The Seven Turns of the Snail's Shell: A Novel Read online

  Mark fidgeted. The question mark on his face reminded Anna that she hadn’t been translating. She leaned over to him and put her hand on his knee, whispering, “Remember that clock in the cathedral in Strasbourg? He’s describing how it looks.”

  Mark nodded his head.

  “In front stands a celestial sphere covered by thousands of stars,” the old man went on. “In the background stands Death, holding his scythe in one hand, a bone in the other with which it slowly strikes the hours.” He held up his hands as if to demonstrate how the Death figure looks.

  There was something in the way that he told the story that sounded familiar to Anna.

  “How did your son-in-law come to see Nathalie during the war?”

  He seemed surprised by the question. He blinked his eyes and looked at her. “Jacques was a member of Les Amis Clandestins. He was the youngest of the group, not yet twenty years old, hotheaded even then. He is Corsican, born in Ajaccio, birthplace of Napoleon,” he added, “and like Napoleon, he is short and thickset.” He went on to describe Jacques’ bull-like build, his dark eyes, and his heavy hands. “They say we deserve the face we get.” He shook his head. “Well, today his face is a mass of deep crevices.”

  Rouen…a restaurant…Jacques…Charlie…the astronomical clock.

  “Guy,” Anna asked wide-eyed. “What is Jacques’ last name?”

  “Why, it’s Gérard. My son-in-law’s name is Jacques Gérard.”

  “And your grandson’s full name?”

  “Charles-Christian Gérard.”

  Oh, my God. Stunned, Anna thought to herself, This man is C-C’s grandfather. She tried to rise from her chair, but the room was spinning. “I…I feel like I’m going to faint.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Maria concluded that the reason for Anna’s near fainting spell was that she had had too much Beaujolais Nouveau.

  “American women,” she stated matter-of-factly, “like their wine too much. I have seen that in all the American movies.”

  Anna did not let on to them, not even to Mark, the reason for her near collapse.

  Guy de Noailles looked tired.

  “We had better be going,” Mark said as they finished strong coffee.

  “I want you to have something,” Guy said as he went over to a bookshelf and pulled down a large, black box. He opened it, and inside were more photos in silver frames. He sorted through them, mumbling to himself, and then pulled out a small, square, silver-framed, sepia-toned photo. “This is the last photograph I have of Diamanté. It was taken a couple of years ago, just before Nathalie’s death, when he came to visit me and we went hunting like in old times. We didn’t get anything. We only shot photos.” He chuckled and handed it to Anna. “You may have it.”

  Anna looked at the photo in her hands. The old man in a black beret was staring back at her. His hands, holding a rifle, seemed arthritic. His eyes were piercing, wolf-like, and the look on his face was guarded, cautious.

  “I hope I can find him. I want to meet him.”

  “He will turn up sooner or later.”

  Anna hugged Guy. Maria embraced Anna and Mark and made them promise to come back to visit again.

  It was drizzling heavily outside as they put on their coats. “I insist that you allow Jean-Paul to drive you back to Strasbourg,” Guy said. “He has driven that route thousands of times. I don’t want you two to risk getting lost in this weather. Jean-Paul can return your rental car to Strasbourg Airport tomorrow. It will be no trouble at all.”

  Mark was relieved. He insisted on giving Jean-Paul a sizable tip for the effort, put his arms around Anna, and fell asleep in the backseat of Guy’s big Citroën during the drive back to Strasbourg.

  Anna’s head spun meanwhile with trying to put all the details of the amazing coincidence straight in her mind: C-C’s grandfather Guy, World War II Résistance fighter, rescuer of American pilot Stu Ellis, her grandfather. C-C’s mother Nathalie, Guy’s daughter. C-C’s father Jacques, Guy’s Corsican son-in-law, Résistance fighter, Rouen restaurateur, the one who hated her. Guy’s friend Diamanté, Corsican, Résistance fighter, her mysterious grandfather. His son Diamanté fils, killed in Algeria, her father. She had wanted to ask Guy about C-C, but with Mark there, she had decided against it. They would be in Paris the next day. Paris, she thought. Was C-C in Paris?

  “Mark,” she patted his shoulder to wake him. “We’re at the hotel.”

