The Paris Key (27 page)

Jason started to harass her—in that teasing, husbandly way that made it hard to pin down—saying that all those hours she spent on volunteering and walking could have been put to better use. But when she wasn't working or walking or fixing locks, her life took on a dreamy, watercolor nature.

Among so many other things, she didn't want to think about why she refused to talk with Jason (or even herself) about having children. The thing was, Genevieve realized as she took in the significance of the e-mails, she
did
want children. She always had, in a nebulous,
maybe later
kind of way. But the moment the knowledge of Jason's infidelity washed over her, Genevieve made an even deeper realization: She didn't want
Jason's
children.
She didn't want Jason at all.

She felt shocked, a sick sensation deep in her stomach; she had sucked in great gulps of air and blew out several hard breaths to slow her pounding heart, her fluttering belly. But ultimately, she had to admit the truth: The knowledge of Jason's infidelity didn't make her want to fight for him; instead, it made her think of flight. Of freedom. Suddenly she wanted to escape from the trap of their marriage with the fervor of an animal willing to chew off her own limbs.

She had wanted
out
.

S
ylviane handed Genevieve her phone to take her picture and mounted the steps of an ornate crypt to pose. Then she beckoned for Genevieve to come up and join her.

“Come, we take a selfie, you call it, is that right? Of both of us! Beautiful women in cemetery!”

They laughed and took a few more shots before ambling back toward the entry gates of the cemetery.

“Thank you for bringing me here, Sylviane.”

“You are welcome. This is a good cemetery. The other really good one is Père-Lachaise. That one has Jim Morrison and Oscar Wilde. And the one in Montmartre has Degas.”

“Your cemeteries are like a list of who's who.”

They walked past a large memorial to the airmen of World War II.

“Could I ask you something?” Genevieve asked. “Have you ever heard anything about Philippe D'Artavel's involvement in the Algerian War?”

“I think he did not support the war. It was very controversial. Many of the people of his generation, they see this sort of thing as a treason. But me, my age, it is different.”

“Different how?”

“The great war, you know, with the Nazis, it is still very real to the ones who lived through it. Of course, this is natural. They were here, some of them starved, they were abused, their neighbors were taken away. Have you seen the signs, about the deported people?”

“Yes. They're . . . so sad.”

“This helps keep it alive. And so there was a great nationalism after the Germans are defeated, this is only natural, I think. But the younger generation, we look back and see it more complex. The Algerian people—they were a colony; it was wrong what we were doing there. The Pieds-Noirs, the French people who lived there, I understand it was hard to leave their country, and they saw it this way. But the Algerians saw it as
their
country; this is only natural, too.”

Genevieve nodded, thinking of Vietnam, Iraq, and all those other places she knew about only vaguely. Politics had never been her strong suit. But she knew how involvement in such wars could divide a nation.

“So Philippe, and even Sartre and a lot of other people, asked the question, why are we there, in Algérie? But you can imagine, a lot of people don't like that idea.”

“That makes sense, I guess,” said Genevieve.

“Is very complicated. This is why I don't like politics. I like romance more. So tell me about the Irishman.
Comment s'appelle-t-il?
”

“Killian?”

“Oui.”

“There's not much to tell. He works in computers.”

“
Vraiment?
Really?” She stuck her chin out in a very French move. “He seemed more interesting than that.”

Genevieve laughed at how Sylviane's thoughts mirrored her own. But then she felt compelled to be fair.

“There are a lot of interesting people working in computers,” she said.

“Oh, I know, I know.” Sylviane made a rolling hand gesture. Genevieve always thought of Italians being the ones who used their hands to talk, but lately she realized the French did as well. “But what else is his story?”

“He's a photographer. He likes to take pictures of abandoned buildings.”

“Ah! You see, I knew there was something more. Why abandoned buildings?”

“I don't know. I guess the same reason some of us like cemeteries.”

“Huh,” she said, as though conceding the point. “Has he been to the Frigo?”

“The
frigo
 . . . ? Doesn't
frigo
mean ‘refrigerator'?”

“It does, yes. The Frigo used to be a place where they made ice. A factory. But it was abandoned, so the artists moved in and made it into their atelier.”

“Really? That's great.”

“I don't know . . .” She shrugged. “The neighbors complain, of course, because the artists are young and loud. They take over buildings a lot. The city tries to get them out but they refuse to leave. So the city buys the buildings and lets the artists have their atelier and gallery.”

“They gave the building to the artists?”

“What else could they do?”

Genevieve smiled. “I don't know . . . I think in California there might have been tear gas involved.”

“What is ‘tear gas'?”

“I just mean to say the police probably would have moved in and arrested the artists, if they wouldn't leave.”

“And then what would happen to the building?”

“It would probably be left to rot. Either that, or turned into expensive lofts for people who work in the computer industry. Anyway, I think Killian's more interested in the catacombs.
Les souterrains
. Do you happen to know how to get in—not to the tourist part, but the other section?”

“
Les souterrains
 . . . they scare me.” Sylviane shook her head and shivered, pulling her shoulders up to her ears. Genevieve could hear her mother's voice:
“A goose walked over your grave.”

