Treasure of Saint-Lazare (35 page)

At the far end he passed the woman selling bad paintings under the statue of Thomas Jefferson, then skirted the bland river façade of the Musée d’Orsay before turning into Rue du Bac. He paused in front of Les Ministères, one of the names on his short list of favorite restaurants, where he’d learned Erich’s fate. He considered the menu and the appetizing pictures of oysters for a moment then walked on to Boulevard Saint-Germain, which would take him through the teeming Latin Quarter and its flocks of tourists, down tiny Rue Monsieur-le-Prince with its book shops, past the Luxembourg Gardens and on to the bistro just beyond the Rue Saint-Jacques, where he hoped to arrive before Aurélie.

He waited impatiently to cross Rue Saint-Jacques as a swarm of gray-suited businessmen, each carefully helmeted, rode toward home on small motorcycles and scooters. The two-wheeler had only recently been put to use as a commuter vehicle, so he was careful to stay away from the curb because their drivers hadn’t yet learned either driving or manners. That would come with experience, but for now they were dangerous.

He squinted hard up the low hill at the small round tables arrayed on the sidewalk of Le Comptoir du Panthéon, half hidden behind a bus stop on the right. He knew Aurélie would be sitting in the front row out of habit if she’d already arrived. She’d left home wearing black today, as had almost every other Parisian woman, so he focused on picking her long blonde hair out of the dark shadow the afternoon sun cast under the bistro’s crimson awning. At the crest of the hill sat the Panthéon, reminiscent of the U.S. Capitol in miniature.

Just as he decided he had arrived safely on time he felt the warmth of her hand under his left arm. “Édouard. Did you think you’d get here first?” she asked, amusement in her voice. At the same time she squeezed his arm against her breast the way she knew he liked. “I had to counsel one of my less motivated students for a few minutes or I’d have been waiting for you.”

They found a table in the front row and ordered espresso. “Another Wednesday,” she said. “My late night. Is Margaux happy with dinner around 9?”

“She wants to go back to Ratatouille. Not my favorite place, but not bad,” Eddie responded. “I have a really busy day tomorrow — four new students, a meeting with some prospects, lunch with a fellow who wants to open a branch in Lyon. That one isn’t too promising. But I’d rather not stay out too late.”

“I know why you want to get home,” she said with a smile. “Me, too.”

“But what did you think of that?” She pointed to his copy of Le Figaro, lying open to the arts page.

“I’m surprised, but duplicity was the stock in trade of the Nazis.”

The story announced that the three paintings found badly damaged in a secret basement near Gare Saint-Lazare had finally been identified as mediocre eighteenth-century German landscapes, none worth restoring.

“So where is the young fellow?” she asked. “The paintings we found must have been second-rate stuff. Hitler’s taste in teutonic landscapes.”

“We may never know. Frank’s son may be right, and it’s still hanging on a farmer’s wall in Bavaria, or maybe Frank’s curator really did take it. It makes me sad that so many people died chasing a chimera. The gold disappeared into the bureaucracy and the painting is still out there, or it’s not. I decided the day we found it that it didn’t matter to me and they don’t need us.

“What matters to me is that we found each other again.”

She smiled and took his hand under the table. “That’s the most important thing for both of us. But you found your own strength again. I can’t tell you how impressed I was with the way you handled the Germans, and then Dmitri. And I thought the way you outmaneuvered Erich and the police was a master stroke. It was brutal, but it will be a while before that group forgets it. I am proud of my Édouard.” She squeezed his hand.

“It’s almost over. I heard from Thom Anderson today. The prosecutor wants to know if I’ll testify against Sommers when his trial starts in a couple of weeks.”

“What did you say?”

“Of course I’ll go. Sonny pleaded guilty and will testify, so it’s pretty certain Al will be in prison for the rest of his miserable life, however long or short that is. I hope you can go with me.”

“And Jen?”

“She closed the gallery. For renovations, the sign says, but no one has seen her recently. The government charged her with immigration fraud and it appears she may not have paid some customers the money she owed them when she sold their paintings, so I expect she’ll be pretty busy. Thom thinks she’s left town for good.”

“Then I’ll trust you if I can’t get away,” she said with a smile.

For the next half-hour they talked the everyday talk of settled lovers. They were a handsome couple, Eddie the well-dressed trans-Atlantic businessman approaching middle age, Aurélie ten years younger, a smart young woman from the provinces whose ambition had driven her to Paris and its universities, where she had starred as a student and stayed to become a teacher and blaze her own trail up the academic ladder.

“
Merde! Je suis en retard!”
Aurélie looked at her watch, then jumped from her chair, bent for a quick kiss and headed up the sidewalk for her 7 p.m. class. Eddie signaled for the waiter and sat thinking about how she had smoothed the jagged course of his life as their relationship had matured. It was no longer all about sex, although that remained an important part, perhaps the single most important part. Now their quick coffee dates and the intimate chat they shared late at night centered on the future. Neither saw any reason to live anywhere but Paris, although Aurélie had been sounded out by prominent universities in Massachusetts, California and Berlin about visiting lecturer posts. Eddie had told her he would follow her if it would be a step forward for her academic career.

“You have to remember that I’m 40 years old,” he told her one night. “I’ll support whatever you want to do, but I’m not looking for a new career. My school and running the family’s investments are enough for me.” Their discussions of children ended in the remote weeds of ambiguity, until Eddie realized Aurélie was one of those women with no real need for motherhood. Margaux had once been the same. Her attitude might change, especially because Paris was going through a baby boom. The métro cars and buses were crowded with baby carriages, and it seemed that every third young woman was pregnant. He would wait for her to sort out her own feelings.

It was not that she could not take a firm position. Several times a week she told him he should give up using Eddie and become Édouard.

“Dammit,” he told her one night, “I’ve been Eddie for 40 years, except to my mother. My father was Artie before me. It’s a cultural thing where we come from, and I’m happy with it.”

“But Édouard, it’s just a better indication that you’re a serious grown man. I know that and your close friends know it, but it might be helpful other places.” But she didn’t push it too hard.

He left enough coins on the table to cover the check and a small tip, then started down the hill toward Luxembourg Gardens, the first landmark in his 45-minute walk home to Rue Sainte-Roch.

Well, he said to himself as he crossed Rue St. Jacques, Édouard does have a nice ring to it. Maybe I’ll give it a try. It can’t hurt, and if it makes Aurélie happy it’s worth doing.

A PERSONAL REQUEST ...

If you enjoyed
Treasure of Saint-Lazare,
please consider posting a review to Amazon.com and Goodreads.com so other readers will learn about it.

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Watch for the sequel, planned for early 2013.

Thanks for reading my novel.

  John Pearce

Thanks to my advance readers…

Whose suggestions added immeasurably to the final drafts. They read
Treasure of Saint-Lazare
  carefully (some of them more than once) and were kind enough to give me detailed suggestions for changes and improvements.

Errors and omissions, including failing to take their advice, are mine alone.

Anthony Dalsimer, Sarasota, FL

Kenneth Hulme, Ft. Myers, FL

Robert Nugent, Clarkston, MI

Jan Pearce, Sarasota, FL

Paul Pearce, Conroe, TX

Robert Reith, London

Kirsten Schlyder, Paris

Lynne Sloggett, Australia

Helen Wentland, Australia

Lesley Wilson, Waco, TX