Fakes

Chapter One - Americans in Paris

This place is the centre of Paris, the centre of France.

The young lady thus speaking was Anne Foret, a petite brunette, smartly dressed, the perfect Parisian except for the tan of her skin which betrayed a more southern origin.

"Before entering Notre-Dame cathedral, I want to show you this special spot in front of it. You see this plaque, on the ground ? It is the very centre of Paris, and you could say of France : all distances to and from Paris are measured from that point.  And why was that location selected ? Well, it goes back to the Middle Ages...»

She had at last caught the attention of all the members of her small group. Not only the parents, but also the two children – the spoilt-bored teenager type. The parents were, she had learnt from an email two weeks ago, University teachers. On the way from their well-chosen hotel on the Left Bank, they had added that she, Mrs Simpson, taught English literature, while he, Mr. Simpson, was a specialist in Ancient Greek history. Both were from Harvard University - in Boston, they explained. Yes, she had heard of Harvard – and was greatly impressed. These were going to be « tough customers », thought Anne; not at all the usual American bumpkins totally ignorant of European culture and, in her opinion, of any culture whatsoever. She could not make mistakes in her statements of historical facts, and they would probably ask questions which she would not be able to answer. So getting their attention – and hopefully no questions – was a great relief.

« ...In those times, a judgement, regardless of the gravity of the offence, could imply « making amends », which meant that the culprit had to confess his faults in public, in front of the cathedral – the bishop's church. This spot is were such « amends » were made. In the eighteenth century, during the reign of Louis XV, it was chosen as the « zero spot », the spot were all distances from the capital were to be reckoned. »

« Yes children, you see what is written : « Point Zero Des Routes De France » said Mrs Simpson. « It means Zero point for the roads of France ».

« You're quite right, Mrs Simpson ! I see you have quite a good knowledge of French ».

« Please call me Louisia. I know a bit of French, and I wish I had more opportunities of practising it. In fact, if it weren't for the kids, I think my husband and I would have asked you for a tour in French – with some help in English, however, we're not that fluent. »

Mrs Simpson, that is, Louisia, was getting to be very « sympathique » in Anne's opinion. At first, Anne had felt a little uncomfortable with these tall Americans : not only was Mr. Simpson a 6 footer plus, but Mrs Simpson also towered above her. Even the « kids » were, although slightly less so, taller than Anne. Their crushing handshakes had also reminded her how frail she was, despite her sportive activities . « Well, she had thought, better the hefty type than the obese that you have to drag along, short of breath at the view of a staircase. »

The visit of Notre-Dame was passed « summa cum laude ». Anne's special triumph came through  showing the reliquary of Sainte Geneviève, the woman who spirited up the Parisians into defending their city against the fearsome Attila and his horde of barbarians. Geneviève was later chosen as patron saint of Paris. It appeared that during their previous guided tour of Notre Dame, the Simpsons' guide had overlooked that historically important artefact, which was also a beautifully wrought piece of craftsmanship.

They strolled a while in the few small streets north of the cathedral.

That is probably how Paris looked like until Baron Haussmann, under the supervision of Napoleon III turned it into a modern city with wide straight streets. said Anne. She had shown them, in front of Notre-Dame, the stonework on the ground showing the limits of what had been houses and even a small church. They hadn't realized, like most people, how churches and cathedrals were squeezed in between various buildings until rather recently, mid nineteenth century in the present case.

At the end of the first half of the guided day tour, they lunched at a restaurant on the small place Dauphine, a quiet little square where elegant brick and stone buildings dating back to the seventeenth century were confronted with the austere neoclassical Palais de Justice built under Napoleon the First.

Mr. Simpson suggested they might have white wine with their food, in a brave attempt not to shock Anne with Coca-Cola drinking, but the latter was adamant : No, no ! We have all chosen meat dishes, we must have red wine. White wine is OK with fish but not with meat, especially red meat such as beef.

The Simpsons then entrusted her with the choice of wine, and she tactfully chose a Côte du Rhône, the cheapest on the list, but still quite palatable.

