The Little Antique Shop Under The Eiffel Tower

Madame Dupont had invited me to join her for two days in the town of Sorrento. I’d accepted, but her stamina with work and play had worn me to the bone. In response I’d taken afternoon siestas to gather my strength for our evenings out. During the day we’d admired the antiques on display at those very same exclusive auction houses, and Madame Dupont had successfully bid for some exotic timepieces. There’d been no French antiques on offer so I’d happily perused the Italian lots but kept my bidding paddle down.

She frowned. “Oh no…” she said, mouthing the words silently as she continued to read. “Tragic for them to lose the L’Amore di uno and the L’arte di romanticismo collections.” The exquisite jewels were well known because of their Italian heritage. Pink diamonds became synonymous with Coco Salvatore, the soprano singer, who was never seen without them, up until her death a few years before.

In Sorrento we’d been stunned silent when we came to the pink diamond collections on display. They’d pulsed with life, as if they’d absorbed some of the soprano’s vivacity, some of her sound.

Madame Dupont put a hand to her chest. “Such horrible news. What if the thief had walked straight past us but we were too engrossed in the diamonds to notice?”

I nodded, sipping my café au lait. “Oui, imagine that. And we had no idea those beauties were about to be snatched.”

Straightening her skirt, Madame Dupont remained quiet, until finally saying: “How those thieves can override technology that can detect the merest whisper is a mystery, though. They’d have to be experts on security systems, and all that goes with it these days. I can barely send email, so I do applaud their nous.”

“Madame! You can’t applaud thieves!” We paused while a tiny car parked sideways in a car space next to us. The mini car was prevalent in Paris, and expert drivers maneuvered the minuscule vehicles to fit in any size gap.

“Why? It’s true, the facts are he’s a jewel thief with a brain.”

“He?” I asked.

With a look heavenward she said, “Of course it’s a he. Or…maybe it’s a team of he’s. Women respect diamonds too much to steal them. Who knows, but it would be much easier if it were only one person. The more people who are in on the secret the more likely it is they’ll be caught.”

I wrinkled my forehead in mock consternation. “You sound like you’re speaking from experience, Madame.”

I couldn’t help but tease her. Madame’s past was full of salacious stories, yet, it wasn’t from her scarlet lips they spilled. Outrageous rumors still abounded about her glory days. The most infamous one was that she’d been the lover of the idolized Marquis Laurent back in the sixties. He was famous for his flamboyant lifestyle, obscene wealth, and ties with royalty. Their affair was scandalous for many reasons, but everyone remembered the split more than anything – she was the first woman to ever break his heart. No one walked away from the Marquis unless he said so, but Madame Dupont had, because his plan of settling down scared her silly. She hadn’t settled then and wouldn’t now. She craved her freedom, whether it be from man, child, or relative.

That meant she played by her rules, always.

“Are you suggesting in my long, rich history of living I’ve been a criminal of some sort?” A rash of youthful giggles erupted from her.

“I wouldn’t put it past you, not that you’d ever tell.” That was the thing about Madame’s past: from the woman herself, little was said.

“Oui, my secrets are under lock and key unless I go senile, and even then I hope I’d have the good sense to lie.” She smiled. Her gaze traveled just past me, as she considered something. “Have you thought about it though, Anouk, the work involved in being a criminal these days? What he would need to do in order to get in and out without detection defies belief. And then there’s selling the loot. No one could ever wear the jewelry in case it was recognized.”

I tore off the edge of my croissant. Flakes of pastry scattered over the table. “What a waste of such precious artifacts. It’s not only the worth of the jewelry – there’s a whole history attached to those diamonds. And now it’s lost forever. And what for? To sit in someone’s vault for a lifetime. What’s the point of that?” I ate slowly, leaning back in my chair, and turned toward a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower, visible from the Boulangerie Fret-Co on the Avenue de la Bourdonnais. Madame Dupont and I had been breakfasting at the same place for years.

