Paris Is Always a Good Idea Read online

  Max had nodded resignedly. There was no point at all arguing with his housekeeper and explaining to her that he was perfectly capable of frying himself an egg or going into the village to eat a snack in the Bar du Marché. Which would even have been quite useful, because that way he could buy himself some pain relief gel from the pharmacy next door.

  That morning he had woken up early with a rather unpleasant pain in his shoulder. He’d probably been lying awkwardly. That’s how it was. In the mornings you woke up earlier and something was always hurting.

  Max Marchais stretched out luxuriously in the bathtub and listened to Marie-Hélène rampaging around, zealously vacuuming the carpets. The bathroom was his only refuge.

  A few minutes later Madame Bonnier was audibly bustling about outside the bathroom door. After a while she called out: “How long are you going to be, Monsieur Marchais?”

  With a sigh he climbed out of the green shimmering water—like every morning, he’d put in two scoops of Aramis, his favorite bath salts—and got dressed.

  Later on she drove him out of the kitchen, then the library. There were hums and bangs, mops clattered on wooden flooring; something in the kitchen fell with a rattle. The whole house smelled of orange cleaning fluid, mingled with the scent of freshly baked cake. Marie-Hélène seemed to have mastered the miraculous art of bilocation: wherever he retreated to, she would appear a minute or so later, armed with vacuum, mop pail, and dusters.

  When she finally began to clean the windows in his office, Max took a book down from one of the top shelves with the aid of the library ladder and fled outdoors to sit in the shade in the garden. The sun was shining and it was already pleasantly warm as he immersed himself in Blaise Pascal’s Pensées, a book whose pithy sayings about life he always enjoyed reading. It was Blaise Pascal, too, who had said that “all of humanity’s problems stem from man’s inability to sit quietly in a room alone.”

  A wise and insightful remark, which was even more relevant when you were prevented from being alone in a room, thought Max as the howling of the vacuum came to a stop. Seconds later his housekeeper appeared on the terrace, looking around as if searching for something. “Monsieur Marchais?” she called, and he raised his head reluctantly to see that she had something in her hand.

  “Telephone for you!”

  * * *

  IT WAS ROSALIE LAURENT—her voice sounded a bit strange, he thought. Like the voice of someone trying to sound as normal as possible.

  “Bonjour, Max! How are you? I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

  “Not at all,” he said. “My housekeeper’s been rampaging around the house since seven o’clock. There’s nowhere to hide here, so I’ve retreated to the garden.” He heard her laugh. “And how are you, Rosalie? Everything okay?”

  “Oh yes, I’m fine.” She hesitated a moment before continuing. “Montsignac called yesterday. He wants me to illustrate a big book of fairy tales for him.”

  “Congratulations! That’s great!” Perhaps she wanted to ask him something, he thought.

  “And it’s all because of you. And The Blue Tiger, of course.”

  “No false modesty, Mademoiselle Rosalie. Your illustrations are simply excellent.” He put Pascal down beside him and leaned comfortably back in his wicker chair as she told him about her new book project and his thoughts wandered a little.

  Whenever he talked to Rosalie Laurent, and she shared the little things that made up her day, asked him something, or requested advice, he felt revitalized. Since their collaboration on the book, they had met regularly: sometimes she came to Le Vésinet, at others he took the RER train to Paris and they went for coffee or took her little dog for a walk.

  Since Marguerite’s death his life had been lonely; for a long time he hadn’t really noticed it, and when he finally did, it hadn’t bothered him much. He’d entrenched himself with his books and thoughts behind a wall not unlike the stone wall around his garden. But since his friendship with this young woman he sensed something new developing that was gradually putting the past in its place, making it really something that was past. Cracks were appearing in the old wall, and light was shining through the cracks.

  Rosalie had entered his life like a ray of light, and to his great surprise Max Marchais realized that he’d begun to look to the future and make plans again.

  The hum of the vacuum cleaner boomed out of the house, then gradually moved away, and Max gazed at the roses in his garden, which were still in bloom.

