The Paris Architect: A Novel (20 page)

30

“A beautiful building. You should be very proud.”

Lucien was proud. So proud that he was daydreaming at that very moment of winning the French Academy of Architecture’s highest award for his just-completed engine factory in Chaville. Standing alongside Major Herzog, he relished every detail—the strong horizontal lines of his ribbon-glass windows, the vertical emphasis of the brick entryway, the beautiful curve of the arched concrete roof, which was strong enough to withstand an Allied air attack. Lucien and Celeste had no children, but he’d always imagined that the completion of a great design would be like the birth of one’s child.

“I knew I could do a good building if I had the chance,” said Lucien, talking to no one in particular.

“It will be the first of many,” said Herzog, slapping him on the back with his elegantly gloved hand. “Your design for the Tremblay factory is even better than this.”

Lucien beamed at Herzog. After three months, he had come to regard the German as his friend, a kindred spirit. His unease over being friendly with the enemy had evaporated. Lucien was still annoyed that Celeste thought of him as a collaborator. He was merely an architect who wanted work. And the opportunities to do this happened to be coming from the Germans. Herzog needed factories, and Lucien designed them for him. Technically, he was working for Manet, who cooperated in order not to have his business appropriated by the Germans. It was the smart thing to do. He wasn’t some evil profiteer who was raking in millions. And Lucien was in no way getting rich off all this war work for the Reich.

“You really think the Tremblay factory will be better?” asked Lucien, finding himself anxious for Herzog’s approval.

“Much better. The concrete structure is even more dynamic than this. A beautiful expression of functionalism.”

Lucien’s ego was flying into the stratosphere. He had finally proven that he could design. All he had needed was the chance. At this moment, he felt that there was nothing he couldn’t do architecturally. He couldn’t wait for more commissions.

Lucien and Herzog walked slowly around the building, admiring every detail. Trucks were driving in to unload the machinery for production work, which was to begin next week. Though Manet had driven his crews to finish the building ahead of time, they’d still adhered to Lucien’s drawings and hadn’t cut any corners. Everything had been done according to Lucien’s specifications. That would never have happened in peacetime. Clients always deleted some detail that they thought useless and unnecessary but that Lucien absolutely loved.

“I’ll tell you a secret,” Herzog said. “A new munitions factory is being planned south of here in Fresnes. When I was in Berlin on leave last week, Reich Minister Speer talked about it. It’s only in the early stages, but it will happen, I assure you. And because of your success here, you’re a shoo-in for the commission.”

“How big will it be?” asked Lucien, almost salivating.

“Over fifty hectares. A huge complex, like a city.”

Lucien’s mind was racing. He forgot about the building in front of him. In just ten seconds, he was envisioning the site plan. The buildings would all join together to create one grand composition. Lucien was so lost in his fantasy that he didn’t notice Colonel Lieber approaching. Herzog cleared his throat and saluted, bringing Lucien back to earth.

“A very adequate building, Herzog,” said Lieber. “Some unnecessary flourishes, but very adequate. Congratulations, Major. Berlin is very pleased with my…our work here.”

“Thank you, Colonel. But it is Monsieur Bernard’s building. His fine design gives us a most efficient facility,” said Herzog, nodding toward the architect.

Lieber barely acknowledged Lucien. “Yes, an interesting building, monsieur.”

When a client said a building was interesting, it meant he didn’t like it but didn’t have the nerve to say so outright. He smiled at the colonel and bowed his head slightly. His hatred of the man had increased exponentially since the night at rue du Renard. But as Manet had repeatedly told him, there was nothing to be done about it. Lieber wasn’t going away.

“Now Reich Minister Speer, there’s a great architect,” exclaimed Lieber. “The Fuehrer’s
personal
architect. He’s designed some incredible buildings. The great dome in Berlin will hold two hundred thousand people. His new Reichstag is an incredibly beautiful structure.”

