Murder in the Bastille

“Evacuating? There’s a fire . . . ?”

No smell of smoke.

“A train disaster . . . the TGV crashed coming into Gare de Lyon,” the nurse said, her words rushed, breathing hard. “Two hundred people have been injured. We’re the closest facility, so we’re taking the overflow. L’hopital Saint Antoine, too.”

Aimee felt her blanket pulled back.

“All the area hospitals are Code Red,” the nurse from Burgundy continued. “Your condition’s stabilized so we’ll move you to the residence Saint Louis around the corner. A place for the unsighted to learn how to function.”

So they were moving her to a blind people’s home.

“You don’t understand, I have a home. . . .” She wanted to shout “I’m not like them!”

But she was.

“Before you return to your own home, it’s best to learn to navigate in the world of the sighted, mademoiselle,” she was told. “Chantal, our volunteer, will guide you. She’s a resident there.”

A musty lilac scent accompanied the click of heels on linoleum. “Don’t worry,” said a quavering voice, “You can take care of yourself. I did.”

“But how can you help me if you can’t see?”

A cackle of dry laughter. “You’ve got a lot to learn.”

Aimee felt the nurse tying her hospital gown and draping a robe over her. Her bag was thrust in her arms. But how would Rene find her?

“I have to tell my friend . . .”

“Don’t worry, there’s time for that. Chantal’s a pro,” the nurse said. “Stand up.”

Aimee fought the dizzying sensation as she slid her feet to the floor. Sirens hee-hawed outside her window.

“Now, stretch out your arm and find my shoulder.”

Aimee gingerly extended her arm, felt smooth material, and gripped Chantal’s bony shoulder.

“Parfait! Let yourself see shapes with your fingers, read textures and angles. We will teach you tricks. Vite, eh . . . let’s make way for the real unfortunates!”

Aimee hesitated.

“Allons-y!”

Aimee shuffled forward, a baby step at a time.

“I’m only legally blind, you know,” Chantal said, her tone confiding. Her shoulder moved forward. “I distinguish light and dark, large shapes. That’s our little secret, eh? The doctor said you had spirit, he recommended you for the residence. Not everyone gets sent there . . . God forbid, you could be shipped off to St. Nazaire or some provincial backwater! Saint Louis only takes the quick learners, don’t forget that.”

Wednesday

VINCENT CSARDA WAS BORN on the wrong side of the blanket. He knew he wasn’t unique in that. A lot of the world was, and would continue to be. As a child, once a year at Christmas, his mother would take him for lunch with a “gentleman friend.” Always at the posh Laduree, famous for thick hot chocolate, in Place de la Madeleine. This was all kept a secret from his stepfather, an injured tram conductor with a meager disability pension.

Vincent, scrubbed clean and wearing his best, had hated the long ride at the back of the bus on the outside platform. And his mother’s nervous picking of lint from his wool jacket. This “friend,” with his wiry, amber mustache and red watery eyes, would ceremoniously give Vincent a gift. Odd or old-fashioned toys. Once, a much-thumbed book about steam engines.

Vincent would thank him and spoon up the hot chocolate. “Growing a mustache?” the man would joke about the chocolate swipe on Vincent’s upper lip. Vincent would nod, aware of his mother’s scrutiny.

The gifts had sat in a pile in his armoire. One Christmas his mother told him they wouldn’t see the “friend” anymore but they mustn’t be sad. He’d taken care of Vincent. His mother had never told him outright, but from what she left unsaid, Vincent figured this man was his father and he’d died.

Later Vincent found out he’d inherited a lot of money from his mother’s “friend.” A natural in business and promotion, Vincent started his agence de publicite, expanded, and never looked back. His father hadn’t given him his name or birthright, but, as Vincent rationalized, something more important: the means to get it.

Vincent waved to his secretary, who applied makeup with a deft hand at her desk while talking on her speakerphone, indicating he needed five minutes. He shut the door of his Bastille office and checked his e-mail. Opened the one from “popstar.” The subject read “Marmalade tea.” The message:

Call 92 23 80 29 for a good time.

He wrote down the number on his palm. More secure. Then he deleted the e-mail. This was the last time. No more messages; he’d wash his hands of it now.

He adjusted the white dress shirt, spritzed Le Male by Gaultier, and checked for lint on his tailored black tuxedo, the trousers of which hid his platform shoes. He’d be going to the Bastille Opera’s Salle de Reception later for a press conference launch. The Arsenal Pavillon might have been more chic. But Monsieur Malraux, the art appraiser, had offered his hotel particulier, a detached mansion in the faubourg that carried cachet. And cachet counted with the gauche-caviar.

A SOFT, blurred blue shone from the high-paned windows overlooking the courtyard in the Faubourg Saint- Antoine. The pilasters and sculpted frieze on the facade reflected the glow. The bluish star Vega, in the Lyre constellation, hung in the sky. Inside, myriads of tiny blue lights blanketed the balustrades, giving a gleaming otherworldly luster to the foyer.

Blue like Diva, their new magazine. Perfect for the pre-launch gala, Vincent thought, tenting his fingers. A mix of elegance and freshness.

One of the Bourbon monarchs had installed his mistress, a well-known actress, here. The monarch built the petit theatre, a gem complete with a foyer hung with Gobelin tapestries, for her performances. He liked to show her off to court intimates, to keep her happy. Rumor had it, he was so enamored of her that he had an underground passage to the Bastille dug to permit impromptu visits.

Vincent doubted that part of the story. Why hide a liaison? Few at court had.

The theatre, perfect for the pre-launch gala, had a gilded stage scalloped by cherubs under a painted ceiling. It seated 200 at most in the frayed maroon velvet seats. The theatre had an elan that money couldn’t buy. Vincent hungered for it. Something he’d wanted all his life . . . an entree into a world that excluded him.

But not for long. He would obtain his backers’ and the arbiters of fashion’s approval at this pre-launch event for the elite of society.

Vincent lifted up the first issue of Diva, a glossy four-color magazine. On the cover were three Bastille divas representing tragedy, wisdom, and glamour. Martine’s first issue profiled women spearheading the arts; the designer Jean Paul Gaultier; and a ferment of young filmmakers, architects, installation artists, dancers, and singers in the “new” Opera.

A winner. He felt it in his bones. A bit of flash, glamour, and luxe tempered by conscience; interviews with activists, writers, and the editors of the Cahiers du Cinema. A smattering of locals as a guide to the branche clubs and bistros. A French rapper and a Chinese teahouse and its owner in the Arts et Chic section.

With the success of Diva Vincent would truly join the gauche- caviar. Not just pretend from the sidelines. Money did not guarantee entry; he had plenty of that. He needed the cachet of owning a politically conscious, avant-garde and quasi- intello fashion magazine.

A sprinkling of socialist ministers, human rights activists, prominent left-wing lawyers, trust fund hippies, and