For the first time in a long while, Jack Dearborn felt as if he was actually relaxing. Here he was sitting in a nice deep leather chair nursing his second single malt scotch at “Le Bar”as the George V Hotel bar is better known. He was enjoying himself and comfortably so, courtesy of his law firm in Washington, DC. Looking around at the surroundings, the timeless elegance, the massive wood bar, the attention to detail everywhere, comfortable chairs, the ornate chandelier, everything hearkened back to a time somewhere perhaps nestled in the 1950’s and 1960’s. If only walls could talk, there would have been some real stories, he was quite sure of that. Jack remembered one story about quite a colorful figure at the George V Bar who went by the name of Rudolf. He was the legendary head barman and he also just happened to hold both the French and American highest civilian awards for his work with the Resistance in WWII. Not exactly the sort of person you would find working behind the bar at the Dew Drop Inn in Paris, Tennessee.
Jack liked Paris and always did for that matter because he felt comfortable here; he had the kind of roots here that he didn’t have anywhere else in the world. The city of lights never failed to reach out and take him back, way back as they say, to another place and time many years ago. Growing his parents, brothers and sisters had lived the comfortable life both in Paris proper in the 16th arrondissement and later in the fashionable suburb of Neuilly-sur-Seine. He was back now having returned in September, his favorite time of the year to be in Paris. There was just something about place and time that he couldn’t put into words but it was an immensely powerful cocktail, a double shot of nostalgia, le temps perdu and more. The French seemed, for some reason, to understand and appreciated better than most the nostalgic return to yesteryear. There was so much in this town that was part of him still and so much that he could not, or perhaps did not want to let go of just yet. Somebody with a couch would have a field day with that, Jack thought. The weather was still comparatively balmy for mid September and earlier in the day he had strolled over a few blocks to the Champs-Elysées . The horse-chestnut trees lining the grande avenue were already showing signs of turning, some leaves had fallen and were tossing about the sidewalks. People were packing the sidewalks as if summer had returned and the cafes were doing a booming business. The beautiful people out and about not wanting to miss an opportunity to see and be seen on such a glorious fall afternoon. It was a veritable cultural ratatouille, a melange of every conceivable nationality, size and shape. Jack turned aside just in time barely missing a collision with a blur of something half naked and tattooed speeding by on roller blades.
On his way back, Jack strolled along the rue Marbeuf passing Le Relais de l’Entrecote, one of his favorite spots then finally hooking up with the Avenue George V and his hotel. It was late afternoon by the time he returned it was still warm but the sun was beginning to gently fade and Jack knew that soon the days would start getting shorter and a little cooler and the evenings would call for a warm sweater.
Sitting quite comfortably in his chair, Jack pondered the agenda for the week ahead. His firm was counsel on an acquisition deal for one of their clients, a well-heeled merchant bank, and while the Paris office was fully capable of handling the details having some of the sharpest young attorneys on board, the senior partners in Washington, however, wanted one of their own especially since Jack was a close friend with the client and his fluent in French didn’t hurt either. He looked forward to meeting Guillaume Barbier one of their Paris senior partners wooed away from a UK Magic Circle firm. It had taken an impressive package for him come over but the results were already paying off quite handsomely. Along with Barbier, would be Sandrine Duncan who ran the Mergers and Acquisitions practice for the Paris office. Jack knew Sandrine quite well having worked with her on several other deals and thought highly of her. She had an excellent legal pedigree and was very well known and respected in Paris legal circles. Jack was also aware that more than one of their competitors had been making inquiries. He was pleased she was a key player on this deal as it added a certain amount of professional comfort. Sandrine had married an extremely wealthy American by the name of Paul Duncan from Texas and it was oil money not surprisingly.
Jack saw them coming across the lobby into the bar and stood up to greet them. Sandrine was impeccably dressed from her elegantly coiffed hair to her smart black heels. She kissed Jack on both cheeks leaving a faint trail of expensive perfume behind and Jack shook hands with Guillaume, a deeply tanned middle aged man, rather short in stature and dressed in a dark blue broad pin stripe suit, with double vent and extremely well tailored, London most likely. His hair was silver gray and cut fashionably long in the back. Gold was in plain evidence, a gold Swiss watch, a signet ring on one finger and and a thin yellow gold bracelet around his left wrist. They made quite a pair and, as Jack thought to himself, about as typically French looking as he was American with his own tailored dark blue suit, discreet chalk stripe suit, white shirt, spread collar and red and green patterned tie and dress black leather tie shoes. It was difficult for him to get out of uniform even for dinner among friends. The only extravagance in his wardrobe, if it could be considered as such, especially in the conservative world of Washington DC, was a pair of square lapis lazuli antique cufflinks that were nicely edged in yellow gold which had originally belonged to his grandfather and around his wrist, a wafer thin Cartier tank watch with a narrow alligator leather strap. It was a little touch of class that Jack permitted himself, nothing more.
Guillaume, (Jack you must call me Guy) looked at his watch “we should go everyone as we have reservations at Le Grand Vefour and speaking for myself, I am simply famished. Allons-y-tout le monde.”