Upon reaching the gates, they both turned back and took one last look back at Cimetière Montparnasse. It was a peaceful place, with merely a handful of people—mourners and tourists—strolling among the headstones, birds tittering in the trees. Genevieve was only sorry they couldn't hear gypsy music in the background; it would have made it perfect.

“Okay, enough of death,” Sylviane declared. “How about we do something fun?”

“Like what?”

“We need to go clothes shopping.”

“Clothes shopping?”

“I saying, just look at you.”

Genevieve glanced down at her jeans and sweater. “What?”

“I think you must dress better if you wish to secure the love of this Irishman.”

Genevieve laughed. “I have no intention of securing the love of any man, Irish or not.”

Sylviane hit her lightly on the arm and made a hand gesture of exasperation. “What are you talking? He is a beautiful man.”

“The problem isn't him; it's me. I've separated from my husband, but I'm not in any way ready to be in a relationship.”

Sylviane spoke with exaggerated patience, as though she were explaining something to a stubbornly dimwitted student. “I am not saying a
relationship
. You do not need to
be
with him, just attract him. It is always good to attract the man; this does not mean
relationship
.”

“And besides, I think he has a girlfriend.”

“Of course he has a girlfriend! He is a beautiful man. This is no reason not to make him fall in love with you. At least a little.”

Genevieve laughed. “I see I have a lot to learn about romance.”

“
Mais oui, bien sûr.
Of course, romance was invented in Paris, did you not know this? This is why the Frenchwomen, we know how to attract the man.”

“So, speaking of that: What about you? How is your love life?” Genevieve asked as they started down the boulevard Edgar-Quinet.

Sylviane let out a long sigh. “I don't so much know about the men here. Hey! Maybe I need American man, eh? Maybe a rom-com type? You know any I might like?”

“I don't think I'm the best matchmaker at the moment. And I'm sorry to say, I don't think most American men are like the heroes of the movies. No one is, to be fair. Have you noticed how rom-coms always come to an abrupt end after the marriage proposal? It's all downhill from there.”

Sylviane shrugged. “Anyway, I am going to take you to Galeries Lafayette. You need new dress. It is a fantastic mall, good boutiques, and from the roof café there is the best view in all of Paris.”

“That seems like quite a claim. What about the views from the tour Eiffel or Notre-Dame . . . ?”

Sylviane said something quick and dismissive in French. “Anyway, you will see. Galeries Lafayette. We will get lunch, and new dresses, and then we will have
apero
!”

Angela, 1983

“W
hat is this?” Angela asks, her hands shaking.

They are in Xabi's apartment, the one he shares with Thibeaux and whatever itinerant artist or drunken revolutionary might need a couch on which to sleep. It reminds Angela of a student's hovel: the mattress on the floor, the stained towels, the threadbare curtains hanging crooked in the window. They have no money and don't seem to care; the refrigerator is empty but for a single beer and an old Chinese takeout container full of crusty rice.

When Angela suggests that she could bring in some groceries, make dinner, or perhaps even rehang the curtains, Xabi nuzzles her neck and calls her his “little American bourgeois.” She learns it is not revolutionary to be concerned about such things as a nice home, a nice meal.

But then, she is not a revolutionary.

She is, quite simply, a woman in love. A married woman, in love with a man other than her husband. What is she doing here, still?

She holds out the paper for Xabi to see.

He takes it. “That, my love, is none of your business.”

“The writing is in Euskara.”

“Yes.”

“And it appears to be a map of the Spanish embassy.”

“I need to go there to renew my passport.”

“Why all the Euskara, then, with arrows?”

“Why all the questions about nothing?” He balls up the paper and tosses it in the kitchen trashcan, where it lands atop a banana peel and coffee grounds. “It is nothing. What is wrong, Angela? Are you angry?”

Last night, late, she lay in Xabi's bed, drifting between sleep and wakefulness, her body still flushed and subtly vibrating in the aftermath of their lovemaking. In the other room Thibeaux and Xabi and a few others were talking in low voices, in a combination of French, Spanish, and Euskara. Angela knew high school French and spoke a little Spanish but not a word of Euskara. Still, she made out a few phrases:

Spanish embassy. Day after tomorrow. Five o'clock.

She looks into Xabi's beautiful eyes. They are so deep she wants to drown herself in their depths, like diving into a gorgeous pool of blue. They make her forget, lose herself, what she knows.

“Tell me, Angel,” Xabi says, his big hands holding her arms gently, telegraphing their warmth to her blood. “What is wrong?”

She starts to cry. “I am a married woman, Xabi. I have a son. I shouldn't be here.”

“Shh,” he says, pulling her to him. Kissing her hair. Speaking soft and low. “I know. I do . . . I know it is impossible. But for here, and now, let us love. That is all. Just for now. We don't have long, I know. I know.”

Later, when she is lying in his arms, she will wonder whether he meant their time was limited because she will be going back to America, to her husband and son . . . or because Xabi will be gone, the day after tomorrow, after doing something terrible at the Spanish embassy, something spoken of in whispers in back rooms.

She gets up, pretends she needs to use the toilet. The trashcan in the kitchen still holds the banana peel and coffee grounds, but the wadded-up piece of paper is no longer there.