The Grandfather Clock by Jonathan Kile Page A

sweater, a pair of soft leather boots and declared,
“Let’s go!”
    There should be a joke that starts
with an American and a gypsy going clothes shopping because the
ending was funny. I had to admit that I was unsure of what attire
my job might require. I think the absurdity of the job really hit
home when I found myself trying to dress for it. I had been hired
to help rescue the museum home of Napoleon Bonaparte from financial
ruin. Me. Michael Chance. Former Globe Bank credit card hawker,
turned Big Easy bartender, now a rainmaker for a museum in a
foreign country. The gun was to arrive on Monday. I was picking it
up at a Fed Ex store, so that I didn’t have to worry about being at
an address at a specific time
    My wardrobe now consisted of several
pairs of slim fitting dark pants and assorted dress shirts. Most of
the pants had to be taken to a tailor to let them out an inch and I
would never be able to button the top button of any of the shirts.
In the United States, I wore a size large. In Paris, I was a giant.
Klara treated me like a mannequin, forcing me to try on a
kaleidoscope of items that may have been art. I actually bought a
couple of t-shirts that she picked out, partially to be polite, and
partially in an effort to not look so American all of the time. The
shopping trip erased the proceeds from my car.
    The day ended quickly. We were both
exhausted as the sun went down in the south sky. We rode the train
silently out of the heart of Paris. I had Sunday to get my head
together before my first official day at the museum. We parted ways
at the train station. Everyone kisses on both cheeks in Paris.
Klara didn’t. She leaned forward and hugged me. She waited until
the train doors opened before letting go.
    “ Au revior,” she
said.
    “ Le semaine prochaine?” I
asked, in hope we could meet next weekend.
    “ Je l’espère.” I think the
word was “hope.” I took it as yes.
     
    I got back to the apartment and
Marianne was making pasta. She asked me if I had eaten and was glad
to hear that I hadn’t. She explained that she’d been to a lunch
with cousin earlier in the day.
    “ So, you had fun last
night? You were out late,” she said with a wink.
    “ I was baptized into
French culture, I suppose,” I replied, shaking my head.
    “ It’s good.”
    I was surprised when Celeste walked
into the kitchen. I had assumed she was out with Marco.
    “ What did you do today?”
she asked.
    “ He went shopping,”
Marianne responded.
    “ I didn’t pack much,” I
said.
    “ I could have taken you,”
Celeste said. “You know, French stores are different.”
    “ They sure are. Klara
helped me out.”
    “ Oh god. I can’t wait to
see what Klara would dress you in.” She rolled her eyes.
    “ She has a beautiful
style,” Marianne said. “Whimsical.”
    “ The Americans call it
‘hippie,’ right Michael?” Celeste asked.
    “ Bohemian, maybe. Hippie
is more of a costume,” I said flashing a peace sign.
    Celeste smiled.
    “ What did you do with
Marco today?” Marianne asked, dishing out penne with a bolognese
sauce.
    “ Nothing much. Farmers
market.”
    “ Farmers! It’s dead of
winter!”
    “ Sainte Germaine.” Celeste
seemed annoyed at the questioning.
    “ Any news on the
team?”
    Celeste put her fork down,
“No.”
    I avoided eye contact with both of
them.
    “ Is he still going to
Argentina for the tryout?”
    “ Yes.”
    “ Did he ask you to join
him?”
    “ You will be glad to know
he hasn’t. Not yet.”
    “ I’m not glad!” Marianne
responded. She then looked at me. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean
to...”
    “ It’s okay, Mother,”
Celeste said. “Michael is a man. I’ll fill him in.” She then turned
to me. “I’ve been dating Marco since the he came here last spring
to play football. My mother doesn’t care for him.”
    “ For good
reason.”
    “ We weren’t exclusive
then,” Celeste fired at her mother. “He was married when we met.
And I was dating someone