Regular customers strode in and promptly out with a fresh baguette. Nothing ever changed: the coffee was always strong, the croissants buttery, and the view of the tower partially obstructed by a leafy canopy of trees, which shimmied as the wind collected them. It was mostly quiet here in the mornings, with only the stooped man next door ambling about whistling as he dragged his postcard carousels to the footpath, giving them a light dusting with a rag.

Madame Dupont lived in a penthouse apartment on the Avenue Élisée Reclus one street over. A hop, skip, and a jump and she was practically at the Eiffel Tower. My little antique shop wasn’t far from there, closer to the Avenue Gustave Eiffel, and surrounded by nature, leafy trees, and lush gardens, with flowers that changed with the seasons.

“Greed! That’s what it is!” Madame Dupont said. “That’s what drives these black market buyers. The collections won’t be lost, not forever. I’m sure the Italian Carabinieri will catch those responsible. After all, they’re just as well armed these days in technology – someone’s always watching.” Her words were meant to reassure, but her high-pitched musical tone gave her away. She knew as well as I did, if the jewels had left the country, they’d never be seen again.

“Maybe,” I said not convinced. The avenue was slowly coming alive: cars zoomed along tooting their horns, tourists with sleepy expression meandered by on the hunt for coffee, the usual soundtrack to our morning, and a sign it was time to start our own jobs.

I finished the last of my coffee. “I suppose we should be thankful Paris hasn’t been targeted.”

Madame Dupont just lifted a brow and took a sip of her coffee.

Chapter Two (#ue2c2d852-43f8-5bda-a53e-40cd596f12bc)

Just past noon, the shadow of the Eiffel Tower fell through the window of my little antique shop, casting a sepia light over the treasures sitting solemnly inside. Chestnut swirls and golden hues of dusty sunlight swept in, shimmering on the antiques and making them appear faded, like an old photograph. The space appeared otherworldly, as if we’d truly stepped back in time.

Instead of languishing in the filmy haze, I turned back to the matter at hand, unable to shake off the sensation all was not what it seemed.

“You have my word, Anouk,” Oceane said, her china blue eyes fervent. She dropped her voice to a whisper. “I’ve known Agnes forever. She’s trustworthy, I promise.” With a wave she indicated a thin, raven-haired woman who stood a few paces back and blushed under my scrutiny. Agnes fiddled absently with the tassels on her handbag and wouldn’t meet my gaze.

“She’s French?” I whispered, still not convinced. I would only sell my precious antiques to those who had an introduction from a customer I trusted. A foible, but one I wouldn’t change. If I sold to just anyone, who knew what would happen to our heritage? Even when times had been tough financially, I still made sure I was selling to someone reliable.

Every now and then Agnes’s composure slipped, and she’d gaze at the antique jewelry with a type of hunger that made her features sharp. Those were the kind of people I said non to, because I didn’t trust their motives. They weren’t after a piece of history, or an heirloom to cherish – they were accumulating things with no regard to the past. Certain items with sentimental and historical value had to be protected, and I did my best to uphold those principles, despite the economic strain it sometimes caused.

However, Oceane from Once Upon a Time, a little bookshop on the Seine, was a loyal and trusted customer of mine, and would only introduce someone to me if she felt they were genuine. It was just the shiftiness in the woman’s eyes that made me hesitate. Perhaps I was unsettled by the reports of the Italian robberies earlier that morning, and thus, analyzing the woman’s motives too closely.

Still, antiques had to be treasured. Efforts taken to ascertain that the right match was made.

Sadly tradition was slowly slipping away as people looked to the future, rather than the past. Technology and the desire to have things instantaneously were pervading old values. My shoulders slumped just thinking of it.

“Of course she’s French,” Oceane said, pulling me back to her. “Her family have a boulangerie on Rue Saint-Antoine. She’s after a small ruby pendant for her maman. Her parents are celebrating their fortieth wedding anniversary. I promise, she’s legitimate.”

The cagey demeanor of the woman changed at the mention of her parents’ impending wedding anniversary. A ruby gift was tradition after forty years of marriage. Agnes smiled softly, her expression relaxed – she looked beyond me, as if she was thinking of them, and the memories they’d created in their years of matrimony. I watched her for a beat. She was unaware of my analysis, caught somewhere inside her mind, glassy-eyed, almost hypnotized, at wherever her reminisces were taking her.

