The Paris Architect: A Novel (14 page)

20

“Your draftsmanship is exceptional. My work was nowhere near as good as this when I got out of school.”

Alain Girardet looked down at the floor and tried to suppress a smile. Lucien smiled at his response because the young man knew his work was good, but it was important to seem humble at this moment. He would’ve done the same thing. Architectural work of any kind was virtually impossible to get in Paris, so he knew Alain was determined to walk out of here with a job. They sat across from each other at a table in the corner of Lucien’s one-room office that Manet had graciously thrown rent-free into the deal. It was more professional for Lucien to be able to meet with Germans at an office than at his own apartment. Plus Celeste would have had a fit if the Germans had set foot in her home.

“Thank you, monsieur. You’re most kind. I worked very hard in school, especially on my drawing. After all, it is the soul of architecture, isn’t it?” answered Alain.

The kid could really kiss some ass, thought Lucien, but it won him over.

“Indeed it is,” replied Lucien, realizing that at last, after interviewing a half-dozen candidates, here was the guy he wanted. He felt energized—and now asked the question all job applicants wanted to hear.

“If you were offered the job, when could you start?”

“Tomorrow,” replied Alain, a little too eagerly. Lucien would’ve said the day after tomorrow to show that he wasn’t so desperate. This kid must be dead broke.

Lucien flipped through the portfolio of drawings again to make sure that he was making the right decision. In the past, he’d hired draftsmen for his firm too impulsively and had regretted it. There was Michel, the middle-aged architect who’d come back after every lunch completely shitfaced. His line work, so beautiful when sober, resembled a four-year-old’s in the afternoon. That’s if he hadn’t fallen asleep on his drafting table. Another memorable hiring choice was Charles, who had turned out to be the laziest bastard in all of France. It had taken him a month to draw a square.

With more factory work coming in, Lucien needed a draftsman to help crank out the drawings. He couldn’t do it all himself, so he’d cajoled Herzog into upping his fee so that he could hire someone. Lucien knew he could get someone dirt cheap. And there was another reason a kid this age needed a job. Since the Occupation, thousands of young Frenchmen, who would have been eligible for military service if there had been a French army, were required to perform two years of mandatory labor for France. If a young man did not have a job, he would be “volunteered” into working in the Reich’s war industries in Germany.

Lucien looked up at Alain to see if he could detect some visible character flaw. He seemed perfectly respectable, in his early twenties, of average height with sandy-colored hair and light brown eyes. He was also very fashionably dressed and still had nice leather-soled shoes, which made him presentable to the Germans. There was just one more hiring detail that Lucien had to attend to.

“Are your papers in order?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“May I see them?”

At all times, everyone in France had to carry their papers, an identity card similar to a passport listing all the personal details that the French bureaucracy and the German military found so important—date of birth, distinguishing marks, physical appearance, and home address. An “exemption from conscription” certificate was inserted in the boy’s identity card, which surprised Lucien—he already was off the hook for compulsory service. That meant only one thing—that Alain knew someone of influence.

He handed the card back to Alain and smiled.

“I can give you two hundred francs a week to start, monsieur.”

“That’s most generous, Monsieur Bernard. I’ll be honored to work for someone of such great talent. I want to learn from one of Paris’s up-and-coming modernists,” said Alain.

“That’s fine,” replied Lucien, who believed there was a limit to ass-kissing. “You’ll be working on the construction documents for a factory that will make guns for the Luftwaffe.” He pointed to the design drawings of the factory pinned to the wall behind him. “So you see, there’s a hell of a lot of work coming through the office. And there probably will be a lot more. So you’ll become my right-hand man if things go well.”

Lucien had always given this spiel to a new man. The whole process of hiring was always full of high hopes. But it had never worked out in his practice before the war. The difference this time was that Lucien was hiring a kid right out of the university. This one could be molded like a lump of clay into what Lucien had always wanted in an employee. Alain had all the skills he needed, especially an understanding of how a building was actually constructed. He could see that in his drawings, showing the construction details of a building. They were as precise and accurate as an experienced architect could have done. Most kids fresh out of school had their heads up their asses when it came to construction. They had no idea how a building was put together.

