The Forest Secret - Chapter 5
The New York Timesoffice consisted of three floors of a traditional low profile building close to the main attractions of Paris. Charley had arrived at 9:30- -15 minutes early - and had to pass through extensive security before proceeding to the front desk.
“Sorry for what you have to go through there,” Peter Fortane said, by way of introduction. The American who had spent the last 11 years in the French capital held out his hand to shake hers and providing a security pass for all floors of the building.
Charley stepped back to stare up at his 6’ 7” frame and smiled. “You must have to stoop a lot in this town,” she noted.
He offered a wide grin in return. “You bet. Most of the traditional structures in this city were erected in an era when most French averaged 5’ 4” in stature. It gives my neck a good workout each day though.” They laughed in unison.
“Stairs or elevator?” he asked.
“Didn’t get my workout this morning, so let’s go.”
Peter veered to the right and used his security pass to open a metal door to reveal some iron stairs.
“We’re on the second floor. Again, sorry, for all this security. It all doubled in strength after the Charlie Hebdo attacks a few years ago.”
“It was awful,” she responded. “We watched it in the newsroom of the Timesand felt a strong bond with everyone in the building, since it was a newspaper.”
“Yes, in many ways it united France for a brief time. More than 40 world leaders and over two million people came to downtown Paris to rally for national unity in the face of the terrorist attacks. Four million joined similar demonstrations across the country. It was quite something.”
Peter suddenly stopped, turning to look at her. “Quite a coincidence, isn’t it? Charlie Hebdo - Charley Heron. The favourite phrase everyone used was Je suis Charlie. Could be fate.” He smiled at the oddity of it, turned and began climbing again.
The stairway door opened to reveal a bustling newsroom about half the size of its New York equivalent. Peter gave her a quick tour before knocking on a large glass door, featuring a huge wooden desk and a balding elderly man hunched over it.
“Charley Heron, this is Bernard Durand, boss of this entire place.”
The man looked up in mock skepticism at Peter’s introduction. But when he stood to shake his guest’s hand, his fierce blue eyes lit up the entire room. Far from being the stern editor she had first thought upon seeing him, Durand was alive with personality and warmth.
“Enchanté,Ms. Heron,” he said buoyantly, his hand extended.
“I’m not sure of the French protocols here, but just Charley would do,” she said, feeling herself naturally drawn to Durand.
“And so it shall be,” he responded. “Peter, why don’t you round up the others and meet back here. You see, Charley, we have been expecting you.”
A mere five minutes later, five staff were in the room besides Charley, each eager to meet their new American contact. Peter did the rounds of introduction while Durand was on the phone.
Elaine Bouchard was copy editor, somewhat frumpy but friendly. Denis was head of research, medium height with dark brown hair, and came with an armful of papers for briefing his guest. He was French but his English was perfect. Pierre Lambeau was senior writer for the paper but appeared remote, perhaps even critical. Like Peter, he was exceptionally tall, dressed impeccably and wore horn-rimmed glasses, reminding Charley of the old, chain-smoking journalist - no doubt his intention. Durand and Peter rounded out the rest.
They sat at an elongated inlaid wooden table that now held three different decanters of various kinds of coffee. Not knowing where to seat herself, Peter patted the chair beside him, which she gratefully accepted.
“All right” Durand began, “ our American cousins have taken a keen interest in Aramis Caron and have asked our assistance in preparation of a feature to be written by Charley here.” It was the first time she had heard the old guide’s surname and found it intriguing.
When no one else said anything, Durand added, “I believe Denis has prepared a bit of background on the deceased man, including his years of service in the cathedral itself. And, Elaine, you have an interest in this story, I believe?”
Bouchard smiled politely before saying, “Our department believes there might be a keen interest in your account of this Aramis fellow, Charley, and that we’d like to give it a wider audience through our global edition. We’ve spoken with your supervisors in New York and they have agreed. It is not our purpose to interfere with any of your recounting but if we can assist in any way, please let us know.”
Charley nodded in agreement, but noticed that Pierre Lambeau was looking out the window in mild disgust. Something was obviously going on with him, but she opted not to press.
Just then the door burst open and a young 30-something aged woman with long chestnut hair entered and proceeded to drop a pile of papers on the floor. Charley looked over to see a muted grin on Durand’s face.
“I’m sorry, honestly. With the fire, the Metro had to detour people around the site and took a little longer to get here.” She said all this while fumbling about, attempting to retrieve the papers in their proper order. There was something strangely appealing about her.
