Free The Paris Key by Juliet Blackwell Page B

a . . .
Comment dit-on
? A process. The people, they give money because they appreciate that we are making art. No need to last forever.”
    The restaurant is charming, candlelit, and cramped. The walls are covered in sketchy, half-finished Chagall-like murals of people floating and dancing among puffy clouds over a Parisian skyline. The tables are full of tourists—American and Japanese, a few Germans—munching on pencil-thin breadsticks and drinking wine from straw-covered Chianti bottles.
    The owner is a short, balding man named Pablo who wears a white apron over an impressive belly. He greets the artists with boisterous affection and ushers them into a back room with low ceilings made of arched brick groin vaults, like an old wine cellar. The walls are lined with wire shelves crammed with quotidian restaurant supplies: paper towels, napkins, tablecloths, unlabeled cardboard boxes. A massive, sturdy wooden table sits in the center of the room.
    Thibeaux, Xabi, and Michelle grab plates and silverware and proceed to set the table. A basket of bread appears, a dish of creamy butter. Two platters dressed with pâté, sliced tomatoes, and tiny cornichons.
    â€œNo one has any money, of course,” explains Thibeaux, “but this way Pablo gets art for his place, and we are fed. This isn’t bad, is it?”
    Pablo bustles in with steaming bowls of food that he sets on the table, family style. Stewed rabbit, potatoes, vegetables simmered in a buttery sauce. Some sort of meat dish. Pasta with tomato sauce. A hodgepodge unlike the carefully orchestrated dinners Angela is used to at Pasquale’s table, or on the rare occasion when she has eaten at Parisian restaurants.
    There are several bottles of wine without labels, and they use small jam jars as glasses instead of stemware.
    After Pablo goes back to work and they are eating and drinking, conversation is intense. They have been joined by a few others, Chileans and French and Basque. They speak in a mix of French and Spanish and another odd language Angela doesn’t recognize, with a very occasional translation provided by Michelle or Thibeaux.
    Angela doesn’t mind letting the vast majority of the foreign words flow over her. She is fascinated, watching them debate with passion and certainty and occasional flares of anger and bursts of laughter. It is as though she is watching a play.
    Only she and Xabi remain mute. After dinner he removes himself from the crowded table, taking a seat on a barrel in the corner, crossing his arms over his broad chest. He looks like a painting, surrounded as he is by wine bottles and the low brick ceiling.
    Finally there is a lull in the conversation.
    â€œWhat is your opinion, from the land of Ronald Reagan?” Xabi asks, gesturing toward Angela with his chin.
    â€œDon’t blame me. I didn’t vote for him,” she holds up her hands, as though surrendering. “I try to stay out of politics.”
    â€œThis is not possible.”
    She shrugs, smiles, and drinks a little more wine from her jam jar as the conversation swells with talk about the Reagan administration.
    Angela forces herself, for several minutes, not to look at Xabi. When she finally does, she finds his brooding stare upon her. She meets his eyes; he does not look away. The intensity in his gaze makes her catch her breath.
    Catch her breath!
    She is breathing.
    Breathing.

Chapter Nine

    L ater, Genevieve would wonder how to say “mortified” in French.
    Both men reacted as men so often do to women’s tears: They were immediately intent on quelling them. They escorted her into the rear apartment and sat her down at the dining table. Though Killian tried to go, Philippe insisted on running for the coffee and croissant, saying he knew a good place right around the corner and could ensure fast service.
    Killian scooted out a chair, sat, and leaned toward her. “Can’t I help in some way? Isn’t there