Free Paris Twilight by Russ Rymer Page A

Had I just read a bodice ripper, I asked myself, or a brochure for bodices? But whatever questions I had for the letter, and I had some—
Byron, you salty dog, you were a bit more spry, weren’t you, than the doddering image I had of you!
—the letter posed a greater one to me: Is this what I wished to be doing, is this who I
was
, an eavesdropper, a peeping Tom?
    The effect was saddening, and I could feel its immediate undertow. The intimate glimpse of Saxe’s life estranged me from Saxe’s surroundings, just when I was feeling so . . . residential.
You trespass
, the letter admonished me, and the scolding was sufficient that I locked up and left before the piano could begin to play and spent my concert hour stalking the back streets of Saint-Germain-des-Prés, seeking out bookshops and art galleries, anywhere I could pretend to stare at a wall of bindings or a wall of paint while my mind beat me bloody. Who was I fooling, inhabiting this man’s vile little corner as though it were my private pied-à-terre? Though, okay, it
was
mine, veritably, by the fluke of his bizarre intent, but still, what could I be thinking, lurking around in the evenings, kicking off my shoes and getting all comfy in my fancy quilt with a cup of tepid tap-water tea (I had even considered buying a kettle and was stopped only by the thought of rehabilitating that murderous stove) and settling in to read a book—or, for that matter, a stranger’s mail?
    This wasn’t why I was here. I’d been put in charge of disposing of an estate, a simple bit of business, especially since the estate was on the order of minuscule and of the character of dingy. Except for providing me with the amusing diversion offered by the Mystery of Mr. Saxe, my duty hardly rose above the onerous and needed to be dispatched with, not indulged in.
    With that self-caning, I set to work over the next few days, arriving at the premises early and diving into my chore with admirable purpose. Out went all the miscellaneous bric-a-brac of Saxe’s life, the ordinary items that may have been as meaningful as prayer beads when strung along the habit of his days but that were now utterly valueless. The developing chemicals I emptied down the drain, and the camp stove hit the trash with a little more vengeance than perhaps it deserved. I dispensed with my superstitions and flew into the dresser drawers. The top ones held socks and T-shirts (into the trash) and boxer shorts (trash!) and the bottom ones a horrible collection of paperwork, a bureaucratic midden of twentieth-century domestic life—more bills, tax documents, correspondence of complaint and request, all consigned to neat stacks of neatly labeled file folders. I gave the drawers a cursory rifling—I found a folder marked
Electricité
but nothing particularly enlightening; nothing, for instance, labeled
Anselm
—and shut them again, leaving them as I’d found them. It would all require more sober dissection on another day. But the closet!
    I flung open the door as though my assault required the advantage of surprise. Perhaps it did—I was certainly outnumbered. The space was crammed with an impressive wardrobe hanging from two rows of rods lining all three walls. Cotton shirts, woolen pants, short coats and long for varying degrees of cold and inclemency, shoes, boots, two bathrobes (one silk jacquard, one flannel), and five suits, two with vests. I caught myself finding all of this interesting, musing on what it meant that his suits had Spanish labels and his shoes were a forty-three, that his raiment cost more than his apartment. Were his dress clothes meant for church (or for synagogue, actually, since the only thing I’d not discarded from the sock drawer was his yarmulke), or for promenading through Père-Lachaise on Sunday afternoons, or for gift shopping on rue de Rivoli? But I snapped out of my musings and turned myself back forcibly to my task, my