“I’m most anxious to start, monsieur. Will tomorrow be all right?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll be here at seven.”

“I’ll be here at nine. At the end of the week, you’ll get a key to the office so you can come in anytime you like.” Lucien always waited a week before handing out a key to make sure the new guy seemed honest. He’d learned that lesson from Hippolyte, who’d disappeared with all his drafting supplies the second day on the job.

Alain began to gather his drawings from the table and put them in his brown cardboard portfolio.

“So, I see from your papers you live quite near,” said Lucien, hoping to initiate a little informal conversation.

“Yes, monsieur.”

“Live with your parents?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

Lucien could see this was a dead end, but he was confident that Alain was talented and that was all that mattered. He put his hand on his shoulder and guided him to the door.

“Well, good-bye, Monsieur Girardet. I’ll see you tomorrow,” said Lucien, shaking his hand.

“Thank you again, monsieur. I look forward to working for you.”

***

Instead of waiting for the lift, Alain walked briskly down the four flights of stairs and into the street. As he reached the corner of rue de Châteaudun, a black Mercedes blew its horn and pulled alongside of him. The rear door swung open and a Gestapo officer in a black uniform ordered Alain to get in. Alain stopped and stared inside the car, then did as he was told. He slid into the rear passenger seat next to the officer, who was smoking a cigarette.

“So how did it go?” asked the man, who offered Alain a cigarette.

“He loved my work. I start tomorrow,” Alain said with great pride, though he knew beforehand that Bernard would admire his portfolio. His drawing skills were exceptional.

“That’s wonderful news. Your mother will be so pleased.”

“It wouldn’t have happened without you, Uncle Hermann,” said Alain, lighting the cigarette.

“Nonsense. It was your talent that got you the position. I only told you about the architect. My boss is screwing his mistress, and that’s how I heard about him,” said the German, patting his nephew’s shoulder with a black-gloved hand. “He’s getting a lot of war work, and I thought he might need some help.”

“Does your boss know that she’s Bernard’s mistress?” asked Alain, now more excited by his uncle’s talk of sexual liaisons than by his new job.

“Probably, but she won’t be the architect’s mistress much longer, I bet.”

“Well, thank you, Uncle, for all you’ve done. If there’s anything I can do…”

“Think nothing of it, my boy. But now that you mention it, doesn’t that man who lives on the fifth floor of your building have a heeb look to him?”

“Monsieur Valery? Mmm, kind of, I suppose. I’ll make inquiries for you, Uncle, if you wish.”

21

“This—is mine?”

“All yours, Monsieur Lucien,” replied Manet, who handed the architect a set of keys on a shiny new key ring.

Lucien stared dumbfounded at the shiny 1939 navy blue Citroën Roadster parked at the curb. He ran his hands lovingly along the hood, then up onto the sloping convertible leather roof, as if he were caressing a woman’s naked body. Lucien hadn’t understood why Manet had asked to meet him at 29 rue du Renard. He’d said it was a surprise and it certainly was.

Parisians now rode bicycles to get around. No one drove in Paris anymore; automobiles had practically vanished from the streets. You could stand on the rue Saint-Honoré for twenty minutes at midday and maybe count half a dozen cars. The continuous ribbon of traffic that constantly circled the Place de la Concorde had also disappeared. Permits to drive a car were now issued by the authorities, and only to people in certain jobs, such as doctors, midwives, and firemen. Otherwise, you had to have a lot of pull with the Boche to get a driver’s permit, which Manet certainly had. Even if this was a gift, and even if Lucien got a driver’s permit, the Citroën would have to stay parked until the war was over because of the shortage of petrol. It was very difficult to find fuel—getting vintage champagne was easier.

“And here are your papers for your petrol ration. You’ll need a car to get around to all the jobs you’ll be doing. Can’t get out to Tremblay on the Metro,” Manet said with a great belly laugh.

“You are most generous, Monsieur Manet. I’m speechless. Never in my wildest dreams would I have thought I’d get a car. And such a beautiful one.”

