The Doll Brokers (12 page)

“What did the clerk just give you?”

He took note of her tone, the wiped look on her face, and he knew it was time to take charge. Much of their trip had been eye-opening for him. The business of toys had paralleled the makeup of too many other industries in the twenty-first century. Consolidation and staff reductions, greed and unethical behavior, had stripped it of its humanity and decency. But what had really surprised him was the numbing risk involved. His respect for his mother—a true survivor—and for Ann, was enhanced. The woman was suffering. Something inside him wanted to console her, to tell her none of this was her fault, and to somehow make her pain go away.

“Jonathan—where are you taking us?”

She looked strung out and her voice was shrill. He knew he was doing the right thing. She would have to go along with it. He would give her no choice.

“Jonathan—”

“Trust me,” he said and continued to guide their luggage trolley through the departure level of the airport, outside, and into the queue for a cab.

They were no sooner strapped into the back seat of the taxi when he instructed the driver:
“L'hôtel Le Régent, s'il vous plait. La rue Dauphine. C'est près du Boulevard Saint Germain des Prés.
”

Ann sat up with a start. “What the hell! You haven't lost your French?”

He smiled. “And why are you surprised?”

“I … never thought. After all this time. I—”

“Just relax. You are in good hands,
Fraulein
.”

“
Fraulein
? Oh dear God. Jonathan, where are we going?”

Jonathan turned to the driver.
“A peu près combien de temps vas t'il prendre pour se rendre à l'hôtel?”

“Environ quarante cinq minutes, monsieur,”
the driver replied.

Ann punched Jonathan's arm. “Now you're showing off.”

His smile grew. “Just wanted to prove I know the difference between German and French.”

“And where are you taking me, exactly.”

“This is what United Airlines expects us to use tonight.” He waved a hotel voucher in her face. “Check in at three p.m. at a hotel convenient to the airport. I refuse to be stranded in Paris in some dumpy, fleabag hole-in-the-wall.”

Ann instinctively looked at her watch. It was still early, not quite nine in the morning. “But doesn't the voucher mean our rooms would be comped?”

“Absolument, ma chère.”

She was hardly proficient in French, but that much she understood. “I am not going to waste money by staying somewhere else,” she said.

He took her hand in his. “Sometimes you do what you've got to do. Now—would you just relax. We've been on the go for the better part of a week. I've seen what pressure can do to people, and I see what it's doing to you. Relax and enjoy. I am going to show you the Paris you have never seen before. Not with the schedule you keep. Today and tonight is on me, so no more complaints.”

“Complaints?” she said, somehow already feeling restraints being lifted. “I never complain.”

“No, how silly of me. The great Ann never complains.”

“But I have a question for you.”

“Okay. Shoot. But this is the last one you're allowed.”

“If this day is going to be on you then why splurge on a fancy hotel?”

He shrugged. “Who said it was fancy?”

“Please, I know your expensive taste.”

“For your information, we are headed towards an area favored by writers, actors and musicians. It is also home to the oldest church in Paris. The tour will commence later. No more talking. Feast your eyes.”

Ann obeyed, forcing further protest from her lips. And by not talking, or even thinking for that matter, she was able to do what she had never done before. During all her business trips with Felicia, to so many varied and far-off countries, she had never truly gotten away. There was never the time, the money, nor the inclination. Seated now in the back of the taxi she willed her mind to pretend, to act like a person on vacation, a person without a care in the world.

After checking out of the Hilton Hotel in Paris this morning, it had never occurred to her that she would be returning so soon to the one city in the world she preferred above all others. She opened her eyes and gazed out the window at the countryside whizzing past. All those quaint towns and villages, with their oh-so-many church steeples. She could almost smell the baguette and cheese she suddenly craved.

By the time the cab wended its way through the intricate, narrow streets of
St-Germain-des-Prés
, she was sitting wide-eyed and filled with wonder. This was the Paris steeped in tradition, with block after block of crowded cafés and hip boutiques. The architecture of a bygone era appealed to her most, and she imagined herself remaining here for weeks and months, not just hours.

