Ensemble

It was 5 AM in the morning and she opened up the small Moleskine black notebook in front of her and was again transported back in time. She looked up for a moment. She had landed less than an hour ago, and from her seat in front of the small café near the Champs-Elysée she could see the whole city begin to awaken. It was as if she were transported back thirty years in time, and in an instant, she felt young and alive again. She thought back over the incidents of the past week and just what had brought her back to this place.

A week earlier, a cryptic call had come one Saturday morning out of nowhere, summoning her back to a life that had long ago passed her by. Jean-Michel had died. She had not seen him in over thirty years. The man on the phone was his lawyer, his avocat, informing her that she had been named in the will and that there were items that had been bequeathed to her. A changeable first-class ticket had been purchased under her name and was waiting for her at JFK, whenever she was free to travel. She made a half-hearted attempt at asking if shipping the items were possible, but this was more an exercise in futility. She knew she must go. Several days later she booked her flight packing only an overnight bag. She took refuge in the expensive tequila of the lounge as she readied herself for her flight.

She had met Jean-Michel in the late eighties while they were both art school students in Paris. She was a American abroad for a Junior Year, he a poor French student from the provinces of Burgundy. They painted and drank wine and celebrated their greatness with other young artists. On six-franc wine and cheap and delicious steak frites, they roamed city by night and painted by day. They had called themselves The Ensemble. Though her family was rich and they were poor, she hid her wealth in the spirit of fitting in.

Her and Jean-Michel. They became lovers, exploring every inch of that city by foot and by metro. Jean Michel dreamed of a day when he would buy Charvet Shirts and fancy supplies from the art stores near Avenue Foch. She was with him the day he bought his first Moleskine notebook. He dreamed of a day when he would buy them by the arm full.

In the passage of time, their respective fortunes would change. Jean-Michel became the darling of the art world, his work featured in prestigious galleries in London and in New York. Her paintings sold on Ebay and at art fairs. His paintings were selling for millions around the globe. Her family’s fortune went bust in the 2008 crash. Still, she remained true to her dream, eking out a living as an artist by teaching and selling the occasional piece. She felt the strain of existing as an artist in a city that seemed to no longer welcome artists. The suicide of Jean-Michel hit her especially hard, as he had accomplished, at least financially, what most artists could only dream.

What could he have left me. It could be millions.

From what she read, Jean-Michel had no remaining family and his ex-wife had took almost everything prior to his death. The few remaining master works were left to his agent and his housekeeper. Any remaining works would be worth millions but apparently there were none. The contents of his studio had been left to art historians.

She sat for several hours in the café, waiting for things to open. His Lawyer’s office was in the 5th Arrondisement, not far from the café. She ordered an Uber. Within minutes she was at his office, and took the elevator up to the designated floor. A young man with a beard of great authority came out to meet her. He spoke in halting English.

“Ms. Lauren Denvers.”

“Yes.”

“I have some things for you.”

He opened up a beaten Vuitton briefcase and pulled out several Moleskine notebooks.

“These are for you.”

“This is it?”

“Yes.”

She examined them furtively and looked back up.

“You can have the case also. Please.” She placed the notebooks back in the case and hurriedly left the office.

After she left the lawyer’s office she found a patisserie across the street and took a seat inside. Her head was spinning, and she wanted to sit and to ponder what this all meant. She ordered a cappuccino and placed the briefcase on the chair opposite her. She took the notebooks out and placed them on the table in front of her.

She arranged the ten notebooks on the table in front of her. Despite his mental condition, Jean-Michel had been meticulous about dates. The history of the notebooks traced a descent into madness over the last ten years. Within the notebooks there were notes, fragments of speech, poems, nonsense along with the occasionally beautiful drawing or inscription in the margin.

But what did it all mean? Nothing from what she could tell. She went through the notebooks one by one ordering them and reordering them without a clue. It was only when she stacked them again into a pile that she noticed a bulge sticking out of one. She pulled that notebook from the pack and turned it to the last page. It was there that she noticed a smaller Moleskine notebook had been taped inside.

She removed the tape and began to flip through the pages. They were all empty until she came to a single page that was a pencil drawn etching of a group of melted clocks attached on what looked like a light pole.