Herzog, who was standing behind Lieber, rolled his eyes, and Lucien looked down at his shoes, trying to suppress a smile. Speer’s design for Berlin was an over-scaled, pompous display of egomania. Hitler, who had twice failed to get into the Royal Academy of Art in Vienna when he was a young man, had always harbored the wish to be an architect and took a personal interest in designing the new Berlin. Lucien didn’t fault Speer for designing to please the Fuehrer. Maybe Speer secretly hated the neoclassical style that Hitler loved. All architects kissed ass to get commissions; it was part and parcel of the job. Lucien had seen examples of Hitler’s art and frankly thought he had an innate talent. He would’ve hired him to do a rendering of one of his buildings. Just think how the world would’ve turned out if Hitler had gotten into art school, thought Lucien.

31

“What do you mean, you’re not interested in seeing my building?”

Celeste kept her back turned to Lucien, vigorously washing a dinner plate in the sink. Lucien walked up to her and spoke directly into her right ear. There was a time when he would’ve planted a kiss on that slender neck, but that time had long since passed.

“I said…what do you—?”

“You heard me the first time,” Celeste said.

Lucien turned and sat back down at the kitchen table and began to play with the little white enameled scale they used to weigh portions of their food. All Parisians had one, so they could stretch their meals as much as possible. He pressed his finger down on the metal pan and the dial read 200 grams. The rage was building inside of him, but he decided he wasn’t going to lose his temper this time.

“All right, you don’t have to see it. But can you at least have the courtesy of giving me your reason for not wanting to come with me?”

“I don’t want to be seen with a collaborator.”

“You’re calling
me
a collaborator?”

“You and that Manet, you’re profiting from the misery of the French people. Helping Germans to kill our allies. And the worst thing is that you enjoy doing it. You throw your heart and soul into those goddamn projects. And you’re always kissing that German major’s ass. You spend so much time with that guy that I think you may secretly be a queer.”

“Did you happen to notice that we eat three meals a day, have decent clothes, and don’t have to scrounge around for the basic necessities of life?” Lucien shot back, still keeping the pent-up rage from spewing out like a geyser.

“But at what price, Lucien?”

“Are you saying I’m a traitor?”

Celeste put down her dish rag and hesitated a moment before answering, which infuriated Lucien. He wanted her to instantly say that it wasn’t true.

“No, traitor’s not the right word. You’re a sort of an architectural Mephistopheles. You know, you’ve sold your soul to the devil in order to design.”

Lucien didn’t react but sat there absorbing the word “Mephistopheles,” repeating it in his mind. He didn’t know what to say to defend himself.

“So don’t ask me to go see your buildings again. I won’t go.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t trouble you. After all, you never bothered to see my work before the war, so what the hell’s the difference.”

“You’ll be damn lucky if France doesn’t find you guilty of being a collaborator after the war. The disgrace…and you could be hanged.”

“Knock off the dramatics. No one’s going to be hanged because I’m not helping the Germans; I’m doing buildings that will help France recover after the war.”

“Nice rationalization—or should I call it fantasy? Your buildings have swastikas on them, never forget that.”

“You don’t know a goddamn thing, woman. I
am
fighting the Nazis.”

“You? That’s a joke.

“I’ve saved French lives.”

“The only life you care about is your own.”

“Bullshit! I saved two Jews,” Lucien said vehemently.

An awful silence enveloped the kitchen. He knew he’d made a horrible mistake. A look of disgust began to form on Celeste’s face. She walked over to the table and sat in the chair across from him. Celeste swallowed hard.

“Lucien, have you gone mad? Tell me you didn’t help any Jews. Don’t you know you’ve signed our death warrants? Tell me you’re lying.”

“I can’t tell you any more.”

“The Gaumont family on the rue Rousselet were all shot for hiding that little Jewish kid. Just for pretending a four-year-old boy was a Christian relative. The mother, the father, the grandparents, and all their kids are dead. All for some stupid self-righteous notion about helping one’s fellow man.”

“Maybe it isn’t so stupid.”

“In wartime, Christian brotherhood takes a backseat to saving one’s own skin. It’s not pretty or noble, but it’s the cold hard truth.”

“That wasn’t why I did it.”

Celeste smiled. “I wondered where that money came from. I knew it wasn’t from the Nazis. They don’t pay their collaborators that well. It must have been a big temptation to have all that money in your pocket. To buy nice things for you, me, and your mistress.”

