Bender at the Bon Parisien (A Novel) Read online

  “Probably,” I admitted.

  “These two,” he grunted playfully as he thumbed in our direction. “Okay let’s have it, then. Who do you want?”

  “Just pick an impersonation you like to do,” Janie chimed in.

  “Impression,” he corrected her.

  “Right, sorry,” she said with a raised eyebrow.

  “How about the greatest pop singer of all time, Frank Sinatra!?” Pistache sang.

  “Yes, perfect,” I said.

  Jacques lowered his chin and cleared this throat a few times. His eyes bulged. Awkwardly moving his mouth as if adjusting for extra teeth, he finally settled in on a bizarre look somewhere between mid-ranged angst and a complete muscular crimping of the face. Janie looked my way and smiled.

  “Hey, Dean-O!” Pistache began in English with a horrific accent. It was closer to a slurring Bostonian than Ol’ Blue Eyes. “Roll me a seven and we all end up winn-ahs!”

  I couldn’t keep from giggling a little, burying my face in a sip of drink to avoid betrayal. It seemed as though he took his craft very seriously.

  “Hey, Sammy!” he continued spitting words with wide eyes. “Kick it ah-ff! I’ll show you a real fahx-trot if you get me an-ah-thah highball!”

  “Okay, I think we get the picture,” I said unable to contain my laughter. Janie was right with me.

  Fleuse stared into his beer as he ignored him. Trudel seemed horrified by this person’s definition of talent.

  Pistache snapped out of it. “See? Exactly right, no?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Is that what you did on streets in Italy and Spain?” Trudel spat.

  “Well, I also did a little tap dancing.”

  “Didn’t we see a little of that already?” Trudel asked disdainfully.

  “Here’s another little taste just for you, madame,” he said still oblivious to her tone. A slight shuffle of his feet again on the crossbar of his barstool preceded a series of disorganized taps during which he lost his balance, reached for the bar to catch himself, and knocked over his own beer. Everyone began laughing.

  “That usually doesn’t happen,” Pistache sheepishly said while smiling at himself. He immediately grabbed his beer in an attempt to salvage whatever was left. I also went to the rescue with my bar rag.

  “I usually don’t fall down,” he continued. He looked at Janie. “But, I’m sure you would have had me if I’d fallen all the way, right?”

  “Sure, man,” Janie said in English.

  “I knew I could count on you, ma cherie,” he said with a sly smile.

  “C’mon,” I said. “Seriously, that’s enough man.”

  “You call yourself a renowned performer?” Trudel challenged as she stood. “I would like to know. What does that mean? Who heralds your talents?”

  “What do you mean by that?” Pistache retorted, finally dropping the act for the first time.

  “I mean that I am Trudel von Hugelstein.”

  “So?”

  “You haven’t heard of me?”

  After a brief moment, Pistache brightened. “Wait, you’re Victor’s Trudie!”

  Fleuse shifted in his seat.

  “Well yes, I am that,” she said. “But that’s not what I mean. Surely, you have seen me upon the stage or heard about my voice.”

  “I think I’d heard that Victor was seeing a singer maybe, yes!”

  “Well, I have performed quite a lot through the years. I thought maybe a fellow performer like you would have been aware of the other acts in the neighborhood.”

  “Well, I travel around a bit. I’m sorry.”

  “That’s not important,” Trudel grunted. “I haven’t heard of you. Based on what I’ve seen here, I’m not surprised. What makes you ‘renowned,’ as you say?”

  “I have a few awards for local entertainment,” he defended himself with a little more vigor. “I do not believe that I need to justify myself to you.”

  “What awards?”

  “The key to the city of Antony.”

  Fleuse leaned back in his chair and huffed.

  “Congratulations,” Trudel drove on sarcastically. “It’s just that my talent is a gift. Furthermore, I have worked to perfect and hone that gift for many years. And now, I must share ranks with this!” she exclaimed to the room while motioning toward Pistache.

