A Paris Apartment (27 page)

“You? You are nothing but a crazy lady! Always have been.”

Dizzy with rage, I yanked the champagne bottle from her hand and threw it against the wall, narrowly missing Maxime’s group of midget friends. The room went dead. The piano player stopped. My breath stopped, too.

“Here come the Cossacks!” someone called. Everyone looked from Jeanne and me toward the door, and there they were, spilling into the room like hens freed from a coop. The Russians.

“The Cossacks!” the room shouted in unison.

“Save yourselves, here come the Cossacks!”

A call back to Waterloo, but a call that all current battles were over. It was time to have another round, to gather gold coins from the floor.

Precisely on cue the pianist started banging on the keys and people cheered. Somehow I got swept up in a crowd moving toward the door and was ultimately deposited outside. I landed on the sidewalk, my dress and spirit torn. Everyone had forgotten me, which was either a relief or the worst feeling in the world.

Tripping down the rue Royale, sobbing against the background cheers of Maxim’s revelers, I bumped into an old friend. It was Pujol, our city’s beloved flatulist. I never thought a farter could present such a romantic vision, but there he was, dandy and dapper, whistling as he went.

“Joseph!” I cried and threw myself into him. “My world is ending! I cannot go on!”

“Ma chérie,” he replied and stroked my hair. “Whatever is the matter?”

I hiccupped and then poured my troubles at his feet. He nodded while I spoke, eyes downcast, the lone person sympathetic to my plight.

“Oh, sweet Marthe, I am sorry you are in such a state,” he said. “Are they not paying you enough at the Folies?”

“They are plenty generous,” I said and looked up at him, hoping that, despite the tears, he still found me beautiful, that the whitewashes and hair dye achieved their desired effects. “I am in such a bind!”

“Well, let me help you.”

“Really?” I blinked hard, trying to make my eyes big and weepy like Marguérite’s. “Oh, could you? I would be so grateful! I promise, whatever you want—”

He stepped back.

“Please. You do not need to promise anything. I am happy to help. Though I am a little low on cash myself I will try to come up with something. I might need to find a little creativity, but I will do my best.”

Crying big, plump tears of relief, I hugged him again. He offered no figures or guarantees, only a promise, which seemed as valuable as the Cossack gold. I needed only that—a promise of help, undefined, with the possibility to stretch forever.

Chapitre XLII

“April?” a gruff, irritated voice snarled into the phone.

More than a week had passed. April thought she was in the clear given her extended ticket and not a peep from anyone back in New York. Usually Peter favored in-the-moment reactive rants, but this was worse. He’d given himself time to stew.

“Peter?” April replied meekly. “How are you?”

“This is unacceptable!”

Phone hot against her ear, April walked to the window. Since the weather had finally warmed, noontime in Marthe’s apartment was stifling, the air thick with allergens and smoldering clouds of dust.

“Whatever has riled you up”—she started, despite knowing exactly the whatever—“I’m sure it’s not that bad.”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Vogt. This is about your e-mail and the revised itinerary Birdie printed out and smacked on my desk.”

“We made the plans over a week ago.”

“
We
made the plans? Ha! That’s rich. I don’t remember being involved. Who is this ‘we’ you speak of?”

“Fine. I made the plans. Birdie followed my directive. Regardless, this all happened eight, nine days ago? You’re getting upset
now
?”

“It’s taken me this long to calm down! I should fire you right now. In fact I think I will.”

Peter was like this, bombastic, prone to flying off handles. He threatened to fire April at least once a month even though performance reviews contained only accolades and great long declarations about the extent of April’s talent and expertise.

“You’re supposed to be in the office on
Monday
,” he went on, voice climbing with each word. “We’re not exactly sitting around here scratching our asses, wondering what good ol’ April is up to. There’s work to be done. Other auctions. I had to go look at some house on Long Island
by myself
.”

“How awful,” April said. “And I’m sorry I’m not there to help. But I wouldn’t have extended the trip if it wasn’t completely necessary. You said I could, remember? When you first sent me? You said take as long as I needed. I need longer.”

Peter sighed, the fight seeping out of him already.

