were all executed. No one talks about it.”
So the old woman related to Chinese illegals. Did she know Meizi? Was she trying to protect her, hide information?
“Meizi must feel so alone. Lost.”
“But there are always places to hide, to meld into the woodwork, like we did.” Mademoiselle Samoukashian shrugged, her eyes far away. “Pascal was a funny boy. Sweet but odd.”
From the sound of it, the woman would tell the story in her own way. Aimée needed to be patient. She took a sip of coffee, a thick mixture like silt with a cardamom aftertaste.
“His parents had him late in life,” Mademoiselle said, glancing back at the pot before continuing. “My nephew, his father, was held in a Siberian POW camp until the sixties. Never was the same, but don’t get me started. Pascal’s mother died from TB in a sanatorium.” She shrugged. “He came to live with me until he passed the exams for Ecole Nationale Supérieure d’Arts et Métiers.”
The prestigious
grande école
of technical engineering. “Quite an accomplishment,” Aimée said, wondering how this fit in.
“But Pascal still lives … lived nearby. Always fixed this, took care of that.” Mademoiselle waved her hand around.
Aimée took in the recessed halogen lighting, felt thewarmth from the floor, surveyed the high-tech console of buttons labeled Heat 1, Hall, Boiler.
“Pascal did all this. You’ve noticed, eh?”
And lusted for a renovation like this for her own seventeenth-century flat. Right now Aimée would settle for consistent heat in their office.
“Beautiful and innovative,” Aimée said, noticing the high-tech chrome laptop, a model that their part-time hacker Saj kept mentioning. The woman was more tech-savvy than most people half her age. “I imagine, a small repayment for devoting yourself to his upbringing.”
She snorted. “Not so much. No one called me the nurturing type, but I provided. I managed stage sets at Théâtre de la Gaité Lyrique, the wardrobe. Pascal used to play back stage sometimes, but he grew up across the square in the Musée des Arts et Métiers. After school I’d find him there. The machines, gadgets stimulated his mind. Too much.”
Aimée turned this over. “By that you mean …?”
“He loved making ‘inventions.’ Obsessed.” The old woman rolled her eyes affectionately. “Following the beat of a different drummer, as they say. Never played in the park with the other boys. He told me, when he was still a boy, that one day he’d work at the Musée. Because the Musée still kept alive the spirit of science, art, and invention of the medieval guilds that built the cathedrals. Can you imagine a teenage boy saying that?”
Mademoiselle Samoukashian gave a little shrug, sipped her Turkish coffee.
“Yet as a youngster he wore the dunce hat in the corner of the classroom, a
tête de Turc
.”
Aimée nodded. “Me, too, for daydreaming.” She took another sip. But she wondered at the point of this fable. What agenda lay behind this, other than reminiscing about her murdered great-nephew? Maybe this woman just needed to vent.“But what an accomplishment, that Pascal entered a
grande école
,” she said.
“
Mais oui
, but only after two years of competitive prep to pass the
mathématique supérieur
,” Mademoiselle Samoukashian said, a hint of pride in her voice. “Another exam with a technology component for Arts et Métiers. Of the two thousand who pass the test, they accept six hundred.”
“Sounds grueling.” She was painting a picture of Pascal, Aimée realized.
“It was only the beginning!” she scoffed. “Then, a
grande école
. Before his first year, their assignments included figuring out how to write verses of Gothic script on matchsticks with a Rotring pen nib. He needed a magnifying glass to even see what he was writing, never mind figure out how to write it.” She shook her head. “The
bizutage
, the ritual hazing, got worse in his first year. A strange group, if you
So the old woman related to Chinese illegals. Did she know Meizi? Was she trying to protect her, hide information?
“Meizi must feel so alone. Lost.”
“But there are always places to hide, to meld into the woodwork, like we did.” Mademoiselle Samoukashian shrugged, her eyes far away. “Pascal was a funny boy. Sweet but odd.”
From the sound of it, the woman would tell the story in her own way. Aimée needed to be patient. She took a sip of coffee, a thick mixture like silt with a cardamom aftertaste.
“His parents had him late in life,” Mademoiselle said, glancing back at the pot before continuing. “My nephew, his father, was held in a Siberian POW camp until the sixties. Never was the same, but don’t get me started. Pascal’s mother died from TB in a sanatorium.” She shrugged. “He came to live with me until he passed the exams for Ecole Nationale Supérieure d’Arts et Métiers.”
The prestigious
grande école
of technical engineering. “Quite an accomplishment,” Aimée said, wondering how this fit in.
“But Pascal still lives … lived nearby. Always fixed this, took care of that.” Mademoiselle waved her hand around.
Aimée took in the recessed halogen lighting, felt thewarmth from the floor, surveyed the high-tech console of buttons labeled Heat 1, Hall, Boiler.
“Pascal did all this. You’ve noticed, eh?”
And lusted for a renovation like this for her own seventeenth-century flat. Right now Aimée would settle for consistent heat in their office.
“Beautiful and innovative,” Aimée said, noticing the high-tech chrome laptop, a model that their part-time hacker Saj kept mentioning. The woman was more tech-savvy than most people half her age. “I imagine, a small repayment for devoting yourself to his upbringing.”
She snorted. “Not so much. No one called me the nurturing type, but I provided. I managed stage sets at Théâtre de la Gaité Lyrique, the wardrobe. Pascal used to play back stage sometimes, but he grew up across the square in the Musée des Arts et Métiers. After school I’d find him there. The machines, gadgets stimulated his mind. Too much.”
Aimée turned this over. “By that you mean …?”
“He loved making ‘inventions.’ Obsessed.” The old woman rolled her eyes affectionately. “Following the beat of a different drummer, as they say. Never played in the park with the other boys. He told me, when he was still a boy, that one day he’d work at the Musée. Because the Musée still kept alive the spirit of science, art, and invention of the medieval guilds that built the cathedrals. Can you imagine a teenage boy saying that?”
Mademoiselle Samoukashian gave a little shrug, sipped her Turkish coffee.
“Yet as a youngster he wore the dunce hat in the corner of the classroom, a
tête de Turc
.”
Aimée nodded. “Me, too, for daydreaming.” She took another sip. But she wondered at the point of this fable. What agenda lay behind this, other than reminiscing about her murdered great-nephew? Maybe this woman just needed to vent.“But what an accomplishment, that Pascal entered a
grande école
,” she said.
“
Mais oui
, but only after two years of competitive prep to pass the
mathématique supérieur
,” Mademoiselle Samoukashian said, a hint of pride in her voice. “Another exam with a technology component for Arts et Métiers. Of the two thousand who pass the test, they accept six hundred.”
“Sounds grueling.” She was painting a picture of Pascal, Aimée realized.
“It was only the beginning!” she scoffed. “Then, a
grande école
. Before his first year, their assignments included figuring out how to write verses of Gothic script on matchsticks with a Rotring pen nib. He needed a magnifying glass to even see what he was writing, never mind figure out how to write it.” She shook her head. “The
bizutage
, the ritual hazing, got worse in his first year. A strange group, if you
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