Page 73

FIFTY-ONE

I text Jonathan and give him a quick summary of Damien’s note, including the telling fact that it was delivered to my Paris hotel—which was obviously the point.

Il pleut de la merde, as they say here, Jonathan texts back. I don’t know what that means, but then he apprises me: It’s raining shit. He adds that he’s on his way to my hotel, and suggests we meet for a drink at the café off the lobby, as he has dinner with colleagues in an hour.

When he arrives, he sits in the chair across from me and holds out his hand. I give him the piece of paper, and he reads it. Then he reads it again.

“So nice of him to inform me of what I already know,” I say.

“I doubt that was his intention.”

“He knows everything I do. Wherever I go.” I’m aware Damien must have had someone following me in Boston, but to know he’s doing the same in Paris is somehow even more unnerving.

Logically, it should be the other way around—this is his city, after all—but that’s not what it feels like. “It creeps me out.”

Jonathan covers my hand with his. “Of course it does, especially after the other things he’s done.” His hand is darker and larger than mine, warm and comforting.

I don’t need any additional complications in my life, but I don’t pull away. “If he knows I’m here—and why—do you think he could be the one behind Beaumont’s refusal to let you into the property? Bribing him to spite me?”

“Doesn’t seem worth his time.”

I grimace. “Many things don’t seem to be worth his time.”

Jonathan takes his hand away, and I miss the connection. “Well, my meeting went well with the guy from real estate restitution, Oliver Moreau. He said there are ways to get around difficult owners—backed by both international and French laws.”

“What if Damien is paying the owner to resist?”

“Even if he is, it shouldn’t matter. The French were complicit in the deportation and murder of tens of thousands of Jews, as well as lots of others.

So after the war, the government passed heavy-duty legislation to try to assuage their guilt—and to bury their Nazi collaboration under good deeds.

Including funding. Some of the laws here are almost as stringent as the ones enacted in postwar Germany. ”

“And this Oliver thinks he can get Beaumont to let us in?”

“He does. And the Conference authorized him to begin right away.”

“How soon?”

Jonathan shakes his head, but his eyes are twinkling. “You’re going to give yourself a heart attack before this is over.”

Which I’m forced to acknowledge is a distinct possibility.

I ONLY HAVE tomorrow and part of the next day here, and I don’t have the money to stay longer.

I’ve no idea what the penalties might be for changing my flight, but I do know this hotel, second-rate as it may be, is far from cheap.

And then there’s the whole Damien mess. He has someone prying into my whereabouts, and he wants me to know it.

Flexing his muscles in an attempt to scare me into submission.

Sorry, cuz, I’m not the submitting type.

I call Wyatt but don’t say anything about Damien’s note or the owner’s stubbornness.

Instead, I explain to him that the Conference is arranging for a restitution expert to facilitate my ownership argument, and that I hope that I’ll be able to get inside tomorrow.

Then I tell him about the amazing artwork I saw at the Louvre.

He’s not particularly enthusiastic about my art adventures, and he cuts me off to remind me that we should be fine even when—he quickly changes “when” to “if”—I find nothing. He still has no idea Jonathan is here. And, based on his response when they met, I’m not about to enlighten him.

I sleep better than I expect, but at five in the morning I’m wide awake with no chance of dozing off again.

I search the websites of the Musée d’Orsay and the Musée de l’Orangerie, both with extensive collections of Impressionist art.

Which one should I visit first? I check their collection databases and find inequities similar to the Louvre’s in their holdings of Berthe versus édouard.

I’ll show them—I won’t go to either one.

I’m sure they’ll take this as a significant insult and promptly rebalance their collections.

As soon as the hotel’s café opens, I go down.

It’s chilly this early, but at least there’s elbow room and something to look at besides the back of a building.

There’s a booklet in the lobby for a hop-on-and-off bus that circles the city, which sounds like fun, although the price is high: fifty euros for the day.

It’s my third visit here, but one can never get enough of Paris.

This is what credit cards are for, and I promise myself I’ll begin my true frugal life when I get home.

It’s a beautiful spring afternoon, Paris at its best. I once again visit the opera house, Notre-Dame—which I haven’t seen since its restoration—the Arc de Triomphe, and the Eiffel Tower.

I’m strolling around the Grand Palais when Jonathan texts.

Oliver has pulled off a coup in record time.

I’m to meet them at five at the house. Berthe’s house.

Maybe my house. A house that could provide answers to all of my questions.

