Parisian Promises (3 page)

J
ean-Michel left a smiling Monica sitting at the table, and walked off to whisper in the waiter's ear. Monica craned her neck to see where Jean-Michel was heading, but the longer flaps of the café's red awning blocked her view. The awning trembled when Jean-Michel passed underneath. This was exactly how Jean-Michel expected Paris to react to him––and not the other way around. He knew how to hide in plain sight among the interminable gawky tourists cluttering all the picturesque sites, or among the agitated students in the Latin Quarter. He expected everything, from the city's fabled historic haunts to its malodorous quais, to conform to his vision of the future––and to conspire along with him. He used its crowds, its drizzle, its wide avenues and narrow covered passages, even the three-hundred-step stairway leading up to Sacré-Cœur, like a sleek cat slinking in and out of sight, intent on catching its prey.

Of course, there were added benefits to moving stealthily through the many Parisian
quartiers
. Women on the street were anxious to flirt with him, unabashedly tying and untying their long silk scarves in a public imitation of seductive undressing. Usually he ignored them, because he had more important things to do, for the greater good, but on some days he stopped to bask in their jittery sensuality. Venice had its thousand purring cats underfoot, weaving around the narrow lanes and fetid canals, but Paris seemed to overflow with female students craving his attention.

Just a week earlier, he'd followed a lanky blonde up the narrow circular stairs of the tower at Notre Dame Cathedral; when he leaned her against the winged stone chimera, she kissed him passionately. When Jean-Michel recalled that heady moment, he seemed to remember the stone gargoyle drooling from its open jaws, winking approvingly at him while, at the same time, the cathedral's bells pealed their admiration of his stunt. Jean-Michel grunted as he recalled the words of an ancient clergyman who had asked: “To what purpose are here placed these creatures, half beast, half man?” Jean-Michel rejoiced in knowing the answer to this 12
^th
century conundrum. The gargoyles were both a symbol of evil and also a talisman against evil. Either way, these Parisian gargoyles watched over him.

Ever since his early childhood, he'd imagined that the inanimate objects around him spoke to him, uttering words of validation for whatever small feats he accomplished, feats that went uncommented upon by his socially active parents. In their absence, surrounded by household staff that only made sure he was fed and washed, Jean-Michel relished the applause––the pat on the back that the many large clocks gave him every hour, on the hour.

In Paris, Jean-Michel began to believe that the lion statue of the Pont Alexandre III bridge was beginning to ignore him when he walked by—that, in fact, the lion and the other statues were energized by the overt actions of the more militant groups exhibiting their power in Paris. If Jean-Michel wanted to hear the lion roar again for his stellar leadership, he had to act quickly.

Monica settled back in her seat, unable to see to where Jean-Michel had disappeared. He had descended into the café's centuries-old wine cellar, and sauntered all the way back to its mustiest and most secure storage area. Unlike other oenophiles, Jean-Michel didn't stop to read a wine label or daydream about a particular vintage; he could imbibe the best and rarest wines in the world whenever he wanted, and by now all the hoopla about French wines bored him. He only paused for a moment to ridicule the new motto of the Château Mouton Rothschild estate: “First, I am. Second, I used to be. But Mouton does not change.” Everything changes, Jean-Michel thought, and I will be a part of a sea of change in Western Europe.

Two men waited for him, shivering in the coolness of the cellar. They peered into the dusty bottles of Château Margaux, locked up behind bars, their eyes darting to and fro in case a dreaded turncoat or police officers might pounce on them from behind the stored wine bottles. The dark cellar's stone walls and stuffy atmosphere reminded them of the prehistoric caves they explored as children in their Basque homeland, their beloved Euskadi. This was a place they were no longer free to roam, the homeland they would always carry in their hearts and try to protect from those who wanted to destroy all their rights.

This was their purpose for living now––they served Euskadi and no one else. Other better- organized insurgent Basque groups maintained headquarters in Paris, but the men hiding in the wine cellar thought these groups did nothing but hold conferences and talk in circles about their demands and decisions. One of these decisions was to train all the exiled Basque rebels in France, and to remain in contact with the Basque nationalists in France––hence the presence, albeit surreptitious, of so many Basques in Paris. This better-known Basque nationalist group was also effective at raising funds. Its bank robberies in 1972 netted over one million francs, an amount that couldn't fail to impress all the other disparate nationalist groups trying to organize themselves in this ancient city. In this era of social upheaval, the tactics employed by one group influenced the actions of evolving insurgents.

However, the secret faction that had sent these two inept men on this specific mission did not just issue
communiqués
; it took action––even if in some instances their Basque comrades managed to accidentally blow themselves up. The faction believed that these were the casualties of war. Not only did combatants suffer, so did the innocent. A pregnant Basque woman captured by the Spanish police in Pamplona in 1968 was tortured so viciously that she suffered a miscarriage. These were individual tragedies, but nothing on the scale of the catastrophe of losing their Basque liberties and culture—their beloved Euskera language––and this was the solemn purpose that made the men hiding in the cellar cherish their outlaw status, even if they were also shaking in their boots with fear.

