The Fragment, page 1
Table of Contents
: CHAPTER 1 ::
: CHAPTER 2 ::
: CHAPTER 3 ::
: CHAPTER 4 ::
: CHAPTER 5 ::
: CHAPTER 6 ::
: CHAPTER 7 ::
: CHAPTER 8 ::
: CHAPTER 9 ::
: CHAPTER 10 ::
: CHAPTER 11 ::
: CHAPTER 12 ::
: CHAPTER 13 ::
: CHAPTER 14 ::
: CHAPTER 15 ::
: CHAPTER 16 ::
: CHAPTER 17 ::
: CHAPTER 18 ::
: CHAPTER 19 ::
: CHAPTER 20 ::
: CHAPTER 21 ::
: CHAPTER 22 ::
: CHAPTER 23 ::
: CHAPTER 24 ::
: CHAPTER 25 ::
: CHAPTER 26 ::
: CHAPTER 27 ::
About the Author
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental. Certain historical elements have been changed to suit the story.
Cover design and illustration by Candle Light Studios
Book design by Mark Sullivan
Library of Congress Control Number: 2015960017
ISBN 978-1-63253-084-4 (hardcover edition)
ISBN 978-1-61636-934-7 (paperback edition)
ISBN 978-1-61636-935-4 (digital edition)
Copyright ©2016, Davis Bunn. All rights reserved.
Published by Franciscan Media
28 W. Liberty St.
Cincinnati, OH 45202
www.FranciscanMedia.org
: CHAPTER 1 ::
When Muriel Ross turned twenty-three in the spring of 1923, it seemed as though the world spun frantically without her. The war was over, and the influenza epidemic had eased. Great events were taking place everywhere except in her own small world. She was a child of the century, and she feared she was destined to remain an observer on the sidelines of life.
Her hometown of Alexandria seemed trapped in the amber of complacency. Her mother’s greatest concern was that Muriel seemed to show no interest in men. It was, of course, utterly untrue that Muriel was not interested in them. She just simply did not want to wed a smug and contented Virginia gentleman, who would anchor her even more firmly into a world that stubbornly refused to turn.
And then in the space of three short months, everything changed.
The transformation came so rapidly that every morning upon awakening she had to remind herself that she was free. Free to explore the world. Free to spread her wings and soar further and higher than she had ever imagined possible. Free to experience the events she had once only read about in the newspapers and journals. Free to walk down the stairs and have breakfast in a Paris café. Which was precisely what she did.
Her small hotel was around the corner from the U.S. ambassador’s residence. Her host, Senator Thomas Bryan, was the ambassador’s guest. Muriel had only been in Paris for three days, and already she had her favorite table. She sat one row back from the street, in the right corner where the sun first emerged after cresting the rooftops. The air was brisk for April, but on Senator Bryan’s instructions, she had packed her heaviest coat, as well as scarves and mittens, items she only wore during the rare January freezes back home. Now she snuggled into the coat’s bulky warmth and exchanged greetings with the gray-haired waiter.
“Will mademoiselle be having her customary breakfast of hot chocolate and croissant?”
“Yes, please.”
“Perhaps she will consider having something more sustaining? We have fresh eggs from the country this morning.”
“Just the croissant, please.”
“As mademoiselle wishes.” Despite his limp and his age, the waiter managed to turn his bow into a flirtatious act.
Muriel would never have imagined being so thankful for her college French teacher. The professor had insisted upon his students learning proper pronunciation as well as the grammar and had mercilessly eradicated his students’ southern drawls. Though French had required twice the study of anything else, Muriel had endured four years of the professor, dreaming of this day—and fearing that it would never come—when she would sit and watch the Parisian world on parade.
By the time she finished her meal, the steamy chocolate that had been whipped to a liquid froth and the feather-light croissant that had been so saturated with butter her fingers glistened, Muriel was eager to be on her way. She paid and thanked the waiter and chose her direction at random. Almost everywhere she walked was fascinating. The streets were filled with the aura of a different way of life.
Muriel took the small camera from her purse and fit the leather strap around her wrist. The Leica was the first ever designed to take high-quality pictures and still fit into the photographer’s hand. Muriel put the light meter in her pocket. The camera and the meter had been her father’s parting gifts for his photography-loving daughter. Muriel had spent hours and hours on the steamship voyage across the Atlantic learning to calculate the proper aperture and shutter speed when photographing with this new style of camera. Now it was almost second nature. This was essential for how she intended to spend her day. She needed to check the light, set the camera, and shoot before the people realized what was happening. Muriel was not after formal portraits. She wanted her pictures to reflect the life and people of Paris in as natural a setting as possible.
“Good morning, Miss Muriel! What a positive delight it is to see you out and about!”
The senator’s booming voice halted foot traffic all around her. Muriel sighed her disappointment at not being able to walk alone. “Good morning, Senator.”
“Where are you off to this fine morning?”
