Page 46

Paris was not at all as Colette remembered it, but then again, she hadn’t really expected it to be.

It had, after all, been more than seventy years since she had been here.

It was just that it had changed so very much.

The drive in from the airport was astonishing, in fact; what had once been a patchwork of quiet villages and pastures had given way to bustling, graffitied urban sprawl.

“It’s quite different, isn’t it?” Daniel asked from his seat beside her in the back of a hired car.

“I wasn’t quite prepared for it,” she said. “I knew it had changed, of course. It is just that when one leaves a place, one imagines that the place will remain just as it does in one’s own memories.”

Daniel smiled at her. “If only that were true. But change is necessary, I think. It’s the only way to pave the road for future generations.”

“I suppose. But it means that the past really is dead, doesn’t it?”

Daniel didn’t have an answer for that, and as they continued toward the city where they’d lived so long ago, the city that had ultimately turned its back on them both, they fell quiet, the easy silence between them punctuated by honking horns, protesting brakes, and the rumble and whine of passing commuter trains.

But as the car entered Paris from the north through the eighteenth arrondissement, and the boxy new construction of the suburbs gave way to the more familiar Haussmann buildings of Colette’s childhood memories, her shoulders sagged in relief.

Though the storefronts were different, and there were exponentially more people crowding the streets than there had been decades ago, it was all familiar.

By the time the car turned onto the rue du Faubourg Saint-Martin, and the Porte Saint-Martin came into view, Colette felt as if she was home.

“Paris is still Paris,” she murmured, turning to Daniel in wonderment.

He smiled at her. “Paris is still Paris,” he repeated. “I’ll just text André to let him know that we’re nearly there.”

Their overnight flight had gotten them to Charles de Gaulle before 6:00 a.m., but by the time they’d made it through immigration, retrieved their luggage, connected with the driver Daniel had hired, and crept through suburban traffic, it was nearly ten o’clock.

They had both slept lightly on the plane, enough so that combined with the jolt of adrenaline that came from being back in France and from the double espresso she had ordered at the airport, Colette was nearly vibrating with eagerness.

André Besner, the great-nephew of the long-ago jewelry designer who had conceived the bracelets, was meeting them at ten thirty at his attorney’s office, although he had texted twice already to tell Daniel that he understood if they needed to move the meeting to later in the day.

As Daniel typed away on his phone, Colette stared out the window.

It felt impossible that she was really here after all this time.

They were planning to spend only a single night in Paris before an early afternoon flight back to Boston the following day, but Colette already had a list of things she wanted to do.

She wanted to see the Eiffel Tower sparkle.

She wanted to walk along the Seine. And she wanted to visit her old neighborhood one last time.

This would likely be the last chance she’d ever have to bid adieu once and for all to this chapter of her past.

The car pulled up a few minutes later to the attorney’s office on the Boulevard de Sébastopol, and Daniel offered a hand to help Colette out of the car. Together, they walked into the building and took the elevator up to the second floor.

“Are you ready for this?” Colette asked, glancing up at Daniel, who looked suddenly troubled.

“I expect it might be difficult for me to see my father’s handwriting after all this time,” he said softly.

“When my sister and I came back to Paris, there was nothing left of our family. Our apartment had been seized, and everything in it had been stolen or discarded. I don’t even have a photograph of my parents.

To think that something my father wrote with his own hand has survived… ”

Colette reached for his hand and laced her fingers through his.

She understood deeply that sense of foundational loss, of having not only your loved ones stolen from you, but also all evidence that they’d ever existed in the first place.

Objects were just objects until they became the last things that remained of a person’s life.

“The memory of your parents is alive in you, and in that way, they’re still here.

They always have been.” She paused and waited until he looked down at her, tears in his eyes.

“And so am I, Daniel. I’m right here with you. ”

“That means a great deal,” he said, holding her gaze. “Thank you, Colette.”

In the attorney’s office, they were ushered immediately into a conference room, and Colette was startled to realize how familiar it felt to speak French with the pleasant young receptionist. She hardly ever used her native tongue anymore, but it turned out to be a bit like riding a bike; once she was rolling, it all came back to her.

