Free The Paris Key by Juliet Blackwell Page A

Liberty, surrounded by scaffolding. Xabi is working from a black-and-white photo from the newspaper. She remembers reading that the statue was being cleaned for the first time in decades, a massive undertaking.
    â€œWhy the Statue of Liberty?” she asks, directing her question to the artist.
    He sits back on his haunches, looks up at her, studies her for a long moment. Finally he says in accented English, “It seems a perfect metaphor, no?”
    â€œHow so?”
    â€œAmerica, held up by—how do you call this?” He points to the picture.
    â€œScaffolding.”
    â€œYes. America, held up only by scaffolding.”
    â€œBut scaffolding doesn’t hold anything up. It’s flimsy itself.”
    â€œYes. Precisely. A metaphor. And of course the statue was a gift from France, so it is even more so.”
    An American couple walks by, laden with shopping bags, barely slowing as they look at the painting, ignoring Thibeaux’s rattling of his cup. In a voice loud enough to be overheard, the woman says, “Don’t these people have jobs? It’s a Tuesday and they’re playing with chalk!”
    â€œYup,” the man responds. “Must be nice.”
    When they are gone, Xabi holds Angela’s gaze, gives her a sardonic smile. Then he says,
“Ah, les Américains. Très gentils.”
    Which meant, “Ah, the Americans. Very courteous.”
    In her halting French, Angela responds, “You can’t refer to all Americans that way. It’s a big country.”
    â€œWhere are you from?” he asks.
    Usually she tells people she is from Canada. It is so much easier that way. No one holds Canadians in the kind of disdain in which they hold Americans. But for some reason she tells this man the truth: “Mississippi, originally.”
    â€œThere are many problems there, no? It is racist, I hear.”
    â€œIt can be, yes. But there are good people there, too.”
    â€œGood people, like you?”
    â€œYes, just like me.”
    â€œHey, you want to join us?” Thibeaux asks. Angela looks up, again startled to find him there, as absorbed as she is with Xabi.
    Thibeaux has folded up his chair and gathered together the newspapers and is packing a small wooden box with chalk and rags, a spray bottle of water. He has been joined by several others: three men, one woman. They are dressed like bohemians: their clothes raggedy and covered in chalk and paint.
    â€œThis is Jean-Luc, Mario, Cyril, and Michelle. Artists, all. We are going to a restaurant right here, around the corner,” he continues. “Xabi and I are painting murals there in exchange for food. Come with us.”
    â€œI . . .” Angela is about to beg off. She should beg off, shouldn’t she? She isn’t the kind of woman who joins itinerant bands of artists in restaurants.
    On the other hand, this is Paris. And it is starting to rain, big fat drops staining the sidewalk a dark gray. No one seems to notice the chalk painting is already beginning to smudge and run.
    Pasquale will be expecting her for dinner, but Angela could call from the restaurant and explain she’d met up with an old friend. It isn’t that far-fetched. Everyone passed through Paris eventually, didn’t they? And probably Pasquale would be relieved to have her home to her small family for an evening. Pasquale has been welcoming and warm, unfailingly hospitable, but now, as Angela puts herself in her sister-in-law’s shoes for a moment, she realizes how disruptive it must be for her to have a woman sleeping in her daughter’s room fourteen hours a day.
    Angela falls into step beside Xabi as they walk to the restaurant.
    â€œWon’t the rain ruin your painting?”
    He shrugs and says,
“C’est la vie.”
That’s life.
    â€œHow long has it taken you to paint it?”
    â€œThree days.”
    â€œWhat a shame, then.”
    â€œIt is