An excerpt…

Unlikely as it may sound, I ran into destiny in the accessories department of a Parisian department store.

I was in Paris to conduct research for an article I’d been commissioned to write for “Trompe L’oeil,” an arts magazine.  My job was to examine how now famous artists had survived the Nazi occupation. I wanted to see if I could shed light on the rumors that more than a few had collaborated with the Nazis. The Occupation had always fascinated me. The intrigue, the back room dealing, the threat to the world’s favorite city, never lost its appeal. I read voraciously about the French Resistance and the relegation of French Jews to ghettos. I was especially struck by the story of the German general Von Choltitz, who, by defying orders to bomb all Paris landmarks, was largely responsible for the city remaining intact.   In between, I was doing a little shopping.

“I wonder if you would pass something to your store manager?” I asked the nondescript clerk rifling through my receipts.  She was checking my signature against my passport – the necessary details to issue the ‘de-tax,’ or ‘tourist discount.’

“Yes, of course,” she replied politely, stapling together the various forms.

I registered her bored reception.

“Please tell her that shopping here was exceptional.  The selection was inspired and the sales people were quite helpful.”

Idiot, I chastise myself:  Paris is about traditions, politesse. Didn’t I know that Parisians are above American’s gushy openness and certainly not predisposed to the ready smile, the casual quip?

“Thank you.  I will tell her,” she is shuffling papers, doesn’t bother to smile.

“I felt the same!”

I turn to see a petite, perfectly coiffed woman at my side.  I had noticed her, and her huge orange tinted glasses, when I first arrived.

“It was very enjoyable shopping, no?” she remarks with a French accent.  Her childlike enthusiasm surprises me.   A short, bland looking woman stands by her side.

“Yes.  They should know, right?”

“Absolutely!”

My new compatriot was dressed in off-white slacks.  At the cuffs, a pair of perfectly pointed, scuff-less patent leather flats peeked out.  An orange and blue shawl covered her shoulders.  The shawl, woven from finely textured wool, complimented her rust-colored hair.  Her skin was smooth, making it difficult to determine her age. From her small, slightly bent frame I guessed sixty-five, seventy the most.

“And what do you do?”

The stranger’s forthright question took me by surprise.  On first sight, I had pegged her for a stylish, aging French woman, the huge orange-tinted glasses her ‘signature,’ an enviable sense of style that French woman seem to have had genetically encoded. When I first noticed her, I had quickly dismissed her  – as I had all the French women I had encountered – as remote, and inaccessible.

“I am a writer.”

“Well,” she answered, setting her large, clear brown eyes on me directly, “You must be a very good one — because you express yourself!” she swung up her arm, as if conducting an invisible orchestra.  “Most people go through the world without ever saying anything!”

I registered the compliment, considered its irony.  The truth was, things were not going well. I had hoped this trip would cheer me up.  The novel I’d just spent three years on, an international kidnapping caper complete with smart detectives, had been summarily rejected.  I was having, to put it mildly, a crisis of confidence.

“And what do you do?”

“I am a composer.”

“Well then,” I offer, “We are two women struggling in the Arts.”  I extended my hand for a hearty shake.

“Au revoir,” I wave to her when the pouty clerk nods “all the papers are in order.”

“What are you doing now?” she asked, her red-brown penciled eyebrows arching mischievously.

“I am on my way to the Carnavalet in the Marais…”

“Wonderful!  You’ll enjoy it.  Excellent 18^th century stuff.  Portraiture, bucolic scene painting, and a wonderful furniture collection.”  She takes her companion’s arm, turns to go.  “You might also be interested in an exhibit over at the Musee D’Orsay.  It’s a show of recovered art.  The French have just received a significant number of the paintings that were confiscated in the Occupation to show…”

“Really?  I’m here on assignment.  I’m writing an article about the Occupation.”

“Oh yes?”  she asked, her gaze focused and clear.

“I was hoping to learn about the artists, particularly.”

“Let’s not stand here, then!” she said.  “Join me for tea.  This afternoon.”