FULL NOVELXO Twenty-One Nights in Paris: Chapter 27
‘Can I… see you to Malou’s flat?’
She turned back from the classroom door, where she’d just waved off Felix and Hamoud, who’d looked ready to invite her to dinner themselves. ‘I think,’ she began, ‘I should see you home, now I am a pro on the métro.’
‘It’s not on your way.’
‘Taking me back wouldn’t be on your way, then,’ she countered. ‘Oh, you probably have your bike, though.’
‘No, my bike… got stolen.’
‘Oh, no, really? When?’
He adjusted the pens under the whiteboard unnecessarily. ‘You don’t want to know.’
‘Shit, it got stolen from the Place Vendôme? Oh, Sacha, I really am your bad luck charm!’
He didn’t think she was, but when he looked at her, he did start thinking about the word ‘chance’. It meant luck in French, but with a touch of fortune or fate.
‘It’s fine,’ he insisted.
‘I really should see you home, then. Actually,’ she began thoughtfully. ‘I have an idea. Do you trust me?’
‘Yes,’ he said curiously.
She blinked. ‘Okay. I hope that was the right answer. Let’s go. You showed me mediaeval Paris today, so let me show you something.’
He felt a twinge of unease. He did trust her. He trusted that her heart was always in the right place and that she was capable of more than she thought she was. But he didn’t share her staunch commitment to optimism.
His unease grew when they emerged up the stone steps under the Art Nouveau sign at the Franklin D. Roosevelt métro station, right in front of the Gucci store.
‘Please tell me you’re not taking me shopping.’ He was mostly joking, but the strain in his voice was real. He wasn’t sure what she could have to show him here that wouldn’t remind him of all the reasons she shouldn’t be opening up to him like this.
‘Don’t look so worried.’
She hurried around the large intersection, the epitome of Haussmann’s eighth arrondissement, past skeletal plane trees and fountains trying valiantly not to freeze as the evening temperature dropped and the moisture in the air became crystalline. Behind them, the iron-and-glass roof of the Grand Palais was visible over the treetops. If Sacha’s quartier was the rebellious heartland of working Paris, this intersection was the grandiose veneer of the elegant city.
She hurried down a grand avenue and hesitated, gazing at a building across the street. With a sigh, he followed her gaze and wasn’t surprised to see the name ‘Asquith-Lewis’ in elegant grey lettering above the ground-floor windows. He tried not to visibly flinch.
‘The current sale is an interesting mix of historical objects from a collector. I only wish I could have invited Joseph and the others from the market,’ she said softly. ‘They welcomed me into their businesses.’
‘And you think this is the same?’ He’d spoken too harshly, but the words were out, now.
‘I wanted to think so,’ she said, her voice barely more than a murmur. ‘You brought me into your life and I… stupidly hoped you might want to see mine.’ She started across the street, but he caught her wrist to stop her.
‘Forget what I said.’
‘I can’t,’ she responded with a sombre look. ‘Besides, I’d rather know what you really think. If you think I’m a princess in a tower with no clue about the real world… maybe you’re right.’
He curled his fingers through hers, searching for the right words. ‘I’ll come and see your gallery. This isn’t about what I think of you. It’s about what the rest of the world thinks.’
She swallowed, glancing across the road at the doorman guarding her domain. ‘They shouldn’t think that way. It wasn’t my intention to make you feel… unwelcome or in any way less than what you are: an amazing teacher and an incredible human being. Exclusivity is a double-edged sword.’
‘I know that wasn’t your intention,’ he said gently, brushing his fingers against hers. Words were still inadequate. ‘You… know why I invited you today, don’t you?’
‘I was afraid to ask. I loved it and I loved meeting the kids, but you obviously didn’t need my help and… it doesn’t really make up for what I’ve asked you to do for me.’
He shook his head, dismissing her concern. ‘You…’ He sifted through the flashes of thoughts and feelings that filled him. ‘You are open, listening. And my students… not many people listen to them. I thought… you might be good for each other.’