Lucien, who had been holding his head in his hands, looked up at Celeste.

“You idiot,” said Celeste. “A wife
always
knows.”

“I did it for us, whether you believe it or not.”

“I
don’t
believe it. But I am impressed that you played both sides. Getting money from the Jews and designing your beloved architecture for the Boche. I guess you can have your cake and eat it too. But leave it to you to screw yourself in both directions. You’re either going to be killed by the Gestapo for helping Jews or killed for being a collaborator. I don’t know exactly what you’ve gotten yourself into—I don’t want to know. I could put up with that slut you have on the side, but not this. I’m not going to be tortured or deported because of your foolishness.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I’m leaving you.”

“You’re what?” Stunned, Lucien shot up from his chair and looked down at his wife.

“You heard me. Our marriage was finished anyway. It was a bad match from the beginning. To use one of your dumb architecture metaphors, the marriage was built on a weak foundation, and it just crumbled.”

“In war you have to make hard decisions. I—”

“And you made the wrong decisions. No matter how you look at it, you’re screwed. Stop fooling yourself, Lucien; you’re not a man of high moral fiber. It’s just like I said before—an architectural Mephistopheles.”

Lucien walked to the tall kitchen window that overlooked the courtyard. Except for a scrawny black cat prowling at its edge, the space was deserted.

“There’s something else.”

“What?” he answered irritably, his back toward her, bracing for more abuse to be hurled at him.

“I’ve met someone,” she said in a soft quiet voice.

It was as though someone had hit him on the back of his head with a shovel. He almost fell forward. Lucien placed his hands on the sides of the window frame and dropped his head. After a minute, he walked out of the kitchen to the foyer closet and grabbed his tweed jacket. Slamming the door behind him, he ran down the stairs instead of waiting for the lift. He was so beside himself with anger that it took him almost five minutes to notice he’d walked ten blocks along the rue Saint-Denis. Three hours later, when he returned to the apartment, Celeste and her clothes were gone.

32

“Don’t lie to me, Gaspard. You’re not leaving me for another woman.”

“One of my students. We’ve…”

Juliette Trenet walked up to her husband and looked into his eyes. He immediately looked away.

“I wish it were one of your students,” Juliette said. “Then I could bear the heartbreak.”

Gaspard said nothing, gazing at the oriental rug in the vestibule of their apartment.

“Professor Pinard called you into his office, didn’t he?”

“No, that’s not…”

“And he gave you a choice—me…or your job.”

“Juliette, please…”

“And you chose your professorship in medieval literature.”

Gaspard, a short, handsome man with light brown hair, stepped back from Juliette.

“All because Vichy and the Nazis decreed that because my grandmother—whom I never even met—was Jewish…I’m now officially Jewish.”

Juliette went over to the coat rack and held up her forest-green flannel blazer, which had a yellow felt star on its front breast pocket. “Even though I’ve never set foot in a synagogue or know a single word of Hebrew.”

“The way they decide who’s a Jew is ridiculous.” Gaspard shook his head. “A priest at a parish in Ménilmontant was classified a Jew.”

“I was fired from a job I loved because I’m a Jew. And now the only man I’ve ever loved is leaving me because I’m a Jew.”

“It’s not…”

“Please, please tell me this isn’t happening, Gaspard,” Juliette cried out. “That I’m just having a terrible nightmare. For God’s sake, wake me up.”

Juliette placed her hand on the lapel of his tweed jacket. Gaspard stepped away from her until his back was against the wood-paneled apartment door.

“You know, I fell in love with you the moment I first saw you at Jean’s party,” said Juliette. “So handsome. And when we started talking, I knew right then how brilliant you were. Remember?”

“Of course, I remember. And
you
won my heart in an instant. For a woman to be so pretty and to have a doctorate in bacteriology doing such important research at the university,” replied Gaspard. “I was so happy to find you.”

“All the wonderful trips we took and all the good times we’ve had together in the last five years. The parties we gave.”

“Why, yes,” said Gaspard with a smile.

“Then please stay, my love. Together, we can get through this,” Juliette pleaded with tears welling up in her eyes.