The Grandfather Clock (17 page)

“
Interesting,” Brandt
said. I was in the final throes of my pitch.

“
It would be an excellent
chance for your bank to build its reputation here, and it would be
a boon to the museum.” Brandt stared at the table. “Napoleon and
Hitler. It doesn’t get much bigger,” I added.

“
What kind of money are we
talking about?” Brandt asked.

I took a deep breath. “My arrangement
here provides for my room and board in the Malmaison director’s
apartment and about 200 Euro per week. I need my situation to be
more permanent, and I’m sure she’d like her place back to normal.
And we’ll need funding to conduct proper research. All we would ask
during this phase would be for Bank USA to underwrite my position,
for six months.”

“
For six months, what do
you require?”

“
Twenty-five thousand
Euros.”

“
Twenty-five thousand
Euros? For six-months salary in Paris? No.”

I was deflated, but tried not to show
it.

Brandt was still shaking his head as
he continued. “Forty thousand is more like it. But first I want to
see this museum and your mysterious discovery. We like a good
American story, especially when we can bail out the French.” My
approach appealed to Brandt’s arrogance. I had my first success for
the museum, and Brandt had his Normandy.

Any sense of unease between Marianne
and I was eliminated with my success at Bank USA. I even got the
hint of disappointment that I would be moving out of her apartment.
On the car ride home she said, “You’ve been good for Celeste. I
think you open her eyes.”

“
To what?” I
asked.

“
To how decent people can
be.”

In some ways, Marianne was as hard to
read as her daughter. I was jubilant that evening. I called
Claudette who said she always believed in me. I told her that I was
lucky and she said that I made my own luck. I wasn’t so sure of
that.

“
You know,” Marianne said,
“this will make your work permit simple. I’ll be honest, I was
worried.”

“
Wow, thanks for telling
me,” I laughed.

“
With an American company
sponsoring you, I can show that you are more qualified than any
French citizen.”

“
So that’s all I had to
do? Be more qualified than every single person in
France?”

“
Actually, the European
Union. Michael, you are the only person with Le Tromblon de
Napoleon,” she smiled.

In the back of my mind, I needed to
figure out how to fix the dumbbell situation. I hadn’t thought
about how I’d handle it if Marianne wanted to get it from the safe
and show someone. I thought I might have to come clean with
her.

Klara was exited when I texted her,
mostly by the fact that I would be staying at least six
months.

Marianne announced my coup to Celeste
at dinner, to which she exclaimed, “That’s amazing!” putting her
hand on my arm.

That Friday, Klara made plans with
Celeste to have dinner and drinks after work. I arrived to the
apartment and Celeste was still there.

“
Klara and I are going
out.”

“
That’s good,” I said.
“Where to?”

“
Don’t know yet. Thought
we might go to the Latin Quarter. Greek.”

I didn’t say anything.

“
So what happened?” she
said bluntly.

“
What do you mean?” I
said, not sure what “what” she was talking about.

“
She calls me to go out.
Doesn’t mention you. Did you hurt her?”

“
What? No, no, no. That’s
not it.” I sighed. “But you two don’t always need me around. I am
what they refer to as a ‘third wheel.’” What I didn’t say was that
I had encouraged Klara to make plans without me.

“
I lived in London, I know
what a ‘third wheel’ is. If anyone is a ‘third wheel,’ it’s
me.”

“
Well, I don’t want you to
feel that way,” I said.

“
Well, Michael, I can’t
bear the thought of you sitting here, doing whatever you do. Let’s
all go, and have fun.”

“
Are you sure?”

“
Yes. Certain. Listen,”
she leaned away, looking down at the kitchen counter, “I’m sorry
about Sunday. With Marco gone, and maybe not coming back... I was
feeling down and you were just so kind.”

“
There was the guy at the
party, then the guy here,” I chuckled.

She blushed and covered her face. “I
know, I know. First, the guy at the party was an old friend. That
was dumb. But then Saturday, when I realized you were with Klara, I
was just angry. Don’t mind me. It’s nothing.”

“
Clearly,” I said
sarcastically.

This irritated Celeste. “Can I tell
you something?” She looked me in the eyes. “I’ve traveled. I know
interesting people. You are – what is the word? – a
freak.”

“
What?”

“
You show up, with your
American face. You have a total stranger feeding you and putting a
roof over your head because an old gun fell out of a clock. You
walk into one of the largest banks in the world and walk out with
forty thousand Euro. And you find an amazing girl. What is it with
you?”

“
Celeste, my life was not
going this way two months ago.”

“
Better be careful,” she
said seriously. “Shit always evens out.”

February was a month of changes. I
started looking for an apartment. I was looking at 1500 euro a
month or more for something with a little space and some light. I
wanted to do it right, so I kept looking. Marianne was putting no
pressure on me.

With Bank USA on board, I focused on
the research again. One of the first things I did was go back to
Dr. Desjardins. I told him that I would pay him for his time. He
walked me back to his office again. This time he had pulled some
books.

“
So, what have you learned
since we last met?”

“
Not much,” I said.
“Although Bank USA loves the story and is interested in
underwriting my work for now. I just need to find out the whole
story.”

“
Where is it?”

“
In the safe at the
Malmaison.”

“
What?” Desjardins half
stood from his seat. “You fool! Some bureaucrat is going to hear
about it. They’ll claim ownership.”

“
Well, good,” I sighed.
“Actually, I have it.”