  CHAPTER 25

  Two faxes had been slipped under the door of their suite. The most urgent was for Mark. It was a simple message in bold handwriting from his secretary, Jackie, in Laguna Beach.

  Subject: URGENT!!! CHECK YOUR E-MAIL!

  Ex parte motion. Hearing MONDAY.

  “Oh, Christ. I was so busy wrapping up yesterday that I forgot to check my e-mail.”

  The other fax was from Harry, Anna’s agent.

  “Look, Mark. Good news. My book in French translation is due to hit the Paris market just before Christmas. Oh, I like what they did with the title. L’Affaire Imprévue sounds so much more sexy.” The rest of the memo provided details. Harry had arranged for a couple of book signings in two weeks’ time. Could she stay in France? She was so busy reading the memo that she didn’t notice that Mark was too preoccupied to listen.

  “Damn it, that’s all I need now.” He quickly plugged in his laptop and tapped his fingers impatiently on the table as he waited for his e-mail to load.

  “Shit…of course, the new client, too.” He looked at his watch as he picked up the phone. It would be midafternoon in L.A.

  Anna heard him responding to a voice message.

  “Hi Jacks. Oh, boy, shit. I just now got back to the hotel and found your fax. I’m flying to Paris early tomorrow—Sunday. Will try to get a connecting flight to LAX. Guess I’ll see ya bright and early Monday. Bye.” He hung up and rubbed his temples, whispering, “Shit, shit, shit.” Shutting down his laptop, he turned around in the desk chair. “What’s the word for shit in French?”

  Anna came out of the bathroom in her robe, brushing her long curls. “Merde. Why? Are you planning to start cussing in French?”

  He got up and took her in his arms. “Yeah. Merde.” He smiled. “Hey, that’s just about like the Italian merda! Anyway, I’ve got bad news. I won’t be able to see Paris with you this trip. I have to be back in L.A. for a court hearing on Monday afternoon. It’s an emergency motion. The hearing date couldn’t be changed. I’ve got to fly straight through tomorrow. No one there to cover this for me.”

  “It’s okay, Mark. I have catching up to do with Monique and Georges.” She yawned. “I feel like I’ve had an exhausting day.”

  “Are you feeling okay? I mean, you almost fainted dead away.” He followed her up the stairs to the loft.

  “Oh, I’m okay. Maria was right. It must have been the wine.”

  When they arrived at Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris the next day, Anna accompanied Mark to the departure terminal for the Air France international flights. As they entered the lounge area, Mark suddenly turned to her with a worried look on his face.

  “You will be back in California for Christmas, won’t you?”

  “I assume so. After the book signings are done. I’ve got to figure out what to do with my grandparents’ home,” she added. “Whether to sell it or not. It’s not an easy decision. My grandfather bought that land along the Pacific coast after he came back from the war. He was a housing contractor, and he built that house himself. I love it and the view, but it’s too big for one person.”

  “You don’t have to rush the decision, you know. Take your time.” He took both her hands in his. “Anyway, I want you to meet my parents. They will be home for the holidays, for a change. They’ve purchased a house in Bel-Air. We have a big, Italian extended family, and they’ll probably all be there for Christmas dinner.”

  “There should be no reason for me to remain in France. But…” Meeting his parents was a new issue. She decided to defer the discussion for now.
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br />   “This is not how I had planned the end of our trip, gorgeous. I wanted to spend time with you in Paris, to…” He stroked her hair.

  “We’ll get another opportunity, Mark. Hey, I need to call Monique and let her know I’ll be a bit delayed. Back in a minute.” When she returned, they were calling his flight.

  “I’ll call you everyday. I love you,” he whispered in her ear as he hugged her tightly. Then he picked up his briefcase and grinned at her. “Don’t worry about the dog. I’ll take care of him. Actually, he’s moving in with me.” Wink. “See you in a couple.”

  As she watched him walk down the jetway to his flight, she admired his muscular back and slim, sexy hips. No Cal sweatshirt this trip. He had his suave L.A. look back—the blue jeans were topped with a crisp, striped cotton shirt open at the neck and a well-cut, taupe sports jacket. He wore soft, black suede loafers. She thought about how much she admired his stamina and his style. He wasn’t one of those asshole lawyers everyone hated. He was a decent individual with a true sensitivity to others. She knew that he was probably a tough negotiator, but she had never heard him say a harsh word to anyone. He was the kind of man who would make a good life partner. She didn’t get the impression that he would ever abandon her. Damn, C-C. Why had she allowed herself to fall in a ten-year trap? It was obvious that he didn’t ever want to see her again. It had been three months since she left her card at La Pitié-Salpêtrière.

