Secrets of Paris (8 page)

“So, you’re working with Michael at the Louvre?” Lydie asked when Anne had laid down her fork, dabbed her mouth with the linen napkin.

“No,” Anne said. “I am working on a project of my own, and we just get in each other’s way.”

“Tell Lydie your project,” Michael said.

“Well,” Anne said, smiling in a way that indicated she had been waiting for this moment; it reminded Lydie of the pleasure she felt when given the chance to explain her own work to someone new. “I am following Madame de Sévigné around. Forget the fact she has been dead for centuries. She is so fantastic, she lives still.”

“I’m ignorant,” Lydie said.

“Madame de Sévigné is perhaps the greatest letter writer France has known. Her letters tell the story of the seventeenth century; she was trusted by Louis XIV. A member of his court! She was so solid in the middle of all that scandal. And her letters are very funny, sad, poignant. I can’t stop reading them. They are mostly to her daughter. She loved her daughter so much, and once the girl was grown, they lived apart. But Madame de Sévigné told the girl everything in letters.”

“I’d love to read them,” said Lydie, wondering whether the sound of a distant voice had more value than a letter, which could be held. And saved. “Tell me—what is her connection with the Louvre?”

“I am pursuing her connection with Louis XIV, who lived there before Versailles. You can thank him for commissioning many of your husband’s predecessors—architects who have left a mark there.”

“Is she the reason you went to Aix-en-Provence?” Michael asked.

“Yes,” Anne said. “Because that is where her daughter moved after she married Count de Grignan. I begin to feel as though I know them personally, that I am visiting them in their various dwellings … ”

“Anne is really crazy,” Jean said. “She is so obsessive about Madame de Sévigné, she is researching every single connection. And she has already written a book about her.”

“Really?” Lydie asked. “What’s the title?”

“
Three Women of the Marais
,” Anne said. “She was born on the Place des Vosges.”

“I have a friend who lives there,” Lydie said.

“Really? To live there—that would be something,” Anne said.

Jean laughed in a scoffing manner. “Anne, if you lived there, you might actually start to believe you are the reincarnation of Madame de Sévigné. It would be the worst that could happen.”

Lydie giggled and tried to catch Michael’s eye, but he was looking away: his head tilted toward Anne, and he was staring at her, a little smile on his lips, as if he was trying to figure her out.

C
HARLES
L
EGENDRE, THE
Louvre’s curator for seventeenth-century art, was a fop. Stickpin, black silk socks, significant tie—obviously from some school, probably in Switzerland. Unfortunately he was Michael’s designated Louvre liaison. Michael had sort of liked him, with reservations, at their first meeting. That was back in October, when Charles had walked Michael through the painting galleries, suggesting works Michael might want to appropriate for the Salle des Quatre Saisons.

“That is a magnificent Poussin,” Michael had said, facing a large canvas depicting warriors in a scene from mythology.

“Ah, yes,” Charles had said, his hands folded as he gazed upon the tableau. “Pierre Dauphin counts that among his favorites. Good luck to you, persuading him to let you have it. But of course you must try. Isn’t that a charming Wando?”

“It is,” Michael had said. But who had ever heard of Wando?
The card beside the painting identified Giancarlo Wando as a Milanese who came to Paris in 1672. Michael wanted at least two important seventeenth-century works—by the likes of Poussin and la Tour. At the time he had thought Charles’s motives were innocent. Months later, however, the scene reminded him of his older brother Jack, of a McBride family vacation on Cape Cod, when Jack had tried to trick Michael into wanting the second-best bike: “That red one’s sharp, isn’t it? With the chrome mud guard. You want the red one, Mike?” Later, wobbling down the sandy road, Michael had discovered what Jack had seen instantly: the rear wheel was out of whack, possibly run over by a car.

Now, sitting opposite Charles in his third-floor office, Michael was on guard. Charles believed in his own charm. Even while sabotaging Michael every step of the way, he managed to keep a smile on his handsome, tan face.

“Your plans are marvelous,” Charles said.

“That’s all they are—plans,” Michael said. “When can I start construction?”

Charles shrugged; as he did, he noticed a white thread dangling from his right shirt cuff. He frowned. He grabbed it with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. Then, holding the thread, he used his right hand to open his desk drawer. He extracted a pair of tiny gold scissors. Carefully resting his right hand on his leather blotter, he snipped the thread. He placed it in his crystal pencil tray for later disposal.

Michael watched the operation, growing hotter and hotter.
Fop
, he thought again. “Well?” he said. “Can you explain to me why it’s taking so long?”

“The Louvre is a museum of many departments, each with its own methods of operation. Additionally, it is an institution of the government of France. No less than the Assemblée Nationale or the Elysée Palace. You cannot expect to impose your plans on such
a place without appropriate scrutiny and discussion.” Charles said this with an air of national pride that tightened his nostrils and turned down the corners of his mouth.

“Who’s doing the scrutinizing and discussing?” Michael asked.

“I, as curator of seventeenth-century paintings, and as your liaison officer, play a role,” Charles said. “The Minister of Culture, of course. Even the Prime Minister. You should be honored that the Prime Minister is considering your plans.”

“Why can’t I hire the people I need? That way, when the approval is given, they’ll be ready to go. I’d like to get a team together.”