At the end of the meal, she explained : Now, if you want to end the meal as the French do, you should have a small cup of black coffee, with or without sugar.

Isn't it possible to get some milk ? pleaded Mrs Simpson.

It is, replied Anne laughing, if you are ready to incur the disapproval of the whole restaurant staff !

The Simpsons seniors had already been to the Louvre, so it was agreed this visit would be for the kids who were only interested in the Egyptian department. In fact, they were only interested in seeing a mummy. The only demand their parents had made was for them to see the Mona Lisa.

If you go home and tell your friends you went to Paris and missed the Mona Lisa, they'll make endless fun of you. That had been decisive. They persuaded themselves that posting a selfie in front of the acclaimed masterpiece would enhance their Facebook status.

The kids were disappointed with Leonardo's masterpiece : a portrait of a dull-looking girl. Even Anne's effort to make them see her elusive smile did not move them; they were not impressed by the mystery of who the lady really was; Anne's last shot was telling them how it had been stolen and recovered, but they were still not impressed. They still had only one goal : to go and see the mummy.

On the way, Anne tried to instil into the youngsters some knowledge of Ancient Egypt, its gods, its belief in after-life, but only the elder Simpsons were interested.

The mummy, however, proved a great success. The two kids looked at it, gaping.

Mark, the boy,  said to his sister : Fancy spending the night here. This thing probably gets alive and starts roaming...

Don't be horrid ! she said, shuddering. It's been dead for ages, it can't wake up.

You never knooow !!! said Mark in a dramatical tone, quite pleased at frightening his sister.

On the way back, they went through a room where slabs of inscribed stones were shown as examples of hieroglyphic writing.

Let me show you just one last thing said Anne. See that slab of stone ? What is represented on it ?

Well, I see a duck, and something round next to it said Mrs Simpson.

It might be a representation of the sun added Mr. Simpson. The Egyptian had a cult of a sort about the sun.

You're quite right, said Anne. And can you guess what it means ?

A duck warming himself in the sun said Mrs Simpson.

A sun-duck, some kind of deity said Mr. Simpson.

Well, you're getting a bit closer, but you're having the same problem as all the scientists who tried to decipher hieroglyphs before Champollion. You think that the picture of a duck can only mean a duck. Champollion's genius – with the help of the Rosetta stone – was to guess that hieroglyphs could have two interpretations : first, its face value : a duck meaning duck, a sun meaning sun, but also a sound meaning, leading to another concept. In this instance, a duck, which was pronounced sa is the equivalent of the English son, a concept for which there was no hieroglyph. Here, the inscription reads as son of the sun, which was the usual title given to pharaoh.

You're amazing ! exclaimed Mrs Simpson. You seem to know something about everything.

Oh, not at all ! said Anne, with mock modesty, but knowing she had scored another point. Inwardly, she thought : I'm just showing off the very very little I have been taught about hieroglyphs. I am, as we French say 'just proving that culture is like jam, the less you have, the more you spread it'."

Chapter Two - Daughter and father

Anne stopped on the landing of her father's flat. She heard music, piano music, Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata. She waited, knowing it was her father playing for himself. She did not want to interrupt, for her father's sake, out of respect for the music, and for her own enjoyment. Her father's interpretation was far from flawless, there were hesitations, but she felt he was emotionally involved, and so was she. When it was finished, she rang.

Hello, Dad ! said Anne as she entered, are things going smoothly ? She was teasing her father whose usual answer, when asked how things were going, was : Things are going smoothly, even when the going was a bit rough.