  “Trudel, honey,” Fleuse tried.

  “I’m not your ‘honey,’ Fleuse!” Trudel spat with fire as she wheeled to address him.

  Pistache turned to me. “I get this a lot. Others get jealous of my talents.”

  Trudel choked on the last sip of her drink.

  “Yep, I understand,” I humored him. Attempting to steer the group away from more of this talk, I looked to Fleuse. “How do you two know each other?”

  They exchanged a glance.

  “We go way back,” Pistache said contently.

  “We are friends,” Fleuse said, obviously dodging the question.

  “Every now and then we work together,” Pistache said with a smile.

  “Do you hire him to do impersonations at parties?” I asked Fleuse with a grin.

  “Impressions,” Pistache corrected.

  “Yeah, right.”

  “No,” Fleuse said humorlessly. Apparently he didn’t think too much of Pistache’s talents either.

  “I actually sell secondhand jewelry as well. He uses me as a supplier for metals and stones, really,” Pistache added.

  “There it is,” Trudel said with a sly smile. “I knew it. A day job.”

  “A salesman,” Janie commented. “Makes perfect sense.”

  “Not my day job,” Pistache interjected defensively. “It’s more like a side job.”

  Trudel had already looked away. She’d stopped listening. I looked at Fleuse, who didn’t seem to care to jump in either.

  Noticing my glass feeling light, I asked, “Okay. Who’s ready for another drink?”

  Chapter V.

  Outside the window of the clockmaker’s shop, a rainy Paris bustled. Anyone passing by could have caught a glimpse of Fleuse Newman, but they’d have to look carefully.

  From the exterior, the shop looked dark and locked up. But a look through the blackened, wet, and fogged windows would reveal the warm glow of Fleuse’s cramped workspace toward the back of the shop, with the man huddled in the halo of his worklight.

  From the inside, drops of water obscured the view of the street. Shapes passed back and forth in front of the window like an impressionist painting in motion. The greyness of the sky kept the corners of the place slightly darker than usual. With heavy, humid air, the room smelled like wet wood.

  The small, one-room shop was crowded with clock faces, gears, pendulums, and thousands of other tiny parts. The chorus of ticks and tocks that filled the room could have driven the clockmaker to insanity. So could have the small wooden work stool or the heat from the lamp hung casually on the end of a skeletal steel arm directly above him. But, none of it bothered Fleuse.

  He hovered over his work as still as if he were being photographed. His projects were of such an intricate nature that he had to be practically frozen to complete them. His face was adorned with a contorted look of deep concentration. He nearly had to remind himself to blink. At a glance, one wouldn’t have been able to see him breathe.

  The only motion that existed was miniscule and usually at the tips of his fingers. When he shifted in his seat or reached for a new tool, his muscles tightened and twisted as if he’d been asleep for hours. Fleuse wasn’t uncomfortable, though. The clockmaker was happiest when staring through the magnifying double lens loupe attached to the frame of his glasses. That is how he preferred to see the world: one tiny space at a time.

  Fleuse existed in this manner for many years. He was the middle child in a family of five. He was the only one of his parents’ children to show any interest in his father’s clock-making business, so he naturally took it over as a young man. It was the only career he’d ever known.

/>   The ring of the front entrance broke the clockmaker’s concentration. Fleuse looked up to see a portly young man making his way through the narrow paths of works in progress. Newman removed his glasses, more than slightly disappointed with the interruption.

  “Bonjour,” Fleuse greeted, trying to sound a little cordial.

  “Oh, bonjour,” coughed the man.

  “Is there something that I can help you find?”

  “No, no,” the young man exclaimed. “I was just walking by and became intrigued with your collection. My grandfather had one just like this one here.” He motioned toward a half-finished clock with several components laid out in front of it.

  “Well, as you can see, that is not quite completed.”

  “Yes, yes,” the man said. “The face and the numbers look almost exactly the same though.”