“Because, Michael,” Charles said patiently, as if Michael were an idiot, “you would have to pay these people. Even if your plans are never approved, the members of your team would be on the payroll of the French government. And it would be impossible to ever get them off.”

“Okay,” Michael said. “I won’t actually
engage
anyone. But I’ve talked to masons and painters, and I’d like to—in a tentative way—ask them to set time aside for me. Just in case I’m told I can proceed.”

Charles shrugged. “I cannot stop you. But I cannot permit you to do this in the name of France and the Louvre. You will have to do it in the name of Michael McBride which, without intending offense, may not be enough to persuade artisans to pass up other, certain, projects.”

“That’s fair,” Michael said, wanting to draw Charles’s significant tie into a tighter and tighter knot and choke the smug smile off his thin lips. “I have another question for you. Why are you holding up the Poussin?”

“Pierre Dauphin will not give it up. If it were up to me …”

“I’ve been told it
is
up to you. You’re the curator of the seventeenth century.”

“Yes, but it hangs in Pierre’s gallery. He is the curator of the Salle Hubert.”

What a racket, Michael thought. One guy was curator of the walls, another was curator of the paintings that hung on the walls. George Reed believed that Charles had ultimate control, but he was not certain because none of the French authorities were positive themselves. One minister had told George that if he wanted to be sure, he would have to read Louis XIV’s original charter.

“I’ve heard you have more clout than Pierre,” Michael said. “You can give me that Poussin if you want to.”

“And where will you hang it?” Charles asked, leaning forward.

“Good point,” Michael said, feeling he’d just been beaten in chess. “But when the time comes, will you give it to me?”

“You’ll have to take that up with Pierre,” Charles said, closing the subject. Michael stood to leave. “You’ve been enjoying your time in Paris?” Charles asked.

“It’s been swell,” Michael said. He shook Charles’s hand and left.

Michael had had his share of professional disappointments and setbacks, but nothing had prepared him for this bureaucratic stonewalling. He could understand the tangle of rules and personalities and government agencies; he could even accept it. What infuriated him was a deepening belief that the French authorities were enjoying his dilemma. He felt in some ways hampered by the differences of culture; if Charles were American, Michael could imagine talking to him frankly. Yet wasn’t that what he had done? Running over the conversation in his mind, he decided that the problem had been Charles’s responses.

Charles wouldn’t know a frank response if it bit him in the ass. Michael mistrusted any guy who took as long to dress as Charles obviously did. Could his eyelashes be that dark naturally? Walking the corridor that ran the length of the third floor, Michael knew
he was thinking like an asshole. He passed the offices of other curators; glancing into one open door, he saw windows that gave onto the Seine and the Left Bank. Just before he reached the stairs, he heard Anne’s voice.

Michael stopped dead. The mere sound of her voice made his heart beat faster. So this was where she worked. Every day she passed him downstairs; they would talk for a minute or two, or wave, and that was all. He tried to see inside, but her door was open only a crack. A male voice answered her. Michael did not think it could be Jean; the accent was too refined. He leaned against the stone wall. It felt smooth and cool, and it stung Michael like an electric shock. He was jealous of a faceless voice. The realization disgusted him, and he hurried down the stairs.

Patrice had harbored a curiosity about Lydie’s work since meeting her, so she felt especially eager to watch Lydie in action on what Lydie was calling “the rose project.” They strolled together through the Bagatelle. Although it was early morning, the heat flourished. Patrice realized that Lydie had hoped for mist, but what she had was steam. Patrice found the setting relaxing. Songbirds in the trees, roses everywhere. But Lydie moved with such purpose, obviously working, that Patrice didn’t want to interrupt her by spouting pleasantries.

“This idea might be a flop,” Lydie said, reaching into her bag for an antique doily. She scanned the closest bush for the perfect rose on which to place it.

“Isn’t that pretty?” Patrice said.

“Martine!” Lydie called the photographer and her assistant and spoke to them in French. “Will you shoot this, please? No, into the sun—make it hazy.”

“Soft focus?” the photographer asked.

“No, sharp,” Lydie said. “Let the light soften it for you.”

Lydie arranged the linens, and Martine took pictures of them, angling the shots from above or below, depending on Lydie’s direction. Patrice reached for a linen napkin, slightly yellow with age. If it had ever been folded, the creases had been pressed out of it. That made her think of Kelly, of the pile of ironing Patrice had left her to do. When Kelly ironed a sheet, her expression looked as solemn, as intent as Lydie’s did now. Yet how could she compare Lydie’s job with Kelly’s drudge work? Days had passed since Kelly’s last session on the computer. Patrice sensed, uneasily, that since Lydie’s arrival on the scene, she had begun neglecting Kelly.

A rose garden seemed the perfect place for Lydie to be, Lydie with her translucent white skin and fine copper hair. Patrice felt so big beside her, but she was spared a true feeling of insecurity by the knowledge that her own sundress, from St. Laurent, was a bit better than Lydie’s, from Tiktiner. She felt that they had just arrived, but Lydie already seemed to be wrapping things up. Yet when she checked her watch, she saw that fifty minutes had passed.

“Four rolls of film should be plenty,” Lydie said. “Were you bored?” Martine had moved to the shade of an oak tree, to pack her camera cases and drink some orangeade. Lydie tipped the thermos, handed Patrice a cupful.