The Paris Architect: A Novel

Major Herzog looked very odd in civilian clothes. His dark green smoking jacket was quite handsome, and the cuff of his charcoal gray trousers broke just right on his polished chestnut-colored shoes. Lucien, who’d made sure no one saw him slip into the entrance of the apartment building on rue Pergolèse, quickly stepped into the apartment, slamming the door shut behind him.

Lucien saw that Herzog was amused by this. They both knew the French were in a precarious position, and they couldn’t be seen in public socializing with their conquerors. That’s why Lucien had been invited to dine with the major in his home. Lucien had said absolutely nothing for almost thirty seconds after Herzog had telephoned and extended the invitation. A debate had raged in his head whether to accept. Celeste had also been invited, but that had only been a formality; Herzog must have learned after a few months’ duty in Paris that Frenchmen rarely mixed wives with pleasure, a combination of oil and water. Lucien had accepted because, like in peacetime, it was good business to socialize with the client. What the hell, thought Lucien, he’d see Herzog once and that would be the end of it.

German officers were quartered in the affluent western section of Paris, an area that was closed to all French citizens except residents who lived there. Herzog had arranged for Lucien to get a pass to visit him.

Lucien was surprised by the décor of the German’s apartment. He’d expected curtains with a swastika pattern, busts of Hitler or at least a portrait of the Fuehrer in a heroic pose, maybe wearing knight’s armor. But it was wonderfully decorated with modernist paintings, sculpture, and modern furniture. The rugs were of a dynamic abstract design in bold colors of olive, terra cotta, red, and black. He was instantly drawn to a sleek, streamlined piece of sculpture made of shiny stainless steel.

“This is quite magnificent, Major,” said Lucien, careful not to touch the sculpture for fear of leaving fingerprints.

“It’s interesting that you’re drawn to my favorite piece, my Brancusi. A lot of his work has an almost phallic appearance. The American postal authorities once denied entry to one of his pieces because they thought it was a sex object.”

“Puritans,” said Lucien, who moved on to a painting of a grid of primary colors. “Is this a Mondrian?”

“A very small one, I’m afraid.”

Lucien took a few steps back and gave the German’s apartment a 360-degree sweep. It was an elegant dwelling built during Haussmann’s reign, with beautiful walnut paneling and a white plaster ceiling done in very fine low-relief work. But it was the juxtaposition of the modern artwork and moderne furnishings with the fine nineteenth-century architectural detailing that made the interior so unique. He was impressed and quite envious at the same time, realizing that a German had better taste than he did.

“What an incredible flat. I would’ve thought that German officers lived—”

“In a cold stone barracks with just a cot, table, and chair with a picture of Hitler on the wall?” Herzog said, smiling. “No, we’re allowed to secure our own quarters. This used to belong to a Jewish fellow who wouldn’t cooperate with the Reich. So he had to forfeit his property.”

“And where is he living now?” Lucien asked, realizing a millisecond after he spoke that it was an incredibly naive question.

“In somewhat less comfortable accommodations,” replied Herzog. He poured his guest a glass of cognac.

“Oh,” said Lucien as he took the glass from his host, who was pouring one for himself.

“I think you’re surprised by my taste in art,” said Herzog with a smile. “A bit avant-garde for a soldier of the Reich?”

“Well, I…” Lucien was thinking exactly that.

“I try to keep an open mind when it comes to collecting. Come, let me show you something that I’m especially proud of,” said Herzog, leading Lucien down a dark corridor.

Herzog switched on the overhead light and pointed to two small paintings on the wall. One was of a lush green landscape along a riverbank and the other was a portrait of a well-fed man in a black outfit and hat.