  “I’m so happy every morning when I see the book in the display window,” he heard Rosalie saying—she seemed somehow to have returned to the subject of The Blue Tiger. “How did you actually get the story?” She corrected herself hastily. “I mean, how does someone get an idea like that?”

  Max returned from his musing and considered for a moment. “Hmm—the way you always get a story. You see or hear something, there’s a thought in the air, you go for a walk in the bois de Boulogne and suddenly you begin to weave a story. There’s always a particular moment that triggers the story and sets it in motion.” He paused for thought. “It could be a sentence or a conversation.…” He fell silent.

  “And what triggered your story?”

  “Well…” For a moment he thought of telling her the truth, but then rejected the idea. “I’d say it was good old Montsignac,” he said, somewhat irrelevantly. “Without his prodding the book certainly wouldn’t exist.”

  She laughed—a bit embarrassedly, it seemed to him. “No, no, that’s not what I mean. What I’m wondering is … is there perhaps a folk tale that is the basis of the story of the blue tiger?”

  Max was taken aback. “Not that I know of,” he said. “And if there is, it’s not one I’m familiar with.”

  “Oh.”

  There was a slight pause.

  Max felt a growing sense of unease. What was the real reason for this strange telephone call? He cleared his throat.

  “Come on, out with it, Rosalie, what’s bothering you?” He finally ended the silence. “You’re not asking me these questions for no reason.”

  And then she actually came to the point and told him—carefully and a little despondently—about the disagreeable incident with the stranger who had turned up in her store and claimed that the story of The Blue Tiger had been stolen.

  “What utter nonsense,” Max Marchais roared. “You don’t believe that madman, do you?” He laughed and then shook his head in disbelief at the absurdity of it all. “Well, my dear Rosalie, I beg you, forget this idiocy at once. I can assure you that I am the creator of the story, and you are welcome to tell that to the gentleman from New York if he ever returns. I thought the story up—word by word.”

  He heard her sigh with relief.

  “I never doubted it, Max. It was just that this man insisted he could prove it was his story. He was completely out of it, and even threatened to take us to court.”

  Max snorted with rage. “Monstrous!”

  “His name is Robert Sherman. Do you know him at all?”

  “I don’t know anyone called Sherman,” retorted Max Marchais curtly. “And I have no particular desire to make the acquaintance of this gentleman, who is obviously a lunatic.”

  And that was that as far as he was concerned. At least, that was what he thought.

  Thirteen

  A ray of sunlight fell diagonally into the room. A summery gust of air swelled the drapes at the window. Robert Sherman blinked and listened to the gentle clattering of crockery, which seemed to be a long way away and didn’t disturb the pleasant restfulness that enveloped him. The peace of the morning reminded him of the lazy Sundays of his childhood in Mount Kisco.

  He stretched, and tried to find his way back into his dream, which was fading fast. It had been a pleasant dream, from which he’d awoken feeling good. Some woman or other had been in it—he’d been sitting on a bench in a little square with her.

  He tried to remember more clearly, but the images were too fleeting for him to catch hold of.
Not important. He turned on his side, pulled the bed covers up, and dozed off again. For a few happy moments everything in Robert Sherman’s world was in order.

  Then the shrill tones of an electric drill shattered the silence. Robert sat up in bed, yawned, and took a sip of water. He looked at his cell phone and saw that there was a text.

  Well, my dear, that all sounds very exciting. I hope you’ll think again. Didn’t I tell you that it was crazy to go to Paris. Shall I transfer some money for you? Love, Rachel

  And then he suddenly remembered everything. The witch from the card store, the book, the steak restaurant, his wallet. All at once he was wide awake and his feeling of well-being had vanished. He glanced at his watch. Ten thirty! He’d slept for almost twelve hours.

  It was Friday, his wallet was missing, and the blasted card store opened at eleven.

