The Paris Architect: A Novel

“It’s just a pile of burnt rubble now. Now go get your car and start banging some of these French girls. A Renault’s got a nice wide backseat. Put it to good use, nephew.” Hermann tapped his driver on the shoulder to get moving.

Alain, left standing on the sidewalk, looked down at the keys in his hand. He stared at them for a few seconds, then walked toward the corner where the car was parked. His romantic efforts would have to wait for a while.

***

Alain examined the false drain pan and lowered himself into the cavity below. The tunnel had been crudely but efficiently constructed, with plank bracing on its ceiling to prevent a collapse. Someone had gone to a great deal of effort to save a Jew. But Alain wasn’t interested in the men who’d dug the tunnel but the man who’d thought of this ingenious solution. He discovered that the tunnel ended far into the garden, almost twenty meters away, where the Jew could escape unnoticed by the Gestapo who were busy ripping the house apart. Alain already knew who had designed the fake drain. It was the sketch of the metal frame and the brick that he’d found months earlier that still puzzled him. He decided to walk through the charred ruins of the house, poking around the debris until he reached the fireplace and chimney, the only things still intact. He smiled as he walked up to it because now everything made sense. The sketch was for a false wall at the back of a firebox. A very clever solution. The only thought that came into Alain’s mind at that moment was why Lucien would be stupid enough to design these hiding places.





46





“This is my favorite interior in all of Paris. No other comes close,” said Lucien, who stood behind Pierre, both hands resting on his shoulders.

“The reading room of the Bibliothèque Nationale is world famous. It’s the most important library in France. Look up at those domes. See all the light they let in—aren’t they incredible? And see how they’re carried on those skinny cast-iron columns?”

Lucien always got carried away when he explained his favorite architecture to Pierre. They had been to Notre Dame, La Madeleine, the Eiffel Tower, and the Paris Opera. In each place he jabbered away, but Pierre listened intently. He never seemed bored by Lucien’s lectures. On the contrary, he asked questions and pointed out structural and design elements that impressed Lucien.

“The architect, Henri Labrouste, in the 1860s, was the first to use exposed iron as an architectural element. It took a lot of nerve to do that. People criticized him and said it was ugly. Look at those beautiful iron arches that carry the domes. See how they spring out from the columns? Just incredible.”

“Shhh,” whispered an old man who placed his index finger to his lips. Lucien had forgotten he was in a library and nodded a silent apology.

They walked through the room between the rows of reading tables, gazing up at the skylights in the middle of the domes. Lucien took Pierre up to one of the columns and rapped his knuckles on it, producing a metallic sound. This brought another shhh from a patron.

“See. It’s metal, not stone.” Pierre did the same and smiled at the result.

Men sat at the tables immersed in their books, scribbling notes and marking pages with little scraps of paper. As Lucien walked by them, he wondered if they found solace in their books in bad times like these or whether they were always lost in their world of scholarship.

“It took them six years to build this library. Those are the stacks over there, where they keep the books. They’re behind that incredible glass wall, which is framed out in iron.”

Lucien and Pierre walked up to the wall and looked inside at row upon row of brown aged volumes. With his hand on Pierre’s shoulder, Lucien guided the boy around the perimeter of the great room, pointing out the detailing.

“All these buildings of Paris are treasures,” said Lucien.

“But they’re all old,” replied Pierre. “I thought you were a modern architect.”