The Paris Architect: A Novel Part 12

28.

Manet, who was lifting a gla.s.s of wine to his lips, froze. A look of terror pa.s.sed over his face then instantly disappeared. He glanced at Lucien, who laid his head against Jeanne's arm and closed his eyes. Drunk as he was, Lieber sensed the tension in the room and set down his gla.s.s. He stared at Manet. Like all senior officers, he wasn't used to being ignored.

"Monsieur Manet, didn't you hear me?" he inquired in a surprisingly pleasant tone of voice. "I asked you to light a fire for us."

Manet set his gla.s.s down and slowly walked over to the fireplace. He gazed at the logs in the andiron for a few seconds.

"Yes, Maxie, a fire would be so romantic," said Celine, who was giving Major Herzog the eye.

"But, Colonel, it's really not that cold at all in here," offered Manet in a quiet voice. "Maybe once you have some more wine, you'll warm up."

"Bulls.h.i.+t. That is a working fireplace, isn't it?" Lieber said. "So what the h.e.l.l is your problem?"

"I seem to remember a problem with the flue. I was supposed to get a chimney sweep in, and I don't think he ever cleaned it," said Manet.

Lucien glanced over at Herzog, who had put his book aside and was watching this exchange with great interest. The major, he knew, had grown fond of the industrialist and respected him, so he no doubt hated to see Lieber treat him this way. Herzog jumped up and went over to the fireplace.

"Excuse me, Monsieur Manet. Let me start the fire. I'll check the flue first." Herzog turned the cast-iron handle to the right, squatted on his knees, and peered up the chimney. "I can see the stars, so it must be clean," he said.

He expertly lit some newspaper and kindling and had the fire roaring in seconds. The girls gathered in front of the fireplace, rubbing their hands and legs. Celine lifted her skirt above her waist, to the delighted shrieks of her two coworkers. Manet walked over to an armchair in the corner of the room and sat down in a dejected heap. He stared at the floor. Lucien slumped back in his chair and couldn't bring himself to look at the fireplace.

"That's much better," said Lieber, downing another gla.s.s of wine. "The girls can warm up now. Besides, they've got work to do."

All three wh.o.r.es laughed like crazy and began whispering to each other, deciding who would do whom tonight. Each one probably wanted Herzog, with his good looks, thought Lucien.

Serrault knew that Manet would never talk the German out of lighting a fire. When he heard the strike of a match, he put his arm around his wife's waist and pulled her tightly against him. Sophie laid her head on his chest and closed her eyes.

"Why, Albert, why?" whimpered Sophie.

"My dear," he replied softly, giving his wife a hug.

It was now a question of time-how long the Germans would stay and how long before the logs were ablaze. They had been fast asleep when Manet had warned them with six rings of the telephone, and they hadn't had time to change out of their bed clothes. Their hiding s.p.a.ce was actually quite roomy; they could stand completely upright with enough room in front and behind their bodies. Never did they think they'd actually have to use the hiding s.p.a.ce. Only three days from now, they'd be in Switzerland. Serrault could only begin to imagine what was going on in Manet's mind. Just sitting there watching the logs ignite. If he got up and revealed to the Germans that two people were hiding behind the fireplace, then all of them, including the architect, whose voice Serrault recognized, would be arrested.

The inside of the hiding s.p.a.ce was pitch black; he couldn't see Sophie's face, only felt the warmth of her body and her pounding heart. Music coming from a radio could be heard quite clearly. With his free hand, Serrault reached in front of him and touched the back of the false fire wall.

"Albert, I'm so frightened. What are we going to do?"

"Do you remember the winter we spent in Morocco-in Rabat? When was that?" whispered Serrault.

"1908-no, 1909."

"Our suite overlooked the beach, and the first evening we were there, we didn't go out. We stayed in and watched the sun drop below the horizon. Do you remember the incredible color it cast on the sea?"

"It was such a beautiful intense shade of red, almost an orange red. Yes, you're right; it was incredible. I'd never seen such a color."

"It's funny how things stay in one's mind. Like it happened just yesterday. That's how vivid a memory it was."

"I think Morocco was the most beautiful place we ever visited, don't you?"

"Even the desert had this magnificent beauty in its desolation. It was breathtaking."

"And at night, there was that blanket of stars, and it seemed to be right on top of us."

"You could almost reach up and pull one down," said Serrault.

"And put it in your pocket and take it home," said Sophie with a quiet laugh.

It was just the faintest of scents, as the smoke seeped through the edges of the false wall, but Serrault recognized it as ash, a wood he had used for his fires at home. After a few minutes, the blackness of the s.p.a.ce became dusty with smoke as if someone had beaten out a dirty rug.