  “Excellent,” Fleuse said, hoping the man would leave.

  After an awkward moment or two, the man asked, “How much is it?”

  “Um,” Fleuse stammered. “That particular one is not for sale.”

  “Not for sale?”

  “I mean, it’s already been sold,” he lied. Like all his works, he built clocks for a specific type of customer. This man was slovenly and didn’t fit the profile. He would rather have seen the timepiece in the hands of someone more likely to keep it clean and well maintained.

  “Oh, okay. It’s a shame. I like it!” The man laughed nervously. Another unfinished piece caught his eye. “Quite the showroom you have here.”

  “It’s really more of a workspace.”

  “I see that. How do you keep track of everything?”

  Fleuse shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  After a few more awkward moments, the man asked, “Do you actually have anything for sale in here?”

  Fleuse looked around. “Um,” he stammered.

  Sensing a dead end, the man said, “Don’t worry about it. I really need to be going anyway. Thanks for your time.”

  After hearing the door shut behind the visitor, Fleuse heavily exhaled. He didn’t like speaking to people he didn’t know. Most of his customers were referrals or commissions. If he could legally weld the front door shut, he would.

  The clockmaker retreated to his workbench and settled in on a timepiece of a new design. Suspended above his work, he carefully set the two hands of the clock in front of him. Opening a drawer in his workbench, he fished out a small box that rattled when he touched it. He removed the small lid, and carefully pinched one of several very small diamonds between his thumb and index fingers.

  Working with a surgeon’s precision, Fleuse began the painstaking but rewarding task of setting the diamonds into the hands of the clock. Although his clocks did not always include jewels, Fleuse had worked hard to maintain a working knowledge of precious stones and metals. He found that it helped set his work apart. Without any formal training as a jeweler, it had taken Fleuse years to know how to handle something with the delicate beauty of a diamond.

  * * *

  Less than an hour later, the tiny bell above his door again rang as the door opened. Fleuse felt the blood rush to his head at the thought of another guest, but his friend Jacques Pistache sauntered through the doorway.

  “Fleuse! Mon ami!” Jacques exclaimed loudly. He was carrying a small wooden box with him.

  “Jacques, good morning. How are you?”

  “Last night, my friend. Last night,” Pistache announced with some pomp.

  “Yes?”

  “Everything glowed. This party was perhaps the nicest I’ve ever seen. So many beautiful women. Chandeliers and champagne. The dance floor didn’t have a spare inch. You would have loved it!” Jacques swayed as he still heard the music.

  “Sounds like I would have hated it.”

  “Yes, you are probably right. I loved it. Someday it may be me. You never know.”

  “I’ve never been to anything like that.”

  Jacques snapped out of it and absentmindedly eyed Fleuse’s inventory. “Well, the crowds aside, I bet you would have enjoyed it. I fully expected to see a celebrity or royalty enter at any moment.”

  “Stop touching the clocks. Those woods have just this morning been polished. Shipping off today.”

  “Sorry.”

  “So, celebrities you said? Were you able to meet anyone interesting?”

  “I did in fact!” Jacques exclaimed. “There was the most ridiculous couple.”

  Fleuse smirked. He thought that they were probably normal people.

  “Let me tell you,” Pistache continued. “The seafood spread. It was incredible.”

  “I don’t like seafood.”

  “I know. But, you would have been impressed at the sight of it alone, I’m guessing.”

  “I’m allergic.”

  “You are not, take it easy.”

  “I tell people I am,” Fleuse said.

  “How can you? I thought you were allergic to them, too.”

  Fleuse finally smiled.

  “And the room,” Pistache continued. “It was bright. There were chandeliers. It was the life.”

  “You said something about them already. You’re dreaming, Jacques.”

  “Maybe. But it’s all out there for the taking.”

  “Okay enough about the party.”

  “Yes. Down to business!” Jacques segued. “I have brought some nice pieces for you.” He opened his box. “Here is a nice necklace. I have several rings today. Some traditional yellow gold, a few white gold. One diamond earring. As usual, all available upon consignment.”

