The Paris Architect: A Novel

Lucien had wanted this to be a special day for the boy, so on the way from the office to his new home, they’d gone to the cinema. A depressing German newsreel extolled the virtues of the Fatherland and showed pictures of its defeated subjects, all smiling and laughing, thoroughly happy to be slaves of the Nazis. It was such laughable propaganda that if Lucien had been by himself, he would’ve walked right out. But a cartoon followed the newsreel. Now that America was in the war, Mickey Mouse and Bugs Bunny had been banned from French theaters, so German cartoons filled the void. Even though it was German, the cartoon’s plot about a duck outsmarting a hunter was pretty funny. This surprised Lucien. The Germans he dealt with didn’t seem to have much of a sense of humor. At each act of cartoon violence, the audience convulsed with laughter. When Lucien looked to his right at Pierre’s profile in the dark of the theater, the light from the screen illuminated the boy’s face, and Lucien could see him laughing away. Lucien found himself quite pleased by this sight and kept looking over at the boy, completely ignoring the cartoon. During the feature, a second-rate French production about a bank robbery, Lucien continued to watch Pierre enjoying the film. Not once did the boy take his eyes off the screen.

After the cinema, they took a velo-taxi to Le Chat Roux, where they could get all the hot food they wanted—for a steep price, of course. But Lucien enjoyed himself immensely watching Pierre wolf down potatoes, rabbit, fresh bread, and an éclair.

Even though Pierre wouldn’t be staying long, a boy his age needed a room of his own. He remembered how important his room in the apartment on the rue de Passy had been to him when he was growing up. Lucien had craved privacy, and the room became his inner sanctum, a place all his own where he could escape. He’d shut the door to get away from his father and his brother’s unmerciful teasing. Lucien would sit for hours reading and drawing or listening to all the great programs and music on the radio, stuffing himself with the candy and treats he’d bought at the newsstands and cafés.

He’d open the tall windows and watch the world go by—the hundreds of people who walked the stone pavements every hour, the cars, of which he knew every make, and the loaded wagons pulled by tired old horses. He’d loved to stare into the windows of the apartments directly opposite his, hoping to spot some dramatic event, like a murder or a robbery or a woman undressing, but he never did. Important milestones in his life had taken place there: learning to smoke, losing his virginity. When he was sixteen and his family had left for a weekend trip to Poissy, he’d brought Anne Laffront to his room for his first affair. He could still remember every detail and how much fun they had had that summer, until she dumped him. All through architecture school, he lived there doing his projects and studying. Lucien wanted Pierre to have the same special attachment to his own room.

Lucien knew he couldn’t replace the father Pierre had lost, but he could give the boy at least the semblance of a real home. Besides, Lucien might enjoy the company, even though Pierre seemed to be a loner and rarely spoke.

“Now, let’s talk about food,” said Lucien who sat down next to Pierre. He wasn’t on such familiar terms with the boy yet that he could put his hand on his shoulder. “I can’t cook worth a damn.”

This was true. Now with Celeste gone, he had to make his own meals, and he was indeed a terrible cook. Lucien had also realized that he had to go out and buy the food, which meant standing in long queues with women, something that Celeste had always done. In Paris, the lines formed as early as 3:00 a.m. and snaked around the block from a shop, moving forward inch by inch. Often, when one’s turn finally came, the shelves were empty. He was so embarrassed to do this that he paid a woman on his street four francs an hour to queue up and shop for him.

“That’s all right, Monsieur Bernard, I can prepare some simple things for us. Or I can fetch some things from the café on the corner, so we don’t have to use the stove.”

“That might be the best course of action. I don’t even know how to turn it on. It uses gas, and I’m afraid I’ll blow up the place.”

Pierre burst out laughing. Laughter from Pierre was a rare thing, and Lucien was pleased to hear it. It was almost as if Pierre had decided never to laugh again after his ordeal. Lucien vowed to make him do so more often.

“I’ll give you your own key so you can come and go as you please—but remember, I don’t want you ever to be caught in the street after curfew. We’ll both be in deep trouble if that happens. You understand that, don’t you? And it’s Lucien, not Monsieur Bernard.”

“Yes, monsieur…Lucien, I’m very careful about that. I’ve never been out at night,” said Pierre.