The cabbie cruised down the Champs-Elysées before navigating towards the Place Vendome finally turning onto the rue de Beaujolais and stopping at number 17, Le Grand Vefour. There is much to say about this historical Parisian culinary landmark and it’s not that it’s just good it’s that it’s all quite outstanding by whatever measure with, arguably, the most beautiful restaurant decor in all of Paris. While they waited for their champagne, Guy took it upon himself to provided a short history on the restaurant which he noted had been in operation ever since the reign of Louis XV. He dropped names of past guests as if he were reading from a French history book, Napoleon, Danton, Hugo, Colette, and Cocteau all dined at Le Grand Vefour as did Jean Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir, together and separately, Victor Hugo and Juliette Greco. There are brass plaques on the tables so that guests can enjoy their meal in the company of famous French authors, politicians, emperors and more. Guy added, “and I understand they are all excellent conversationalist.” See Le Grand Vefour-Lunch With French History.
As they tackled their fillet of lamb, Breton Lobster and the Turbot meunière with shrimp purée, the conversation inevitably turned to the work at hand, the health of the firm, French politics, the recent election in the United States, family and of course the weather in Paris and past August vacations. Sandrine had taken her family to Sicily for the month of August and Guy had just returned from his family home in the Loire Valley which has a respectable vineyard which he talked about at some length and obviously quite proud. Jack, for his part, had not escaped for the month of August but had taken little side trips, long weekends away from the suffering heat and humidity of Washington DC. Sandrine looked at him, shook her finger and smiled “you must do better than that Jack.”
Guy rose from the table to greet a tall well dressed gentleman attired in a double breasted jacket, grey flannels, soft leather shoes, paisley tie and silk handkerchief casually resting in the breast pocket. He sported a deep August tan and a shock of grey hair well over the ears and collar. He shook Guy’s hand with friendly pat on the shoulder.
Et bien mon chere Guy, quelle plaisir de te revoire! How is the wine merchant? I see I am not the only one who comes here to draw their legal inspirations and passion for truth and justice, after all you know Guy, this was once the ideological center of the French Revolution.”
Raymond quickly made the introductions all around
“Of course you know Sandrine from our firm’s Merger practice and this is Monsieur Jack Dearborn from the home office in Washington, DC. Jack this is Raymond de Varais an esteemed attorney and one whom I am privileged to be able to call my friend.”
“Monsieur Dearborn is this your first time in Paris?”
“No in fact, I was born in Neuilly and we have had three generations of family who have lived in Paris at one time or another since their first, rather short visit in 1914.”
A few more niceties, a little more social sniffing, the urgency of getting together, Guy and Raymond exchanging a few quick side remarks and the dashing Monsieur Raymond de Varais disappeared as quickly as he arrived.
As we worked our way through some chocolate decadence, coffee and brandy, Guy provided a little background on Raymond, apparently a very successful lawyer having cut his corporate teeth in the New York and Paris office of a prominent old line “white shoe” Wall Street law firm. According to Guy, he had been offered a partnership with Cabinet Valechard, Marseau, Duplessis et Associés, a prestigious boutique law firm on the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré and well known for taking on many a cause célèbres. The firm had an impressive stable of extremely well connected partners with a collective rolodex that could reach out to most ministerial officials in Paris as well as to many in the former French colonies. According to the press, Cabinet Valechard was defending a spin-off technology company located in Sophia Antipolis just outside of Nice, and was implicated as party to certain sensitive dual use technologies finding their way to a foreign concern. With the French government and more than a few ministries weighing in or staying far away as the case may be, it promised to be a rather messy French affair which the press dearly loved and encouraged. Raymond, with his connections in certain key ministries, was handling the case. Other than that, Guy noted that Raymond was married to Sylvie who was a dual American French citizen and was supposed to be an heiress of sorts, her late father having owned a very successful brewing concern in the Midwest. The couple was childless and lived in a lovely 5th floor apartment on the boulevard Suchet in the 16th overlooking the Bois de Boulogne.
Later that week.
Jack had just comfortably settled himself in for breakfast at one of his favorite spots on the Left Bank, Les Deux Maggot, and was beginning that time honored ritual of reading the International Herald Tribune in the company of a pot of steaming black coffee and an assortment of croissants, rolls and other bakery treasures he knew he did not need. Rather than having a late breakfast at the George V, he had decided on a nice long walk. It helped clear the air and it gave him the opportunity to assess the events of the last couple of days. He was more than satisfied with the turn of events and had already briefed the partners in Washington; Guy and Sandrine would oversee the execution of the details.
“Jack it that you? Well for heavens sakes, Jack Dearborn it really is you!” At the sound of the voice, Jack nearly spilled the cafe creme all over his suit. Cautiously putting down the International Herald Tribune to match a face with a voice and yes, just as he thought, the impossible or perhaps the inevitable, had happened, it was Billie Tilemore here in Paris. He had not seen her since that summer evening at her house on Maryland’s Eastern Shore, she had looked good then and things hadn’t changed.
“Now Jack aren’t you going to ask a lady to sit down? I know you have to be asking yourself what in heavens name am I doing here in Paris? I know you’re simply dying to find out, now aren’t you Jack? Anyway I know you are, I can always tell with you.”
Continued… Promise Me Part II