  As, after a hurried breakfast (consisting of strong coffee and a hastily swallowed, though very crisp, croissant), he squeezed past the two workmen who were standing arguing by the elevator with their toolboxes and ran up the sunny rue Bonaparte, he thought of the bossy tone of Rachel’s text. Even if it hadn’t been the very best of ideas to go to Paris, there was no need to rub it in like that.

  * * *

  IT WAS JUST AFTER eleven when he clicked the latch on the door of Luna Luna and warily entered the store. This time there was no bell to fall on his head—just the dog, who was back lying in his basket, and gave him a sleepy growl. As a precaution, Robert took a step to the side.

  There were no customers in the store yet. Rosalie Laurent, who was sorting something on one of the shelves by the wall, turned round.

  “Oh, no. Not you again!” she said, rolling her eyes.

  “Yes, it’s me again,” he replied sharply. “Unfortunately you wouldn’t let me in yesterday evening.” At the thought of the way she’d left him standing outside the door the previous evening and how he’d made a fool of himself shouting on the open street, he felt a cold rage rising within him.

  “I think we have a little matter to sort out,” he said.

  “Oh yes?” Her smile was pure provocation. “What brings you to me today, Monsieur Sherman? Have you taken out a summons already, or did you just want to knock another postcard stand over?” She raised her dark, prettily curved eyebrows.

  He took a deep breath. There was no point picking a quarrel with this little postcard cow. He had to remain in control. He was a professor of literature and he knew his Shakespeare. “First things first.”

  “Neither,” he said as calmly as possible. “I would just like my wallet back.”

  She laid her head to one side. “Aha. Interesting. And what has that to do with me?” She was obviously trying to be difficult.

  “Well,” he looked studiously past her at the table with the till where a few leaflets were lying. “I assume that I forgot it here.”

  “Is that why you tried to break my door down last night?” She smiled sardonically.

  “Does that surprise you? I mean, you lock the door in my face and show me your middle finger. If that’s what passes for fine French manners—”

  “It was already locked, monsieur.” She took a step toward him, looking him up and down with her dark eyes. “Do you know what your problem is? You obviously have the greatest difficulty taking no for an answer.”

  “No, I don’t,” he said firmly. “At least … not normally. But yesterday it was an emergency. I can assure you that it’s not particularly amusing to discover in a restaurant that you’ve lost your money and all your cards.”

  “Oh, and am I to blame for that, too?” The eyebrows went up again. She was really good at that.

  “Well, at any rate it’s no wonder that I lost my wallet here in all that kerfuffle.”

  “‘Kerfuffle.’ You said it. It took me nearly an hour to remove all the traces of the devastation you caused.” She looked at him reproachfully. “I don’t suppose you thought of helping me to tidy up all that mess?”

  “Can I help it if you keep a little beast in your store to attack your customers?”

  “That’s ridiculous. Just listen to yourself. Now it’s my sweet little William Morris’s fault?” Rosalie gave a hoarse laugh.

  William Morris heard his name, raised his head with a little whimper, and wagged his tail happily.

  “See for yourself. He’s a perfectly friendly, sweet little dog. I think you’re suffering from paranoia, Monsieur … what was your name again … Sherman from—New York. And not only where it concerns how dangerous dogs are.”

  She folded her bare, slim arms over a delicate blue silk blouse with little white polka dots and looked at him pointedly.

  Robert Sherman grabbed his forehead. Why on earth had he come back here again? Of course. Because of the wallet. He shouldn’t get sidetracked. This woman was an eternal arguer. The wallet was the most important thing.

  “Just give me my wallet, and I’ll be off,” he said brusquely.

  “There’s nothing I’d like better,” she replied scornfully. “But your wallet just isn’t here.”

  He looked at her suspiciously. For a moment he wondered if this contrary creature with the big, dark eyes was capable of keeping his wallet from him—out of pure spite and to cause him difficulty.

  She shook her head as if she’d guessed what he was thinking.

  “And no, I’m not just saying that to annoy you, though I must admit that the idea is very tempting.”

  “I wouldn’t put anything past you,” he said crossly. Perhaps she was lying anyway. He was 100 percent sure he’d lost his wallet in the store.

