The Book of Lost Fragrances

Thirty-one

PARIS, FRANCE

THURSDAY, MAY 26, 7:15 P.M.

The sunset reflected on the Seine. Yellows gave way to dusky pinks, which faded to lavender; all the colors splashing on the surface of the water as if an Impressionist painter were using the evening as a canvas.

“I’m not sure this is a good idea,” Jac said.

“Walking across the bridge?” Griffin asked.

“Going out to dinner.” She’d forgotten how he always played with what she said that way. “What if there’s a break in the search?”

He put his hand on her arm, stopping her.

“Marcher has your cell phone number and mine.”

She felt the pressure of his fingertips through her jacket. The instant heat of his hands melted something inside of her. She resented it and moved her arm.

“And Robbie wouldn’t forgive me if I let you go hungry,” Griffin said.

Jac wondered if he remembered those Sunday night bag dinners, or if the reference to their past was unconscious. Jac thought of the ribbon, frayed and worn, back in New York inside of her jewelry box. She couldn’t tell him. The admission would suggest a level of emotional involvement that she didn’t feel. She’d kept the ribbon to remind her not to be weak, not because she still cared about him.

Griffin leaned on the parapet looking toward Notre Dame Cathedral. Jac looked the other way, toward the Grand Palais. The setting sun glinted off its glass roof. The Victorian building looked like it was on fire.

Around them, other pedestrians crossed the Carrousel on their way from the Left-Bank to the Right-Bank or vice versa. Jac and Griffin weren’t the only ones who’d stopped on the footpath to look out over the cityscape. To their left, an elderly couple stood close together, pointing out the sights and taking pictures. To their right, a man and a woman embraced passionately. Jac looked away. Toward the river.

“Are you with anyone?” Griffin asked, speaking softly.

She hadn’t expected such a personal question. She wasn’t sure what she wanted him to know.

“I was until a few months ago,” she said, still looking out over the river.

“Did you end it or did he?”

“Strange question.”

“Is it? Sorry.”

She shrugged. Bit her lip. “I put him in a position to end it.”

“What does that mean?”

“He wanted me to move in with him. When I wouldn’t… You know, I don’t think I want to talk about it after all.”

Griffin reached out, put his hand on her shoulder, and turned her so that they were facing each other.

“If you want to tell me, I’ll listen.”

Jac shrugged again. “It’s getting cold,” she said, pulling her jacket tighter around her. “We should go.”

In silence, they reached the end of the bridge. Waited for the light. Then walked under the large stone archway into the Louvre museum complex. Crossing the Coeur de Napoléon, Griffin stopped in front of I. M. Pei’s glass pyramid.

Around them, hundreds of people milled about, some taking pictures, others lolling by the fountain. The square had an almost fairground levity. Very few were studying the architecture with Griffin’s intensity.

The last rays of the sun shined in Jac’s eyes. She blinked. Around her, the scene waved. For a second, she saw a horse-drawn carriage. Liveried servants opening the doors. A woman in a gold brocade gown and fanciful wig descending. She smelled floral perfume and the odor of unwashed skin.

“There’s evidence that the pyramid shape draws microwave signals out of the air and converts them into electrical energy.”

“What did you say?” Jac asked. She hadn’t heard a word.

“There’s evidence that the pyramid shape draws microwave signals out of the air and converts them into electrical energy. That’s why they say even a newly constructed pyramid acts as a fulcrum for magic.”

“Surely you don’t believe in magic now. You haven’t changed that much, have you?”

“No one’s more skeptical than I am. But I’ve spent the night in a pyramid, and I experienced something I can’t explain.”

She shook her head. “I am. I’m more cynical than you are.”

“You didn’t use to be. When we were…” He didn’t finish what he was going to say. Started again. “What happened to you, Jac?”

She almost said, “You did,” but held back. “What happens to everyone? Only Robbie is still innocent. Still as happy as he ever was.” She choked back a sob. Jac didn’t want Griffin to comfort her. She knew how easy it would be to be seduced by his concern. He was so damn good at caring.

Le Café Marly was tucked under the stone archway in the Richelieu wing. Even though there were usually a few tourists here because of its proximity to the museum, the restaurant catered to Parisians.

“Robbie told me this is one of his favorites,” Griffin said as they walked in. “Chic without being pretentious. Easy without being ordinary.”

