Chapter Text
- Year 1926, Paris -
The sound of the tolling bells of Notre Dame shook the cool late September morning in Paris. The heart of the city beat to the rhythm of the Charleston with its thundering soundtrack of thousands of lives, of stories told and yet to be told, of thousands of people coming and going like drinks that are emptied and refilled in the night. This city never sleeps. A city governed by contrasts as different as they are familiar, where time passes like a whisper of a breath and is consumed like the black smoke of a cigarette until it turns to ash. The intermingled smells in the air were a picturesque mix of the reflection of this place, ranging from the bitter smell of wine spread on the cobblestones to the heady aroma of freshly baked croissant.
This last precise smell enveloped Aziraphale in its soft, sweet aroma and she couldn't help but close her eyes and delve into the fluffiness of such an elaboration. He opened his eyes slowly as he cut into the sweet delicacy with fork and knife and popped it into his mouth to burst with flavour. He was having breakfast in Le Dome, one of the great cafés of the city, frequented by artists of crime as well as word thieves. Many familiar faces were passing through the café, but this morning, being so early in the morning, only a couple of people were enjoying breakfast on the terrace. Here the coffees and meals were prepared all day long, the cups were filled and the food was consumed like the angel's croassant. When he felt full and satisfied, he picked up his newspaper and with a smile on his lips he set off in the direction of the Louvre where he had got a temporary job a week ago as a caretaker of works of art.
Even if he didn't need the job, he enjoyed the works on display immensely. He enjoyed it so much that he would lose himself in the endless corridors of the museum, engrossed by the brushstrokes of Géricault, the carvings of Canova and the genius of DaVinci, among other extraordinary wonders that this place contains. He was a lover of art, for as long as he can remember he has always sought the beauty it conveys and its great eloquence to express itself in every possible way. He was passing through Paris when he saw the advert in the newspaper and after a few seconds of thought he signed up.
He was given an extensive interview, not because of the interviewer, but because of his great desire to explain in detail every line of every painting in the museum. Finally, after hours of talking he was given the job. For him it was a boat trip on the river Siena one summer evening. Easy and comfortable. This opportunity was unique and although the process of coming to Paris was difficult because of the memories that flooded his mind from time to time of that 21 January 1793.
What a night.
What an intense night.
When the Bastille was destroyed stone by stone by the hands of the poor starving peasants and heads were blown off the ground filling the vast streets of Paris with blood redder than crimson. He couldn't forget that night, I don't think he ever would no matter how many times he tried to drag it into the depths of his mind, it would always manage to slip elegantly into the middle of his thoughts. He found it difficult to forget the fact that he was almost beheaded and that he would no longer be able to enjoy the great culinary pleasures of French patisserie. But what concerned him most was that little one bittersweet memory of Paris, and that memory could be none other than that of the demon who saved him from the guillotine.
Since they met in 1862 and he asked him for the unimaginable. I didn't even know what his plan was but I wouldn't let him need that. He knows he was hard on him, he could feel the pain in his eyes, those snake eyes reflected eternal pain. That poor demon. Aziraphale knew all the languages of the world known and yet to be known, from the most current ones that enveloped the most future convergences to the forgotten ones that have left no trace at all. He had travelled all over the world, from the fallen cities of Mesopotamia, to the vast tundras of the Arctic, to the thick jungles of the Amazon. He knows art, literature, philosophy, knowledge unattainable to human beings.
But when it comes to that demon, he knew nothing.
He was such an unknown being, such an unsolved mystery, one that he feels it is best to leave it at that, savouring every move and piece of this jigsaw puzzle that he allows himself to see from time to time. When they are weak, when he knows that we keep in our hearths this thorny secret never written and never told. If it were known, it would no longer be a secret and the mystery would never be solved. There would be no more mystery as there would be no more angel and demon. He had sometimes wondered what he was doing, where he would be, it had been many years since he had seen him, too many. The thought of him made that nervous tingling sensation envelop him from the tips of his toes to the end of his nose.
Good thing the world was big and he was sure to be far away from it, he didn't want to deal with it, he wasn't ready since the last time.
His thoughts were interrupted when he saw that he had reached her destination. The detailed façade of the huge Louvre Palace loomed tall and shining in front of him. He had had the pleasure of visiting this place on his own countless times since its creation in 1793, perhaps the only place in this city where he felt safe and comfortable. This place had as much history as he did, from a military facility, to a prison, to a place of worship, to a royal residence, to what it is today.
