The Paris Architect: A Novel

“No. Lucien, please don’t,” pleaded Bette, trying with all her might to pull him away from the chest.

“He must be the fuck of the century,” exclaimed Lucien as he yanked out some heavy blankets from the top of the chest.

“I’m going to choke the life out of the bastard.” When he threw off the third blanket, he saw the terrified faces of two children looking up at him. He froze and stared at them in amazement; he might as well have unearthed an Egyptian mummy.

Bette roughly pushed Lucien aside and helped the boy and girl out of the chest. They both clung to her thighs, burying their faces in her white dress. She caressed both their heads and gave Lucien a defiant look that said “go straight to hell.”

Lucien was mesmerized by the sight. Bette, a smart, independent, and beautiful fashion model, had never displayed any motherly tendencies at all. Here she was protecting two little children, like a lioness ready to fight anyone who would try to hurt her cubs. He smiled at them, and a feeling of great love and admiration for her swept over him. Lucien knelt down and extended his hand to the boy.

“My name is Lucien, and I’m very sorry I scared you. I was looking for someone else. So what’s your name, young fellow?”

The boy looked up at Bette and she nodded.

“Emile.”

“And you, young lady, what’s your name?”

“Carole,” announced the girl, who Lucien could see was not shy like the boy.

“I’m so glad to meet you both. Bette, why don’t we get acquainted with some refreshments in the salon while you attend to my suit?”

“You’re a mess. Let me get you a robe so you can undress.”

Lucien took the children by their hands and led them into the salon. He took off his suit coat and trousers and handed them to Bette, who had brought in some drinks. Dressed in the white robe, Lucien stretched out on the sofa and asked the basic questions one asks of all small children. Their age, their favorite toys and books. Emile and Carole slowly dropped their guard and became friendlier with Lucien, laughing at his silly jokes and funny expressions. He didn’t need to be told about their religious affiliation; it was plain to see.

Bette stood in the doorway and enjoyed the scene. Lucien was the first person other than herself whom the children had talked to in a year. He smiled at her and could see that she was happy that they were having a good time and that Lucien, who also never exhibited any parental talent, made them feel comfortable and safe. After a while, Bette shooed the children into their room to play and sat down in the chaise lounge across from Lucien.

“Your suit will dry in about five minutes, monsieur.”

“That’s wonderful. I’ll be on time for my meeting. You know how Germans are about punctuality.”

Without any prompting, Bette told Lucien the whole story. He listened without interruption, then walked around the salon in silence. She watched him as he examined the apartment.

“Does the architect approve of my space?” Bette asked coyly.

“It’s a magnificent apartment. I’m jealous that I didn’t do it. The way one decorates her home says a lot about a person.”

“And what does it say about me, Monsieur Bernard?”

“That you have excellent taste. But those two ‘accessories’ of yours playing down the hall tell me a great deal more about Mademoiselle’s character.”

“Does that please you?”

“It does indeed,” replied Lucien as he knelt down in front of her, held her hand, and kissed it tenderly.

“Lucien, you’re sweet, you’re wonderful. I’m sorry I had to deceive you.”

“But there’s one problem, my love. Did you notice how easily I found your secret? You know, the Gestapo will have as easy a time as I did. That can’t be. We must fix this immediately.”

Lucien got up and walked to the window that overlooked the street. “This is an exceptionally deep windowsill. What’s under here?”