Paris: The Novel

be as usual. No names. At least, not at first. You’ll meet for dinner. After that, it will be up to you.”
    “And him. He may not like me.”
    “He will. By the way, this man knows about a lot of things. You could learn from him.”

    They met at the Café Procope, just off the boulevard Saint-Germain. He looked in his fifties, but well preserved. Graying temples. Abovemedium height. Quite slim. An intelligent face. He looked artistic, but she suspected he might be lacking the pugnacity of a creative artist. An intellectual of some kind. But one with money, clearly.
    “I hear you’re English,” he said pleasantly.
    “Half English, half French,” she answered.
    “Well, I don’t know about your English, but your French is very good. And you model for Chanel?”
    “Yes. It’s quite interesting. And she is remarkable.”
    “Indeed.”
    She had a feeling he probably knew Chanel, but she wasn’t going to ask. He’d tell her if he wanted her to know. The art was to be discreet.
    They made light conversation. The Café Procope, with its gilt mirrors and pictures, was like stepping into the eighteenth century. She said she liked it.
    “It was founded back in the seventeenth century. It’s funny to think that Voltaire himself ate here, and it probably looked much the same. What other restaurants do you like?”
    She wondered if he was expecting her to name some expensive places.
    “Places with character.” She smiled. “I’m just as happy in a bistro if it’s interesting.”
    “Really?” He looked at her thoughtfully. “There are plenty of interesting places to eat if one knows where to look. By the way, do you know the origin of the word ‘bistro’?”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “After Napoléon fell, and the Russians briefly entered Paris, the Cossacks were camped up on Montmartre and went into the little restaurants, and when the service was slow they kept shouting ‘bistro,’ which is Russian for ‘quick.’ So the French started calling these informal restaurants bistros.” He shrugged. “Well, that’s the story anyway. It probably isn’t true.”
    They talked of many things. He was clever and amusing. By the time they’d finished the main course she was sure that she liked him. So much so that, for once, she even ventured to ask him a question or two.
    “Luc is very discreet, monsieur, and so am I. But he told me that you were not married. And I am surprised that someone as charming as you doesn’t keep a mistress.” She smiled. “Unless you already do.”
    He laughed.
    “No, mademoiselle, I don’t. Though I have done so in the past. But in my life at present, if I can find a suitable person—I mean someone likeyourself, which is hard to find—then it’s better for me to have an evening a week, let us say, to look forward to, than to have a constant companion.”
    “Less personal commitment?”
    “Not only that. I do so many things. I have a family business that occupies some of my time. I have many other activities. Often I go out on social engagements in the evening and then return home to work at night, or to read. I haven’t room for a companion, to whom I should otherwise feel bound to give my attention. You may think this selfish, but it is the only way I can get things done.”
    “Are you an artist, or a writer? I do not mean to pry.”
    “I was an artist at one time. I prefer to write about these things now.”
    “I have one other question, monsieur. Might I ask how it is that you know Luc?” She shook her head and smiled. “I’ve never been able to work out how he knows so many people.”
    He looked at her cautiously.
    “You do not know?”
    “No. I have always been curious.”
    “Are you going to repeat what I tell you?”
    “Absolutely not.”
    “It is cocaine, mademoiselle. Luc has supplied cocaine to people for God knows how many years. Everyone. It is always pure. Everyone trusts him. He supplies … all sorts of people. And sometimes they ask him for other things.”
    She stared at him. Of course. Everything made sense now. How could she have been so naive, and so stupid, not to have guessed? Was that how he knew Chanel? God knows. It was none of her business.
    “He always has money,” she remarked, “but I don’t think he’s rich.”
    “The people like him are not the ones who get rich in that business. Often they become addicts themselves.”
    “I don’t think Luc uses the drug.”
    “He doesn’t. He’s rare. I seldom use it