"Yes, of all the places we've visited, Morocco may have been the most beautiful," said Serrault, feeling that Sophie was beginning to wheeze. Her breathing became labored, and her chest heaved in and out. Serrault's throat seized up as if he had swallowed cotton.

"I loved walking through...the bazaars, all the wonderful sights and...sounds, right out of the...Arabian nights," replied Sophie with great difficulty. Her speech had become a series of gasps.

"I still carry that Moroccan leather wallet around, can you believe that?"

"Of course, it's so...beautiful with the red leather...and gold inlay."

The air was almost gone now, and thick smoke filled the chamber. Their eyes began to burn and water. Sophie started gagging and coughing, but no matter how hard she tried to stifle her cough with her hand, it came spilling out. Serrault's coughing began and wouldn't let up. He felt for her face and leaned down to give her a long kiss.

"I couldn't have asked for a better a wife."

"And G.o.d couldn't have given me a better husband."

Serrault took out the handkerchief from Sophie's dressing gown and placed it in her mouth while she kept her head against his chest. He placed his own handkerchief in his mouth.

As the blaze died down, the wood glowed a reddish orange and smoldered away. Meanwhile, the party dragged on for another fifteen minutes, until Lieber vomited all over the beautiful scarlet and tan Persian rug and finally pa.s.sed out. Immediately, Herzog called his office for a staff car. Then, with Manet's and Lucien's help, he dragged Lieber into the lift, shoving the three tarts in behind. Lucien declined the major's offer of a ride and waited for the lift to descend. Manet had rushed into the kitchen to fetch a pot of water and doused the fire, then, with Lucien's help, dragged out the false wall.

"They'll be all right, monsieur. Don't worry, they'll be fine," Lucien said in a confident tone as they pulled away the wall.

In the opening, they saw two bodies in slippers and nightclothes buckled at the knees.

"Monsieur, madame, we're here," Manet shouted.

"Please hold on; we'll have you out in just a second," said Lucien.

With great difficulty, Lucien and Manet pulled out the two limp bodies by their legs-a very tiny woman in her seventies and an old man Lucien recognized as the Jew he had met in the apartment. Both were dead. To his horror, Lucien saw that both had handkerchiefs stuffed in their mouths. Manet stood motionless above the bodies, but Lucien was dumbstruck at the terrible sight.

"Christ, this can't be," Lucien insisted. "Look, this pipe at the bottom here sucked out any smoke directly to the outside."

Imbedded in the lower half of the back wall of the hiding place was a sheet metal sleeve six centimeters in diameter.

"I'm telling you, the natural draft sucked out the smoke. Hot air will always travel in the direction of cold air. Look." Lucien stuck his arm into the sleeve but ran into something hard and rough.

"What the h.e.l.l?" Lucien kept hitting the ma.s.s with his fist. Manet pulled Lucien's arm out, took out his cigarette lighter, and peered inside.

"It's a bird's nest. It's completely blocking the opening," Manet said.

Lucien looked and, to his astonishment, saw a tight ball of twigs and shreds of cloth mixed with mud clogging the far end of the sleeve. It reminded him of gray papier-mache.

"A f.u.c.kin' bird's nest," said Lucien. "I didn't even think of that when I put in the sleeve. If I'd just thought to put in a little piece of wire mesh at the end...Christ, I'm such an idiot. I killed them. All because of a G.o.dd.a.m.n bird's nest."

Lucien staggered out from the fireplace opening and stretched his arms out to brace himself against the mantle.

"I should have thought of that. G.o.dd.a.m.n it, I should have thought of that."

He turned his head to look down at the dead couple. Suddenly, he collapsed to his knees next to the old lady. Without thinking, he reached out and caressed her soft white hair. Even in old age, she was still uncommonly pretty. He pulled the handkerchief out of her mouth and began to stroke her cheek. Lucien continued to do this for almost two minutes before Manet put his hand on his shoulder, but he did not seem to notice. Manet shook him roughly, and Lucien finally stopped.

"I must make a call to take care of this," said Manet.

Lucien began to sob, his body shaking. "Christ, what have I done?"

"It was Lieber who killed them, Lucien."

"No," said Lucien, looking up at Manet. "I killed them."

"Please don't do this to yourself. It was a cruel accident. G.o.d's will."

"f.u.c.k G.o.d," Lucien shouted as he pulled the handkerchief from the old man's mouth and held it with both his hands.

"Come, Lucien, you have to get out of here," Manet said. "I'll take care of it. Please go home."

"What were their names?"

"I don't know if that's the best-"

"G.o.dd.a.m.n it, what were their names?"

"Albert and Sophie Serrault."

"Who were they? Were they friends of yours?" Lucien shouted. "Tell me, G.o.dd.a.m.n it."

"Yes, I knew them. He came from Nimes as a kid to start his own construction firm."

"And?"