The maÎtre d’ showed them to a table in a corner of one of the inside rooms. Griffin ordered wine and some cheese to start.

This section of the ancient palace had been renovated to accommodate a modern restaurant, while retaining its majesty and grandeur. Ornate gilt moldings framed the high ceiling. The four-hundred-year-old marble floors were uneven with wear. The deep chairs were upholstered in rich red velvet.

“I want you to try to relax,” he said. “Take a few sips of your wine.” He slathered some of the soft, runny cheese on a piece of crusty baguette and handed it to her. “And eat this.”

“Orders?”

“Suggestions. You’re under a lot of stress. I’m just trying to help. When was the last time you ate?”

Jac resented that he’d remembered this about her and took a small bite of the bread, more to stop herself from commenting on what he’d said. She was hardly hungry.

“It doesn’t feel right to be in a restaurant while-”

Griffin interrupted. “We need to eat, and we might as well do it someplace where the food and the wine are good. And where no one is watching the door.”

“What do you mean?”

“Marcher has someone following you.”

“Protecting me or watching me?” Instinctively, she turned around. She hadn’t noticed before, but the room was eerily empty. All the other guests were on the terrace, enticed by the view.

“Protecting you, I hope. But I’m not positive. That’s why I insisted we go out-so I could talk to you. I’m not sure if it’s safe in the house, the store, or the workshop.”

“Safe?”

“They could be listening, too.”

“How do you know all this?”

“I saw a man follow us here. Noticed him on the bridge. And then in the reflection on the pyramid. That’s why I think he’s protection. It was too easy to spot him. He’s not trying to be invisible.”

It was suddenly oppressively hot in the room. Jac wanted to get up. To run. She couldn’t just sit there while Robbie was missing. She’d been crazy to think she could manage it.

As if he sensed what she was thinking, Griffin covered her hand with his, and the slight pressure was enough to tether her to her seat.

“It’s okay. I promise.”

With his other hand, he lifted his glass and raised it toward her.

“To Robbie,” he said, softly, kindly.

Jac felt tears prick her eyes but blinked them back.

She put the glass to her lips. Out of habit, before she drank, she sniffed the bouquet. All the subtle smells came together in a smooth wave of scents: cherry, violet, and roses along with leather and oak. She sipped. The taste danced in her mouth. It seemed indecent to notice the subtleties of the wine while Robbie was out there somewhere. In danger.

“What happened to your hands?” Griffin asked.

There were angry scratches across her knuckles where blood had dried in thread-thin lines. Cuts from when she’d tried to pry off the manhole cover at the center of the labyrinth. She rubbed at them, but only made them redder.

“Jac?” His voice was laced with worry.

“Even though the room is empty, could they be listening?”

He shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

She leaned across the table toward him, not realizing how seductive the movement was until she saw its impact reflected in his eyes.

“I think I know where Robbie is,” she said in a quiet rush of words.

“Did he contact you?”

“No. But he left another sign. I think I know where he is. But I can’t get there by myself.” She held her hands out as evidence. “I tried.”

“Were you going to tell me?”

Jac frowned. “I am telling you.”

“Only because I asked about your hands.”

She’d been foolish to think they could ignore the past-just move around it-without acknowledging it or giving it its due. “Let’s get this over with. Okay? I’m not the one who left, Griffin.”

His expression told her that he hadn’t expected her to broach this subject. For a moment, he was quiet. Drank some of his wine. Reorganized his utensils. “No, you weren’t.”

“Then why are you angry at me?”

“I’m not.”

She raised her eyebrows.

“You wouldn’t have been happy with me,” he said in a low voice.

“You decided that. Not me.”

“I knew it.”

“You thought you knew.” She drank more wine.

“All these years… we really haven’t forgotten about each other, have we?” He’d asked a question. It sounded like a confession.

Jac thought about whether or not to answer. About how to answer. Her feelings were buried so deep, and were so private, talking about them seemed almost obscene.

Griffin leaned in. She could smell him. The scent of punishment.

“They don’t sell that cologne anymore. Haven’t in years. You’re still wearing it?”

“I’ve never found another cologne I liked, so your brother offered to have the formula analyzed and then recreate it for me. He replenishes my supply whenever I run out.”

Jac’s laugh sounded slightly hysterical even to her. While she had been buying up memories-half-empty bottles of the fragrance at flea markets-Robbie was in touch with Griffin, mixing up fresh bottles of the cologne for him.

