The Paris Architect: A Novel

“So who’s this special guy? It’s not like you to be carrying on during the day.”


Adele shifted uneasily in her black iron café chair. Bette was amused that the question annoyed her boss and waited patiently for a well-thought-out lie. It was always fascinating to watch someone lie, to conjure up a story in a matter of seconds. Some were experts at it. Like Etienne, her lover last year; he could whip out a convincing lie in a fraction of a second. She actually had great admiration for accomplished liars.

Adele took a sip of wine and patted her lips with a napkin. It was a neat way of stalling for time until she had her story straight.

“A government official who has a very severe crush on me.”

“That can be quite handy. A lover who has influence.”

“It is indeed; he’s opened a few doors for me.”

“What’s he like? Handsome? Tall? Good in bed?”

“Yes, all of those things,” Adele said testily. “One of the best lovers I’ve ever had. Did you see the new sketches?”

Bette wasn’t about to let Adele change the subject so quickly.

“Married, I suppose.”

“Yes, if you must know, Miss Snoop. Now what about André?”

“André will be finished tomorrow for sure. He promised me. So how long have you known him?”

“Only a brief time,” said Adele as she took another sip of wine.

“Now would that be the French government or the German government?”

Adele gave Bette an icy stare. “French.”

Bette was no patriot, but she had a real feeling of revulsion for Adele at this moment. The French viewed any woman who slept with a German as a slut. Bette had seen firsthand how the French would treat a woman who got too friendly with the Germans. She’d seen a girl in a café laughing and joking with a Wehrmacht officer. When the German left, a complete stranger came up to the girl’s table and slapped her across the face without saying a word. It was thought that no girl from a respectable family would ever bed down with a German.

Adele was a rare exception, someone educated and well off jumping into the sack with the enemy. And she wasn’t just sleeping with a German, but with a Gestapo officer. It was like fucking Satan himself. Adele wouldn’t be so stupid as to reveal that she was having an affair with a Gestapo officer. That would be suicidal. She smiled when she imagined what Adele would look like with a shaved head. There had been occasional reprisals throughout France against women who consorted with Germans. Last fall, some men went into a café, beat up a German officer, and shaved the head of the girl he was with. No one would sell her a wig, and she was so ashamed that she had to hide out until her hair grew back. Adele was incredibly vain, even for an ex-model, so getting her beautiful blond hair sheared off like a sheep would be worse than death. Adele was playing with fire, and she knew it.

It was now clear to Bette how Adele was able to get all the fabric she wanted during a textile shortage. Adele must have thought she’d picked the winning side, but the Germans hadn’t been doing too well lately. They weren’t the supermen everyone thought they were. In private, people were talking about Liberation.

Bette was about to launch another attack when Lucien Bernard appeared behind Adele. He started stroking her blond hair, and Adele swung around in her seat to face him.

“Lucien, my darling. Where have you been? You haven’t called me in ages.”

“I tried calling you many times,” said Lucien. From the feeble tone of his reply, Bette knew he hadn’t been trying very hard.

Adele looked up at Lucien and took hold of his hand. “Lucien, do you remember Bette? My right—and left hand.”

“Of course. We met one evening outside Le Chat Roux…and I saw you at the fashion show,” said Lucien as he sat in the chair next to Adele.

Bette did remember Lucien. He had definitely made an impression on her. But he belonged to her boss and therefore was off limits.