He says we won’t be able to get into any of the apartments today, as the tenants haven’t been notified, but we’ll have full access to the areas that aren’t occupied.

It’s already after four thirty, and I jump off the bus when it reaches the stop closest to Rue de Villejust. I rush down the last few blocks and see that Jonathan and Oliver are already waiting for me.

Oliver is younger than I expect, maybe midtwenties, or maybe just youthful-looking because of his long blond hair and slight frame.

Jonathan introduces us, and Oliver holds up a key ring, grinning at me.

No doubt he’s been informed of my impatience.

When he turns the knob and the heavy front door creaks open, I gasp and grab Jonathan’s hand.

Jonathan shakes his head slightly and drops mine.

Right. This may be my life, but it’s his job.

When we step inside, I’m crushed. The large rooms filled with stripes of sunlight and billowing curtains I saw in my dream are gone.

The spacious entry is foreshortened, closed in by walls on either side, a door embedded in one.

I see that the mosaic on the floor is reminiscent of The Harbor at Lorient , but it’s cut off by the new wall, and what’s left is barely discernible.

Tiles are missing, some replaced by larger ones that muddle the original design, and many of the ones that remain are cracked.

The ceilings are high, but their majesty is nullified by the narrowness of the space.

Berthe would not be happy. Neither would Aimée or Colette. And neither am I.

The wide stairway is the same as it was in my dream, but some of the columns in the balustrades are missing and the bare treads are scuffed, a few separating from the molding.

A tiny elevator with open grates that can’t hold more than two people is pressed into one side of the stairs.

So much is similar, and so much is different—although the differences appear due to events that transpired long after any Morisots lived here, which doesn’t bode well.

I have to remind myself to keep breathing.

Oliver consults the stack of papers in his hand, finds the blueprints, flips through them. “According to this, there are eight apartments, one each on the first and second floors, two on the third and fourth, and two on the fifth, which was once the attic.”

I tilt my head back and try to peer through to the top, but the stairway grows murkier and narrower as it climbs, and it’s impossible to discern anything beyond the third floor.

The original skylight must have been broken and replaced with plaster.

The house in my dream has been demolished, destroyed by greedy landlords who stole its history, its soul.

Nothing belonging to any of the Morisots can possibly still exist here. They have been silenced. Erased.

“It’s a travesty what they did to these regal old buildings,” Jonathan says. “Just came in and gouged out their souls.”

I’m stunned that his words so closely mirror my thoughts—yet another coupling of our sensibilities, gloomy as our common thoughts may be. I’m afraid my voice will reveal the depth of my sorrow, so I say nothing. I should have known. Perhaps I had.

Jonathan asks Oliver about the particulars of the process to reclaim a building.

I climb to the second floor as they talk, catching little of the conversation, caring even less.

There’s no point in going into any of the apartments, in searching for whatever I foolishly duped myself into thinking was here.

I suddenly remember that in my dream I was looking for a child I never found.

An unsuccessful search, just like this one.

The first thing I’m going to do if this godforsaken building becomes mine is to sell it.

As quickly as possible. My family might have lived here once, but they’re not here anymore, and I want no part of this shell of what once was.

Although I’ll gladly take the money, recovering at least some of what was stolen from them.

It appears Wyatt’s case will have to stand on its own.

I think about going up to the third floor, but the stairs narrow as they rise and the apartment walls press closer in.

A waste of time, and I’ve wasted enough.

I square my shoulders, lift my chin, and descend to the entry.

As Jonathan said, I’m a survivor, and I’ll weather this too.

Even if right now it feels like it’s going to break me.

“Oliver thinks you’ve got a good shot here,” Jonathan calls up to me. “And if that’s what you want, we can start setting up the preliminaries before I head home—and then we’ll keep going until it’s yours.”

“Thank you both,” I say. “And, yes, that’s what I’d like to do.”

The men are pleased with my answer, and I can tell Jonathan is pleased that I’m handling the disappointment so well. Ha. As we head to the door, it strikes me that my dream ended in the basement. Yes, in the dream I found nothing there, but I ask Oliver if the house has a basement anyway.

He opens the blueprints. “It seems that there is a cellar, but there aren’t any apartments down there.”

“Do you have a key?”

“I might, but access is probably through the first-floor apartment.” He traces his finger over the lines, trying to find it. “Yes, here it is, but…” He traces again. “But it looks like there’s also a way in through the garden.”