“Whatever it is, tell me.”

She lifted her hands. Tried to say something coherent. The air fell through her fingers. Jac couldn’t order her thoughts or make sense of what she was thinking. She shook her head.

Griffin scooted his chair a quarter of the way around the table, moved his wine glass beside hers. And then leaned in, as if he were going to tell her a secret.

Then his mouth was on hers, and suddenly she wasn’t just smelling him and tasting the wine but remembering what she’d thought she’d forgotten about how they were together. About the way he held her when he kissed her, with his hands on either side of her face. About the pressure of his lips moving on hers. Them together, the two-ness of them, was woven into the fabric of who she was. This memory was so deep, she felt that if she pulled the string of it and followed it, she’d wind up-where? The feeling of his palms on her cheeks, of his breath inside of her, of his hair brushing her face. It felt familiar in another way too. This was what Marie-Genevieve had been remembering while she was drowning. This was what the Egyptian princess on the edge of the river had been remembering when her lover told her he was going to be killed.

Killed? Drowning?

Jac pushed Griffin away so hard that he fell back against his chair. At first the look on his face was shock, then it moved to curiosity.

“You look scared, Jac. I didn’t mean to-”

She shook her head. “It’s not about me. It’s Robbie.”

“No. Something happened to you just now. I saw it on your face. What is it?”

“Forget about me!” She was almost shouting. “All that matters now is my brother.”

The dinner arrived. They were both silent as the waiter placed the chicken paillard in front of her, a croque monsieur in front of Griffin.

For the next few minutes, they ate and drank without saying much, then Jac put down her fork and knife. She’d consumed only a little of her food.

“Can’t you eat any more?”

She shook her head.

“When my daughter won’t eat, I bribe her.”

“I’m not your daughter, and there’s nothing you have you could bribe me with.” Jac had meant it to sound light. Instead it came out bitter.

She pushed away her plate.

“Will you come with me and try and find Robbie now?”

“Yes,” he answered without hesitation.

As they left the restaurant, neither of them noticed the pale woman sitting by herself in the corner of the terrace listening to headphones while she sipped a glass of white wine and nibbled on foie gras and French bread. But once they’d walked outside, Valentine Lee threw a handful of euros on the table and followed.

Like the Champs-Élysées, the Louvre’s courtyards were always crowded. It was easy enough to get lost among them and avoid the plainclothes policeman who was also watching Jac and Griffin.

Valentine wove in between the steady stream of people crisscrossing the wide-open space. Keeping her prey in her sight, she sauntered around a group of teenagers hanging out in front of the pyramid, smoking, texting and talking on cell phones. Twice, she avoided being photographed by tourists taking shots of the scenery.

She hadn’t taken out her earbuds. A woman listening to an iPod was an ordinary sight. But there wasn’t any music coming through. The directional on her belt was picking up traffic and ambient noises. She couldn’t hear Jac and Griffin’s conversation any longer, but she’d heard them throughout dinner.

Where were they going now? Where did Jac think Robbie L’Etoile was hiding? She’d never mentioned a location.

As Valentine crossed the Pont, she kept a safe distance between her and the couple she was following. When the light turned red at the end of the bridge, she stopped, pulled out a camera, and snapped pictures of the Seine.

Paris was dark now. The city’s lights shimmered off the river’s surface. A tourist boat drifted under the bridge, and from its deck, strains of Django Reinhardt wafted up.

The sound of the familiar music wrapped itself around her and squeezed her tight. Valentine was helpless to fight back. A wave of emotion broke over her. The sound was François. It was his rhythm. It was his beat. He moved to this music. Lived it. Breathed it. Played it. Reinhardt had been François’s idol. The loss she’d refused to deal with came at her now. Greater than she was prepared for. Part of her welcomed the grief. It had been wrong to keep moving when she heard François was dead. He was as close to a father as she’d ever had. She should have stopped. Just sat and cried. Wept. Mourned for him. Let the pain of losing François take her over. Now, standing on the bridge, the strains of the music drifting downriver, she couldn’t pretend she was all right.

No one around her seemed to notice the woman weeping as she looked out at the City of Lights. There was no better disguise, it turned out, than tears. It was the first lesson she’d learned without François by her side in over twelve years.