Clocks… Where had she seen this before? Lugages! The French word for clocks. The drawing was of the statue of clocks in front of Gare St Lazar. The last time she had seen Jean-Michel they had said goodbye outside of Giuseppe’s their favorite cafe in front of Gare St Lazare. They had vowed that day that they would be friends forever. She quickly paid the checked and summoned an Uber. The station was only ten minutes away.

The lunch time rush had just begun to overtake the station. Not much had changed outside the exterior of Gare St Lazar but nothing changes quickly in a city as old as Paris. She gazed at the statue then left across the Boulevard. Giuseppe’s was still on the corner and she crossed the street and walked in.

She took a seat near the entrance and waited. Within minutes, a young waitress came over to take her office. She ordered an ice coffee as she scanned the place. When the girl returned, she quietly began to make an inquiry.

“I’m looking for…” She did not even get to finish her sentence.

Giuseppe Casagrande was behind the counter, making an expresso and laughing expansively. Lauren Denvers got up and walked to the counter.

“Giuseppe…”

He turned towards the counter and nearly dropped the cappuccino in the process. He ran around the counter and gave her a big hug. “My God…” he said. “You look the same as 30 years ago! Even more beautiful!”

“You look the same too!”

“Except for this,” he said, “Grabbing at his waist.”

“Giuseppe, I—”

“I know why you are here. Please. Be seated.” He disappeared into a back room and returned ten minutes later.

He sat down at her table for a minute and did not speak. He only smiled. He slid the envelope across the table towards her.

“What is this?”

“For you.”

“What’s inside?”

“You must find out. Afterward, you come back we will talk.” He slid away in an instant without breaking a stride. She then tore open the envelope and emptied the contents onto the table.

It was another notebook, the same as the old one. This time she looked inside and found no drawing. Simply a number and address: 17 Rue Bis. She said goodbye to Giuseppe and hailed a taxi outside.

17 Rue Bis was an elegant brownstone building. There was only one door. A discrete nameplate said, “Carillion Bank of Switzerland”. She rang the door. A woman in an elegant business suit opened and she walked inside. The room was wood paneled and elegantly leathered. She waited alone until a young man in a blue pin-striped suit greeted her. He said his name was Wallers.

“Ah, Ms. Denvers. You made it Come sit.”

“Yes.”

She took a seat across the desk from him. He put on a pair of white plastic gloves and took out a magnifying glass.

“May I see the notebook?”

“Yes, you may.” She handed him the Moleskine notebook. “And your passport?”

“Why do I need to…”

“Please. It’s for your own security.” She handed him her passport. After he had viewed it, he simply said, “Right this way.”

Behind the elegantly paneled room was a door. Once they stepped through, they were in the anti-room to an elaborate vault. He entered several passcodes, did a retinal scan, and the door to the vault opened.

The room was large and from what she could tell, it was composed of a series of room sized safes. Mr. Waling walked her to one that had already been opened. They stepped into the safe and he closed the door behind them. There from an easel, he removed a painting that had been wrapped in paper, and handed it to her.

“Ms. Denvers,” he said. “This is for you.”

“But…”

“For Privacy reasons he wanted it done this way. And If you choose to sell—it’s worth millions—that might aid you from a tax point of view. But we can help you with that.”

She was speechless.

“Oh, and there’s also this.” He reached into his jacket and retrieved an envelope.

“What is this?”

“Cash for incidentals. Perhaps you may want to stay in Paris for a few days to consider arrangements for your painting. It’s not a fortune, but its around twenty thousand, plus or minus exchange rate. But for now, I’ll let you enjoy your painting.” He stepped outside the room and closed the door behind him.

She was stunned and speechless. A painting left to her buy Jean-Michel. She unwrapped the painting. The Canvass was about 4 by 3, abstract in its style, depicting a group of people deep in celebration. It was her and Jean-Michel and their friends in their glory, youthful and alive and without regret. It was called Ensemble.

The painting was worth millions and had the potential to change her life, but how on earth would she ever be able to part with it?

She was still sitting on the floor stunned when Wallers came back to retrieve her.