Taking a deep breath he entered through the giant steel doors, waving along the way to the doorman François who smiled at him and waved back. He hasn't had time to get to know the doorman, but he gives him the energy of a lovable gentleman who always smiles and that smile follows the same curve as his grey moustache. His cheeks were always coloured red like a peach and he was always accompanied by his trademark beret and more military attire.
Once inside, he went through the various rooms looking at the works. He wiped the occasional frame with his faithful blue handkerchief that always accompanied him. Today he had decided to wear a white flannel suit with touches of blue and an ascot tie of the same colour. He missed the fashion of the eighteenth century, where one could dress more pompously, as he liked it. Fortunately, at least he had some oxford bags in his wardrobe in case the occasion arose. Aziraphale began to hum a tune as he scanned the last few rooms, thinking that in the afternoon he would probably go to Shakespeare and Company for some new book he had not yet read.
His job was to look after the paintings and objects that were kept here. If a painting needed to be restored, he had to point it out, do the paperwork. If an object did not please the public, or in most cases the director, he had to redo the room and plan a better exhibition. "The plan Verne". Currently the director was redoing and making exhibitions for his grand museum plan that would revolutionise the way these collections were distributed. But he is still working on it.
The tune he was humming gradually turned into a silence, his graceful gait ceased noisily and his wandering mind went blank in front of the Romanticism section. His breathing stopped for a few seconds. Her eyes opened like the stained glass windows of Notre Dame. A small drop snaked its way down his forehead until it fell to the floor. There in the centre of the room where the most important painting in the collection, Liberty Leading the People, stood a blank canvas with the words written on it barely legible because of the excess of blood-red paint that had dripped to the floor:
"Let them eat cake"
Suddenly, panic set in, surprise fading into the background as the highest-pitched scream his vocal cords could muster came out of his mouth. Seconds later he began to hyperventilate, loosening the knot of his ascot tie with one hand and leaning against the nearest wall with the other. He took a deep breath and pulled himself together as he watched two figures run up to him. He soon recognised Henry Verne, the current director of the museum, and his secretary Clément Simon with surprised faces. Verne was one of the most brash and overbearing people he had ever met in his life. He had a large, plump build, adorned with a short moustache and his characteristic monocle. His hair parted at the roots and perfectly slicked back on the sides only made him look like a daddy's boy. Simon, on the other hand, was a man of few words, always serious, very academic, spending half the day serving Henry and the other half studying artefacts. I think the doorman once told him that he had fought in several wars and plundered many cultural objects in the name of France. He always wore a black suit, for all occasions, which together with his scar in the form of a cut on his left cheek made him look more like a deadly weapon than a secretary.
When they arrived there was no need to say anything as the mere sight made it all clear. The words of astonishment were swallowed up by the very grave, spectral silence of the room. The first to utter a word was Verne:
"Mon Dieu, sacrebleu!" He exclaimed to the four winds while holding his hands to his head panicking.
"What has happened Monsieur Aziraphale?" asked the secretary approaching slowly with his characteristic calmness to the angel.
"I don't know Monsieur, I was making my morning rounds when I came across... this artrocity." He said pulling himself together and approaching the scene of the crime with his nervous humour.
Suddenly the director comes out of his denial and grabs Aziraphale by the shoulders, shaking him like a bear in search of honey. "Aziraphale, you have to find the painting and bring the criminal to justice! That's a direct order, do you hear me?" Shouted the director redder than a tomato and spitting every syllable out of his mouth.
"But Monsieur..." Aziraphale began to counter, only to be interrupted by another shout and shake from Verne. "But? I don't want but none! Your job is to look after the works, isn't it? Find her before Monday morning or we're dead men! Did you hear me?".
The angel could only nod his head quickly to stop his hedge-like shuffling. The director let him go, a sigh escaped his mouth before saying, "This is very serious, the press must not find out or this will be even more scandalous than the 1911 theft of La Gioconda. You must be discreet, Monsieur, for my sake, for the sake of this institution, for the sake of Paris and for the whole of France, without pressure". He said the last with a strange smile and with a certain tick in his eye.