She held up her camera. “I wanted to try to capture some of the people in this early light.”
“Might an old gentleman accompany you?”
She knew it was not right to lie, but she also knew she had no choice in the matter. “It would be my honor, Senator.”
“You are so kind.” He fell into step beside her. “Is that a new coat?”
“No, it’s the same one I brought from Alexandria.” But she had made some changes and was surprised that a man like Senator Bryan would notice.
“And that silk scarf, how lovely. Now I know for a fact I’ve not seen that before.”
“I bought it from the street market yesterday.” She touched the silk knotted about her throat. “It’s second-hand, of course.”
“And you paid next to nothing for it, I’m sure.”
“Pennies,” she confirmed.
“It suits you.” He fell into step beside her. “Where are we going?”
“I have no idea.”
“That is my kind of walk. Go with nowhere particular in mind and see what life presents us.” He glanced at her. “I am certain there is something different about your coat.”
“I copied the fashion I’ve been seeing in the people here,” she confessed. “They can’t afford new clothes, but they make the best of what they have. They take an old coat and tailor it to the latest style.”
“You show remarkable awareness for having only been here three days, my dear.”
Thomas Bryan was an elegant man with a patrician’s air. No one would mistake him for anything other than what he was, a mover and a shaker from a long line of power brokers. Until elected as the junior senator from Virginia, he had run the law firm established by his great-grandfather. He served as a deacon in their Alexandria church and had had a life-long friendship with her father.
But she was not going to allow the senator’s presence to interrupt her. The light was too fine. And to his credit, Thomas Bryan did his best to vanish in plain sight. Once she started shooting, he slipped back a few steps and blended in with the surroundings.
Muriel had never seen anything like the Paris light. The air was alive with a wealth of colors, all of them as muted and fresh as an Impressionist painting. The sky was an artist’s blue. She photographed a street sweeper, a bent old man with a youth’s face and stonemason’s hands, plying the broom in a sideways motion, like he handled a scythe. Sunlight caught the water pouring from a nearby hydrant, forming a reflection of the young-old man in the cobblestones.
As they walked away, Thomas Bryan said, “A penny for your thoughts.”
She was too caught up in the images she had captured to be anything less than honest. “I was wondering about that man and how he came to be there.”
“Do you often feel captivated by your subjects?”
“Only when the picture is real. No, that’s not the correct word. When the picture…”
“When the photograph captures the one taking the picture,” he said softly.
“Yes, that’s it exactly. The street sweeper was so intent on his work he did not even see me. I took four pictures. How could someone be so focused on such a mindless task? I was standing right in front of him. He did not look over once.”
“I doubt he even saw the street, much less you.” The words turned Senator Bryan very grave. “My dear, have you ever heard of trench warfare?”
“Of course. It was in the papers almost daily.”
“The Great War brought us many horrors. I lost a nephew to the trenches. He came home, but in body only. That young man sweeping streets back there reminds me of him.”
“That sweeper was an old m an!”
“My dear, I doubt very much he has seen his twenty-fifth birthday.” Senator Bryan showed the somber expression of one accustomed to bearing the world’s burdens. “France has a new prime minister by the name of Raymond Poincaré. Upon being appointed, his first decree was to hire veterans of the trenches for all such mundane jobs. He said that after they had sacrificed so much, the least France could do in return was offer them a semblance of human dignity.”
Muriel thought of the image she had captured, as though the only way she could envision the sweeper was through the safety of her viewfinder. “That is so terribly sad.”
“I could not agree more. And yet Poincaré has elevated himself in the eyes of many people, including myself, by recognizing this problem at all. Most of the world wants to pretend that the war is simply over, that the scars are healed, and that life goes on. The Parisians have a new name for this post-war era. They call it les Années Folles. The crazy, insane years. They are doing their best to pretend that there are no problems, no wounds, no pains.”
Muriel halted and turned to face this man she hardly knew. She heard the rich timbre of a voice accustomed to addressing great crowds. Senator Thomas Bryan was in his late sixties, and the winds of time had left him slightly bowed. He carried a cane, though he seldom seemed to need it. And yet there was a fire in him, one normally hidden behind his genteel demeanor. But it was visible now, as powerful as rage. She found herself shivering in the cool morning air, as though touched by a storm that defied the lovely spring dawn.
“I cannot fault these people,” the senator went on. “They have come terrifyingly close to utter ruin. Their nation was almost lost to the Weimar war machine. They are a proud race, and they have been humiliated and starved and beaten. Of course the French want to pretend that all is well. But simply wishing for a thing does not make it so. There are a number of young artists and writers who are gathering here in Paris. Some very talented Americans are among them, F. Scott Fitzgerald and Ernest Hemingway, to name just two. They call themselves and others finding their way after the war the Lost Generation.”
Muriel asked quietly, “Why are you here?”
He refocused upon the day. “Eh, what’s that?”
“With me. Here in Paris. Why are you spending time with me?”
