The Grandfather Clock (12 page)

I had to eat. I went to the door of
Celeste’s room. It was cracked. I gently pushed it open a few more
inches. It creaked and I could see a form move under the blankets.
I decided to wait ten more minutes, and I’d leave Klara a note on
the door.

I never had to write the note. Klara
shuffled out of the room. Her hair hung wildly on her shoulders.
She wore the long sleeve knit shirt that she had worn under her
blouse. Her skirt was gone. She fell into a soft chair next to the
couch. She had one sock on.

“
What time is it?” she
asked.

“
One o’clock.”

She smiled and pretended to pout. I
got her a glass of water.

“
I’m hungry,” she
said.

“
Let’s get some lunch,” I
said.

Klara put on a pair of Celeste’s blue
jeans and a sweater. She tied her hair back up in a bun. We walked
to the train station and she led us to a place that served eggs,
meats, and breads in a dizzying variety of combinations. It was
exactly what I needed. At first we didn’t talk much. It took too
much effort, with my basic French abilities combined with the
hangover. I showed her the pictures on my phone and she
laughed.

As the food and coffee began to take
effect she asked, “Did Celeste say where she was going?”

“
She was meeting Marco at
a farmer’s market.”

She nodded. Then she asked me, “What
are you doing today.”

“
I don’t know. Nothing.” I
told her that I had thought about going shopping for
clothes.

“
Good! I will take you!”
she said. “I must change out of this.”

Her apartment was a half-mile walk
from the restaurant. Even the winding suburban roads in the
outskirts of Paris had their own charm. Everything was just a bit
different. Maybe older. Maybe smaller. More quaint. They didn’t go
for big things. Her apartment was a little building behind a home.
Like a garage that had been converted, but I wasn’t sure it had
ever been a garage. A dog from the yard barked at our
entry.

Klara lived in one room with a
kitchenette. A love seat was piled with clothes. Not a single solid
color existed in her wardrobe. Everything was prints. She made a
spot for me to sit. Next to her dresser was a dressing room screen.
I didn’t actually believe anyone still used them. I’d only seen
them in movies. She took off her clothes and slipped into the
bathroom. I picked up a magazine that looked like the French
version of People. Five minutes later, she emerged in a towel. She
acted embarrassed and I hid my eyes. She quickly grabbed a few
things from the couch and disappeared behind the screen
again.

She put on a long brightly patterned
skirt, a dark sweater, a pair of soft leather boots and declared,
“Let’s go!”

There should be a joke that starts
with an American and a gypsy going clothes shopping because the
ending was funny. I had to admit that I was unsure of what attire
my job might require. I think the absurdity of the job really hit
home when I found myself trying to dress for it. I had been hired
to help rescue the museum home of Napoleon Bonaparte from financial
ruin. Me. Michael Chance. Former Globe Bank credit card hawker,
turned Big Easy bartender, now a rainmaker for a museum in a
foreign country. The gun was to arrive on Monday. I was picking it
up at a Fed Ex store, so that I didn’t have to worry about being at
an address at a specific time

My wardrobe now consisted of several
pairs of slim fitting dark pants and assorted dress shirts. Most of
the pants had to be taken to a tailor to let them out an inch and I
would never be able to button the top button of any of the shirts.
In the United States, I wore a size large. In Paris, I was a giant.
Klara treated me like a mannequin, forcing me to try on a
kaleidoscope of items that may have been art. I actually bought a
couple of t-shirts that she picked out, partially to be polite, and
partially in an effort to not look so American all of the time. The
shopping trip erased the proceeds from my car.

The day ended quickly. We were both
exhausted as the sun went down in the south sky. We rode the train
silently out of the heart of Paris. I had Sunday to get my head
together before my first official day at the museum. We parted ways
at the train station. Everyone kisses on both cheeks in Paris.
Klara didn’t. She leaned forward and hugged me. She waited until
the train doors opened before letting go.

“
Au revior,” she
said.

“
Le semaine prochaine?” I
asked, in hope we could meet next weekend.

“
Je l’espère.” I think the
word was “hope.” I took it as yes.

I got back to the apartment and
Marianne was making pasta. She asked me if I had eaten and was glad
to hear that I hadn’t. She explained that she’d been to a lunch
with cousin earlier in the day.

“
So, you had fun last
night? You were out late,” she said with a wink.

“
I was baptized into
French culture, I suppose,” I replied, shaking my head.

“
It’s good.”

I was surprised when Celeste walked
into the kitchen. I had assumed she was out with Marco.

“
What did you do today?”
she asked.

“
He went shopping,”
Marianne responded.

“
I didn’t pack much,” I
said.

“
I could have taken you,”
Celeste said. “You know, French stores are different.”

“
They sure are. Klara
helped me out.”

“
Oh god. I can’t wait to
see what Klara would dress you in.” She rolled her eyes.

“
She has a beautiful
style,” Marianne said. “Whimsical.”

“
The Americans call it
‘hippie,’ right Michael?” Celeste asked.

“
Bohemian, maybe. Hippie
is more of a costume,” I said flashing a peace sign.

Celeste smiled.

“
What did you do with
Marco today?” Marianne asked, dishing out penne with a bolognese
sauce.

“
Nothing much. Farmers
market.”

“
Farmers! It’s dead of
winter!”

“
Sainte Germaine.” Celeste
seemed annoyed at the questioning.

“
Any news on the
team?”

Celeste put her fork down,
“No.”

I avoided eye contact with both of
them.

“
Is he still going to
Argentina for the tryout?”

“
Yes.”

“
Did he ask you to join
him?”

“
You will be glad to know
he hasn’t. Not yet.”

“
I’m not glad!” Marianne
responded. She then looked at me. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean
to...”

