The sky was still black as he headed north toward the River Seine, alone on the quiet streets until he passed a bakery as its metal grill clattered up. The magnetic aroma of fresh bread enveloped him, a taunting siren call that he resisted by promising himself a reward on the other side of the river. He crossed the Seine on the Pont Des Arts, stopping midway to lean on the balustrade and watch the water. To his right was the facade of the Institute of France, built as a college three hundred and fifty years before and on his left sat, part of it anyway, the ever-impressive Louvre, once palace, now palatial museum.
He looked down at the water, blacker than the sky above him, running slick and fast beneath his feet. His eyes adjusted to the deeper darkness and he turned his head a fraction to watch the jumble of swirls and eddies at each bank where the current slowed, snagged and ruffled by the barges that were lashed to the impenetrable stone banks. Beneath him, movement caught his eye and he watched several heavy logs, dark brown and greasy, sweep past. Images forced themselves into his head, conjured from the darkness that was real and memories that were recent, and he shivered as he saw the human forms that this treacherous river had swallowed and spit out, the bouquinistes who’d been his friends, gentle men and women doing no more than selling books, posters, and postcards, making their meager living beside the river when they were targeted for death.
He shook away the image and walked on, turning his eyes to the waist-high crisscross of wire that made up the sides of this bridge, almost every strand holding onto a padlock. He didn’t know when this had started but it had caught on, for locals and tourists alike. Padlocks of all description, many heart-shaped, each one with the name of a couple in love. Most were written in permanent marker but some, quite a few actually, had been professionally engraved. The idea, he’d been told, was to affix the lock and then toss the key into the water, thereby securing one’s love forever. It was, Hugo thought, a charming if touristy place of semipermanent whimsy, and as he came to the end of the bridge he knelt and looked more closely at some of the locks. He smiled at the names Natalie, Henry, Nicola, on one side, their parents’ names on the other. English? he wondered. American? Beside them, another quandary, a mix of Welsh and German: Glynn and Elke.
A thought bubbled up and he indulged it, wondering if he’d ever lock his name to the bridge and, if so, who’d be there with him. His first wife, yes, the love of his life who’d been killed in a car accident. She would have locked their names together and kissed the key before dropping it into the river, laughing all the while.
What about Christine? He’d married her hoping to fall in love again, wanting to, but found himself with a cultured and, it turned out, somewhat spoiled woman who was either unable or unwilling to temper her lifestyle for someone else. A woman who had replaced him with the shrink who’d taken Hugo’s money to address that very issue. No, Christine would have found this bridge mildly amusing and rolled her eyes at any suggestion of a padlock for them, even for fun. She didn’t do silly.
And Claudia? Hugo ran his fingers over an empty square of mesh and thought about Claudia. They’d met while he was hunting for his friend Max, the first of the bouquinistes to go missing, a chance encounter that had bloomed and then seemed to wither, their natural attraction and compatibility held back by … well, he thought, mostly by circumstances.
The gentle growl of an early morning barge reached his ear, the world starting to come alive, and he watched the long boat press its nose into the current, resolute and determined. Claudia, he thought, was fun and spontaneous, yet as a journalist she’d forged her own career and she’d been the one to pull away from Hugo just when they’d been falling … getting close, anyway. Being locked into anything wasn’t Claudia’s nature, it seemed, but on the other hand he’d seen her do silly.
Hugo stood and watched the barge pass under the bridge, aware now of a strip of misty yellow that had breached the horizon. The late-September morning making its way toward the city, and the thousand padlocks that faced the coming day seemed to glow in its soft light. Watching them, Hugo smiled to himself. The truth was, he had absolutely no idea what Claudia might think of this bridge and of the romantically naïve custom that had swarmed it.
Hugo looked at his watch and was surprised to see how long he’d spent on the bridge, recalculating his path to account for the lost time and the empty feeling in his stomach. He waited to cross the main road toward the Louvre with a new objective in mind: coffee and croissants.
As his foot hit the sidewalk, the phone in his pocket buzzed. He checked the number but didn’t recognize it. He answered anyway.
“Hugo Marston.”
“Marston, Charles Lake. Wasn’t expecting you to answer — I’m an early bird so I hope I didn’t wake you. Early bird yourself, eh?”
Lake’s voice was gentler than Hugo had expected, not the harsh and angry rasp of a divisive politician.
“Sometimes, yes. How can I help?”
“Wanted to get with you to discuss the schedule. I’m not really planning on being here longer than I have to,” Hugo heard a smile in the man’s voice. “You’ve probably heard that about me. The wine’s OK but the breakfasts suck, so when you’re free, come by the Hotel Crillon and we can get this show on the road.”
“Yes, sir, will do.”
“And sooner rather than later, eh?”
“Absolutely,” Hugo said. “See you in a little bit, Senator.” He hung up and smiled to himself. I like the breakfasts here, so it’ll be right after coffee and croissants.
Charles Lake was on the phone when Hugo spotted him in the lobby of the Hotel Crillon, the closest hotel to the US Embassy and one of the finest in Paris. Two dark-suited figures stood behind the seated congressman and watched Hugo approach, edging toward their charge as Hugo got closer.
He pulled out his embassy credentials and the Secret Service agents, a man and a woman, visibly relaxed.
“Mr. Marston,” the woman said, checking his identification.
“Call me Hugo.”
“If she doesn’t, I will.” Lake tucked away his phone, rose to his feet, and grinned. “And you can call me Charles. Not big on formalities.”
“You’ll have to rethink that if you become president,” Hugo said.
“Well, until then,” he said, offering his hand. “The young lady is Agent Emma Ruby, the fellow is Agent Charles Rousek.”
Hugo nodded at the agents and shook hands with the congressman. Hugo appraised his new charge, trying to forget most of the things Ambassador Taylor had said. He’d seen Lake on television a few times, Hugo remembered now. Lake was over six feet, maybe an inch shorter than Hugo, and had the body of a long-retired boxer. Heavy, running to fat, he’d long ignored the advisors who’d told him voters preferred their candidates slender and fit. Rumor had it he’d slapped his belly and promised, “This is the only pork you’ll see from me in Congress.” Whether this story or Taylor’s complaints were true or not, Hugo suspected that any reputation for speaking frankly would win him more friends off the Hill than on it. His receding hair, swept back on his skull by meaty hands rather than expensive hairdressers, served to emphasize his best features, a pair of wide-set and intelligent brown eyes and a frequent and artificially whitened smile.
“Welcome to Paris,” Hugo said.
“Thanks, first time. Last, too, if it all works out.”
“That’d be a shame, it’s a wonderful place.”