  “Monsieur!” She stood with arms akimbo. “That’s enough of your accusations. After all, I tidied the whole store yesterday—after you stomped out and knocked the postcard stand over … but I didn’t find a wallet. Perhaps you lost it somewhere else. Or someone stole it.”

  “No, no. That’s not possible … it must be here,” he insisted. “The last time I took it out of my pocket was here in this store—when I paid for the book.”

  “Oh, yes … the tiger story. That was stolen from you, too. You’re really being dogged by bad luck, monsieur. Perhaps Paris just isn’t your city. Perhaps you should just get back to New York as quickly as possible.” She took a couple of steps backward and went behind the counter. “But … be my guest. You can take another look for yourself.” She directed her whole attention to a squared notebook, pretending to write something on it with an aggrieved expression.

  Robert looked around and tried to remember what direction he’d taken as he exited so hastily. Had he left the brown leather wallet on the shelf by the counter? But it clearly wasn’t there. Or had he still had it in his hand when that yappy little mutt circled round him barking and he fell over the postcard stand in fright? Had the wallet fallen out of his hand without his noticing it in all the commotion?

  He looked in every corner of the little store, searched under the big wooden table that stood in the middle, inspected the area around the entrance, and even looked carefully at the window display. But there was no sign of the wallet.

  All this time Rosalie Laurent watched him with a bored expression, winding her long hair into a bun that she fastened at the back of her head with a single hairpin.

  “Well?” she said, yawning.

  “Nothing,” he replied, with a shrug of his shoulders.

  “I could of course give you the thirty euros you overpaid yesterday,” she said, and he might even have accepted the offer, if she hadn’t immediately added: “It’s not much, but it’ll be enough for a Coke and a couple of Big Macs.”

  “I appreciate your generous offer, but no,” he said with a growl. “I’d rather starve than take any money from you.”

  “Huh. As you wish. Then I’m afraid I can’t help you, Monsieur Sherman.”

  “Oh, it’d be a great help to me if you’d just keep your mouth shut for a moment,” he replied. “I’m trying to concentrate.”

  “Charmant, charmant,” she chatte
d on unperturbed. “That’s a favor I’ll be glad to do you, monsieur. I’ve got better things to do than talking to you, you know.” She smiled triumphantly. “But you won’t find your wallet here, mal-heu-reuse-ment.”

  Robert racked his brains. The way it was looking at the moment, he would really have to accept Rachel’s offer. He didn’t have a cent in his pockets. And that was not just in the proverbial sense. He would have to work out an emergency plan. Rachel would have to cancel his cards immediately and he would have to go to the consulate to get a replacement passport. He’d ended up in every tourist’s favorite nightmare. Except that he hadn’t even been mugged.

  “Funny, I was absolutely certain…,” muttered Robert, more to himself than anyone else, and chewed his knuckles thoughtfully. In the absurd hope of a miracle he stood at the display window and stared at the black-and-white tiled floor.

  And the miracle happened.

  Outside, a racing bike was parked with panache. A tall, sporty guy in shorts and a T-shirt took off his helmet and opened the door to the store.

  * * *

  SO FAR ROBERT SHERMAN had only ever experienced unfortunate chains of circumstance. But here, in a postcard store in Paris, where he was standing not entirely by chance and certainly not voluntarily, he experienced for the first time in his life a fortunate chain of events.

  For example, it was fortunate that a client of a certain René Joubert, a fitness trainer by trade, had canceled her coaching appointment that Friday because of a migraine, as a result of which that young man was parking his bike outside Luna Luna at the very moment that Robert was in the process of learning the pattern of the tiled floor by heart. Also fortunate was the fact that the cyclist greeted his girlfriend with a hearty “My appointment was canceled, so I thought I’d drop in! There’s great news!” And even more fortunate was the fact that—while Rosalie came out from behind the counter to welcome René—the little dog also felt himself compelled to climb out of his basket wagging his tail and jumping up at the muscular legs of the man in the green shorts.