‘They were definitely good for me,’ she said with a faint smile, her gaze averted. She tilted her head and leaned close to mumble, ‘I’m not good for you.’
His hand tightened around hers. ‘Sometimes I think you are.’
She shook her head and raised her gaze haltingly to his. ‘I’ve brought you nothing but problems since the moment we met.’
His thoughts scattered as he studied the forlorn line of her brow and remembered the moment they’d met and everything that had happened since. He wasn’t thinking about the problems. He raised his other hand to touch her face, but snatched it into a fist at the last moment.
What the hell were they doing?
He turned his gaze ominously across the road at her esteemed family legacy. ‘We should go in before they close.’
The doorman peered sceptically at Sacha’s jacket. Ren marched past him with a frown, clinging to Sacha’s hand, but she feared she’d only proven the opposite of her point: the screwed-up world did not view them as equals and bringing him into her life would only hurt him.
But it wasn’t Sacha that was wrong. He’d set aside his wariness and, when they handed over their coats and stepped into the illuminated gallery, he stopped and stared and she hoped she might make some kind of point after all. The gallery was an opulent function room with gilded baroque furniture teamed with lighting in subtle colours. Tonight, fairy lights twinkled in the ornate cornicing, ribbons and silver stars and brushed gold baubles creating a festive ambience for a Christmas auction.
Sacha let go of her hand and moved from piece to piece, his focus intense. He took in the baroque chest of drawers with marble inlay and the glinting neoclassical chandelier in the grand Russian style. He reached out to run his fingertips over the polished wood of an Art Deco dining chair. He studied the display case of mediaeval jewellery and ornaments, much of it shaped like skulls, and some pieces carved from ivory.
‘This is mostly the collection of Pierre Leclercq, you know the—’
‘I think everyone knows who Pierre Leclercq was,’ Sacha cut her off, his expression grim with fascination. ‘And he… just had this stuff in his house?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Do you…?’ He shook his head and swallowed. ‘Don’t answer.’ He moved to the next display before she would work out how to respond. The truth would be: yes, her sideboard was probably worth as much as everything he owned. But she wished it didn’t matter.
They came to the mediaeval sword, next, and he stepped back in awe, tilting his head to inspect the lines of fine metalwork. Ren came up next to him.
‘Al-Iskandandariyya,’ he read, pointing to an inscription on the blade in Arabic script. ‘This is one of the swords from the arsenal d’Alexandrie? Incredible.’
‘What do you know about it?’ she asked, wanting to keep him talking so he wouldn’t feel uncomfortable. She thought of the crossed swords she’d glimpsed tattooed on his biceps.
‘These old swords… They’re fascinating. I held a replica once at the Marché aux Puces. It’s very heavy, not like sword sport, tu sais? You don’t wave it. You kill someone with one touch, or they kill you. And if you can’t get a good touch, you cut off his hand.’
‘Urgh.’
‘It is brutal. Is it authentic?’
‘Yes, of course,’ came a voice behind them.
Ren whirled. ‘Malou! You’re still here?’
‘The doorman thought you were coming to see me and I was confused when you didn’t appear. I was just leaving for the day.’
‘You remember Sacha.’
‘Of course.’ She greeted him with the lightest kisses on his cheek. ‘Bonsoir. Your interest in antiques extends to mediaeval weapons?’
‘I wanted to show him – bring him…’ Ren said, her words a defensive tangle. ‘Sacha is a history teacher and his knowledge is… immense.’
‘I’m glad you’re interested in his immense… knowledge,’ Malou said with a straight face. ‘I heard what you said about this piece. Not quite Ren’s usual cup of tea.’
‘It’s certainly not Disney,’ he murmured, drawing a curious look from Malou. ‘Even the handle can kill someone. This was a valuable object 600 years ago, which is probably why this Italian sword was taken to Egypt – as tribute after a battle. But the winners become the losers again and the Mamluk dynasty was defeated by the Ottomans. Centuries later, that empire falls, too, and the sword comes back to Europe.’
