The Little Antique Shop Under The Eiffel Tower

Chapter Four

In the Luxembourg Gardens tulips popped their yellow heads up as if to say hello. They were such happy flowers, and in abundance now spring had sprung. It was peak time in the park; tourists and locals alike perched on the side of fountains, reading, chatting, or staring off into space. Checkered picnic rugs were spread out, topped with baskets laden with lunchtime feasts.

Normally, I’d sit and people watch, eavesdrop, and imagine who these strangers were and what brought them to Paris, but today I didn’t have a moment to spare. I was meeting someone with some pertinent information about an upcoming auction, and I had to move fast. My sources were varied, some were a touch shady, and others were part of the traditional antique establishment. They confided in me, because they trusted me, and knew I only wanted the best for French antiques, and I paid them in return, in a multitude of ways.

Sitting under the shade of a chestnut tree was Dion. A sixty-something-year-old contact of mine who gave me information about antiques and my competitors. We’d become close over the years, and he treated me like a daughter in some ways. When he had arrived in France he had little more than the clothes he was wearing, and now he had a nice apartment, and a steady income selling certain information.

His passion, though, was refugees. He gave a ton of money to charities, and often flitted off for aide work during the winter months. Dion had no idea I knew about his charity involvement but I’d done checks on him, like he’d done on me. It was the way the circuit worked. I knew he’d come from a war-torn country, and got out just in time to save his life, but sadly most of his family were unable to leave. It was why, I think, he was always chasing deals, something to keep the loneliness at bay. Something to help him forget at least for a little while.

“Anouk.” He nodded solemnly, as was his way.

“Bonjour, Dion. What have you got for me?” We always got straight to the point; Dion wasn’t a fan of small talk.

“An arcane scroll originally from Antibes. It’s damaged because of its age, but still, it’s so rare you could name your price if you sold it on. The seller just wants it gone. He inherited a bunch of antiques from his grandfather but doesn’t hold them in any esteem. You know what the youth of today are like…”

Like Lilou, I thought with a smile. “Sure, sure. So what’s the deal? Who’s up against me?” You had to be quick in this business, or risk losing out. Everyone had their own ways and means of getting there first.

Dion shook his head, the thick black shock of hair not moving an inch, so weighed down with gel, which shone silver in the sunlight. His face was lined with fatigue. I often wondered if he pushed himself too far to the detriment of his own health in the business of gathering information. He veered away from society types, and old money, having little respect for those born with the so-called silver spoon in their mouths. “So far only Joshua is sniffing around. That guy has a nose like a bloodhound. He’s always one step ahead.”

My pulse sped up at the mention of Joshua who like a contagion seemed to spread far and wide, knocking people from their perches. Dion knew my background with Joshua because I’d asked him for help trying to get the piano back from his clutches. To no avail. Still, Dion had tried hard and his loyalty had meant a lot in such a dark time. On the antique circuit, ruthlessness was a key characteristic, and emotion and affection was kept out of it, or very well hidden, so Dion’s generosity of spirit had touched me. Around town I was known as the eccentric one because I often fell in love with a piece that had only sentimental value, and bid on objects other dealers deemed worthless.

I joined Dion on the wooden bench with a heavy sigh. “Joshua, again? I wish people weren’t so easily fooled by his charm.” But how could they not be? He was smooth, and suave and utterly beguiling. Lots of practice at wooing people to suit his needs.

Dion clasped his hands over his middle. “The problem with Joshua is that it’s all a sport to him. He’ll win, and use whatever cunning faculty he can. He will get bored eventually, and move on, Anouk. People like him always do.”

In the distance a mother and child held hands, taking tiny steps across the grass. “I hope so. Somewhere far far away.” I wished he wasn’t a shadow everywhere I went. “So any tips on how I convince the grandson to sell to me?” Already my brain was spinning with ideas. How to secure the scroll, who I could get to value it – it’d have to be an expert in the field – and then finally who I could sell it to. I knew a woman who’d have the right provisions in place, a humidity-controlled room, the right kind of display case to prevent dust, to protect the delicate parchment. Madame Benoit, who lived near the Champs-Élysées, would love such a thing. She was a fifty-something Parisian who loved collecting rare pieces.

