The Paris Architect: A Novel

Lucien was annoyed that Manet was taking advantage of him. Maybe when he’d refused the money the last time, Manet felt that Lucien now qualified as a true Christian and would take such a risk. And it was a big risk. Working anonymously to hide Jews was one thing. There was a buffer that protected him. And it wouldn’t just be him in danger. If a Jew was found in an apartment house, every single soul who lived there would be arrested and deported, no questions asked. Last month, a woman in a building discovered a Jew was hiding in an apartment next door to hers, and she started screaming her head off up and down the corridors, warning the other tenants. They’d beaten down the door and turned the Jew in to the Gestapo. They didn’t want to die.

Lucien walked over to the boy to get a closer look. He was a good-looking kid with thick, dark brown hair and eyebrows and as scrawny as all the other famished children in Paris. For parents, that was the most heartbreaking thing about the Occupation—to see their kids go hungry. Mothers spent hours queuing and scrounging food for their kids. Pierre was now looking intently at Lucien’s old architectural magazines, stopping at certain photos to get a closer look. Lucien watched him for another minute or two as the boy paused to gaze at a picture of a department store.

“How do you do, Monsieur Pierre? My name is Lucien.”

The boy rose from his seat and shook his hand firmly. “Pierre Gau, monsieur.”

Good manners, Lucien immediately thought, very well brought up. You have to hand it to the Jews on that count. You never hear of bands of Jewish juvenile delinquents raising hell in Paris.

“I see that you’re interested in architecture.”

“How did they make the curve at the corner of this building, monsieur?” asked Pierre, pointing to a photo of a train station in the magazine.

“It’s done in concrete. You can make curves out of wooden forms, then pour in the concrete. You can make any shape you want.”

“Like this roof of an airplane hangar?” the boy asked, holding up another photo.

“Yes, concrete’s especially good for hangars,” Lucien said. “So what’s your cat’s name?”

“Misha.”

Lucien rubbed its head, and it started purring as if there were a little motor inside its throat. Lucien had loved cats as a boy. His family had always had one or two as pets. He’d liked getting up in the morning and finding them snuggled against him fast asleep. But after marrying Celeste, he’d discovered she was allergic to them so no more cats. It was nice to see a cat in the office; it gave the place a real homey touch.

“How did they fit such a big piece of glass here?” asked the boy, pointing to the front of an office building that had a store on the first floor.

“They made a beam of concrete above it and put the glass sheet in below.” The boy continued to flip through the magazines and said nothing more. This kid was beginning to grow on him.

Lucien continued to observe the boy. For a child who had had everything near and dear to him—mother, father, brothers, and sister—wiped out of his life, he seemed pretty tough and mature for his age. That was because this kid had had to grow up in a real hurry. Lucien wondered how he, as a twelve-year-old, would’ve reacted to such tragedy. Brave like this child, or a whimpering mess? Because Lucien imagined the latter, he admired the kid. This boy needed somebody to look after him.

He felt as if he was in one of those dumb-ass American movies he’d seen. A character would be in a quandary over what to do. A miniature angel wearing wings and a halo appeared on one shoulder telling him to do what’s right, and a devil with a pitchfork was on the other shoulder advising him not to. Sometimes the devil and the angel would argue with each other, and because of America’s morality code, the angel would win out even though the devil could easily kill the angel with his pitchfork. Pierre kept leafing through the magazines, and Lucien walked slowly back to Father Jacques.

The priest placed his hand on Lucien’s shoulder.

“Monsieur Manet knew I was desperate, and he said you are a good Christian.”

“A Christian? I don’t even want to tell you how long it’s been since I attended mass. You’d throw up.” Lucien would never admit to the priest that he was an atheist. In Catholic France, that was worse than admitting one was a rapist.

Father Jacques’s smile disappeared and his grip tightened like a vise. “Listen, asshole. Is it yes or no? Will you do it or not? I haven’t got all day.”