He entered the waiting limo that would take them to Saint Sulpice Church. There under the smoky, incense-filled nave, below the leering phantoms imprisoned in Delacroix's mural, he exhaled quickly. He realized that he'd been holding his breath. Soon, he told himself, soon this whole thing would be over. A few more days and he would be safely back in Hamburg.
As the bells pealed and the party descended the marble stairs of Saint Sulpice, the hairs lifted on his neck.
He had the oddest sensation of being watched. Of course, the Werewolves were watching, but this felt different. And he didn't know if he minded at all.
At the reception following, Cazaux smiled and pulled him aside. "We must talk of the trade commission's future. You know, I think you would be best qualified to lead negotiations."
Hartmuth did not want to have this conversation. Nor did he believe in the unfair treaty that he was being pressured to sign. He'd stall Cazaux and buy time. Maybe he could lobby other delegates to effect compromise on the harshest policies. He didn't hold out much hope but he would try.
"I'm flattered," he said. "Others are more qualified than I."
"Politicians can't afford to be modest." Cazaux winked and patted him on the back. "Of course, the commission gets in place after the treaty is signed. First things first."
Quimper, the rosy-cheeked Belgian delegate, joined them. "This pâte is superb!" he said, gently dabbing at his mustache with a napkin.
Cazaux grinned. "May I offer you the privacy of my office to conduct your perusal of the treaty clauses?"
Hartmuth had already seen the addendum. He figured Cazaux wanted to get Belgium's and Germany's approval first, then convince other delegates to agree.
"My understanding, Minister Cazaux," Hartmuth said, "is that the European Union delegates, as a body, are presented with the treaty tomorrow and we discuss any details or changes before we ratify."
A shadow passed briefly over Cazaux's face but it was gone in an instant.
"But of course you are right, Monsieur Griffe." He nodded his head sadly. He put his arms around their shoulders and steered them away from the babbling crowd.
"You know and I know, this isn't the best answer," Cazaux said. "However, France's economy and our relationship with you, our close European neighbors, will suffer if this isn't signed." He sighed. "Mass unemployment-well, that's just the tip of it."
Quimper nodded in agreement. Cazaux dropped his arms and studied the floor.
Hartmuth stared at Cazaux. "This treaty sidesteps due legal proceedings for immigrants. The mandate allows them to be held in detention centers indefinitely, without trial by judge or jury. No high court will sanction this."
"High court? No, dear Monsieur Griffe, it will never come to that. Once the treaty is passed and signed, discouraging new immigrants, we begin proceedings to strike those clauses." Cazaux smiled expansively. "The clauses will be deleted, like they never were there! Immigration will have slowed to a trickle. Eh, voila, our consciences will rest quietly after that."
"Plenty of time for us to deal with that tomorrow," Hartmuth said.
"Of course, gentlemen." Cazaux smiled, putting his arms again around both of them. "As the host, where are my manners? And where is that pâte?"
Hartmuth felt Cazaux's clawlike grip on his shoulder. More than ever, he wished he was far away.
Sunday Noon
SARAH PULLED THE HAT lower over her eyes. She felt disoriented, grappling with the old Paris she knew and the changes in the fifty years since she'd left.
"Bonjour, Monsieur, the evening Le Figaro, please."
She paid and passed under the damp colonnades of Place des Vosges. The Marais felt oddly the same yet different, memories accosting her at every corner.
The wind whipped crackly brown leaves around her legs and she pulled her raincoat tightly around her thin body. The smell of roasting chestnuts wafted across the square. At the bottom of the back page, she saw the article she'd been looking for.
Marais Murder
Lili Stein, sixty-seven years old, of 64 rue des Rosiers, was found dead on late Wednesday evening. According to autopsy findings she was a victim of homicide. Police inquiries are centered in the Marais and surrounding 4th arrondissement. The Temple E'manuel has posted a reward for information leading to the conviction of person/s involved.
Here was Lili's murder, confirmed in black and white! She must have missed the first mention during the week. Above her, the strains of a violin, playing "Coeur Vagabond," drifted from an open window.
Her mother had hummed that old song on laundry days before the French garde mobiles, supervised by the Gestapo, rounded up her family in The Velodrome d'Hiver raid and deported them to Auschwitz in July 1942. She trembled and it wasn't from the chill November wind. Were they after her, too? Or was Helmut?
Sunday Noon
AIMÉE FOUND ABRAHAM STEIN in the storefront synagogue Temple E'manuel on rue des Écouffes, a sliverlike street crossing rue des Rosiers. Formerly a stationery store, the synagogue stood next to a vegetable shop that displayed bins of dark purple aubergines, shiny green peppers, and scabbed potatoes on the curb.
Abraham looked thinner, if that was possible. Dark circles ringed his eyes and his dark blue striped shirt gave him the appearance of a concentration-camp inmate from old newsreels. Lili Stein's memorial service had brought the small community together inside this tiny dark synagogue.
Everything bespoke tradition to Aimee-the low tones, the smell of fat before it got skimmed off chicken soup somewhere in a nearby kitchen, the gleam from brass candlesticks, and the feel of the rough wooden bench. Present time faded.
She became a little girl again, with ankle socks that always slid down and itchy wool sweaters that scratched her neck. Fidgety as usual. Trying to be as French as everyone else, the continual struggle of her childhood. Her mother holding her hands, making the sign of the cross, telling her to stop speaking English mixed with French. "Mais, Maman, I can't help it!" she had begged. "Stop that Frenglish, Amy, you're old enough to know," her mother had said. But that was as foreign to her as feeling French. "Sooner you learn, the better it is," she remembered her mother saying. "You can take care of yourself!"
"Baruch hatar adonhai."
She slowly came back to the present, while a pair of wizened hands gripped hers and helped her make hand motions. But it wasn't her mother. It was a white-haired woman, eyes clouded by cataracts, whom she'd never seen before.
"Très bien, mon enfant!" the old woman with misfitting dentures beamed, hugging her.
Aimee sank back in disappointment. Her childhood was gone and her mother wasn't coming back. She took a deep breath and gently, she extricated herself, clasping the woman's gnarled hands in thanks.
Outside, she nodded at Sinta and approached Abraham Stein on the curb. He appeared melancholy as usual.
Rachel Blum, stooped and clad in an old sagging floral-print dress, disappeared behind a wooden door opposite the storefront synagogue.
"Excuse me," Aimee said to Abraham. She knocked on the wooden door several times. Finally a wooden slat slid open a crack.
"Hello, Rachel, it's Aimee Leduc. May I come in a few moments?" she said.
Rachel didn't smile as she peered out. "Why?"
"I forgot to ask you something."
Rachel slowly pulled open the heavy, creaking door.
"How are you, Rachel?" Aimee said, walking inside the moldy smelling entrance.
Rachel sighed. "Fallen arches, that's what the doctor calls it now. Can't take too much standing, my feet can't anyway, not like I used to."