“The grandson is training as a classical musician. He plays the cello, amongst other things. It wouldn’t be unreasonable to think he’d swap the scroll for the Mollier cello. Word is he’s a fan of Mollier, God rest his soul.”

I smiled. “The Mollier cello!” Dion had already half done the deal for me. He was like that: outwardly the tough guy, inwardly a teddy bear looking out for his closest clients. “My estimate for the cello was around ten thousand Euro. If he’d swap for the scroll, I’d be well in front. Time to visit our young musician and see what can be done.” Dion shook my hand, slipping me a folded piece of paper. Without reading it I knew it would contain the man’s phone number and address. “Let me know if you need a chauffeur,” he said.

“Oui, I will.”

Dion smiled, flashing his tobacco-stained teeth. “When you win it, don’t forget your friends, will you?” He winked.

I smiled back. “Never. And until the deal is done, here’s a little something to tide you over.” From the depths of my handbag I took a bottle of Château Lafite Rothschild, a wine from Bordeaux, and handed it to Dion. I kept my cellar, which was only really a wine rack in the corner of my shop, stocked with fine wine in order to have something tangible to give thanks.

“Château Lafite Rothschild for me? This is worth a lot of money, Anouk.” He inspected the label on the bottle. Dion knew a lot about everything, from wine to antiques, to people’s secrets.

“It’s the least I can do.” I bent to kiss his still-stunned face.

“Merci,” he said, collecting himself. “Call me if I can help with the grandson.”

I smiled and managed a quick nod. “I will, same as always.” Dion didn’t believe in lengthy phone calls – thought the government was listening in, recording every single one of us. If I called him he automatically named a place to meet, and that was that.

I had a soft spot for Dion in a paternal way. Life had been a struggle for him, and he was doing his best to climb out of a black hole, by whatever means he could. It was the way sometimes his eyes clouded, the slump to his beefy shoulders, like his sadness hovered above him and pressed him down. Sometimes I wanted to play Lilou’s trick and be the matchmaker for him, but I knew well enough not to meddle. Who was I to help him find love when I’d been so spectacularly bad at it myself?

***

“I’m so sorry for the loss of your grandfather,” I said softly after introducing myself. I tried very hard not to drop eye contact and exclaim over the sumptuous furniture surrounding me. Besides, it wasn’t fitting in the circumstances.

The young man, Andre, nodded solemnly and stared out the bay window. I was just out of Paris in the town of Rocquencourt, on the family’s lush sprawling estate. Not far from here was the Palace of Versailles, and while Andre’s estate was on a much smaller scale, from what I had seen so far it was equally as opulent as the former royal château.

Andre had the serenity of an expansive garden with a small lake but was close enough to Paris, giving him the best of both worlds. There were stables on the property, and some dog kennels. Thick hedges and fat-trunked trees, standing close together like a row of gruff watchman protecting the property, surrounded the garden.

“Merci,” he said eventually. His thin, drawn face appeared much older than Dion had thought him to be. “Were you close?” I wanted to kick myself for my nosiness, but something about him suggested he was angry, rather than grieving. It was just a feeling, the fleeting look of mutiny on his face when I mentioned his grandfather.

He let out a bitter laugh. “No we weren’t close. Unless you were a wad of rolled-up Euros, he didn’t have the time of day for you.”

“Oh,” I said lamely, unsure of what to say to such a thing.

“My grandfather was a cold man. Driven by money, and money only. Hence I have no desire to continue with his legacy of collecting things, which will never be appreciated. You’ve heard about the arcane scroll, I take it?”

I clasped my hands, feeling a wave of empathy for Andre. “I did.” It struck me he’d invited me into his house without clarifying my reason for visiting, as if he knew I was coming. Dion, again, helping grease the wheel. “I was hoping to secure the late Monsieur Mollier’s cello for you, in return for the scroll if that’s something you’d consider.”