Then he turned and began to walk with the secretary towards his office. Their voices could still be heard murmuring in the distance. "Clément, we have to come up with an excuse to close the museum today," said the director.
"How about declaring it national cat day?" he was contributing to the secretary as their voices drifted down the gallery.
Aziraphale didn't know what he had got himself into. He never thought that working here would get him into trouble. Much less that it would involve theft wrapped in a bow of mystery. He was only here for the art, culture and literature of this place. One little voice in the back of his mind told him that this matter was best left to mortals, and another told him that he was committed to solving this riddle. Perhaps this is meddling in the problems of the earthly world but he was there to balance the scales so this little adventure in favour of the renaissance arts would be entirely justifiable.
At least that was what he told himself to convince himself. One of his favourite works had been stolen, before it ended up in the wrong hands, perhaps in a horrible state, it was better to intervene in this matter. But there was a certain charm to it. He wasn't going to lie to himself, it gave him a bit of glee to find the culprit of such a crime and try to reincarnate the character from one of his favourite books: Sherlock Holmes. A little adventure won't kill anyone, will it? At this thought a small smile crossed his face. Maybe this would finally bring some academicism to this bohemian city.
With his mind made up, he put on his little glasses, and he began to examine the scene of the crime.
The original ornate frame was still intact, except for the removed painting, it appeared to be undamaged. To remove a painting from its frame requires a certain skill and experience. Plus they had implanted a new canvas and then left a message. This was the work of no ordinary thief. Thieves, rather. No human could have done all this alone. The frame, though light to the eye, tends to be the heaviest part of the work itself. It takes at least two to three people to get it down.
The angel moved even closer to the work and reached out to touch the painting. The texture was strange to him, something was not right, paint is usually a bit cooler and lighter and this he was touching was viscous and gave off a fruity smell. In other circumstances I would not have done so, but in desperate situations. Against all odds, Aziraphale brings the stained hand to his mouth as he sticks out his tongue and gives her hand a light lick.
Strawberry.
They had written this message in French with strawberry jam. The first thought that crossed the angel's mind, apart from remembering to ask the criminal for the recipe, was "Damn Dadaism". Besides, the phrase that was stamped on it was not the right one, he knew it for a fact since he was there at the time. Marie Antoinette may not have been the best company but her cakes were a delight to the palate. Too bad they beheaded the pie maker too.
Aziraphale inspected the area around the painting but found nothing relevant. It was a clean robbery. Despite the jam. Could they have been bohemian artists? Anticadaemicists? Thieves bought by human greed? The only thing that is certain is that they know the value of this piece, what it means for France and the museum's facilities. Wondering how the thieves could have got in he could only think that they either waited inside until the museum was closed or got in some other way.
There are a total of eight guards inside the museum and ten outside. They make millimetric rounds to the second. No one has reported anything this morning, they always do when there is a problem like when that little black cat came in a while ago. Obviously he adopt that cat. Speaking of the cat, how did that cat get in?
Out of nowhere a leaf fell with the grace of a ballerina on his head perfectly on your hair, without flattening it. He took this leaf out of his hair and looked up only to see the open skylight, from which hung a small broken rope undetectable to the human eye. Now the entire autopsy scene was exposed. Aziraphale was proud of his analysis. His chest swelled with pride and a small smile tugged at the corner of his lip. As he was about to take out a notebook to write down what had happened, he saw a crumpled piece of paper in the corner of the wall. Curious, he picked it up and opened it. It was a yellow piece of paper with only one exhorbitant amount of money: 950,000 francs.
Too much money, even he wouldn't know what to do with so much. But this made things clearer for him. This was about money. The strawberry jam painting was just a distraction, a mockery of art, a dadaist trick. What a disservice this movement has done to the world. The dadaist movement is the worst art invented on this earth. He still has nightmares about the fountain toilet. This type of no art is something Aziraphale would not tolerate.
With no further clues in sight, he set out to pull the only thread he could find. He writes everything down in his notebook and attaches the sheet of paper. With determined steps and a serious look on his face, except when he said goodbye to the doorman, he headed back to his flat to get ready. He needs to find the thief. Also, find an art connoisseur who could pass on contacts of people with the ability to change a canvas in Paris. There was only one person who could sell paintings on the black market.
He swallowed hard.
He knew where he would have to go.
Into the lion's den, the den of the underworld.
Moulin Rouge.