His words rendered the ghastly blade a little less sinister. ‘At least it’s not killing anyone any more,’ Ren said softly.
‘Ren is too sheltered,’ Malou commented.
Sacha met Malou’s gaze with his usual grim look and Ren had the odd inkling that they understood each other. ‘Come and see the stained glass,’ she said.
His brow shot up when he caught sight of the framed fragment. It was a stunning piece, bringing distant history to life in colour with the painted faces of the three kings and the deep, shocking blue. Sacha read the label with a frown.
‘You really don’t know where this came from?’ he asked Malou.
She shook her head. ‘The adoration of the magi is a very common theme for stained glass. The owner inherited it with no further information and it was difficult to get an appointment with someone from the museums we often work with at this time of year.’
‘And the French Ministry of Culture?’
‘Remains silent,’ Malou finished his sentence for him. ‘We send them a catalogue for each sale so if they thought it was of national significance, I assume they would have contacted us by now. Why? Do you know something about this?’
‘No,’ he said immediately. ‘It just reminds me… this part here looks like a medallion form, a feature of early Gothic windows. I did the travail d’intérêt général at the museum in Saint-Denis and we worked with the conservation of the cathedral windows.’
Malou blinked at what Ren assumed was Sacha’s bald admission of his criminal history, but her friend thankfully made no comment. Ren’s chest was tight with something like pride. Far from her family’s obsession with appearances, Sacha was more interested in the truth, even when that was difficult to face. He’d never looked more attractive to her than he did then, wearing his background as proudly as he wore his tattoos.
‘You think it could be from Saint-Denis?’ Malou asked.
‘Very few of the panels survived the revolution and some have been found in unexpected places, but I’m not an expert. And surely… it would be unlikely.’
‘What’s so special about the cathedral in Saint-Denis?’ Ren asked.
‘It’s the earliest example of French Gothic architecture. The windows are some of the oldest in the world. This was twelfth century, there was no electricity. To the people, these colours, the enormous windows, the light looked like the power of God. And, of course, these windows opened the way for the grandest achievements of mediaeval stained glass, including the rose windows of Notre-Dame-de-Paris.’
‘It really looks like some of the fragments we saw today,’ Ren commented. She turned to Malou. ‘We went to the Museum of Cocks – I mean the Musée de Cluny.’
Malou snorted. ‘He really is showing you a whole new world.’ She pulled Ren to one side as Sacha studied the pieces. ‘The gallery is closing in a minute. Want to come home with me or he is whisking you away on his magic carpet?’
‘Thanks for not being weird about this,’ Ren said softly.
‘I don’t think you have a happy ending in your near future, but it’s obvious he’s twice the man Charlie is, so I don’t want to stop you… broadening your horizons.’
‘He’s good for me,’ she agreed. ‘I only wish I could say it was true the other way around.’
‘Just make sure he doesn’t break a leg skiing.’
‘Don’t even suggest it!’ Ren groaned.
Her stomach dropped when they left the gallery half an hour later to be greeted by a cluster of cameras shoved in her face. She cursed inwardly, berating herself for coming here, where she was too recognisable.
‘Who’s your new lover? Does this mean you won’t take Charles Routledge back? Give us your name, monsieur! How did you meet?’
Malou stepped in front of them with colourful curses and hand gestures to match, but Ren felt bad for her, getting angry on Ren’s behalf. She groped for Sacha’s hand.
‘We’re going to make a run for it,’ she whispered into her friend’s ear.
‘Allez-y!’ her friend whispered back urgently. Ren met Sacha’s gaze and he nodded. A moment later, they tore off in the direction of the métro. She clung to his hand as he weaved between the pedestrians and by the time they hurtled down the stairs and flung themselves through the barriers, there was no sign of the photographers.
Ren grinned, struggling to get her breath back. He’d invited her into his life today and survived the visit in hers. She’d never felt so free, loping through Paris in the evening with her hand tucked into his.
‘This way,’ she said, tugging him in the direction of line nine. ‘There’s one more place I want to go tonight.’