“Mollier’s music was the soundtrack to my youth, a way to block out the real world.”

His cheeks pinked as if he’d said too much, so I hurried to reassure him. “Music has the ability to be a friend, an escape hatch when we most need one.”

“Oui,” he said, smiling.

“May I see the scroll?” I spoke quickly, not wanting to scare him off by getting too personal; instead I tried to be businesslike and brisk.

He surveyed me for the longest time. I felt he was weighing up whether he could trust me. I only hoped I could afford any counter offer he made, like the cello for the scroll, and extra funds on top, if the scroll was in good shape. Because of Joshua’s theft, my business was still teetering, so I didn’t have the high reserve of funds I used to for deals like this.

Red-haired Andre took a key from his pocket, unlocking a drawer. From the vague scent wafting out I knew it was a humidity-controlled space. I was relieved that the scroll had been well cared for in its time here.

“Anouk, please come closer, but don’t touch it. It’s whisper thin, and will have to be handled correctly by experts if it’s moved from here.” While he wasn’t keen on keeping his grandfather’s collections at least he respected the antiques, which made me soften toward him even more.

I made my way over, a hand on my throat as my pulse beat a fast rhythm. It never waned, that first flush of excitement seeing something that was hundreds of years old. It was preserved as well as it could be for its age, though damaged in places, as if it had been set alight, and someone had snuffed the flame out in time to save the body of it. It resembled a fairy-tale treasure map, with its rough black edges. But instead of sketches of geography it contained text.

“It’s a poem,” he said, smiling. Andre’s posture relaxed, and when grinning, he looked infinitely younger. What hate he must’ve held in his heart to transform his entire being when he recalled his grandfather, and how quickly it disappeared once he was distracted.

I leaned close and tried to read the tiny words, written in fancy flowery cursive that was difficult to translate. Goose bumps prickled my skin and I knew I couldn’t simply swap the cello for the scroll. The scroll was worth far too much money, and I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night if I wasn’t honest with Andre. But would I have enough funds to make the deal?

“It’s breathtaking,” I said pulling my gaze away and meeting Andre’s, whose expression was haunted once more. “A treasure.”

“I’d like to take you up on your offer,” he said abruptly. “The cello of Monsieur Mollier’s in exchange for the scroll. But only if experts transport the scroll, and you vouch for its safety in transit and with its new owner. As much as I hate what it represents, it still has historical significance, and I’d hate to see it ruined by inappropriate handling.”

“Oui, of course, I can have all of that arranged. But there is a problem,” I said, fluttering my hands. “This scroll is worth more than I thought. While it has been slightly burnt at the edges, the writing is still well preserved. I’d have to get a specialist to investigate its origins and likely author, but I know from experience and by sight it’s worth a lot of money. Much more than the cello.”

Andre moved to the plush lounges and sat, motioning for me to do the same. “I have papers from numerous scholars who’ve studied the period. You can have those too. And I’m well aware of its value, Mademoiselle LaRue, but you see, this holds only bad memories for me. My grandfather manipulated the former owner, bullied him into selling it really, for far less than it was worth. He then had the gall to brag about it. Greed is a terrible thing; it can turn men into monsters.” With a sad shrug he gazed out of the window into the distance. His grandfather sounded far too similar to Joshua for my liking. He continued, his voice soft: “This is a way to atone for what he did.”

I could understand his motivations, and thought that Andre was the kind of man the world needed more of. Someone not driven purely by money, or greed.

Quietly, he said, “I made some enquiries about who I should sell it to, and your name kept popping up. I know you’ll find the right home for it. And then it will be a chapter closed for me, and I would very much like that.”

I didn’t know what to say in the face of such generosity. “Merci, Andre, that’s very kind of you, and you have my word I’ll find it the perfect home. So, I’ll secure the Mollier, and call you once it’s done?” I was rendered silent once more by the fact people had spoken so highly of me, and that Andre was so pure of heart to make up for his grandfather’s shady deals.

“Oui.” His features softened. “Mollier was an inspiration to me. To own something as extraordinary as his very own concert cello would be an honor.”