The Paris Architect: A Novel

“Manet, your company is doing damn fine work for the Reich. Together, we’re going to produce a war machine that will supply our troops for years. Here’s to you, monsieur,” shouted Lieber, lifting his glass in the air toward Manet, who in turn raised his.

“And you, Herzog, you’ll be a colonel by next year for your efforts for the Fatherland.”

Herzog barely raised his glass in acknowledgment and resumed leafing through a book he’d gotten from the floor-to-ceiling bookcases. Sitting on the arm of Lucien’s leather upholstered chair, Jeanne stretched out her long, slender legs across his lap and refilled her glass with wine.

“How do you like these, lover?” she said patting her thighs.

“Real beauties. Not many girls have silk stockings in Paris anymore,” said Lucien.

“You just have to be special…and know the right people,” she said, looking in Lieber’s direction.

“And I bet you know the right people in your line of work.”

Jeanne’s raucous laughter hurt Lucien’s ears. “The Maison de Chat only allows officers, none of those cheap bastard enlisted men. And they know how to treat a girl,” she said, putting her glass to Lucien’s lips. This was real honest-to-goodness wine, and he drained the glass in a gulp. He smiled up at her pretty, heart-shaped face. He didn’t condemn her for cavorting with the Boche. Girls like her, who were excluded from respectable society in peacetime, exacted a kind of revenge by associating with the enemy, who now held all the power. The women wanted to lord it over those who’d looked down at them before the war.

“Oooohh, someone’s thirsty. Want some more?”

“Not just yet, love.”

“So, what does a handsome man like you do for a living?” she asked, stroking Lucien’s wavy brown hair. He knew she would soon be steering him to a bedroom for services rendered at a very steep price.

“I’m an architect.”

“What’s that?” Her question brought a bemused look from Herzog.

“I design buildings.”

“Like an engineer?”

“Not exactly.”

“Like an interior decorator?”

“Forget it, let me have some more wine.” What did he expect, thought Lucien, if a respectable member of society didn’t know what an architect did, why would a whore? Suzy, in the armchair across from Lieber, vigorously rubbed her hands together and gave him a pouty look.

“You’re cold, my love,” said Lieber. “Manet, it’s damn cold in here. You French don’t know shit about central heating. In Germany, our homes are warm and toasty. It’s colder than a witch’s tit in here.”

“It’s not that cold in here. It’s only the end of September,” protested Lucien.

“The building furnace hasn’t been turned on yet,” said Manet. “The radiators aren’t working yet.”

“Nonsense, there’s some wood in the fireplace,” said Lieber. “Light a fire so the girls can warm up.”





28





Manet, who was lifting a glass of wine to his lips, froze. A look of terror passed over his face then instantly disappeared. He glanced at Lucien, who laid his head against Jeanne’s arm and closed his eyes. Drunk as he was, Lieber sensed the tension in the room and set down his glass. He stared at Manet. Like all senior officers, he wasn’t used to being ignored.

“Monsieur Manet, didn’t you hear me?” he inquired in a surprisingly pleasant tone of voice. “I asked you to light a fire for us.”

Manet set his glass down and slowly walked over to the fireplace. He gazed at the logs in the andiron for a few seconds.

“Yes, Maxie, a fire would be so romantic,” said Céline, who was giving Major Herzog the eye.

“But, Colonel, it’s really not that cold at all in here,” offered Manet in a quiet voice. “Maybe once you have some more wine, you’ll warm up.”

“Bullshit. That is a working fireplace, isn’t it?” Lieber said. “So what the hell is your problem?”