The Paris Architect: A Novel

There was a time when Bette wouldn’t go out with a boy unless he arranged a date for Simone. One minute after the boy saw Simone, he always vanished. Simone never showed a shred of jealousy toward her gorgeous younger sister. She would do anything for her. Bette’s mother and father had resigned themselves to the sad fact that Simone would never marry and that Bette would be the daughter who would give them their beloved grandchildren. But that would never happen. Three years ago, Bette’s doctor had explained that because of an abnormality in her uterus, she could never bear children. He’d tied her tubes and that was that. Offsetting the crushing news was the realization that she could screw as much as she wanted and never have to worry about getting pregnant. It was actually a tremendous burden off her shoulders. Many of her friends who were models had to endure the pain and anxiety of back-street abortions to continue their careers because they didn’t want to give up the good life. Not one of them wanted to be a single mother—the shame of that would be too much to bear. They’d be outcasts from their own families, who already viewed them as unrespectable.

Bette turned right onto the rue Saint-Martin, where André, Adele’s cutter, had his shop. She dropped off the portfolio, issued precise instructions, and was on her way home to her flat on the rue Payenne. One block before she reached her building, she stopped and knocked on the door of the shop of Denis Borge, a chocolatier. The shop windows were covered with shades, and presently, the edge of a shade was pulled back, then the door unlocked.

“Good afternoon, Denis,” said Bette.

“Mademoiselle Bette, so good to see you,” gushed Denis. All shopkeepers fawned over Bette.

“I’m here for my chocolates. Are they ready?”

“Of course, they’ve been ready since yesterday. I’d never forget your order. All the special items are here as you wished.” Denis handed her a small brown paper bag to inspect. She reached her hand in and picked through the individually wrapped candies.

“You’re an angel, Denis. Chocolates are harder to come by than diamonds these days.”

“I’ll always fill any order you wish. You’re my best customer, Mademoiselle Bette. Every two weeks for almost the past year. I envy you. You eat so much chocolate and never gain a gram. How do you do it?”

Bette looked down shyly at the floor and smiled. “It’s just my metabolism. I can eat a lot. I can devour an entire baguette slathered with butter in one sitting.”

“I definitely can’t manage that without paying for it, if you know what I mean,” said Denis, patting his enormous belly. Bette playfully gave it a poke and Denis laughed delightedly. Because of rationing, shopkeepers, grocers, and butchers in Paris had a newfound power during the Occupation and lorded it over their customers, but they never treated Bette unfairly—another advantage to being beautiful.

“Good-bye, my friend. I’ll see you on the fourteenth.”

When Bette reached the top floor of the building where her flat was located, she knocked three times on the door, paused, then knocked three more times before she unlocked the door. Once inside, she called out in a gentle voice, “I’m home, my little ones.”

Like small animals cautiously peeking out of their burrows, a six-year-old boy and a four-year-old girl appeared at the edge of the doorway to the living room.

“It’s chocolate time, come and get it,” cooed Bette as she held the bag toward the children.

Slowly, smiles came over their faces, and they took the bag from her.

“Remember what I told you.”

“Fifty-fifty,” they sang out in unison.

Bette watched with delight as they divvied up the candy. Then, as they always did, the children offered her a piece, which she took from them and popped into her mouth.