“Birdie said you were supportive of what we’re doing,” April reminded him. “And that you were in full agreement. C’mon, Pete. You know I’m right.”

He sighed again, loudly, to make sure April heard.

“Do not call me Pete.”

“Come on, boss. You know I have to stay.”

“You realize this costs us money, don’t you?” he said. “And auction season is fast approaching. I need you in New York. Even Karen wants you back. Apparently I’m insufferable when you’re gone. My wife does not like being called during the day, it seems, at least not to discuss work. You’re making us both miserable! You’re wrecking our marriage!”

“Send her my sincerest apologies,” April said, stifling a laugh, since he sounded so forlorn. “I so wish I was there to be on the receiving end of your constant work-related stress. But the extra time in Paris will pay for itself in the end. The better the provenance, the higher the sale, the higher the premiums. You taught me that, Peter. It’s exactly what you would do yourself. The old Peter. The young and hungry one.”

Peter blubbered his lips as April braced herself for a response.

“It would behoove you not to insult my age,” he said. “All right. You’ve got two more weeks.”

“
Yay!
” April yelped. “And to be clear, you mean two from today? Because—”

“
Two
. From
today
.”

April squeaked again.

“Then that’s it,” he said. “No more BS extensions.”

“Great. Perfect.”

“I don’t know why I let you get away with these shenanigans,” Peter grumbled.

“It will pay for itself in the end!” April said again, happily. “Promise! Okay, I’d better get back to work so I can be ready.”

“Yes. You’d better.”

The phone went dark.

Breathless with the sweet, glorious thrill of victory, April scrambled around the apartment collecting files and notecards. It was Friday, and Olivier and Marc had left for their country homes the night before. April saw no reason to stick around ingesting dust particles. She would spend the balance of the afternoon working at the place des Vosges, in the sunshine.

At one o’clock the city heat was almost unbearable. After weeks languishing in the drizzly-gray fifties and sixties, the weather had taken a sudden shot upward, landing somewhere in the midnineties and enveloping Paris in a thick, damp blanket of heat. When talking Celsius, which April did for dramatic effect, the temperature nearly tripled in a few days’ time.

Straddling the Third and Fourth Arrondissements, the place des Vosges was a bit of a hike from the Ninth, especially when carrying a laptop and sweating profusely, but it was one of April’s favorite spots in all of Paris. Her furniture museum had been only a few blocks away, and rare was the day she hadn’t walked beneath the arches of the square or stepped out onto its grass.

Many years had passed since she’d last seen the Vosges, but April could still picture the red-brick and white stone buildings, their steep blue slate roofs, and the two-tiered fountain with its water-spitting lions. Henry IV created the place des Vosges as a royal pavilion more than four hundred years before. Now the buildings included shops, restaurants, and upscale Renaissance townhomes. But before all that, and for centuries, it was the preferred location for duels. April wondered if any of Marthe’s cohorts ever matched up on the lawns. It was hard to imagine swords or pistols where now lovers, sunbathers, and toddlers littered the grounds.

April found a table beneath one of the arcades. She pulled out her laptop and started to work. Already crowded when she appeared, the park grew ever-more populated with each passing minute. Stylish mothers arrived with their soft-haired tots, seeking shaded sandboxes. Smartly dressed couples strolled by, hand in hand, sometimes speaking animatedly and other times not at all. Tourists and backpackers reclined on the grass.

April wanted to recline on the grass, too. Peter was antsy, but how much work did she really have to finish right then? It was almost the weekend. All good Parisians were already off and enjoying their respite. As the thoughts trickled though her mind, April could almost feel Peter’s rage from across the ocean.

The answer was, of course, all of it. She had to do
all
the work, and as quickly as possible.

Gazing with some degree of longing at the backpackers (
Mon dieu
, what a life, no responsibilities to be had!), April picked up her phone. Birdie promised to send over some pictures, groundwork for their grand plans. Though there was no e-mail yet from Birdie, another message awaited. April’s heart flinched.

“I have some news about Marthe,” Luc had texted some seven or eight minutes before. “Where can I find you today? Are you in the city?”

