The Little Antique Shop Under The Eiffel Tower. Rebecca Raisin

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      For one brief moment, I considered Lilou’s advice: go out with a man, any man, and see what happened. He moved to stand, like he was going to approach me, and the idea suddenly seemed ridiculous. I bustled into my shop as quickly as possible and locked the door, peeking out through the lace curtain. He was still watching, an amused smirk on his face. In one swift movement he stood and waved, sending me scurrying back into the dark recesses of the shop. Mon Dieu, he knew I was spying on him!

      For one unguarded minute the stranger with the athletic physique and gorgeous face had intrigued me. Perhaps I had too much wine at lunchtime. I bustled around keeping busy, and pushed any silly notions from my mind. There was work to do.

       Chapter Four

      In the Luxembourg Gardens tulips popped their yellow heads up as if to say hello. They were such happy flowers, and in abundance now spring had sprung. It was peak time in the park; tourists and locals alike perched on the side of fountains, reading, chatting, or staring off into space. Checkered picnic rugs were spread out, topped with baskets laden with lunchtime feasts.

      Normally, I’d sit and people watch, eavesdrop, and imagine who these strangers were and what brought them to Paris, but today I didn’t have a moment to spare. I was meeting someone with some pertinent information about an upcoming auction, and I had to move fast. My sources were varied, some were a touch shady, and others were part of the traditional antique establishment. They confided in me, because they trusted me, and knew I only wanted the best for French antiques, and I paid them in return, in a multitude of ways.

      Sitting under the shade of a chestnut tree was Dion. A sixty-something-year-old contact of mine who gave me information about antiques and my competitors. We’d become close over the years, and he treated me like a daughter in some ways. When he had arrived in France he had little more than the clothes he was wearing, and now he had a nice apartment, and a steady income selling certain information.

      His passion, though, was refugees. He gave a ton of money to charities, and often flitted off for aide work during the winter months. Dion had no idea I knew about his charity involvement but I’d done checks on him, like he’d done on me. It was the way the circuit worked. I knew he’d come from a war-torn country, and got out just in time to save his life, but sadly most of his family were unable to leave. It was why, I think, he was always chasing deals, something to keep the loneliness at bay. Something to help him forget at least for a little while.

      “Anouk.” He nodded solemnly, as was his way.

      “Bonjour, Dion. What have you got for me?” We always got straight to the point; Dion wasn’t a fan of small talk.

      “An arcane scroll originally from Antibes. It’s damaged because of its age, but still, it’s so rare you could name your price if you sold it on. The seller just wants it gone. He inherited a bunch of antiques from his grandfather but doesn’t hold them in any esteem. You know what the youth of today are like…”

      Like Lilou, I thought with a smile. “Sure, sure. So what’s the deal? Who’s up against me?” You had to be quick in this business, or risk losing out. Everyone had their own ways and means of getting there first.

      Dion shook his head, the thick black shock of hair not moving an inch, so weighed down with gel, which shone silver in the sunlight. His face was lined with fatigue. I often wondered if he pushed himself too far to the detriment of his own health in the business of gathering information. He veered away from society types, and old money, having little respect for those born with the so-called silver spoon in their mouths. “So far only Joshua is sniffing around. That guy has a nose like a bloodhound. He’s always one step ahead.”

      My pulse sped up at the mention of Joshua who like a contagion seemed to spread far and wide, knocking people from their perches. Dion knew my background with Joshua because I’d asked him for help trying to get the piano back from his clutches. To no avail. Still, Dion had tried hard and his loyalty had meant a lot in such a dark time. On the antique circuit, ruthlessness was a key characteristic, and emotion and affection was kept out of it, or very well hidden, so Dion’s generosity of spirit had touched me. Around town I was known as the eccentric one because I often fell in love with a piece that had only sentimental value, and bid on objects other dealers deemed worthless.

      I joined Dion on the wooden bench with a heavy sigh. “Joshua, again? I wish people weren’t so easily fooled by his charm.” But how could they not be? He was smooth, and suave and utterly beguiling. Lots of practice at wooing people to suit his needs.

      Dion clasped his hands over his middle. “The problem with Joshua is that it’s all a sport to him. He’ll win, and use whatever cunning faculty he can. He will get bored eventually, and move on, Anouk. People like him always do.”

      In the distance a mother and child held hands, taking tiny steps across the grass. “I hope so. Somewhere far far away.” I wished he wasn’t a shadow everywhere I went. “So any tips on how I convince the grandson to sell to me?” Already my brain was spinning with ideas. How to secure the scroll, who I could get to value it – it’d have to be an expert in the field – and then finally who I could sell it to. I knew a woman who’d have the right provisions in place, a humidity-controlled room, the right kind of display case to prevent dust, to protect the delicate parchment. Madame Benoit, who lived near the Champs-Élysées, would love such a thing. She was a fifty-something Parisian who loved collecting rare pieces.

      “The grandson is training as a classical musician. He plays the cello, amongst other things. It wouldn’t be unreasonable to think he’d swap the scroll for the Mollier cello. Word is he’s a fan of Mollier, God rest his soul.”

      I smiled. “The Mollier cello!” Dion had already half done the deal for me. He was like that: outwardly the tough guy, inwardly a teddy bear looking out for his closest clients. “My estimate for the cello was around ten thousand Euro. If he’d swap for the scroll, I’d be well in front. Time to visit our young musician and see what can be done.” Dion shook my hand, slipping me a folded piece of paper. Without reading it I knew it would contain the man’s phone number and address. “Let me know if you need a chauffeur,” he said.

      “Oui, I will.”

      Dion smiled, flashing his tobacco-stained teeth. “When you win it, don’t forget your friends, will you?” He winked.

      I smiled back. “Never. And until the deal is done, here’s a little something to tide you over.” From the depths of my handbag I took a bottle of Château Lafite Rothschild, a wine from Bordeaux, and handed it to Dion. I kept my cellar, which was only really a wine rack in the corner of my shop, stocked with fine wine in order to have something tangible to give thanks.

      “Château Lafite Rothschild for me? This is worth a lot of money, Anouk.” He inspected the label on the bottle. Dion knew a lot about everything, from wine to antiques, to people’s secrets.

      “It’s the least I can do.” I bent to kiss his still-stunned face.

      “Merci,” he said, collecting himself. “Call me if I can help with the grandson.”

      I smiled and managed a quick nod. “I will, same as always.” Dion didn’t believe in lengthy phone calls – thought the government was listening in, recording every single one of us. If I called him he automatically named a place to meet, and that was that.

      I had a soft spot for Dion in a paternal way. Life had been a struggle for him, and he was doing his best to climb out of a black hole, by whatever means he could. СКАЧАТЬ