“Charley, this is Stephanie Bains, from the photography department … and from Canada,” Durant noted. “She has been assigned to you for the duration of your time here. She also happens to be a remarkable photographer, especially in black and white - a genre for which she captured a number of awards.”
“Oh, I’ve been so looking forward to meeting you, Charley - can I call you that? I’ve already conceived of some great scenes that could be captured for your piece - I mean, if you’re okay with that naturally?”
“Every picture I take on my iPhone is blurry, so I’m thankful for the company of someone who really knows what she’s doing,” Charley replied, with a smile. She stood and shook Stephanie’s hand, who promptly dropped more papers on the floor.
Breaking into the bedlam, Durand said, “Okay, I think the best thing for us to do is let these two industrious women get into the scene and gain some first impressions. Then we can regroup and see how to proceed with the story for both editions. I phoned a friend in the French security ministry and he has agreed to issue you these passes to get into the cathedral, provided you follow the guidance of the patrolling officers. They are expecting you this morning, so you might want to head over there before the crowds build once more.”
The editor paused momentarily, then asked, “Pierre, is there anything, as senior writer, that you could offer by way of insight into this venture?”
For the first time, Lambeau showed a spark of interest, only to say, “No, nothing I can think of. I’m sure the Americans have got everything covered.”
It was a shot and everyone knew it, but, almost as if by some silent assent, no one took the man to task for his rudeness. Nevertheless, Charley tucked the incident away in the back of her mind for later reference.
“Fine,” Durand interjected. “Then let’s get about our business of creating meaning in all this news. And Charley - whatever you need,” he said agreeably, leaning across the table to hand her his card with his personal cell number penned in.
As they stood to leave, Stephanie came up to her. “So looking forward to working with you, Charley. Do you want to head over there now - together, I mean?”
“Sure, that would be great. Can we walk?”
“It’s a little far for that,” her new friend replied, “especially with carting along my equipment. We have an account with a taxi company here in Paris. Why don’t I just call for one? It will be downstairs by the time we get there.”
“Sounds good,” Charley replied while looking around the office. Lambeau had already departed, as had Bouchard. But Denis appeared to be tarrying in an effort to speak to her. She walked over to him, offering her best smile. “I have much to learn about the cathedral, Denis, but I’m sure you can compensate for my ignorance.”
“Of course,” the man replied, holding out a folder with papers. “It’s mostly in here,” he continued. “The main thing for you to know is that Notre Dame has been through this before, only not with so much attention. It was damaged and neglected in the 1790s, during the French Revolution. Victor Hugo’s 1831 novel, Notre-Dame of Paris, published in English as The Hunchback of Notre Dame,informed readers about the building’s decrepit condition. That publication helped spur significant overhauls from 1844 to 1864, when the architects redid the spire and flying buttresses.”
“Flying buttresses?” asked Charley, her left eyebrow raised in curiosity.
Denis looked anxious to continue. “After construction had begun, flying buttresses were added to the design of the cathedral. The design is meant to hold the thin, tall, Gothic-style walls up and prevent cracks in them. The flying buttresses are meant to provide support to the structure but also add to the cathedral’s Gothic style. I have included a highlight of them in your package there.”
“Thank you, Denis. Anything else I should know?”
“It might help to know what the average Parisian is aware of concerning the cathedral, just so you don’t seem totally foreign to the situation.”
“Like what?” she asked inquisitively.
“Well,” he responded, "Henry VI of England was made king of France inside Notre-Dame in 1431.”
“The king of England was crowned here?” she blurted.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “The relationship between the two nations has been so complex and interconnected that historians still have trouble figuring it all out.”
“What else?” she asked.
“Well, Napoleon Bonaparte, who also sought to save the cathedral, was crowned emperor there in 1804. And Joan of Arc was beatified in the cathedral by Pope Pius X in 1909.”
“Intriguing,” she observed.
“Did you know that the spire of the cathedral that collapsed in the fire contained relics — teeth, bones or hair — of the patron saints of Paris, St. Denis and St. Geneviève. The relics were placed in the spire by an archbishop to protect the cathedral.”
Charley shook her head. “And you’re saying that the average Parisian already knows that?”
He smiled, slightly embarrassed. “No, not likely. I just thought it was interesting.” They both laughed and it provided a natural ending to their conversation.
Agreeing to consult with Denis regularly on what she was discovering, Charley then joined the photographer at the door.
“Ready? Her we go. History, here we come,” Stephanie said with a certain innocence, which, in light of all that happened, didn’t seem so out of place.