Fiona McIntosh - Scrivener’s Tale

Cat caught Gabe’s eye and winked. She’d always teased him that Reynard was probably looking for more than mere friendly conversation.

‘Besides,’ Reynard continued, ‘there’s something I need to talk to you about. It’s personal, Gabriel.’

Gabe refused to look at Cat now. He hesitated, feeling trapped.

‘Listen, we’ll make it special. Come to the Café de la Paix this evening.’

‘At Opéra?’

‘Too far?’ Reynard offered, feigning sympathy. Then he grinned. ‘You can’t live your life entirely in half a square kilometre of Paris, Gabriel. Take a walk after work and join me at one of the city’s gloriously grand cafés and live a little.’

He remembered his plan that today was the first day of his new approach to life. ‘I can be there at seven.’

‘ Parfait !’ Reynard said, tapping the counter. He added in English, ‘See you there.’

Gabe gave a small groan as the man disappeared from sight, moving across the road to where all the artists and riverside sellers had set up their kiosks along the walls of the Seine. ‘I really shouldn’t.’

‘Why?’ Cat demanded.

Gabe winced. ‘He’s a customer and —’

‘And so handsome too … in a senior sort of way.’

Gabe glared at her. ‘No, I mean it,’ she giggled. ‘Really. He’s always so charming and he seems so worldly.’

‘So otherworldly more like,’ Dan added. They both turned to him and he shrugged self-consciously.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Gabe asked.

‘There’s something about him, isn’t there? Or is it just me?’ Gabe shook his head with a look of puzzlement. ‘You’re kidding, right? You don’t find his eyes a little too searching? It’s as though he has an agenda. Or am I just too suspicious?’

Cat looked suddenly thoughtful. ‘I know what Dan means. Reynard does seem to stare at you quite intently, Gabe.’

‘Well, I’ve never noticed.’

She gave him a friendly soft punch. ‘That’s because you’re a writer and you all stare intensely at people like that.’ She widened her eyes dramatically. ‘Either that,’ she said airily, ‘or our hunch is right and Reynard fancies you madly.’

Dan snorted a laugh.

‘You two are on something. Now, I have work to do, and you have cakes to eat,’ he said, ‘and as I’m the most senior member of staff and the only full-timer here, I’m pulling rank.’

The day flew by. Suddenly it was six and black outside. Christmas lights had started to appear and Gabe was convinced each year they were going up earlier — to encourage the Christmas trade probably. Chestnuts were being roasted as Gabe strolled along the embankment and the bars were already full of cold people and warm laughter.

It wasn’t that Gabe didn’t like Reynard. He’d known him long enough. They’d met on a train and it was Reynard who’d suggested he try and secure a job at the bookshop once he’d learned that Gabe was hoping to write a novel. ‘I know the people there. I can introduce you,’ he’d said and, true to his word, Reynard had made the right introductions and a job for Gabe had been forthcoming after just three weeks in the city.

Reynard was hard to judge, not just in age, but in many respects.

Soon he approached the frenzy that was L’Opéra, with all of its intersecting boulevards and crazy traffic circling the palatial Opéra Garnier. He rounded the corner and looked for Reynard down the famously long terrace of the café. People — quite a few more tourists than he’d expected — were braving the cold at outside tables in an effort to capture the high Parisian café society of a bygone era when people drank absinthe and the hotel welcomed future kings and famous artists. He moved on, deeper into the café, toward the entrance to the hotel area.

Gabe saw Reynard stand as he emerged into the magnificent atrium-like lobby of the hotel known as Le Grand. He’d never walked through here previously and it was a delightful surprise to see the belle époque evoked so dramatically. It was as though Charles Garnier had decided to fling every design element he could at it, from Corinthian cornices to stucco columns and gaudy gilding.

‘Gabriel,’ Reynard beamed, ‘welcome to the 9th arrondissement. I know you never venture far.’

‘I’m addressing that,’ Gabe replied in a sardonic tone.

‘Isn’t it beautiful?’ Reynard said, gesturing around him.

Gabe nodded. ‘Thank you for inviting me.’

‘Pleasure. I have an ulterior motive, though, let me be honest,’ he said with a mischievous grin. Gabe wished he hadn’t said that. ‘But first,’ his host continued, ‘what are you drinking? Order something special. It is your birthday, after all.’

‘Absinthe would be fun if it wasn’t illegal.’

Reynard laughed. ‘You can have a pastis, which is similar, without the wormwood. But aniseed is so de rigueur now. Perhaps I might make a suggestion?’

‘Go ahead,’ Gabe said. ‘I’m no expert.’

‘Good, I shall order then.’ He signalled to the waiter, who arrived quietly at his side.

‘Sir?’

‘Two kir royales.’ The man nodded and Reynard turned back to Gabe. ‘Ever tasted one?’ Gabe gave a small shake of his head. ‘Ah, then this will be the treat I’d hoped. Kir is made with crème de cassis. The blackcurrant liqueur is then traditionally mixed with a white burgundy called Aligoté. But here they serve only the kir royale, which is the liqueur topped up with champagne brut. A deliciously sparkling way to kick off your birthday celebrations.’

The waiter arrived with two flutes fizzing with purple liquid and the thinnest curl of lemon peel twisting in the drinks.

‘ Salut , Gabriel. Bon anniversaire ,’ Reynard said, gesturing at one of the glasses.

‘ Merci. A la vôtre ,’ Gabe replied — to your health — and clinked his glass against Reynard’s. He sipped and allowed himself to be transported for a moment or two on the deep sweet berry effervescence of this prized apéritif. ‘Delicious. Thank you.’

‘My pleasure. It’s the least I can do for your hours of work on my behalf.’

‘It’s my job. I enjoy searching for rare books and, even more, finding them. You said there was a favour. Is it another book to find?’

‘Er, no, Gabriel.’ Reynard put his glass down and became thoughtful, all amusement dying in his dark grey-blue eyes. ‘It’s an entirely different sort of task. One I’m loath to ask you about but yet I must.’

Gabe frowned. It sounded ominous.

‘I gather you were … are … a clinical psychologist.’

The kir royale turned sour in Gabe’s throat. He put his glass down. At nearly 25 euros for a single flute, it seemed poor manners not to greedily savour each sip, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to swallow.

He slowly looked up at Reynard. ‘How did you come by this information? No-one at work knows anything about my life before I came to Paris.’

‘Forgive me,’ Reynard said, his voice low and gentle. ‘I’ve looked into your background. The internet is very helpful.’

Gabe blinked with consternation. ‘I’ve taken my mother’s surname.’

‘I know,’ is all that Reynard said in response. He too put his glass down. ‘Please, don’t become defensive, I —’

‘What are you doing looking into my past?’ Gabe knew he sounded annoyed but Reynard’s audacity made him feel momentarily breathless, its intensity bringing with it the smell of charred metal and blood. He had to swallow his instant nausea.

‘Let me explain. This has everything to do with your past but in the most positive of ways.’ His host gestured at the flute of bubbling cassis. ‘Why don’t you drink it before it loses its joie de vivre ?’