“
It’s okay, Mother,”
Celeste said. “Michael is a man. I’ll fill him in.” She then turned
to me. “I’ve been dating Marco since the he came here last spring
to play football. My mother doesn’t care for him.”

“
For good
reason.”

“
We weren’t exclusive
then,” Celeste fired at her mother. “He was married when we met.
And I was dating someone too. Anyway. He was hurt, but stayed with
the team. And stayed in Paris after the season. We don’t now if his
contract will be renewed, or if he’ll go back to play in B League
in Argentina.”

I smiled and shook my head. “Please,
do not feel the need to tell me anything you don’t need me to know.
I am grateful for your hospitality, and,” I turned to Celeste,
“your friendship. I wasn’t a bartender very long, but one thing I
learned quickly was to listen and not to judge. Everyone has a
story. Everyone has their reasons.”

Celeste smiled again. “So what’s your
story?”

I laughed. “You really want to know?
Didn’t you hear enough at Thanksgiving?”

“
Oh please! It’s so boring
here,” Marianne said.

“
Oh, god, Michael, you
have to tell her,” Celeste laughed.

“
Shit. Okay,” I gulped.
“Celeste is probably talking about the fact that I was
engaged.”

“
Really?” Marianne’s jaw
dropped.

“
Is it so hard to
believe?” I joked.

“
No, of course
not.”

“
She was fine. But not
right for me.”

“
Tell her the rest,”
Celeste demanded, grinning from ear to ear.

“
I broke up with her at a
wedding.”

“
What!” Marianne
gasped.

“
She insulted me. She was
drunk and she insulted me for no reason, in front of three
bridesmaids.”

“
It gets better,” Celeste
muttered.

“
What on earth did she
say?” Marianne asked.

I sighed. “It’s going to sound petty.
You know who Ben Affleck is?”

“
No, she’s French, we
don’t have television. Of course she knows who Ben Affleck is,”
Celeste cracked.

“
Well, I guess it was my
clothes. Maybe my hair that night. Maybe they were drunk. But the
bridesmaids said I looked like Ben Affleck...”

“
You do! In a certain
way,” Marianne nodded.

“
Not really,” I said, “But
thanks. My fiancée sneered at them and basically said I didn’t look
like Ben Affleck because he’s ‘hot.’”

“
Oof,” Marianne
grunted.

“
And he breaks it off.
Just like that,” Celeste added, finishing my story.

“
It was not just that. It
was the last straw, um, I was fed up.”

Celeste rolled her eyes, “Don’t give
this guy any criticism.”

“
Celeste, he’s our guest,”
Marianne admonished.

“
Hey, I know I don’t look
like Ben Affleck. Is he that good looking anyway? But she didn’t
have to be nasty about it. I can see she didn’t like me talking to
three bridesmaids, but she was rude to them, and clearly had a low
opinion of me.”

Marianne came to my defense, “It shows
a lack of regard.”

“
Thank you. And it was
just an example of deeper problems. Rather than drag it out, I
ended it.”

“
It isn’t easy, and life
is too short,” Marianne nodded.

“
Two sides to every
story,” Celeste grinned.

In a weird way, it felt like a family
dinner. I could tell that there was a side to Celeste that was
guarded. We’d had a great time on Saturday night, but there was a
side she wasn’t showing.

I rode with Marianne to the museum on
that first day on the job. I wore black pants and a blue button up
dress shirt and a gray tie. She said I looked “smart.” I felt like
I was getting a ride to school from my mother. We pulled up to the
back of the chateau via the service entrance. It was not as well
maintained in the rear. I wondered if Napoleon had a trash
dumpster. He definitely didn’t have a recycle bin.

On the short ride, she explained to me
that my arrangement was unusual. “If anyone asks for details, just
tell them you are a visiting curator from New Orleans. Maybe
Louisiana State University sent you.”

Maybe, I thought. I wasn’t wild about
suddenly feeling illegitimate, but at this point in my life, I had
to roll with it. It wasn’t like I’d sent out two dozen resumes and
interviewed for a job in my field. I had talked to Sam on Sunday
night after dinner. He was going to work on getting me an
appointment with someone at Bank USA in Europe. Perhaps I could
make an early score and earn people’s confidence. It was a piece of
advice I’d received from Dr. Adamovich at Florida State. He said
you’ve usually got several weeks between getting a job and starting
a job. Try to have something good for when you get there. At the
end of the first week, they’ll see a month’s worth of work and
think you are brilliant.

Between the blunderbuss and setting a
major appointment, I hoped to earn some credibility. Then I could
figure out what I was actually doing. Marianne showed me a small
desk in her office. I had brought my own laptop. I liked the
situation. If I’d been given some office with my name engraved, I
would have felt self-conscious.

Marianne introduced me to Antoine, who
was their assistant catchall. He was setting up for a guest group
to have a morning meeting in a parlor room. Apparently you could
borrow space in Napoleon’s house. There were three docents who
would arrive shortly before opening..

Marianne pulled a business card off
her desk. “This is Dr. Jean Desjardins. He can tell us about the
gun. I have told him only that we have an American bringing him an
item of interest. He is at the Louvre. When does the package
arrive?”

“
I am supposed to pick it
up this afternoon,” I said.

“
Good. Until then, make
yourself comfortable. Something you might start looking into is how
your grandfather came to possess the gun.”

That was indeed a good question. I
spent my first morning sending emails to my mother and brother,
since it was too early to call. I asked them both if they had any
old photos that might show the gun when it was displayed on the
mantle or if there were any journals or postcards from my
grandfather’s trip. Then I remembered the slides. The little wooden
boxes of slide pictures that my grandfather had left. They were in
a box that I left with Claudette. I would have her send them. I was
almost certain that pictures from his trip would be in that
collection, along with all the family holidays, and trips to the
Redwoods and the Grand Canyon.