Grégoire Foret, Anne's father, was an architect who had spent some time in Lebanon where he had met and married a beautiful Christian Lebanese girl, Anne's mother. He had lost her in one of these numerous terrorist attacks that have been the plague of the Middle East for almost a century now. Anne was only twelve at the time, but she remembered vividly her father's grim face. « Enough is enough, this land is cursed, we are going back to France... »

Upon his return to France, Mr. Foret had been lucky to be able, through a friend's advice, to purchase this lovely apartment. It was conveniently situated in the heart of Paris, rue de Rennes. It had all the benefits of being in the midst of the city's activity without its drawbacks, especially regarding urban noise. It was situated at the back of an Haussmann-type building, overlooking the neighbouring Jardin des Carmes. The garden, adjoining Saint Joseph of the Carmes' church, is the private property of the Catholic Institute of Paris, and as such, a haven of peace.

Mr. Foret's first acquisition was a three-room flat on the fifth floor. A couple of years later, he had been able to buy three former maids room in the attic just above his flat. The architect had cleverly devised a staircase to join the two levels while taking the minimum space. Now, he had his study – which used to be Anne's bedroom -  and his bedroom with a tiny bathroom in the upper part, while the original flat had, beside kitchen and bathroom, a drawing room and a dining room taking up the space of the former three rooms. The place was not luxurious, but very comfortable, full of charm and with a lovely view : the garden down below and, towering above the roof buildings, the dome of the Pantheon in the distance.

This apartment had helped Anne to adapt to Paris, although she still regretted beautiful Lebanon where, weather permitting, you could ski in the mountains in the morning and swim in the Mediterranean in the afternoon.

After years at the Lycée which Anne remembered as a rather pleasant period, she passed successfully the entry exam to the prestigious Ecole du Louvre. Anne's passion for art had made her years at the Ecole du Louvre pure bliss in spite of the strain of having to memorize so much. The three year curriculum seemed to cover everything possible in the realm of art history It started with Prehistorical art and ended with Contemporary art. All periods of Western art were covered, of course, but Indian, Islamic, Chinese, Japanese, Precolumbian and Primitive arts were not forgotten. A series of lectures concerning all types of art techniques, from drawing to sculpture and even photography were also included. And, what Anne liked the most were the in situ studies : a teacher would bring a group of students in one of the numerous Parisian museums, and comment the artefacts, paintings, sculptures or whatever. During the architecture classes, the students were brought to some church or one of the numerous buildings of all styles, for Paris is an open air museum. Anne felt she was not only amassing knowledge, but also breathing in beauty in all its forms.

At the Ecole du Louvre, besides the mainstream of art history, you had to choose a « Specialization ». The range was vast, covering not only all the fields of the mainstream courses, but a few others. You could take Iconography, Heraldry, Fashion...Anne had not given her choice much thought : she loved Picasso, surrealist and abstract painting, so she chose at once « Modern Art ». The so-called Specialization implied a few hours a week of in depth study of the subject, plus short lectures given by the students themselves on a particular subject. At the end of the first cycle, you could only apply for a Master if your Specialization results were outstanding. Anne had been admitted, and her final thesis was about David Stein, the famous French forger who lived most of his life in the USA, painting Picassos, Klees and Miros, among others. Anne was interested in the personality of an artist who repeatedly turned to art forgery although he could have made a name for himself as a surrealist painter. She was also interested in the way, when the inquest was being conducted in the US, art dealers and art collectors were reluctant, and sometimes openly opposed, to collaborate with the legal authorities.

Mr. Foret greeted his daughter tenderly, and the two went up to the study, the cosiest room of all, to sip their drinks.

Father and daughter had been very close since the sudden death of Mrs Foret. Mr. Foret considered for a while his daughter sitting between two among the best pieces of his African art collection, a Kota reliquary and a Baoulé statue. Anne was dark haired and dark eyed like her mother, but she didn't have her mother's radiant beauty. She was rather short, but slim, with a pleasant but plain face. Her heavy-rimmed glasses gave her seriousness, but did little to add to her charm. Charm she had, nevertheless, a bewitching smile and refined manners. She was patient and had an acute sense of humour. Her schooling had been easy. She had always spoken French with both her parents, although from her mother and early school she had also learnt Arabic; English she had learnt at school, but being gifted with languages, she spoke it well, although with a slight Gallic accent. Her father, who had never married again, helped her a lot with her studies ; he seemed to know everything, was very patient, always knew how to bring her to find the solution of a problem. He had always staunchly refused to do her homework, but had repeatedly coaxed her into finishing it in a satisfactorily way, however late at night. She had got her Baccalauréat with a « très bien » grade, the best, and had at the same time successfully passed the exam to enter the prestigious Ecole du Louvre . The father was particularly proud of that, because most students prepared for that exam at least one year after the Baccalauréat.

