bag somewhere that it would not be
moved.

I called Klara in a panic, already
knowing that I had not left the gun at her place. Out of the corner
of my eye I could see Marianne making dinner, and I wondered if she
had discovered the dumbbell and taken it upon herself to take the
gun.

“
Holy shit,” I said. “I
don’t know what to do.”

Klara spoke hesitantly. “Michael. I
told Celeste about the tennis bag.”

“
What? Why?”

“
It was innocent. She made
some comment about tennis and I didn’t think it was a big
deal.”

“
No, you don’t understand.
Marianne thinks I put the gun in the safe at the
Malmaison.”

“
Why would she
think…”

“
Marco,” I interrupted. “I
need to go.”

I got off the phone and knocked on
Celeste’s bedroom door. Something I’d never done. She opened the
door and looked demurred to see me. She was wearing a robe and
smiled and invited me to sit.

“
Where is the gun?” I
asked.

“
What?”

“
The only gun. My gun.
Where is it?”

“
It’s not here?” she
asked. And I believed her.

I put my hands on my head.
“Shit!”

“
No, it’s okay. It’s here.
It’s got to be.”

“
It was in the tennis bag.
Klara told you.”

She looked down.

“
Please tell me that you
told your mother. Please.”

“
No, no. Of course not,”
she said, not realizing that was the answer I really wanted. The
alternative was far worse.

9

A soccer player stole my blunderbuss.
It was like a phrase from MadLibs.

Celeste proclaimed her innocence
pathetically as I left for Charles de Gaulle. She had already given
up Marco. He was gone to Argentina with the gun. It was a legal
piece of cargo if you checked it. I was furious with myself for not
putting it in the safe. Marianne was puzzled and I didn’t take the
time to offer an explanation. She would open the safe at the
Malmaison and find a dumbbell.

“
You can’t chase him to
Argentina,” Celeste cried.

I was furious with Celeste, but I
couldn’t waste my time on her.

With just a backpack with a change of
clothes and a toothbrush I ran down the stairs of the apartment.
Celeste followed crying, “No!”

“
Stop!” I said, as I
reached the edge of the road. She stared at me desperately. In
plain English I reached for the best or worst I could muster. I
used simple words to make sure she didn’t miss one. “You, are
selfish and arrogant. Nothing you say is true. You have poisoned my
life. I don’t care if I ever see you again.” And at the time I had
never meant anything more sincerely.

I was angry about the gun, but my fury
was stoked by the fact that it was taken by a pathetic soccer
player. Marco was a stupid kid posing as the “alpha male.” The idea
of him walking off a plane in Argentina with my property made my
blood boil.

“
You’ll never find him,”
Celeste cried.

I wouldn’t accept that. I couldn’t
stay in Paris. There were no authorities to call for this. I had to
go.

At the airport I called Klara. I was
spitting nails as I told her I was going to find Marco. She didn’t
try to stop me. She didn’t encourage me either. I could tell that
she realized that she was still just a spectator in my life. In the
heat of the moment, I couldn’t worry about her. She apologized
again and again, and I sincerely meant it when I told her it didn’t
matter. I wasn’t mad at her. It was gone and I had to do everything
I could to get it back.

There is something anticlimactic about
rushing off to chase a thief around the world, when you are waiting
in a slow security line. My pursuit was reduced to the same speed
as eager vacationers and weary businessmen. It was a splash of cold
water on my bold action. I had no plan. By the time I walked off
the plane in Buenos Aires, I realized that I probably needed
Celeste in order to find Marco.

I woke up an hour before we landed and
pondered my next move. By the 14th hour of flight, I was getting
restless. I hadn’t been back in Paris for two days before I crossed
the ocean again. Surely Celeste and Klara were talking. Would
Celeste say anything to Klara about what happened in New Orleans? I
now regretted being so harsh with Celeste. It was a mistake. She
had used it to hurt Marco. She couldn’t have predicted he would
take the gun, unless she was in on it. In the back of my mind, it
was a possibility.

I was surprised by the summer weather.
With maps of Argentina and the city of Buenos Aires I hailed a cab.
I didn’t know where to go so I merely uttered, “Información
Turismo?”

The driver responded with a rapid
sentence that included the word ‘turismo’ so I said, “Sí.” We drove
through the massive city, some of it third world, some of it
European, and we pulled up to the Park Hyatt in what I would
eventually learn was the Recoletta neighborhood. It reminded me of
a combination of the Upper East Side in New York, and the Left Bank
in Paris.

“
Bien?” he
asked.

I stood a good chance of finding an
English speaker and a computer. “Bien,” I said, exhausting most of
my Spanish vocabulary. I’d been in the same clothes since the
previous morning in Paris. The doorman recognized my weariness,
took my small suitcase and asked if I had a reservation.

“
Concierge?” I asked. He
pointed to small desk in the corner of the sleek white lobby. It
had a classic look with modern furniture. I could already tell it
was out of my budget.

Jorge was a small, immaculately
groomed native with a thin mustache. He spoke perfect English with
a rich Spanish accent. “Welcome to the Palacio Duhau Park Buenos
Aires, Señor,” he said extending his hand.

“
Thank you,” I said,
rubbing my eyes. “I don’t have a reservation, and I’m not really
sure what I’m looking for.” I was at a loss. I already knew that my
phone didn’t work. “I need a phone with Internet.”

“
How long are you here
for?”

“
I don’t know. Not long, I
don’t think.”

“
Will you be staying in
Buenos Aires or traveling throughout the country?”

“
I don’t know that
either.”

He gave me a practiced, professional
grin.

“
International calls
too?”

“
Yes.”

He pulled out a phone and made a call;
in the process he asked my name and jotted notes on a small
notepad.

“
You traveled from
America?”

“
Paris. But I’m
American.”

“
Credit card?”

I handed one over.

He continued his conversation in
Spanish. He got off the phone and smiled. “An iPhone will be
delivered here within the hour. It is $55 per week phone rental,
plus your calling minutes and data.”

“
Wow,” I said. “That’s
perfect.”

“
Now. You are not a guest
in this hotel?”

“
I, uh, I left Paris in a
little bit of a hurry, so I didn’t have time to make
arrangements.”

“
There is no finer hotel
in Buenos Aires than this.”

The guy was not leaving any doubt that
I would stay.

“
When your phone arrives I
will bring it to your room. How many nights?”