“Is this where you painted?” she asked Jonathan.

“Uh-uh. Most of my time was spent in Montmartre,” he said. “Where else? But this area of Paris is where I hung out.”

When they finally pulled up to a stop at their hotel, Ann cried out with pleasure. Le Régent was nothing she expected. Un-Americanized, unpretentious, small and unassuming, she loved it at first sight. For once in her life she did nothing. She stood by as Jonathan tipped the cab driver, stepped up to the tiny check-in counter to register them, then attempted to squeeze not only their luggage but the two of them into an elevator built for one.

She continued to hold her tongue as he fought first with one bag, then the other, cursing aloud in frustration, banging the narrow carriage walls, until he finally gave up in despair.

“May I ask you something?” she said.

“No, you may not.” He ignored her and continued his efforts.

Finally, she picked up her bag that was not very heavy to begin with, slipped her room key out of his hand, and turned towards the stairwell.

“Hey—where you going?”

“To my room. Do you mind?” She did not look back.

“I'll meet you in the lobby in ten minutes,” he called after her.

She began to mount the stairs, only to find that they were so narrow, by the time she reached her destination on the third floor, she was struggling a bit herself. She turned the key in the door and immediately broke into hysterical laughter. Seldom in all her travels had she been faced with such a small room. The walls were painted a flowery pink. The single bed looked like it barely fit. The dresser opposite only had a few shelves, no drawers. And the bathroom, which she had to squeeze into, had a bath with a self-adjusting shower head but nothing to hold it in place and no shower curtain to keep the water from running onto the floor.

Yet, she loved it, realized she wouldn't change it for the world. The entire week had been filled with Hilton hotels or their ilk. It was time to be brought back to reality.

When Jonathan met her in the lobby she was ready to get out and see the city.

He took her by the hand and led her to the Metro. One glance at the huge map on the wall by the ticket booth and he knew exactly which train to take. Fifteen minutes later they arrived at their destination. They rode the escalator to street level and the warm sunshine of a cloudless day washed over them. There was a bit of a breeze in the air but the temperature, Ann guessed, was in the high sixties. As they started on their way, she could see the
Arc de Triomphe
. The closer they got, the more majestic it appeared. “Built in honor of Napoleon's most celebrated victory,” Jonathan explained once they stood across from it.

“Wonderful.” Ann paused. “But how do we actually get there?”

Jonathan laughed, although he could see her conundrum. There were two ways to cross the always bustling traffic circle—one was to follow most of the other pedestrians and use the underground passageway—the other was to chance injury to life and limb and dodge the traffic. He chose the latter, taking hold of Ann's hand and guiding her in-between the mad rush of vehicles.

“Watch out,” he warned with some amusement in his voice. “Easy does it…”

Somehow, Ann found herself being led across the precarious thoroughfare, too nervous to voice a complaint.

They paused at the entrance to the
Arc
to catch their breath. When Ann tried to speak, Jonathan hushed her. “Shh,” he said and pointed downwards.

“Why are you whispering?”

“We don't want to disturb him.”

“Who?”

“Victor Hugo. He's been lying in state down there since the late 1800s.”

She ignored him and moved away.

“Hey,” he called after her. “The guy needs his rest.”

She laughed despite herself.

“But let me tell you something else,” Jonathan quickly added.

She turned towards him again. “You're just a font of knowledge, aren't you?”

“Better believe it. But this story might even appeal to the hardhearted you.”

She flinched.

He took her hand and shook it playfully. “Relax. I'm only kidding. The
Arc de Triomphe
was conceived in 1805 but took some thirty-one years before its completion. However, Napoleon was getting married for the second time and he couldn't wait, so he did what any red-blooded Frenchman would do—he had the architect build a temporary replica on this very site, so that he and his bride-to-be could pass beneath it on the way to their wedding at the
Louvre
.” He paused. “Nice story?”