How are you getting along with your job at the gallery ? he finally asked. He knew that she had recently joined a left bank gallery in Paris which specialized in paintings by young unknown artists, and where she now worked two days a week. She thus complemented her income as an independent guide for individuals or companies.

Oh, all right. It can be a bit dull at times, but when there are no customers, it gives me time to prepare my visits. I definitely prefer being a guide : you move, you see people who enjoy art, whereas at the gallery, the buyers seem to consider art mainly as an investment. Actually, at the gallery, I tend to prefer non-buyers, because they are genuinely interested in the works, even if they can't afford them. But please don't tell my boss ! she added, chuckling.

After a while of pleasant chatting, the pair went down to the dining room and the evening meal.

They started with a delicious slice of foie gras and what seemed to Anne nice sweet wine.

Guess what you're drinking just now, challenged her father.

You know, I'm not a wine expert. It's a sweet white wine, so my guess would be Monbazillac... or sweet Jurançon perhaps ?

No...have another guess.

"I haven't got a clue, really. Je donne ma langue au chat.- I give up !"

Well said her father mysteriously It's rhubarb wine !.

Well, I never ! It's quite good, and goes well with the foie gras. I had never tasted it before; didn't even know you could make wine with rhubarb.

Actually, you can make wine with any fruit or sugary plant. The English make wine with all sorts of plants – with all sorts of weird results ! Rhubarb wine is perhaps the only one that comes close to real sweet white wine. But a true sommelier would scold me for serving sweet wine at the beginning of a meal...

I won't tell anyone that you're not respecting gastronomic ethics, dad. And this is quite enjoyable as it is.

The foie gras was followed by a Navarin de la mer, mixed sea-food in a creamy sauce, served with basmati rice. This time, they had real white wine, a dry Pouilly-Fuissé from the Mâcon area in Burgundy.

It's really delicious, Dad ! Exclaimed Anne I know you don't like cooking, so how did you manage ? A caterer ?"

Oh, no, it doesn't come from a caterer, it's just a ready-made frozen dish. At Picard, they have a very large range, and quite acceptable. You just have to warm them up a few minutes in the micro-wave oven, and there you are.

Anne pleaded with her father to skip the cheese, and they finished their dinner with a raspberry cream cake.

Let's sit in the drawing room. Don't bother to clear the table, my darling. Maria will do that to-morrow morning. Do you want tea, or coffee, or a liqueur, perhaps ?

A large glass of water will be fine with me, thank you.

Mr. Foret enjoyed too much his food and drink to be a great talker at the table. They resumed their conversation as they sat comfortably in the drawing room.

Dad, I've been telling you about my activities, do tell me about yours : is the Lausanne auditorium under way ?

Oh, quite. It's beginning to take shape. In less than two months, the structure will be finished. The easiest part will be over, or at least, the most rewarding.

Surely, the most difficult part is about the structure, especially in an innovative building like yours.

"It's true, in a sense. It's the part that requires the most thinking : it's by far the most interesting, that is the part where the architect creates, like an artist – but an artist with down to earth problems to integrate ! Anyway,  if it's well planned and the contractor knows his job, which is the case in Lausanne, things go smoothly. The only really new problem I had to face was that of the auditorium's acoustics. It's of course essential, and requires more than an architect's skills. I was lucky, there, I was helped by an American specialist. A rough Yankee, at first glance, but I found him quite knowledgeable and not arrogant in the least, both competent and  helpful. I learned a lot from him, and I think we've done quite a good job together, so far. But after the main structure is finished, all the petty miseries of plumbing,