  When the flight had departed and the gate was deserted, she found her way to the main terminal and took the blue airport bus to the Air France terminal near the Arc de Triomphe, a short walking distance from Monique and Georges’ apartment on rue Beaujon. It was a peaceful winter afternoon. The sky was clear, the sun was out, and the air was crisp after the previous day’s storm. The chestnut trees along the Champs Elysées were leafless skeletons. A few couples walked their dogs along the boulevard. Anna shouldered her briefcase and deliberately took the long way to the side street, rolling her suitcase behind her. She had to think. Tonight, after the expected catch-up with Monique, she needed to spend some time writing in her journal so she wouldn’t forget all the details of the story about Diamanté’s life she had learned from Guy. Tomorrow, she needed to go to Saint-Germain and meet the owners of the bookstores where she would do the signings. She couldn’t help thinking what Guy de Noailles had said about Diamanté: “He has weathered a lot of storms…the type…who never stands by to let events take their course.” She rounded the corner and walked up rue Beaujon. The small street was practically deserted. Monique was waiting for her with the door open, and Sabastien leaped in glee as she entered the apartment. It was like coming home.

  As the Air France 747 made its way out of European air space, Mark settled into his seat in the forward cabin. No one occupied the seat next to him. He stretched his long legs.

  “Would you like something to drink, sir?” the flight attendant asked.

  Mark ordered a cognac. From his briefcase he took a pile of legal papers and his Montblanc pen. As he pulled out a file, he felt for a little square box in the bottom of the briefcase. He held it next to his chin and stared out the window at the clouds below. Then he opened the box and carefully fingered the antique, delicately pierced, platinum filigree ring between his thumb and index finger. It had been hand-finished with millgrain edging. At the ring’s center was a large, brilliant-cut diamond.

  The flight attendant returned with his cognac.

  Mark noticed her eyeing the ring. “It’s an engagement ring,” he explained with a shy smile.

  “It’s very beautiful, Monsieur. The young lady is very lucky.”

  He smiled at her and took a sip of the cognac. The ring was perfect for Anna. He had envisioned them strolling arm in arm through the place du Tertre near the Sacré-Coeur church, as in the painting he had bought for her. The romantic plan had included him sweeping her off her feet and asking her to marry him right there in that square. He stared out the window, imagining the scene.

  “The ring will have to wait until Christmas now,” he said aloud to himself as he put it back in its box, buried it in the bottom of his briefcase, and went to work. What was the word? Merde. Merda. Shit.

  The plane hit some turbulence. The large screen in the front of the cabin showed passengers the flight path. They were over the Channel already. He was having trouble concentrating on his paperwork. He stared out the window again. After their time in Strasbourg, he felt closer to Anna and wanted her more than ever. He had never felt this way about another woman. He knew she was the one. She hadn’t told him that she loved him when they said goodbye. There was a barrier between them. Something to do with the Corsican grandfather she needed to find? Damn, he wished he had understood that conversation at the dinner table, too. What had she gotten suddenly so upset about?

  An hour later, he was sound asleep, and ten hours later, Sunday evening, the 747 landed at LAX.

  CHAPTER 26

  Just outside the door of La Pitié-Salpêtrière, Dr. Charles-Christian Gérard lit a cigarette and hesitated for a moment. He felt numb. He was dead tired after having worked the grueling fifteen-hour-plus night shift for two weeks. Because of the harsh December weather, there had been more than the usual number of accident victims in the trauma center during the past twenty-four hours. He had been there most of that time. Now, even to walk the short distance to the Gare d’Austerlitz to catch the métro would take the last of what little energy he had left.

  He crossed the darkened street. It was too early for the café on the corner to be open, but, he thought, he was too tired to eat anyway. At the Gare d’Austerlitz, he descended into the métro, crossed through the turnstile, and walked onto the deserted platform. A derelict curled up in a blanket slept on a bench. The station smelled of urine.

