The Paris Architect: A Novel

“You heard me the first time,” Celeste said.

Lucien turned and sat back down at the kitchen table and began to play with the little white enameled scale they used to weigh portions of their food. All Parisians had one, so they could stretch their meals as much as possible. He pressed his finger down on the metal pan and the dial read 200 grams. The rage was building inside of him, but he decided he wasn’t going to lose his temper this time.

“All right, you don’t have to see it. But can you at least have the courtesy of giving me your reason for not wanting to come with me?”

“I don’t want to be seen with a collaborator.”

“You’re calling me a collaborator?”

“You and that Manet, you’re profiting from the misery of the French people. Helping Germans to kill our allies. And the worst thing is that you enjoy doing it. You throw your heart and soul into those goddamn projects. And you’re always kissing that German major’s ass. You spend so much time with that guy that I think you may secretly be a queer.”

“Did you happen to notice that we eat three meals a day, have decent clothes, and don’t have to scrounge around for the basic necessities of life?” Lucien shot back, still keeping the pent-up rage from spewing out like a geyser.

“But at what price, Lucien?”

“Are you saying I’m a traitor?”

Celeste put down her dish rag and hesitated a moment before answering, which infuriated Lucien. He wanted her to instantly say that it wasn’t true.

“No, traitor’s not the right word. You’re a sort of an architectural Mephistopheles. You know, you’ve sold your soul to the devil in order to design.”

Lucien didn’t react but sat there absorbing the word “Mephistopheles,” repeating it in his mind. He didn’t know what to say to defend himself.

“So don’t ask me to go see your buildings again. I won’t go.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t trouble you. After all, you never bothered to see my work before the war, so what the hell’s the difference.”

“You’ll be damn lucky if France doesn’t find you guilty of being a collaborator after the war. The disgrace…and you could be hanged.”

“Knock off the dramatics. No one’s going to be hanged because I’m not helping the Germans; I’m doing buildings that will help France recover after the war.”

“Nice rationalization—or should I call it fantasy? Your buildings have swastikas on them, never forget that.”

“You don’t know a goddamn thing, woman. I am fighting the Nazis.”

“You? That’s a joke.

“I’ve saved French lives.”

“The only life you care about is your own.”

“Bullshit! I saved two Jews,” Lucien said vehemently.

An awful silence enveloped the kitchen. He knew he’d made a horrible mistake. A look of disgust began to form on Celeste’s face. She walked over to the table and sat in the chair across from him. Celeste swallowed hard.

“Lucien, have you gone mad? Tell me you didn’t help any Jews. Don’t you know you’ve signed our death warrants? Tell me you’re lying.”

“I can’t tell you any more.”

“The Gaumont family on the rue Rousselet were all shot for hiding that little Jewish kid. Just for pretending a four-year-old boy was a Christian relative. The mother, the father, the grandparents, and all their kids are dead. All for some stupid self-righteous notion about helping one’s fellow man.”

“Maybe it isn’t so stupid.”

“In wartime, Christian brotherhood takes a backseat to saving one’s own skin. It’s not pretty or noble, but it’s the cold hard truth.”

“That wasn’t why I did it.”

Celeste smiled. “I wondered where that money came from. I knew it wasn’t from the Nazis. They don’t pay their collaborators that well. It must have been a big temptation to have all that money in your pocket. To buy nice things for you, me, and your mistress.”

Lucien, who had been holding his head in his hands, looked up at Celeste.