“Citroën is
my
favorite car. I knew you’d like it. Your designer’s eye appreciates its fine lines. I can see that right away.”

Lucien tacitly agreed with that observation. He circled the car, then got behind the wheel. The leather upholstery was soft and comfortable enough to fall asleep on, and the dashboard resembled an airplane cockpit. The engine started instantly and purred like a kitten when it idled. Adele would go crazy when she saw this. He would call her up and tell her to look out her window. He’d pull up and wave for her to come down. She’d cover him with kisses when she jumped in the passenger seat. There was an inn in Poissy in the countryside that they could go to for a long weekend.

Lucien was itching to take the Citroën for a spin. He almost sped off but remembered that Manet was still there on the sidewalk.

“Can I drop you anywhere, monsieur? Or maybe lunch on the avenue de l’Opéra? We can be there in five minutes,” said Lucien with a big smile on his face.

“Lunch would be most enjoyable. But could you spare a moment and advise me on a matter? It’s just upstairs here in this building.”

“Why of course,” replied Lucien, switching off the ignition.

They went through the entrance of the apartment building and into the lift. As the metal cage rose, the euphoria of the Citroën suddenly evaporated, and Lucien knew what was about to happen. A cloud of doom engulfed him. He smiled wanly at Manet and stared at the blue and white mosaic floor of the cab. All the horrible images of torture and death that had been tormenting him raced through his mind again. Then the image of him and Adele flying along in the Citroën through the French countryside overpowered the bad thoughts, and he began smiling again. The lift stopped at the fifth floor, and Manet led him to the double doors of apartment number 8. Once inside, Manet placed his hand on Lucien’s shoulder in his now trademark grandfatherly manner.

“I’m having a devil of a time finding a hiding place. I just don’t have your cleverness for such matters. I hate to bother you again, but where would you put it?”

Lucien remained silent for almost a minute. He walked to the tall narrow leaded-glass window and looked down at the hot August sun glistening on the roof of the Citroën parked in front of the building.

“Let me take a look around. I’m sure I can come up with something, but this will definitely be the last one, monsieur.”

“Of course, whatever you say.”

It was a very well-furnished six-room apartment with high ceilings and boisserie detailing. Beautiful rugs, plush embroidered sofas and armchairs sat on the honey-colored parquet flooring. Two large crystal chandeliers lit the main rooms. But its most dominating feature was in the salon, an enormous stone fireplace, whose opening was over two meters high and almost three meters wide. It had an unusually thick back wall built into the outside wall that overlooked the central courtyard. After strolling through all the rooms, Lucien came back to the fireplace and stooped down in front of it, gazing at it for a few minutes.

“Is this a working fireplace?”

“Yes, but it’s never used,” said Manet.

“And this is just to be a temporary hiding place?”

“Just a refuge if the Gestapo comes around. They’ll be moved when it’s safe.”

“For how many?”

“Two.”

Lucien smiled.

“They’ll hide behind the back wall of the firebox. It’ll be a false wall that can be pulled out, and when they’re inside, they’ll be able to pull it into place. The andirons will be bolted to the front of the false wall so it will look like a real fireplace. It can even have logs set on it,” said Lucien, quite pleased with his idea. “The fireplace opening is so huge that they’ll be able to get in quite easily and stand upright in the space we’ll hollow out. Your guests aren’t as tall as you, are they?”

Manet frowned. “No, but isn’t that a solid brick wall behind there?”

“Yes, but it’s half a meter thick so there will be plenty of depth for two people to stand side by side once we remove the bricks to hollow out a space.”

Lucien could tell that Manet was unconvinced about the plan. He looked around. There was another possibility for a hiding place in the apartment, which would be much easier to construct. An interior wall was deep enough to hide two people behind the wainscot paneling. But for Lucien, it was not as clever as using the front of the fireplace. He wanted something especially tricky, even if it meant extra work. The more ingenious the solution, he realized, the greater the thrill. The Germans might look up the flue but never behind the firebox. Lucien began to think of himself as a kind of magician who could make people vanish into thin air.