Back in the Basque Country, the shorter man had been a medical student, and the other a village plumber, so both were ill-prepared for the clandestine work they'd been assigned. Their superiors had selected them for the Paris operation because they both had dark hair, long noses and unremarkable pale faces, ideal for blending in to the Parisian crowds. They'd also selected them for their facility with languages: both had been raised in the countryside of Irun, near the French border, and spoke three languages fluently.

As Jean-Michel approached, his slender silhouette mysteriously backlit like a spy in a movie, the men could not make out his face. In fact, these two fools were not very observant; they were as gullible as they were patriotic.

“He can see our faces,” hissed the plumber. “Turn around!”

Jean-Michel's laughter echoed through the cellar.

“I don't care about remembering your faces,” he scoffed. “I can already see that neither one of you is a tactician. Suppose I wanted to harm you: wouldn't it be easer this way?”

He tapped both men sharply on their shoulders. Unlike trained fighters who would have struck back, both men cowered, turning just enough to glimpse Jean-Michel's face.

Instantly, they mistrusted him. He looked too tanned, and he spoke Spanish with the tempo of an Andalusian, or perhaps with the breakneck speed of the Caribbean. This was exactly how others in their group had been misled before. They'd thought they were dealing with foreign sympathizers whose Basque ancestors had migrated to Venezuela long ago, but instead they had fallen into the clutches of the Spanish police, and had never been seen or heard from again.

The men whispered their requests to Jean-Michel, and then he ambled away past the racks of wine bottles, showing no fear of the two men lurking in the cellar. He would never be the rat caught in the trap, and he had developed the acute observation skills of an ace hunter. Jean-Michel knew that these two weaklings would break easily. In his mind, he had already disposed of them.

A couple of minutes after Jean-Michel's departure, the men heard the familiar ring of a tiny brass bell, wielded by the waiter. This was their signal to leave the cellar and melt into the famed Paris avenue as anonymously as they had entered. By the time they adjusted to the sunlight and peered through the flapping red awning, Jean-Michel was nowhere in sight––Paris had followed his command and camouflaged him.

Jean-Michel guided Monica down a labyrinth of side streets that led, at last, to an elegant women's boutique. The saleswoman smiled when they entered, and pursed her lips at at Jean-Michel. Monica looked at the display of chic clothes and was puzzled.

“I thought we were stopping at an art supply store,” she whispered to Jean-Michel. She'd told him that she had sketches due in two days and needed to pick up some supplies.

“You will have the art supplies in no time,” Jean-Michel assured her. “But I just remembered that I saw a stunning dress here that would look amazing on you. Please humor me, and try it on. I was going to buy it for my sister, wasn't I?”

He turned to the impeccably groomed sales woman, who nodded. She held up a pale-blue mini dress, floaty and ethereal. Monica's eyes grew wide. It looked so pretty, and
very
expensive.

“You see? You must try it on for me,” he said, and Monica couldn't resist.

When the heavy velvet curtain to the dressing room was drawn, the saleswoman sidled up to Jean-Michel. “Your sister is very special to you, isn't she?” she said. He didn't like the woman's tone or her insinuation, but he had visited this shop often enough to know that she was easy to buy off. He didn't reply, and his scowl sent her scurrying to the back room for a pair of shoes to match the dress.

Monica couldn't believe her own glamorous vision in the mirror.

“It's a gorgeous dress,” she said, stepping out of the dressing room and twirling for Jean-Michel. “I'm sure your sister will love it.”

Jean-Michel liked his women angelic and pliable, and in this dress Monica didn't disappoint him at all. “You must wear this dress when we go dancing tonight,” he commanded. “We'll take the other dress for my sister.” He waved a dismissive hand at the sales woman, and told her to ship the “other” dress.

The saleswoman smiled broadly and thanked them both effusively. She knew that there was no other dress to ship out, and probably no sister, either. But one thing was certainly real: the several hundred francs Jean-Michel had slipped her, lining her own threadbare pockets.

Jean-Michel led Monica towards his apartment in the lively 6
^th
arrondissement
, maneuvering in a circuitous way in order to tire her, disorient her––and to probe further into her character. Knowledge was power, after all. He was tempted to take Monica to his family's vacant apartment in the elite 8
^th
arrondissement
, but the nosy concierge there would find a way to meddle.

He had misjudged some of his other targets before, and this time he had to be sure that Monica had the fortitude to carry out his directions, and to do everything he dictated for nothing else in return but his love. Recently he had erred with a young German student; she'd turned out to be a brazen Amazon who wanted to be a hero and to take the lead. In the end, Jean-Michel made sure that her desire to be in command came true, sending her bossy head deeper and deeper, all the way to the bottom of the Mediterranean after she mistakenly thought that he would reward her unauthorized initiative.