  “I can work with some of these metals. The diamond in this earring will definitely be useful,” the clockmaker said as he perused the selection in the box.

  “You know what always gets me about parties like that one?” Pistache mused.

  “What?” Fleuse asked.

  “I feel as though the host doesn’t know anyone there.”

  “Probably not. You’re right.”

  “If you were going to throw a party, wouldn’t you want to have all your friends there?”

  “Well when you are people as wealthy as it sounds like your host was last night, their friends bring friends, who in turn bring friends.”

  “I guess I just don’t know enough people,” Pistache lamented.

  “Since it seems that all you can talk about is being rich,” Fleuse said while still examining the merchandise, “let’s discuss a price.”

  “Wait. Here’s one last thing. I have this.”

  Pistache dug deep into his pocket and produced a coin. It was about an inch and a half diameter. The metal was well worn and no longer shining, but it was very clean. A man’s profile was minted on one side, but a large scratch obscured the details.

  Fleuse’s face scrunched up. He put his glasses on, took the coin, and examined it thoroughly under his lamp. “It looks old,” he observed. “If it has a date, I can’t read it.”

  “I figured that much.”

  “Where did it come from?”

  “Same as everything else,” Pistache said.

  “It’s damaged. See this large scar pattern from something?”

  “Yes. Do you think it will affect the value?”

  “Absolutely. How much do you want for the whole lot of it?” Fleuse asked.

  “Oh, I don’t know. What do you think?”

  “Don’t give me all that, Jacques. You know exactly how much you expect to get from all of this.”

  “I know what I’m hoping to get, that’s for sure. Don’t worry though, Fleuse my dear. I trust you completely to begin working with all of this.”

  Fleuse made a disapproving sound.

  “You’re waiting because you don’t know how much the coin is worth, aren’t you?” Fleuse guessed.

  “You got me. Everything else I have figured out.”

  “Even the earring? Stones can be tricky.”

  “Even the earring,” Pistache answered. “I’ll be honest about it. It’s not as nice as I’d hoped when I
got it, but I know the details now on it nonetheless. I can be fair about it. The only thing I was not sure how to price was the coin here.”

  “Yes, me neither. I don’t even recognize the face.”

  “I expected you to at least be able to do that,” Pistache remarked.

  “Why would I be able to do that?”

  “You would think a guy like you would know stuff about history or something.”

  “Why would I know about history?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe because you never go anywhere. You probably watch documentaries or read or something.”

  “Even if I knew the face, it might not matter. There is a sizeable flaw directly across the front of the coin.” Fleuse studied it for a few more silent moments.

  “Okay, how about three thousand euros for everything except the coin. We’ll sort that one out when we get more information on it.”

  “Yes, sounds good,” Fleuse said without looking up from the object. “I really wish there was a date on this.”

  “I really feel that it is very old. But, I don’t know the first thing about coins. Do you think it’s worth anything at all?”

  “Might be.”

  “I suppose that you can always melt it down,” Jacques suggested.

  “You’re right. I guess I could regain the original shine if I melted it and buffed it.

  “Maybe we should do that.”

  “I would need to know first if it is pure. It could easily be a colored iron or something. That wouldn’t be much use to us.”

  “I hadn’t considered that.”

  “Either way, I’d hate to do that before we know how much it was worth in its current state.”

  “So how do we do that?” Pistache asked.

  “I don’t really know. It should be worth at least a little something,” Fleuse mumbled, still inspecting it. “I do have a friend, though.”

  “A friend?”

  “Well, more of a colleague with whom I’m friendly,” Fleuse said slowly as he allowed himself to be distracted by the coin’s features.

  “Okay. Do you mean that they are an appraiser or something?”

  “Or something. It’s just someone who knows old currency. Happens to be a coin collector in his spare time. Maybe he’ll be able to tell us about it.”