Ann shrugged. “Yeah. But I'll bet you made it up.”

“No, I didn't. You can ask anyone. Here—” He made to stop a passerby, a middle-aged gentleman wearing a black, wool beret.

“Jonathan!” She pulled him back, embarrassed. “I believe you, okay? You don't have to do that.”

He hesitated, then motioned towards the top of the Arc. “Elevator or stairs?”

“Stairs,” she told him. The climb didn't appear very steep and the exercise would do her good.

At the top they strolled to each observation post and admired the view. Jonathan pointed out the sprawling thoroughfares:
L'Avenue de la Grande-Armée
leading toward
La Défense
,
le Bois de Bologne
and
les Grand et Petit Palais
.

Before Ann knew it—and as Jonathan promised—they were soon strolling side by side along the
Champs-Elysées
, passing stores of the famous designers, from Chanel to Louis Vuitton, from Yves St Laurent to Christian Dior.

They stopped for lunch at one of the smaller restaurants along the magnificent boulevard and each had a
croque monsieur
with a Perrier. Then Jonathan continued his history lesson with
explanations of everything from Napoleon's rise to power to the zealous, French royalty and their notorious behavior.

Ann found herself completely enchanted by this side of Jonathan, finding him somewhat magnanimous and engaging.

They continued to walk until it was mid-afternoon. Jonathan led them into a hotel bar where he ordered two glasses of Dom Perignon. Halfway through her drink, Ann began to hear a little voice hissing a warning in her ear: to remain on guard, to not be gullible.

The voice followed her throughout the remainder of the day. She ignored it as best she could and time passed quickly. Ann delighted in a stroll along the
Seine
with its artist easels and book stalls, and the ride on the
bateau mouche
, which gave her a far different view of Paris by water. Then her second subway ride—or was it the third? Disembarking practically next door to the
Tour Eiffel
. Joining hundreds of tourists in line for one of the elevators. Riding to the top of the steel masterpiece and realizing that the view from the
Arc de Triomphe
was nothing compared with this.

The city spread out before her in all its color and grandeur. The view of the
Seine
from here reminded her of a necklace of diamonds, while the crowds filling the cobblestone streets reminded her of a colony of ants. She was quickly overwhelmed with the romance of the city, the ancient history etched into its very fiber.

“Look—” Jonathan pointed north, “—that's where we came from, and if you look east,” He pointed again, “you can see our hotel.”

“Honest?” Ann looked, but they were so high up and so far away she couldn't be sure of anything.

“Certainement, madame,”
he said.

She smiled at his French, and found delight in his attempts to please her.

“Imagine this structure,” he told her, “built around 1889. It was meant to attract people to the Universal Exhibition being
held in Paris that year, and was to be dismantled afterwards. But shrewd minds prevailed and here it still sits. Crazy things have been attempted, however, from people climbing it, girder by iron girder, to men parachuting from it, to one poor soul in the early 1900s who tried to fly from it, using a cape for wings, and plunging to his death in front of a horrified crowd.”

Ann glanced at him. “And you know all this, how?”

“Hey—I used to live here. Remember? The history of the city's landmarks always intrigued me.” He looked at his watch. “Uh-oh. I hope you've seen enough. It's time to go.”

Soon they were in another subway, with Jonathan anxiously looking at his watch for the fifth or sixth time, until Ann finally had to point out to him that if the order of the day was relaxation, he seemed awfully fixated on a predetermined schedule.

Instead of a reply she was met by a silent shrug.

Their next stop was the
Louvre
, but it was getting late, almost closing time. They hurriedly purchased their tickets and walked inside. Jonathan started off in a slow jog, with a tired Ann following closely behind.

Finally, he paused, instructed her to close her eyes and not open them until told to do so. She protested that she was too old for this kind of thing, but went along with him, allowing herself to be guided forward.