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= Woman in the Moon =

Mona Lisa Novel, or: Nocturne in Paris

by John Argo

Page 40.

They stepped down in the Métro at Place Monge and rode eastward, crossing the Seine, past Bercy, and in the direction of the Avenue Daumesnil, Bel-Air, Rue de l’Alouette, near the Bois de Vincennes. From there, it was a ten minute walk further.

“Looks familiar,” Yves said. “Last time, I was driving.”

“Things always go by too fast when we drive.”

They walked with crunching steps on cobblestones, through a short grayish-dark tunnel of unevenly cut stones, and into the square that was the Rue de la Belle Ferronière. It was less of a rue (street) than a place or even a square. Holding hands, they walked into the empty seeming courtyard.

“It does say Rue on the sign going into the tunnel,” Yves said.

“It’s just a courtyard. There’s that No. 45 again.” She stood pointing to the steel door with the straps and studs.

Behind them, a man’s voice startled them. “Bonjour.”

As they turned, there was a tremendous splash of water, and they jumped back. But it was just a young man in shorts and a T-shirt, emptying a bucket of what looked like paint water into the heavy gutter grating in the center of the square.

“Bonjour,” Yves said.

The man, who was about thirty, stood looking at them expectantly somehow, as if he anticipated a conversation. He had short brown hair, a sort of edgy, triangular, bony face, and large brown eyes. He had fairly bad skin mottled with beard shadow, acne scars, and one or two oddly blue birthmarks.

“Do you speak English?” Hannah asked. She found herself almost yelling, which was the tendency of most people when speaking with someone through a language barrier; the idea that, if you yelled, they could understand you better. She stopped in embarrassment, and held the fingertips of one hand to her lips.

“A little,” the man said. “You are des Américains?”

Yves was about to inform him huffily that he was not just French, but Parisian. Seeing that coming, Hannah put her hand out and stepped in front. “We are looking for a long-lost family member.”

“Oh? Who is that?”

“Have you ever heard of a Claudette Vervain?”

Still looking surprised, the man brightened. “My aunt.”

“She is deceased?” Hannah asked.

“Long ago. She was the sister of my mother, also deceased now.” He pointed to No. 45. “We lived there. Now we rent it out to a Swedish family who are not home much. The father teaches at the Sorbonne. Chemistry or something. I don’t know. I don’t have university. I drive a taxi.”

“Your English is wonderful,” Hannah said.

He grinned. “Thank you. Taxi driving is a school of everything—politics, languages, how to tame wild animals.”

“Dealing with the public,” Hannah said, picking up on his metaphor. She tugged quietly at Yves’ hand, to get him out of his funk and into the conversation.

“We are glad to meet you,” Yves said.

La même.“Same here.” The young man set his bucket down. He wiped his hands on his work-dirty T-shirt. “What makes you look for my aunt?”

“My father was a friend of hers,” Hannah said.

“That was long ago. When?”

“Around 1977. Almost half a century ago.”

“Oui. Before my time.”

“Mine too,” Hannah said. “My father loved her very much, I think. I am reading his old journals. He died not long ago.”

“My mother told me about her sister. Very sad. So frustrating. She was disappointed in a love affair, maybe with your father, and started going out with a Belgian who drank too much and one day killed them both with the car crash. You know.” He banged his fists together. Boum.

“She was a brilliant woman,” Yves said.

“What is your name?” Hannah asked.

“François Bergier. My mother’s maiden name was Vervain, like her sister.”

“Voilà,” Hannah exclaimed.

“Vervain,” François corrected.

“The name,” Yves said.

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