"Not one of those revolting sixteen-year-olds who've made millions setting up Internet companies in their parents' basements, I hope," he said. "So brash. So American, really. I suppose it fits though. The kid probably wants to put a bronze statue of a horse on the front lawn. I wonder if his mother will permit it." He looked at me closely to see my reaction.
I laughed noncommittally. Both of us were playing this pretty close to the vest. "So, when do you think I'll get to meet Godard?"
"I'll call him this evening," he said. "And get in touch with you at your hotel as soon as I've made contact. I assume you want to meet him as soon as possible?"
"I do," I said.
"Fine. I'll be in touch. Is your schedule relatively free?"
"Relatively," I said. "I have some other acquisitions I need to make when I'm here, but I'll do my best to accommodate M. Godard's schedule." I wasn't about to let Boucher think this was my only reason to be in Paris or the biggest transaction I'd ever made.
"Good. I'll set something up with him and let you know when and where," Boucher said. He signaled for the bill. I reached for my handbag. "Allow me," he said, as the bill arrived. "You're a guest in Paris."
He then made a big show of patting various pockets and looking embarrassed. "My wallet," he said at last. "I must have forgotten it. How embarrassing!"
"It's my pleasure," I said, reaching for the bill. I didn't believe him for a moment. The bill was about fifty dollars for four drinks. Thank heaven for Crawford Lake. Having said that, there was a bright side to it. If Boucher was broke, then he'd certainly want to see that I got to meet Robert Godard.
"I'll get the next one," he said, handing me his business card. I doubted that very much. The card was pretty simple, just his name and a phone number. Apparently he, Lake, and Godard all shared an aversion to having anyone know where they lived. I gave him my card, which is rather more fulsome, writing my hotel number on the back.
"I'll be in touch," he said. "If you're not at your hotel, I'll leave a message."
We shook hands again, and Boucher disappeared into the crowd.
I treated myself to a nice dinner at a tiny restaurant on the Isle St. Louis, compliments once again of Crawford Lake. I was back in my hotel room when the phone rang.
"Yves Boucher," the voice said. "I've been in touch with Godard. He's waffling, as I expected, on the bronze. Says he wants to think about it for a day or two. Don't worry, he'll come around. Just stay in town, and I'll be back in touch in the next day or so."
It was disappointing, to be sure, but not the worst thing that had happened to me, having to cool my heels for a day or two in Paris. I wondered if my partner, Rob Luczka, could get a decent last-minute fare and a few days off to meet me. But then, did it matter how much it cost? I needed to get used to having money for a change. Rob and I never had anything remotely like a romantic weekend in Paris. Maybe it was time we did. I dialed his number.
Rob Luczka is a sergeant in the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. We've been friends for a number of years now, and recently got a little closer. I don't know how to characterize our relationship, nor even what to call him. My partner? Sort of. My spouse? Not really. Would we ever get to the spouse stage? I have no idea. I value his friendship more than I can say. I also enjoy his company a very great deal. But move in together? I don't know about that, either. Sometimes I just like to curl up in an armchair in front of my fireplace all by myself, put on the kind of music I like and he hates—because of my travels I rather enjoy Andean flute and some obscure forms of gamelan music and the like that drive him bananas—or watch weepy videos like Stella Dallas, wear my rattiest bathrobe, and just bliss out. I expect Rob has his own equivalent of these things too. He likes cop movies—of course—the blacker the better, and football. Not that I think this makes us an unusual couple or anything, and so far, it's working fine.
If I'm a little ambivalent about the status of our relationship, there is one part of it about which I have no reservations whatsoever, and that is his daughter Jennifer. I adore her. I take her side almost all the time, the cause of some tension between us, and would happily have her around on a permanent basis. She's transferred to a university closer to home and is around most weekends now.
It was Jennifer who answered the telephone. I got caught up on all her news—new clothes, a new beau, and the professor she thought was an idiot—and then asked about her dad. "He's on an assignment," she said. My heart leapt into my throat. RCMP assignments, in my opinion, are almost always dangerous, if not downright life threatening, although Rob says I overdramatize everything. When I first met him, he had a desk job, having been hurt in a drug bust, but he now had a clean bill of health and was back "on assignment." It made him happy. It drove me nuts.
"I hate this part," I said.
"Me, too," she said. We both thought about this for a few seconds. "He said he'd be away a few days."
"Well, don't worry," I said.
"You neither," she said.
"Call me if you hear anything," I said.
"Yes," she said.
"Have him call me when he gets back," I said.
"Okay," she said.
"Don't worry," I said.
"You said that already," she said.
"Everything will be fine," I said.
"I know," she said. "Love you."
"You, too. Bye." So much for a romantic interlude. Now that I'd had this conversation, I sincerely hoped I'd get to meet Godard soon so I could go home and worry myself sick there instead of worrying myself sick in Paris. I mean maybe Rob's assignment was a stakeout somewhere, where all he had to do was record someone's comings and goings. Or maybe he was investigating some white-collar crime where the only possibility of violence would be someone throwing a pen at him. Or maybe not. Why, I wondered, had I taken up with a policeman, rather than, say, a banker or a civil servant?
Get to work, Lara, I told myself. It's the only thing to do. You told Clive you were going to do a sweep of the flea markets and the antique stores, so that's what you're going to do.
The next day, after a night primarily spent fretting over the two Roberts, Luczka and Godard, I started out on the Right Bank, with the Louvre des Antiquaires on the Place du Palais Royal, where I picked up a couple of very fine pieces of furniture, at fine furniture prices, regrettably, but my brush with wealth in the person of Crawford Lake seemed to have dulled my more parsimonious instincts. Then I headed for Le Marais, and some dealers in St. Paul near La Souris Verte, followed by a shop selling lovely old silver by weight on Rue des Francs Bourgeois, before collapsing into a chair in a cafe in Place des Vosges. Then it was across the Seine to the Champ de Mars, and the Village Suisse's collection of antiques dealers. After that, it was over to the Louvre to look at all things Etruscan, so I could be the expert Lake expected me to be, and then, for good measure, and thinking I still wouldn't be able to sleep, I took in a performance of Verdi's Requiem at the Eglise St. Roch on the Rue St. Honore. There was no message from Boucher when I got back, rather late, to my room.
The following day being Saturday, I headed for the flea markets—Clignancourt and Montreuil—zipping on and off the Metro and walking for miles. I didn't come up with much, just some nice old linens, but it kept me moving and not thinking, which was the real point of the exercise. At some point, as I was zipping about Paris, I realized that I was being followed. Crawford Lake may have done business on the strength of a handshake, but he was hedging his bets. Antonio the Beautiful was following me everywhere. As irritating as this might be, I resolved to make the best of it. Antonio believed at first, I think, that I didn't see him, but my cheerful wave disavowed him of that. He waved back but kept his distance, which was fine with me. After my wave, however, he made no pretense of hiding.