“Yes!” April wrote back, fingers flying. “I’m at Carette, near place des Vosges. Table outside. Will be here another hour or two.”

She figured Luc would’ve been, like Olivier and Marc, tucked away in an old stone manse by that late time in the week. That he was in Paris, thinking of Marthe (and, okay, maybe even her) made April smile more than was socially acceptable for someone sitting alone. An observer, like the two women in pink seated nearby, might think her half insane. Not that they’d paid a speck of attention to April, or even noticed her at all, but if they knew her, surely they would’ve thought, oh dear, what happened to our friend April? I think she’s losing her mind.

But soon she would not be alone. The manic grinning might continue, but then they would see Luc. And all at once they would understand.

Chapitre XLIII

Luc sat across from her, flashing his wonky-tooth smile.

“Bonjour, Avril,” he said. “I came as quickly as I could.”

April noticed he hadn’t shaved that day, perhaps not even yesterday or the day before. As a result Luc now possessed an almost-beard, which only served to make his aggravating disheveledness all the more appealing. Even the pink-frocked women nearby, previously oblivious, had to sneak a glance.

“You didn’t need to hurry,” she said, though was glad he had.

Luc shrugged. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. After executing one of those weird palm-tapping maneuvers smokers so enjoyed, Luc slid a cigarette from its box and went to light it.

“I didn’t mind the rush,” he said. “And thank you for always making yourself easy to find.”

As April tried to avoid interpreting that particular comment, Luc cocked his head and looked down at her feet. Then slowly, slyly, he surveyed her legs. Suddenly April remembered she was in little more than a glorified beach cover-up. Not the most professional attire, but it was hot and she was “out of the office.” April did not expect to run into anyone who might notice her exposed legs, and definitely no one who would comment on them.

“Cute dress,” Luc said with a smirk. “I like it.”

“I’m sure you do,” she muttered. “Sorry. It’s hot. Marthe’s flat doesn’t have air-conditioning, nor does mine. I didn’t think I’d encounter any acquaintances.”

“You are so defensive, ma chérie.” Luc blew a stream of smoke over his right shoulder. “‘Cute’ is a compliment in the English language, non?”

“It is, sometimes. So, did you seek me out to see what I am wearing? Or is there another reason you’re here?”

“The clothes are a plenty good excuse.” He sneered happily, eyes twinkling like a devil’s golden pitchfork. “But alas, non. I have some news. They’ve released Madame Vannier from the hospital. She is on the pathway to recovery.”

“Really?” April popped up off her chair. “That’s fantastic news! Such vast improvement in a relatively short amount of time.”

“No doubt thanks to your ardent praying over the last few weeks. I know you’ve been gravely concerned. I’ll extend to her your well wishes.”

“Please do. And unlike yours, my sentiments are not facetious. So tell me, when can we see her?”

“Not facetious, eh?”

“How about tomorrow? Can we go see Madame Vannier tomorrow? It’d be perfect timing as Olivier is away for the weekend—”

“Tomorrow? I don’t know, Avril, should we really wait that long? Perhaps we shall go now! We can beat her home!” Luc stubbed out his cigarette and winked. “A solicitor and an auctioneer, what a spectacular welcome home. It would likely send her right back to the hospital.”

“All right, all right, I get it.” She rolled her eyes. “For the record, I still don’t think this weekend is an unreasonable request, but I will defer to your judgment.”

“Ah, my dear Américaine. Always such the eager badger.”

“You and your obsession with badgers.” April shook her head. “It’s a beaver. An eager beaver.”

“Beaver. All right. Très bien. I like beavers.”

“Oh, good god.”

April tried to frown. She stared down at the table, giggles sneaking up her spine.

“Are you feeling ill, Madame Vogt?”

“Yes, quite. Monsieur Thébault, if not this weekend, when do you think we might meet with your client? And this has nothing to do with any beavers,” April said before he could interject. “I need to arrange my schedule.”

“In a few weeks, perhaps?”

“A few weeks?” April looked up.

“Two, perhaps three. I’m going out of town for a spell—”

“Luc, three weeks doesn’t work. I have to go back to New York in two. And that’s at the very outside. If I try to extend the trip yet again I will certainly be fired.”