  An older man, wearing a beret, appeared on the platform as the train pulled in. Charles-Christian flipped the door latch and entered an empty, brightly lit car. He noticed that the man in the beret had entered the car next to his. The doors slammed shut, and the car lurched forward as the train took off again. Charles-Christian sank into a seat by a window, catching a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror-like pane as the car sped through a darkened tunnel. He saw his graying sideburns, his drawn face, an ashen color, the dark circles under his eyes, the stubble of beard from not having shaved for hours. Not a pretty sight, he thought, as he ran his hands through his hair and rubbed his temples.

  Life had been grueling in the trauma center since he had returned to La Pitié-Salpêtrière. Working long hours had been his life since he had become a doctor, but now he realized that it had desensitized him. Every night, he coped with blood and chaos. Every night, he had to make instantaneous decisions, life-and-death decisions, and there was no time to consider whether they were right or wrong. It seemed people weren’t people anymore.

  At the Jussieu stop, a young couple entered the car, holding hands. They made their way to the back and sat down. Before the car moved again, they embraced in a passionate kiss.

  Charles-Christian heaved a deep sigh and glanced at the seat beside him. Someone had left a copy of last evening’s France Soir, folded open to the book review section. He picked it up. The lead review was of a book entitled L’Affaire Imprévue.

  The title intrigued him. He read the first sentence: “If you like tales of romance and intrigue, you’ll love this exceptional novel by an American author, newly translated by Sophie La Félisse.” He scanned the article for the author’s name, and his face flushed as he read it: “Anna Ellis of California has created a good plot and a well-developed set of characters.” He clenched his jaw and held the newspaper so tightly in his fist that his hand hurt.

  The train pulled into the Cardinal Lemoine stop. An older lady in a black coat and hat got on, clutching a string filet shopping bag. She nodded to him and took a seat facing his.

  “You are a doctor?” she asked in a low voice as she eyed his hospital coveralls under his coat.

  “Yes,” he sm
iled faintly at her over the newspaper.

  “I am on my way to market,” she said as if responding to a question. “There will be fresh shellfish today. It’s so rare to get good oysters, clams, and green mussels this time of year. I’m going to make a bouillabaisse for my Robert’s supper tonight. Robert is my husband. He just left for work. It will be a long day for him. He will like the warm stew for his supper.”

  Charles-Christian smiled at her again. Taking the newspaper with him, he gave her a nod and wished her “Bonne journée, Madame” as he got up to stand at the door. Maubert Mutualité was the next stop, his stop. Several people were waiting on the platform, crushing forward as the car slowed. They were all dressed for work. The morning commute was beginning.

  Charles-Christian walked the short distance along boulevard Saint-Germain to rue Saint-Jacques. It was a cold morning, and Parisians emerging from their apartment buildings were bundled in heavy coats and scarves, faces barely visible. He reached his apartment building, not even noticing the man in the beret following him as he entered through the heavily carved wooden door and climbed the dark stairs, slowly, to his apartment.

  Once inside, he took off his coat, made himself a cup of hot chocolate on the small stove in the kitchenette, and sat down at the tiny table. He spread the newspaper in front of him and read the entire review of Anna Ellis’ latest book. It was not a bad review as book reviews go, he thought. In fact, the reviewer, a woman, rather liked the heroine, though she wasn’t impressed with the hero—“too mean spirited,” she had written. Charles-Christian wondered to himself if Anna had had him in mind when she wrote that character. He sipped his hot chocolate and went to his desk to get a pair of scissors. As he carefully cut out the review, he noticed a box at the bottom of the page. Its heading read “Book Signings in Paris This Week.” Curious, he studied the lengthy list. About a third of the way down was Anna’s name—Librairie La Hune, 170 boulevard Saint-Germain, and Librairie Bonaparte, 31 rue Bonaparte. He cut out the notice and sat back, heaving a huge sigh. The first of the scheduled signings was in two days. Anna would have to arrive in Paris shortly, if she was not already here. The thought of seeing her again made him apprehensive. What if she doesn’t recognize me? he wondered. What if she’s married? What if…? There was no photo of her with the article, no personal information. He put his head in his hands. His life was lonely. He had no one. At forty, he was certainly not a happy man. He climbed the spiral staircase to the loft and sank onto his bed, too tired to undress or shower, and fell asleep.