The Paris Architect: A Novel

“I seem to remember a problem with the flue. I was supposed to get a chimney sweep in, and I don’t think he ever cleaned it,” said Manet.

Lucien glanced over at Herzog, who had put his book aside and was watching this exchange with great interest. The major, he knew, had grown fond of the industrialist and respected him, so he no doubt hated to see Lieber treat him this way. Herzog jumped up and went over to the fireplace.

“Excuse me, Monsieur Manet. Let me start the fire. I’ll check the flue first.” Herzog turned the cast-iron handle to the right, squatted on his knees, and peered up the chimney. “I can see the stars, so it must be clean,” he said.

He expertly lit some newspaper and kindling and had the fire roaring in seconds. The girls gathered in front of the fireplace, rubbing their hands and legs. Céline lifted her skirt above her waist, to the delighted shrieks of her two coworkers. Manet walked over to an armchair in the corner of the room and sat down in a dejected heap. He stared at the floor. Lucien slumped back in his chair and couldn’t bring himself to look at the fireplace.

“That’s much better,” said Lieber, downing another glass of wine. “The girls can warm up now. Besides, they’ve got work to do.”

All three whores laughed like crazy and began whispering to each other, deciding who would do whom tonight. Each one probably wanted Herzog, with his good looks, thought Lucien.

***

Serrault knew that Manet would never talk the German out of lighting a fire. When he heard the strike of a match, he put his arm around his wife’s waist and pulled her tightly against him. Sophie laid her head on his chest and closed her eyes.

“Why, Albert, why?” whimpered Sophie.

“My dear,” he replied softly, giving his wife a hug.

It was now a question of time—how long the Germans would stay and how long before the logs were ablaze. They had been fast asleep when Manet had warned them with six rings of the telephone, and they hadn’t had time to change out of their bed clothes. Their hiding space was actually quite roomy; they could stand completely upright with enough room in front and behind their bodies. Never did they think they’d actually have to use the hiding space. Only three days from now, they’d be in Switzerland. Serrault could only begin to imagine what was going on in Manet’s mind. Just sitting there watching the logs ignite. If he got up and revealed to the Germans that two people were hiding behind the fireplace, then all of them, including the architect, whose voice Serrault recognized, would be arrested.

The inside of the hiding space was pitch black; he couldn’t see Sophie’s face, only felt the warmth of her body and her pounding heart. Music coming from a radio could be heard quite clearly. With his free hand, Serrault reached in front of him and touched the back of the false fire wall.

“Albert, I’m so frightened. What are we going to do?”

“Do you remember the winter we spent in Morocco—in Rabat? When was that?” whispered Serrault.

“1908—no, 1909.”

“Our suite overlooked the beach, and the first evening we were there, we didn’t go out. We stayed in and watched the sun drop below the horizon. Do you remember the incredible color it cast on the sea?”

“It was such a beautiful intense shade of red, almost an orange red. Yes, you’re right; it was incredible. I’d never seen such a color.”

“It’s funny how things stay in one’s mind. Like it happened just yesterday. That’s how vivid a memory it was.”

“I think Morocco was the most beautiful place we ever visited, don’t you?”

“Even the desert had this magnificent beauty in its desolation. It was breathtaking.”

“And at night, there was that blanket of stars, and it seemed to be right on top of us.”

“You could almost reach up and pull one down,” said Serrault.