"The usual story with these people. He works like a dog and becomes a success. At the turn of the century, he was smart enough to realize that reinforced concrete was the new thing, so he specialized in that and made a fortune."

"France was the world leader in reinforced concrete, did you know that?" asked Lucien with pride in his voice.

"I heard he was a war hero. Could've sat out the Great War, but he fought and was decorated for gallantry many times. Foch and Clemenceau personally pinned medals on him."

"He told me he was in the war."

Manet was puzzled. "You met this man? When?"

"When I came back to take some measurements. He was in the apartment. Told me he should've left France. He didn't believe what would happen to him."

"All the old couples, they get their children out, but they wind up staying. It's like they're tired of running. It makes sense in a way; these people have been running for two thousand years."

"Look how pretty she still is. You can tell how beautiful she once was." Lucien started to sob and bent down to kiss her cheek. Manet made no effort to stop him. "I bet they were married a long time. Happily married."

"It's time to leave, Lucien," said Manet, gently placing his hand under Lucien's right arm to bring him to his feet.

"They saved our lives, you know that? If Lieber had discovered them, you and I would be on our way to Drancy. That is, if we hadn't been executed first," said Lucien, looking straight into Manet's eyes.

"Yes, I know that only too well."

"Serrault told me an odd thing. He said I was a righteous man for what I was doing. I told him that was nonsense."

Manet looked down at Serrault's body and smiled.

"He was a shrewd judge of character."

Lucien was in a trance as Manet ushered him to the door. When he found himself outside in the cool night air, he couldn't remember going down the lift. It was well after the curfew and the streets were completely empty. Lucien leaned against the base of the building and looked up and down the rue du Renard for German patrols. He heard no sounds of marching Germans in the distance, so he began walking blindly down the rue du Renard until he came to the quai de Gesvres and almost tumbled down the steps to the Seine. Both the quai and the river were deserted. He knelt by the edge of the Seine and threw up, then sat against the quai wall in the shadows, staring into s.p.a.ce. Throughout the night, his emotions swung wildly from unrelenting guilt to blind rage at the Germans. Even if the Jews were the worst of what people called them, they were human beings and shouldn't end up like that. No one should die like that. A German patrol of five men with machine guns slung over their shoulders pa.s.sed only five meters away from Lucien, never noticing him against the wall. He stayed there until daybreak, clutching the handkerchief he'd taken from Serrault's mouth. Instead of tossing it in the Seine, he kept it in the side pocket of his suit jacket and walked home.

For the next week, Lucien could think of nothing but the dead faces of the Serraults, with the handkerchiefs in their mouths. Nothing he did would purge the image from his mind. No hour pa.s.sed when he did not think of them. His remorse was unending. The couple even invaded his dreams. Every night, the Serraults joined other images from his life to form a surreal film that ran in his mind. In one dream, he was back in his childhood bedroom where he kept his trunk at the foot of the bed, and when he opened it up the Serraults were inside, at the bottom, eating at a dining room table like little doll figures, with hundreds of tiny birds flying around them. He shouted at them, but they ignored him. In another dream, he was in a car he didn't recognize. The Serraults were driving through a landscape that resembled North Africa with him, his father, and Celeste, who was holding a dead rabbit in the backseat. Throughout the ride, his father was screaming something in his ear.

Lucien would toss and turn violently, waking up in a cold sweat, then get up and pace throughout his apartment in the middle of the night, chain smoking away. Even his architecture, which was his whole world, seemed unimportant to him, and he didn't go near his drawing board. He pushed all the work onto Alain and rarely set foot in the office. He couldn't bear being at home so he spent his days walking the streets or sitting by the Seine. Going to the cinema was of no use; he could never keep his mind on the film. And he hadn't had the courage to face Manet since that terrible night. He took the handkerchief with him everywhere and touched it whenever the image of the Serraults came to mind, as if he were rubbing salt in a wound to punish himself for his hubris.

29.

The old stone cottage with the dilapidated barn next to it looked very familiar to Lucien as he steered the Citroen down the winding road. So did the little inn coming up on the right. Lucien knew he'd been this way before but couldn't remember when. It was hard to think with Adele talking nonstop. She hadn't shut up since they'd left Paris. As he'd predicted, she was thrilled to see the car outside her window. In just seconds, she was downstairs and in the pa.s.senger's seat, giving him directions where to go. Lucien had planned a romantic afternoon in Saint-Denis, but Adele insisted on going southwest of Paris in the opposite direction. All she would reveal was that she had a new weekend retreat to show him. With a navigator's instincts, she issued directions as they roared down the country roads.

"Make a right here, my love," she ordered. "About five more minutes. You're going to be quite impressed with your little Adele's new house."

Lucien didn't catch the last remark because his attention was focused on the rundown feed store on his left. Where had he seen it before?