“That sounds like a difference Bowie would appreciate. And, does this have anything to do Joan of Arc?”
“No, I don’t think so.” Then I recalled some photos of the Notre-Dame installation that my mother had taken from Bright & Dark. There was a serious moonlight quality to those images as well. “Now that I think of it, there may be a link to Notre-Dame, but I don’t know.”
I lifted up the second piece of paper, containing what we now knew would reveal the next location. It had the same rough quality, same handwriting, same black bird at the end of the verse as the others. I read on:
Soon the pictures, black & white
Captured maid, prince, and silent knight
Here’s my eye that tells me so
Here’s my sight that lets me know
I’ll see her sacred heart ignite
Be there at the stroke of midnight
Come meet with me then, sweet maid
Come sing with me then, sweet maid
“We need to be somewhere at midnight!” I handed the paper to Nate. Maid, prince, and silent knight? Black & white? Sacred heart ignite? Nate read it to himself several times as I watched him. “This is really out of my element. I don’t see a Notre-Dame reference. But, I gotta say, I like this one. Poetic and romantic. Once you set aside the criminal aspect of the enterprise.”
I felt a burst of warmth for Nate. Sacred heart ignite, indeed. He was right. “It is well crafted.”
“We can do this. We have time. Anything jump out at you?”
I studied the words again, and it was like my vision came into focus. Phrases popped. I was getting good at this. “Of course, ‘sacred heart.’ That’s a reference to Sacré-Coeur, where the last night of Bright & Dark was staged. That’s pretty obvious.”
“Maybe to you.”
“Sorry. You’re right. Obvious to me.”
“What about ‘Captured maid, prince, and silent knight’? Is that Joan and the French prince guy?”
“I would assume. Yes, Joan and Charles, the Dauphin. The Silent Knight could be Henry of England. Or Archangel Michael. Some scholars think he taught Joan military tactics.”
There was a sharp laugh from Nate, followed by incredulity. “Really? Some scholars actually think an angel taught Joan military tactics?”
“Well, it is hard to explain how an illiterate peasant girl defeated the English army without any training. Angels make as much sense as anything, really, once faith is in place,” I snapped. I didn’t feel like debating this point, but I felt like I needed to represent Joan’s integrity.
“Sure, so ‘taught by an angel’ makes a lot of sense. Military training by a guy with fluffy white wings. Got it.”
“Let’s debate that later. Ticktock. The important thing to note here is that there is a statue of Joan at Sacré-Coeur, so I think we’re in the ballpark.”
“All right, nearby Sacré-Coeur at midnight. What do you think that means? Is that a big area?”
Ah, Nate. Stick to artificial limbs, I thought. But his earnestness was so appealing, sexy even, and my mind skipped back to Friday evening when he had run his hands over my hips in the elevator of the H?tel Jeu de Paume.
“Joan?”
My name shook me. “Um, what we have is pretty vague. Sacré-Coeur is a basilica on top of Montmartre.” I gestured in the general direction. “You may have noticed the white building at the far side of the city. The church itself is enormous and dominates the neighborhood. As I recall, there are hundreds of steps leading up to the church on one side and a wraparound plaza. Great views of the city from there. But ‘nearby’ could mean any of a million places. It’s impossible to say exactly where. The surrounding area is packed with streets, cafés, apartments, and stores. It’s a busy, dense neighborhood with a bohemian tradition, where all the artists hung out in the twenties. Crazy charming. Imagine if Greenwich Village was built on steep hill, with winding streets, a million cafés, and hidden staircases. That led to more charming streets. Moulin Rouge, tons of tourists. I don’t know the area well enough to even guess what’s ‘nearby’—we should study a map and maybe something will pop out at me. I didn’t spend a lot of time there as a student.” The food arrived, duck for me and beef for Nate. I stared at the paper again. “‘Black and white.’ That’s a specific phrase, isn’t it?”
“Could be colors. Or names. A commentary on contrasts.”
“Listen to you, a commentary on contrasts!”
“Hey, I took a literary criticism class to get through one of my pre-reqs in college. You know, you don’t really need to understand literature to criticize it.”
“True of so many things.” A sip of wine and a bite of cassoulet au canard later, a thought popped into my head. “It’s ‘pictures, black and white,’ not just ‘black and white.’ That could be photos, right? We’re looking for photographs possibly.”
“The references to seeing and sight would back up that theory. That’s a good guess. Or, as we say in my business, a conjecture with merit.” The daylight was gone outside the restaurant, and Nate’s eyes shined in the candlelight. He was enjoying this. “So, we need to find a place near Sacré-Coeur that has a black-and-white photo of Joan of Arc and some guys. Pretty straightforward, I imagine.”
Immediately I picked up my phone and searched for photo galleries in Montmartre near Sacré-Coeur. It was nearly impossible to tell from the vague or outdated gallery websites which one might have a photo exhibit up and no way to tell which one might have photos of a maid, a prince, and a knight. “These websites are rubbish, especially the mobile sites. We may have to walk the streets of the neighborhood and hope to get lucky. We should start right after dinner,” I said, only half-joking.
“Do you know anyone here that is a photographer or photo dealer? Maybe they could steer us in the right direction. Maybe Polly knows someone.”
A tiny wave of juvenile jealousy went through me at the mention of Polly’s name as some sort of all-knowing genius. Seriously, still in competition after all these years? Then I remembered the list of galleries Tai had given me before I left Pasadena, a million years ago or last Wednesday. I recalled that he said one specialized in black-and-white prints. “Nate, you’re a genius.”
I dug though my bag and found the list in an envelope filled with other Parisian tips from curators and friends with restaurant suggestions and the like. Tai’s note mentioned Luna, a gallery with branches in several cities all over the world. Street photography, Black & White. Fashion, Rock n’ roll. Beautiful people. Like SCB’s work. Ask for Guy. Drop my name.
I explained, “My friend Tai is a curator. He gave me a list of galleries to visit while I was here. None are near Sacré-Coeur, but one is a place that specializes in black-and-white photography. And Tai made a note that the photos are like my mother’s. Street. Rock and roll. Could that be the Bowie reference?”
“Was Saint Joan in a rock band, too?”
“Okay, buddy, that’s verging on heresy. No, she wasn’t. But today some fangirl site would call her a rock star.” Luna wasn’t that far from the hotel. “It’s Saturday night, though. I’m not sure the gallery will be open.” I found the phone number, hit “call,” and mumbled a short prayer to my patron saint as I waited for the connection.
The list of what I had to do was long: talk to our security expert Mike and art dealer Beatrice and probably my mother; come clean with the museum about what had happened to the Panthéon Sketches and the current goose chase I was on for my father’s notebooks or the sketches or maybe both; plant a message for Blackbird in Polly’s blog, but what message? But in the charming restaurant with the warm yellow walls and the brass wall sconces, I couldn’t focus on anything but Nate’s jawline. It was quite good.
Just then, someone on the other end picked up the phone. “All?? Galerie Luna.”