A fine trail of goose bumps broke out over my skin, a surefire sign I could trust her with my exquisite jewelry. Sometimes, I relied on my own visceral reaction to a person more than any other sign.

Agnes’s gaze darted to a simple solitaire ruby pendant in the display cabinet, and there it stayed. She wasn’t greedy, she didn’t want them all, only wanted one perfect piece – you could read it on her face as clearly as if the words were written on her skin.

The precious gem twinkled magnificently even in the shadow of noonday. Her fingers found the hem of her shirt, and she toyed with it as if she was trying to stop herself from reaching for the ruby. She had chosen well. Classic, timeless, and utterly captivating. Luscious red so deep you could get lost in it.

I prided myself on finding out the origins of any purchases I made, as I believed without that the piece lost some of its luster.

“Come closer.” I gestured to Agnes. “I bought that pendant a few years ago from an estate sale in Provence. Would you like to know more about its past life?”

She nodded. “Oui, I’d like that very much. I’ve never seen anything so perfectly suited to my maman. Somehow the rest of the jewelry fades in comparison.”

It was the right pendant; of that I was certain. I said quietly, “When I was at the sale a neighbor came to watch her late friend’s belongings be auctioned, so I approached her and asked what she knew of the ruby pendant – what it had meant to its former owner. Like you, it had called to me amongst everything else on show. The neighbor told me the woman had found love as a young girl, and it had lasted a lifetime.”

Agnes smiled, perhaps recognizing the same in her parents.

I continued: “Her husband had given her the ruby on their honeymoon, and she was always fumbling with it, touching it to make sure it was still there. Of all the pieces she’d owned, the neighbor said the ruby was what most represented their love, and its longevity.”

Agnes cocked her head as she absorbed the story of the ruby. “Did she live a good and long life?” When a customer bought something sacred like the ruby, they’d be carrying the previous owner’s story forward too. The ruby absorbed fragments of the heart and soul of its owners, past and present, like osmosis, becoming part of the fabric of it for eternity.

I smiled. “She did. They both did. Octogenarians, until death came for him, and then soon after, her. The neighbor said it wasn’t all lavender fields and laughter. They argued high and loud about his job, which took him all over the country, and left her alone at home. They fought about her hair: he liked it long, so she cropped it short. Once she threw all his clothes off the balcony in a fit of pique, and he laughed, which made her angrier. The neighbor said they were drawn to each other like magnets. The highs, and lows were many, but only because of their fierce love for one another.” I paused, watching Agnes’s face light up at their epic story. This was the best part of my job, knowing intuitively that the ruby was going to be prized not only because of its beauty but also because of its history.

I continued: “They were married for sixty-two years before he was summoned away. It was said she wrote him love letters every day until it was her time. I almost kept the ruby for myself, I was so taken with their love story.” That day there had been antiques worth more and easily saleable but I was drawn to the ruby and knew I had to have it. And now I knew why – for Agnes’s mother.

If I closed my eyes, I could see it as it had been, hanging brilliantly against her olive-skinned décolletage, the faint scent of lavender in the air, an olive grove in the distance. But perhaps that was just a daydream, a picture painted by my imagination.

Agnes gave me a wide smile. “My parents still hold hands walking to work. They bicker about whose baguette recipe is the best, and I mean really bicker in typical French style, hands on hips, red-faced, low steady growls, until someone intervenes, and placates them saying both recipes have their merits. Maman calls him a goat, and he says she’s a mule, and they affect animal noises, until one of them starts howling with laughter, scaring the customers. Some days, they don’t talk at all, because they’ve spent the day chatting to their regular clientele and they’ve run out of words. Other days she rests her head on his shoulder and he murmurs to her as if they’re the only two people in the world. Their love still shines…”

“And now it will sparkle,” I said with a grin.

Carefully, I took the pendant from its housing. It winked under the lights as though it was saying yes. “For your maman.” I offered her a closer look.