He chuckled, settling into his seat
again. “You know what? I don’t want to know where it is, so don’t
tell me. Here,” he said, handing over a heavy dusty book. “This is
full of pictures of artwork before, during, and after the war. They
are from an allied project to protect art, and artifacts. Mostly
paintings. Nothing about weaponry, but take a look.”

I leafed through the book. It was full
of crude photographs of paintings, mostly leaning against uneven
walls.

“
The Nazis sent most of
their looted artwork to salt mine caves in Germany. When they
needed cash, they’d liquidate the art through banks in Switzerland
and Sweden. Sweden was Germany’s source of iron ore during the
war.”

“
I guess that’s one way
for items to make their way west.”

“
True. Tough to trace
without knowing where to start. But possible,” he said. “Now, if
the Fuhrer really liked something, he’d take it for his own. He had
his own personal stash of art, gold, and stolen property. He
planned to turn the city of Linz into an art Mecca.”

Desjardins slid an old news clipping
printed from the Internet across his desk. “Hitler Calls Paris
Visit ‘Greatest and Finest Moment.’”

It was short article. “He visited
Napoleon’s tomb...” I said, continuing to read.

“
Seems he was fond of
him.”

“
What do you think this
means?”

“
I would be surprised is
some Nazi officer took this off someone’s wall and sent it for
storage in a salt mine.”

“
Meaning...”

“
Do I have to spell it
out?”

“
You’re the expert,” I
said. I knew where he was going with it, but I needed to hear
it.

“
I think it is possible
that Hitler had your Tromblon de Napoleon at some
point.”

“
Wow.”

“
Wow is right. How your
grandfather came to have it, well... you tell me.”

I received a package in the mail from
Claudette. I brought an old slide projector from the Malmaison to
Klara’s apartment.

“
Do you want to take a
walk through history?” I asked.

“
What is that?”

“
It’s a slide projector. I
have my grandfather’s photos from his travels. He put them all on
slides.”

“
Oh my
goodness.”

There were two white rings for loading
in the slides. Each one held about 100. I peered at them in front
of a lamp, looking for a box that looked like his trip through
Europe.

“
How long is this going to
take?” Klara asked, as I carefully slipped each slide into the
ring, and then filled the second.

The projector hummed and the room
filled with the hot smell of the projector bulb. I struggled to
load the cartridge onto the device.

“
You really know how to
set the mood.” Klara danced in front of the wall, admiring her
silhouette. “Does my ass look that big all of the time?”

The projector lurched and a black and
white photo spread across Klara’s distorted shadow. “Here we go,” I
said.

I was disappointed that most of the
pictures didn’t contain my grandfather, because he took them. There
were shots of a white ocean liner and picture after picture of
water in front of a thin ribbon of shoreline.

“
What are we looking for?”
Klara asked.

“
I’m not sure.”

One hundred shots later, and we’d seen
Japan, and the Middle East. Klara’s interest waned and she fell
asleep as I loaded more slides. He had taken a lot of pictures for
the day and age when film rolls were short and processing was a
process.

The steady ‘kachunk, kachunk’ of the
projector put me in a lull. He passed through places I didn’t
recognize. The pictures in Paris were remarkable, but didn’t shed
any light on the mystery. If my grandfather ever told stories about
post-war Europe, I was too young to grasp it. I wished I’d taken
the time to hear more stories before he died.

I continued to advance the slides.
Then, he was in London and something caught my eye. It was a shot
of a large, white statue of a naked man.

“
Klara. Klara.” She
cracked an eye open. “Who is that?”

“
That’s him,” she said
sleepily. “Napoleon. It’s a famous sculpture. He’s portrayed like a
Greek god.”

I Googled it. She was right. It was a
sculpture of Napoleon as Mars the Peacemaker. It stood in the Duke
of Wellington’s house in Hyde Park, London. It was an
unintentionally comical tribute, with Napoleon’s head atop the body
of a perfect human specimen. We’re taught that Napoleon was short,
but at five feet, seven inches he was of average height at the
time.

“
I don’t know if this
means anything,” I said.

I Googled the artist, Antonio Canova.
Nothing stuck out. A famous sculptor, known for his marble
technique, he might be a household name if it weren’t for
Michelangelo. I Googled his name with the word ‘Nazis’ added.
Nothing. I kept going through more slides. Nothing. I laid down on
my side next to Klara. It was late and I would stay the night. I
leaned over to turn off the light when I saw the large volume
Desjardins had given me, with its plain cover and German title. I
turned to the index.

Canova. There were two page references
in the book of stolen art. The first reference was a painting of
him. I turned to page 563 and scanned through the page of small
photos. The next photo to reference Canova was of a statue of a
goddess on a chair, with a severed head under the chair. It was
titled Die Muse Polyhymnia. I never had great interest in Greek
mythology, so it didn’t resonate with me. But the last photo was
clear: Napoleonbuste. A bust of Napoleon. There was a description
in German, which didn’t mean much, but what I could tell was that
each item had a line listing a previous owner before it disappeared
during the war. I knew this because some had names of museums,
others had names of people. Many read, “keine angaben.” Google told
me that it meant “Unspecified, or No Details.” Under the
Napoleonbuste it read: Louis II, Monaco.

Next I Googled Louis II of Monaco and
Napoleon. The connection was getting clearer. Louis II had a
massive collection of Napoleonic artifacts. It was his pastime. Did
the blunderbuss belong to the Prince of Monaco?

The next morning I called Marianne
before I rode the train into the city with Klara. I told Marianne
about the bust which had been taken from the museum in Monaco by
the Nazis.

“
What are you going to
do?” Klara asked as we shared a handrail in the crowded
car.