“Welcome, Monsieur Rosman and Madame Marceau,” said the attorney in French as he entered, followed by a man who appeared to be in his late seventies. “I’m Guy Lécuyer, and this is my client, André Besner. Would you be more comfortable in English?”

“No,” Daniel said, glancing at Colette for confirmation. At her nod, he added, “It is nice to speak the language we grew up with. It has been too long.”

“Very well, then,” the attorney said in French. “Please, have a seat.”

Colette and Daniel both shook hands with Monsieur Besner and Monsieur Lécuyer, and the four of them settled around a small conference table with a manila folder between them.

“Monsieur Rosman,” said Monsieur Besner, “I was thrilled when my attorney told me that you might have found the bracelets designed by my great-uncle for your family. Is it true?”

Daniel glanced at Colette with a smile. “It is.”

“Very good news indeed. My grandfather was devastated to lose his brother in the Shoah, so his brother’s papers, which he managed to salvage before the Germans got their hands on them, were very important to him.

They were passed down to my father, and then to me, and I treasure them, too.

They are all that remains of that branch of my family. ”

“No,” Daniel said, “the jewelry created by your great-uncle remains, too, Monsieur Besner. My father always used to say that diamonds would outlive us all by many millennia. Think of all the lives the bracelets will be a part of long after we’re gone.

In that way, a piece of Max Besner will live on and on. ”

Monsieur Besner smiled. “Did you know him yourself?”

Daniel’s gaze turned faraway. “Quite well. When I was a small boy, he used to keep a jar of candy on his desk for the days my father would bring my sister and me along on his visits to his shop.”

Monsieur Besner sat back in his chair. “Then I am even more moved to be sitting here today with you, sir. It feels like an improbable miracle.”

“All of this,” Daniel replied with a glance at Colette, “feels like a miracle.” Colette felt a shiver run down her spine.

“And that brings us to why we are here today,” Monsieur Besner said, nodding at his attorney.

“Indeed it does. Monsieur Rosman, I believe these belong to you.” Monsieur Lécuyer reached for the manila folder that sat on the table before him, spun it around so that it faced Daniel, and flipped it open, revealing several pieces of worn-looking paper.

Colette could hear Daniel’s sharp intake of breath as he leaned forward to look at the loose slip on top of the small stack. It was a letter, handwritten in French, addressed to “ Mon cher ami Max ,” and signed by Salomon Rosman.

“My father,” Daniel breathed, reaching for the paper and leaning over so that Colette could read it along with him.

In neat, slanted script that reminded Colette of her own father’s handwriting, Daniel’s father had thanked Max Besner for creating a pair of bracelets so unique that they honored his children in a way that no children had been honored before.

As you know , he went on, Hélène and I love Daniel and Ruth so very much.

In wearing these bracelets, one to represent each child, Hélène will be able to keep them with her until the end of her days—and in the future, long after Hélène and I are gone, I hope Daniel and Ruth will be able to pass the bracelets on as they see fit.

Daniel put a hand over his mouth and made a sound of strangled grief. Colette put a hand on his back and kept it there, but said nothing. Sometimes, words only got in the way.

Daniel’s father closed the letter by expressing his admiration for Max Besner’s artistry and saying that he hoped their friendship—and their business together—would continue for many years to come.

When Daniel finally set the letter down, Colette could see his hand trembling.

“It is like hearing him whisper from the grave,” he said, his voice barely audible.

Colette folded her left hand over his right, and he turned his palm up and grasped hers tightly. Monsieur Besner and his attorney exchanged looks.

“If this is too difficult—” Monsieur Besner said.

“No, no,” Daniel said, wiping his eyes with his left hand without letting go of Colette. “These are tears of joy. I thank you for bringing a small piece of my father back to me.”

Monsieur Besner smiled at him and then tapped the stack of papers.

“In that case, you’ll find more of what you came for here, too.

The original contract for the bracelets.

My great-uncle’s original drawings, in which he focuses especially on the clasp, which is unique enough that your claim should stand up in any court.

And a copy of the invoice he drew up for your father. ”