The Paris Architect: A Novel

“So, Lucien, can you throw some work to your friends—for old time’s sake?”


Lucien had never considered Henri Devereaux a friend. He was a petty, mean, egotistical bastard who, whenever he won an important commission, would immediately call Lucien to rub it in his face. Although he hated him, Lucien wished he could be like Devereaux, who had all the right influential connections to consistently get big projects.

Lucien was shocked that Devereaux had called him up to go out for a drink. That had never happened before the war. The arrogant prick didn’t think Lucien’s talent deemed him worthy to sit at the same table. But here they both were at a café, sipping wine and exchanging phony pleasantries. Lucien knew that Henri would eventually get down to brass tacks and reveal why he wanted to meet him.

“I don’t know, the Boche have their own methods of choosing their architects,” said Lucien.

Both Lucien and Devereaux knew this rang hollow. Other architect friends of Lucien’s had been given work by the Germans. To Lucien’s great pleasure, Devereaux had no work at all and was livid to see him get big commissions.

“I don’t care if it’s German war work,” said Devereaux. “I’m desperate to design something real. All architects do during a war is design imaginary buildings, and that doesn’t count. A design has to get built to be real. I’m going crazy. I’ve got nothing to do—plus, I’m running out of money.”

“What about all those clients and contractors you knew?” asked Lucien, repressing a smile. He was well aware that all of Devereaux’s clients had fled the country, and all the contractors he had insulted and demeaned before the war who now had work would never throw anything his way. He knew they hated his guts for his arrogance, and now they had the last laugh.

Devereaux sidestepped the question and asked, “Didn’t Raoul Cochin get to do the new barracks in Joinville? I recall that he was a friend of yours.”

“Sure, I know Raoul, but I didn’t put a word in for him, if that’s what you mean.”

“So he just got that job out of the blue?”

“Could be. Everybody has some sort of connection, and you know that connections mean work,” replied Lucien in his most disingenuous tone of voice.

“These days, I have no connections.”

Lucien wanted to laugh in Devereaux’s face, but he put on an expression of concern.

“It’s tough in wartime to get work. It must be so hard for you, considering the way things used to be. You seemed to grab up every job in the city, didn’t you?”

Lucien thoroughly enjoyed rubbing salt into this wound, and he found himself pleased that Devereaux was so desperate.

“Yes, I was quite successful before the war, as you well know. I was one of the city’s most prominent architects. I had to turn down work and refer clients to other architects.”

“I don’t remember any referrals.”

“Why, dear Lucien, I could’ve sworn I sent a client or two your way,” said Devereaux, lying through his teeth.

“No, there weren’t any referrals from you. Believe me, I would’ve remembered. An occurrence like that happens as often as Halley’s Comet.”

“You must be mistaken. A Monsieur Renier. I’m sure he came to you with an automobile repair shop. I told him that would be right up your alley.”

It was time to end this nonsense. Lucien was glad that Devereaux was down on his luck. It couldn’t have happened to a more deserving person.