By the time we had finished telling Jacques the details, we’d made it through a half dozen minicourses, from fruit to cheese and tapenade to chocolate and more wine. Jacques made me start at the beginning, with the request from the art agent Beatrice, and walk him through everything from Nate and I meeting on the plane ride to our car ride to his atelier. Jacques asked a hundred questions in between as he stood to fix little plates of food and clear away others, wanting the details on everything from what I wore to dinner to the demeanor of the Parisian police to the make of the car that nearly ran me over.
After he’d heard the details, he declared, “This is not the work of Beatrice Landreau. I had dealing with her years ago. She is a crook, that’s true. But she’s not clever enough to plan anything this intricate. She is a shill, not the master thief. Take her off your list.”
But he saved his greatest interest for the Panthéon Sketches, displaying a depth of knowledge on Lenepveu, the original paintings, the life of Joan of Arc, and the sketches themselves, even though to my knowledge they had never been photographed or written about in any publication. To him, the Panthéon Sketches were gold, not the work of a minor artist of an overlooked series of murals. “I go see the murals as often as I am in the area. The depictions of Jehanne are simple, but beautiful. They are the only thing in that dreadful building with soul. Well, Jehanne and Marie Curie’s tomb.”
It made me reconsider the theft of the drawings. “Jacques, we were starting to think that the theft of the sketches was simply to get my attention for the rest of this . . . quest. But you seem to think that the Panthéon Sketches have a much higher intrinsic value that what the insurers say. Why?”
Jacques poured a touch more wine for the two of us, but not himself. “The fascination with Joan, Jehanne is deep. Not only here in France but around the world. Your father tapped into that with his work, but that is just the tip of the iceberg. That’s the saying, yes?”
I nodded and he continued.
“What do you know of Joan Bright & Dark? Have you ever seen photos of the crowds that your father’s work drew here in Paris during that week?” Once again, he got up and wandered into the back of the atelier to a set of galvanized steel shelves that stretched across the back wall. He went right for the bottom shelf and pulled out a bound photo album. Returning to the table, he handed the book to me. “I took these. They are terrible. But beautiful for the memories.”
As I paged through the amateur snapshots, Nate moved his chair over and studied them, too. The first dozen had been taken in the room we were sitting in—photos crammed with beautiful people, including Charlotte Rampling, Christina Onassis, Peter Gabriel, Mick and Jerry, Iman and Esmé all laughing, drinking, smoking. Next came shots of crowds of people on the streets staring up at Sacré-Coeur, young and old, but all glistening with light. “Your father seemed to take over the whole city, shining his light on our Joan. It was amazing to see all of Paris out to watch his creations. The beautiful candles at Notre-Dame. The fire that engulfed the magnificent Frémiet statue at Place de Pyramid. But my favorite night was here at Sacré-Coeur, of course. Your father wanted to symbolize courage that night. The statue of Joan at Sacré-Coeur is so simple and strong, and that’s the image of Jehanne he created for all to see. A young but very brave woman who acted on faith. Thousands of citizens of the world crowded the steps and streets. Your father used these beautiful white flares to light up the whole front of the basilica. But the light around Jehanne, it was white and gold. The red! There was singing and music from the crowd. The whole night glowed like . . . heaven.”
I thought of the scene I’d witnessed on the steps tonight and tried to imagine it magnified exponentially. I had no words. “It must have been something.”
“It was miraculeux. At the end, a red light appeared, starting like a small dot and then expanding. I don’t know how your father did it from the crazy ladder he was on. But the red symbolized Michael the Archangel and Jehanne’s new committed faith. At least, that’s what I thought. But art, as you know, means something different to everyone.”
“It sounds like it had a profound impact on you,” Nate said.
“Jehanne had always been a central figure in my understanding of God, of France. But after talking with your father, she became something more for me. A symbol of courage in many areas of my life. Of strength in personal struggles. And I have found so many others who turn to her for all kinds of courage. But some who turn to her, they are . . . very extreme.”
Nate perked up. “Like cult extreme? Dan Brown Knights Templar extreme?”
“I don’t think so. But you never know. There are two groups now, I’d worry about. I’ve noticed a rise in the use of Joan imagery from people who are anti-immigrant. It’s a new wave here in France. It’s something to keep an eye on.”
“I wasn’t aware of that,” I said, thinking how sad that would have made my father.
“And then there are the people who turn their fascination with Joan into something material. There are so few genuine relics of her, that something like an artist’s sketches would be very appealing, very valuable to their worship of her.”
“My father wasn’t in the extreme category, was he?” I had to ask. Because if not now, when?
“No, of course not. Your father was spiritual, you know, but not susceptible like that. He was a scientist of sorts. He believed in math and order, the workings of the universe as a complex system circumscribed by rules, equations. But, he found personal strength in Joan and used her as a talisman. For his sobriety, his work. She was important to him. That is why he named you Joan. To remind himself. And, when those of us who knew him gave up all our bad habits, too, she became important to us. He made sure.”
With that, Jacques took something out of his pocket. It was a pewter-colored medal, the size of a half-dollar, like something you’d find in a religious gift shop. Not valuable by any monetary standard, but I recognized it right away, because my father kept the same trinket in his pocket every day. How I had forgotten about it? One of the many little habits of my father that had slipped from my memory.
Staring at the talisman in Jacques’s hand, I could see my father as clear as day, sitting at the kitchen table with his coffee, flipping it over and over again in his left hand as he read the paper. I must have gasped, because Jacques asked, “Do you recognize it?”
“Yes.”
“I had a problem with some very bad habits. When I gave them up, your father sent me this. I have kept it with me every day ever since.”
“My father had one, too,” I explained to Nate. “He rolled it over and over in his fingers whenever he thought no one was looking. But sometimes I was. When I was little, he never let me play with it. He said it wasn’t a toy.”
Jacques handed me the medal. It was a mundane rendering of Saint Joan of Arc on one side and engraved on the other: St. Joan of Arc, give me the courage and the fortitude to defeat my fears and give me the strength to fight for what I believe in . . .
A dime-store prayer, but Jacques had worn the medal down with his touch. Clearly, the prosaic words meant something to him. I handed it back. “How long have you had this?”
“Since 1999. A very long time. And I know that I’m not the first or the last to get one of these from your father.” So, my father had visited Jacques on the same trip to Paris when I’d ditched my parents. Fitting.
“So you were some kind of secret society,” Nate said.
“Maybe we were. The Sons of Joan or something like that. Les Fils de Jehanne! And our leader was Henry Blakely.” Jacques laughed to himself.
“Was Peter Beckman part of this group?” Nate was back on task. I saw him look at his phone to check the time. I felt his anxiety to open the envelope, read the next clue, and then get to someplace with service so we could do the research we needed to do.
“I don’t know. I’ve only seen Peter Beckman once or twice in person since that week in 1980. The week that photo was taken. But, I think he lives here.”
I was astounded. “In Paris?”