The Paris Architect: A Novel

***

Instead of waiting for the lift, Alain walked briskly down the four flights of stairs and into the street. As he reached the corner of rue de Chateaudun, a black Mercedes blew its horn and pulled alongside of him. The rear door swung open and a Gestapo officer in a black uniform ordered Alain to get in. Alain stopped and stared inside the car, then did as he was told. He slid into the rear passenger seat next to the officer, who was smoking a cigarette.

“So how did it go?” asked the man, who offered Alain a cigarette.

“He loved my work. I start tomorrow,” Alain said with great pride, though he knew beforehand that Bernard would admire his portfolio. His drawing skills were exceptional.

“That’s wonderful news. Your mother will be so pleased.”

“It wouldn’t have happened without you, Uncle Hermann,” said Alain, lighting the cigarette.

“Nonsense. It was your talent that got you the position. I only told you about the architect. My boss is screwing his mistress, and that’s how I heard about him,” said the German, patting his nephew’s shoulder with a black-gloved hand. “He’s getting a lot of war work, and I thought he might need some help.”

“Does your boss know that she’s Bernard’s mistress?” asked Alain, now more excited by his uncle’s talk of sexual liaisons than by his new job.

“Probably, but she won’t be the architect’s mistress much longer, I bet.”

“Well, thank you, Uncle, for all you’ve done. If there’s anything I can do…”

“Think nothing of it, my boy. But now that you mention it, doesn’t that man who lives on the fifth floor of your building have a heeb look to him?”

“Monsieur Valery? Mmm, kind of, I suppose. I’ll make inquiries for you, Uncle, if you wish.”





21





“This—is mine?”

“All yours, Monsieur Lucien,” replied Manet, who handed the architect a set of keys on a shiny new key ring.

Lucien stared dumbfounded at the shiny 1939 navy blue Citro?n Roadster parked at the curb. He ran his hands lovingly along the hood, then up onto the sloping convertible leather roof, as if he were caressing a woman’s naked body. Lucien hadn’t understood why Manet had asked to meet him at 29 rue du Renard. He’d said it was a surprise and it certainly was.

Parisians now rode bicycles to get around. No one drove in Paris anymore; automobiles had practically vanished from the streets. You could stand on the rue Saint-Honoré for twenty minutes at midday and maybe count half a dozen cars. The continuous ribbon of traffic that constantly circled the Place de la Concorde had also disappeared. Permits to drive a car were now issued by the authorities, and only to people in certain jobs, such as doctors, midwives, and firemen. Otherwise, you had to have a lot of pull with the Boche to get a driver’s permit, which Manet certainly had. Even if this was a gift, and even if Lucien got a driver’s permit, the Citro?n would have to stay parked until the war was over because of the shortage of petrol. It was very difficult to find fuel—getting vintage champagne was easier.

“And here are your papers for your petrol ration. You’ll need a car to get around to all the jobs you’ll be doing. Can’t get out to Tremblay on the Metro,” Manet said with a great belly laugh.

“You are most generous, Monsieur Manet. I’m speechless. Never in my wildest dreams would I have thought I’d get a car. And such a beautiful one.”