The Paris Architect: A Novel

“This is my Corot,” said Herzog, nodding toward the landscape. “And my Franz Hals. So you see, Monsieur Bernard, not everything has to be decadent and modern.”


“They’re beautiful. Look at the brushwork on the trees,” exclaimed Lucien.

“Two extraordinary masters. No one can capture an expression like Hals.”

“They must have been quite expensive.”

“Not at all. A gentleman who was about to take a long trip didn’t need them anymore,” replied Herzog. “And he let me have them for almost nothing.”

Lucien could imagine the kind of trip the man was on.

“You’ve started quite a collection.”

Herzog laughed. “Just a modest beginning. But I hope to pick up more bargains in Paris. There’s an incredible collection owned by a Jew named Janusky whom the Gestapo is going crazy trying to find. I’d love to get my hands on the two Franz Hals portraits he’s supposed to have. But you can be sure Reich Marshal G?ring will have first crack at the art. But I am expecting some very beautiful engravings by Dürer any day now.”

Lucien said nothing and looked down at his glass. He knew that the acquisition was from another man leaving on a “trip.”

Herzog raised his glass. “To great architecture and the architects who create it,” he said.

Lucien lifted his glass. He thought this was a good opportunity to kiss his client’s ass. After all, the Germans, not Manet, were his real clients. “To great architecture and the great clients who allow architects to create.”

Herzog seemed amused by Lucien’s toast and took a sip of his cognac. “Come and sit down,” he said, beckoning to a Barcelona chair designed by a fellow German, Mies van der Rohe.

The chair was quite comfortable, and Lucien crossed his legs and sipped his cognac. He was beginning to get into the spirit of the evening and relaxed a bit. “Did you get all the furniture here in Paris?” he asked, patting his hand on the seat.

“Just a few pieces, most of them were shipped from Hamburg where I was living before the war started,” said Herzog. “Since I’m going to be here for quite a while, I wanted to feel at home.” He seemed to expect that Lucien and all the rest of the French accepted this plain fact of life. The Germans were here to stay. Herzog reclined on a chaise lounge and reached for the bottle of cognac to refill his glass.

“Your pony chaise is very handsome. I met Le Corbusier in the ’30s. A very important talent,” said Lucien, even though he thought the man an arrogant shit.

“Indeed, I’ve driven out to see the Villa Savoye. I’d always wanted to see it. A tremendous building,” exclaimed Herzog. “Where is Le Corbusier these days? Switzerland?”

“He made it over the Pyrenees into Spain, I believe.”

“Architects who run away live to design another day, mm?”

“You’ve got a very fine eye for design, Major,” replied Lucien, changing the subject.

“Dieter. Please call me Dieter.”

“If you call me Lucien.”

“My father may have turned me into an engineer, but he couldn’t take away my love of architecture and design, Lucien.”

It bothered Lucien that a German could value such beautiful things—like an ape appreciating a string of rare pearls or an ancient Grecian red and black vase. They were monsters without a shred of decency, yet they could hold the same things in high esteem as a Frenchman could. It didn’t seem right.

“I brought some things from my time at the Bauhaus, but I purchased most of it over the years. It wasn’t that expensive, either. Most Germans think this stuff is decadent trash, and few people want it in their homes.”

“They prefer a romantic ticky-tacky landscape on the wall. Or a faux Louis XIV chair,” said Lucien with great resignation.

“Exactly. Pure garbage.”

“To garbage,” said Lucien before he drained his cognac. While the liquor oozed down his throat, he noticed a photo of a woman and child on a glass and steel end table. He had been debating whether Herzog was a family man or not.