His gaze tightened with approval. “Don’t you think it’s a little late to be asking this question?”
“I don’t mean any disrespect,” Muriel replied. “But none of this makes sense.”
“Your parents didn’t object to my reasoning. And neither did you, if I recall correctly.”
She was frightened of biting the hand that had set her free. But she needed to know. And she detected a glint of admiration in his smoky gray gaze. She found the courage to continue in her honest vein. “I would have done anything to escape from Alexandria.”
“Some would consider it a fine enough place to live. Many, in fact.”
“For me it was a prison.”
“Back to your question, Miss Muriel. Tell me why you think you are here.”
It was something she had spent the entire voyage considering. “You told my parents that you intended to seek antiques. You required a photographer who had experience in art history. You needed someone who could not just record your purchases, but ensure they are indeed as the sales people claim.”
“Europe is awash in artwork and treasures,” he confirmed. “Most of the royal families of Eastern Europe have been dispossessed. The Romanovs of Russia have vanished. There has never been a better time for such acquisitions. I represent several museums, including your employer, the Smithsonian. All of this I told your parents. All of this is true.”
“And if that is all there is to this journey, I am grateful for the chance to serve you. But…”
“Go on.”
“I read the papers. I know there are momentous events unfolding. The details of the League of Nations are being discussed. The treaties regarding Germany’s war repayments are being negotiated in London. The world is changing. And you are here. Walking the streets of Paris. With me. A nobody.”
“Hardly no one, my dear lady.”
“As near as,” she persisted.
“Well, well. The chrysalis has begun to open.”
“Excuse me?”
He was smiling openly now. “Never mind, my dear. The answer to your question is, how involved do you want to become?”
“I don’t understand, Senator. I am already as involved as I can be.”
“That is hardly the case, I assure you.”
She felt the import of his question and shivered with anticipation. “I want to be as involved as I possibly can.”
“Are you certain? Because I am not asking you a theoretical question. We are no longer safely hidden away in the Smithsonian library, young lady. This is not about information you might come across in some book.”
“I understand. You want to know if I am ready to commit. And the answer is, that is what I want. More than anything.”
“Even without knowing what is behind my question?”
“I have known you all my life. My father and mother trust you. As do I.”
“Very well.” He pulled the pocket watch from his vest, flicked open the gold case, snapped it shut, then gripped her elbow and steered her around. “In that case, we must change course. There is not a moment to lose.”
“Where are we going?”
“To the center of Paris fashion. The Rue Cambon.” He lifted his cane to hail a passing horse-drawn taxi. “We have precisely three hours to transform you into an American princess.”
: CHAPTER 2 ::
Senator Bryan ordered the driver to take them to the first arrondissement. Muriel had not ridden in a horse-drawn carriage for years. Here in Paris, they were everywhere. Petrol, the senator explained, was still hard to come by. The Germans had destroyed most of the French refineries in their savage retreat across the Verdun. The only three that remained were in Marseille, and the rail lines connecting the capital to the southern port were still damaged. The senator spoke in a light tone of voice, but Muriel had the distinct impression the words were a test. As though he was still trying to decide whether to trust her, and with how much.
She saw that day very clearly, as though already she was aware of the momentous changes ahead. She saw how the light played against the stone buildings and how there was not just one kind of Parisian who passed their carriage, but a multitude of different peoples, all brought together by this strange and wonderful city. She saw the cares they bore, the burdens and the worries. She felt them in her heart, as though they shouted to her as she passed.
She saw the careful manner in which the senator pretended not to observe her. He wore a hand-tailored suit and highly polished shoes, and his cane’s handle was ivory carved in the form of a Byzantine cross. She knew with an otherworldly sense that she was passing into some new realm, and she knew it was exactly what she wanted, what she had spent years yearning for.
Muriel’s excitement left her almost able to stop time. She could number the horse’s plodding steps and find rhythm in the creak of the carriage wheels. She could taste the city’s flavor and name everything except the mystery that lay ahead. She never wanted to lose this sense of being so alive.
In the space of twenty minutes, they journeyed to a different world. The Rue Cambon was utterly untouched by war or hardship. The people were elegant, the shops divine. They halted in front of a new type of clothing store called a designer boutique. Muriel had read about them but never dreamed a friend of her father would open the carriage door and say, “We have arrived.”
“I can’t possibly go in there.”
“If you intend upon joining me in my quest, you must.”
“Senator, you know very well I can’t afford a hat pin in that shop.”
“From this point on, Miss Muriel, you are in my employ.” He beckoned to where a shop lady held open the door. “Come.”
Once inside, they were greeted by a slender woman whose dark hair was bobbed just below her ears. She was the most elegant woman Muriel had ever seen. Every turn of her hand, the tilt of her chin, the way she fingered her pearls as she studied Muriel, all spoke of intense refinement. Muriel realized, “You are Madame Coco Chanel.”
