“I’m the last one who should be telling you to be careful,” Rosa said. “I’ve never been prudent, not once in my life. I built my business, but not by being circumspect. But think welclass="underline" where will you go to be alone? To Loffredo’s rooms on the Rue Jacob? Will you be free from surveillance? I think not. The sixth arrondissement teems with spies. Or to Serafina’s room, guarded by two French agents de police? You don’t think word will get back to Valois? He’s waiting for the chance to call you a foolish strumpet. Or to Busacca sitting on his vast pile of gold in Palermo? To whoever it is who spies on us? Or to Elena if she is still among the living? To Sophie who prays for you to make such a mistake? To her sons? Go to your separate rooms and douse yourselves with ice water for the rest of this assignment, and I predict you’ll be together for the rest of your lives. If it makes you feel better, walk ahead a little way and make your vows in view of Notre Dame and the god of the Seine while we stand and wait, but don’t breathe too deeply, I smell fish.”
As usual, the madam was right. Serafina stood still and smiled at Loffredo. Her stomach was doing somersaults. She breathed in, and yet felt the need for more air. How strange, it took hearing the right words at the right moment before she knew her heart. She loved Loffredo.
“I dare not kiss you. If I did, we’d soon couple, right here on these rough cobbles. I’m so happy to see you, Loffredo. As God is my witness, we’ll be happy together.”
“I love you, Serafina. Again I’ll say it. I always have.”
Barges on the Seine flowed past. Lovers skirted around them, talking low. Sailors stared at them, and Rosa and her family waited. In time the five bells of Notre Dame began to ring, their deep discordant harmony like the feelings crowding her soul.
Chapter 22: Francoise and Alphonse
He straightened his lapels and faced his wife. “The Sicilian woman was right.”
As if she had not heard him, Francoise smiled. “What a surprise to see you so early. And perfect timing. Two minutes later and I’d have been gone. Come to Louis Le Grand with me. It’s Charlus’ Latin again, I’m afraid. He takes after you. I have an appointment with his professor in thirty minutes. We can walk through the Luxembourg Gardens. The weather is lovely. On the way we can talk.”
They strolled through the gardens, past the Palais du Luxembourg and the Medici reflecting pool with its placid water. Francoise bent, dipping her hand in and quickly withdrawing it. “Too cold still, but the earth warms.”
Valois stopped to gaze at the imposing apartments on the Rue de Medicis. “Someday we’ll have our residence there.” He pointed to the roof garden on the top floor of the nearest building, its awning drawn against the sun.
Francoise faced him, one hand holding the skirts of her French blue day dress. As always, she was magnificently attired. She nodded once, her eyes boring into him, flashing her intellect, giving him the strength of her certainty.
“Let her win and so will you.”
“But Renault-”
“Renault wants the incident settled to the satisfaction of the Italians and the French. As far as he’s concerned, more evidence turned up causing you to reopen the case, and in your brilliant handling you have involved the visiting sleuth. Hold off on questioning the scholar.”
“But perhaps he can identify the gun.”
“Perhaps. But he’s a scholar, interested in books and history, ideas. And you told me he prepares a paper for the Academie des Sciences. Wait until we know for sure that Elena lives, and even then demur. Find an excuse until you’re absolutely sure.”
They turned onto the Rue Soufflot and he was strengthened by her words and the view of the Pantheon, commanding and sure, like Francoise. She whispered the words found on its pediment, “ Aux grands hommes, la patrie reconnaissante.”
He turned to her and lifting her veil, kissed her lightly on the cheek.
“Thank you. I must tell her today.”
She nodded.
Together they walked on the Rue St. Jacques. He left her at the school, calm now, continuing up the street toward his office.
Chapter 23: Busacca et Fils
Carmela sat across from her mother in one of the hotel’s many small cafes.
“We don’t know enough about Busacca et Fils,” Serafina said. She slapped the newspaper on the table and took a sip of coffee. The waiter brought out a basket of warm croissants and brioches wafting steam and the smell of bread their way. A ray of sun lit the silver carafe.
“Ricci’s debts bother me. I need to find out more about them,” Serafina said.
“We could ask him?”
“We will. But first I need to understand him and what he does for the firm. And I need you to find out the condition of the Busacca business in Paris.”
“That’s not your commission.”
Serafina bristled, but she ignored Carmela’s remark. “Still, I think it has something to do with the murder. I know what Sophie told me about the three stores here, and I believe her as much as I believe Elena lies in her grave. Do you think you can manage it by tomorrow? By then Valois will want to speak with Sophie, and I want us both to be there, armed with all the information we can learn about her family and her shops.”
A few hours later, Carmela and Tessa entered the smallest of the three Busacca shops. It was tucked away in the middle of a narrow street in the student quarter on the Rue de Verneuil. Like most of the stores in Paris, the facade was lacquered wood, this one painted a light French blue with “ Busacca et Fils, depuis 1282 ” written in script across the top panels. In the lower right-hand corner of the window were the words, Paris amp; Palermo. A few hats were displayed, none of them exciting, all covered with a thin film of dust. The plume on one wafted in the air, and sunlight from the street oozed into the interior.
Carmela turned the ornate knob. A bell announced their arrival. Tessa ran her finger through the film on the tops of tables while Carmela stood at the counter. The wooden floor was in need of sweeping. Tables and chairs were scratched and several of the mirrors bloomed. Carmela turned her attention to the ceiling where an attractive crystal chandelier hung, decorated with filaments from a spider. She looked at Tessa who shrugged and peered into the corners where motes swirled, at the walls where paint peeled.
Carmela presented Busacca’s card to the woman who appeared some minutes after the bell sounded.
“My family is in town on business for Levi Busacca. He invited us to visit his shops and report back to him. The woman took her card and in a moment, a tall, rotund young man emerged from the back, brushing crumbs from his vest. He wore a kippah and morning suit, displeasure written across his puffy face.
“We don’t need your help,” he said.
“I’m not here to help. Your uncle is interested in how his Paris business fares. And as far as help goes, I think you need it from someone. Where are your customers? Where are the hats?” Carmela waved her hand around the room. “There’s dirt everywhere and very few hats in the window, nothing that intrigues me or beckons me inside.”
She could see red rising from his neck, flooding his face. Drops of water appeared on his forehead.
“In this neighborhood, we maintain a presence only. This is the student quarter. Students don’t wear hats.”
“Because you create nothing exciting for them to wear.” Carmela lowered her eyes. “Please excuse my tongue, I haven’t learned the art of conversation. My name is Carmela and this is Tessa. We’re from Oltramari, the birthplace of your ancestors. Mind showing us around?”
He smiled-it was a flicker on the lips, nothing more-and Carmela, no stranger to relationships between men and women, felt the air shift when he looked at Tessa. He ignored her and introduced himself to Tessa. “Monsieur David de Masson, the middle son. My father used to run this shop and sometimes I hear him scolding me, but the voice is soft now.”