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Page 30.
 In the evenings, when she was alone, or when Yves lay on her bed reading, she’d take a magnifying glass and started again poring over the Journal II that Frau Jones had given her in greater Heidelberg.
“Go easy,” Yves counseled from the bed.
She sighed. “I know. I have to stop reading when my eyes get blurry with tears.”
“Why don’t you come over here and snuggle with me?”
“Wait.” She sat up suddenly, training the magnifying glass on a faint bit of writing on one side in the early pages. “I can barely make this out. It’s written in very light pencil. What does it say?” She bit the tip of her tongue and hovered in close, bringing the magnifying glass up and down. “I have it. It’s a name.” She looked more closely yet. “A name and an address.”
Yves rose and padded over on stocking feet. He put one arm around her shoulder, nuzzling cheek to cheek (and she raised an arm to embrace him in welcome of his comfort, while handing him the glass).
He read: Claudette Vervain, 45 Rue de la Ferronière, Paris 75012.
She snapped her fingers, remembering Frau Jones’ words. “Claudette. I think that was the name of his Parisian girlfriend, who studied in Heidelberg for a year long ago.”
Yves shook his head. He laid the magnifier down. “If she was his age, she’d be in her seventies.”
“She might still be around. Look, we have an address.”
“Sounds familiar somehow. I’ll look it up on the Internet.”
She pulled her laptop close, and rose to give him her seat. Yves opened up the shell, powered up, and plugged away on the keyboard. He began commenting as he found out details: “It’s a small street in the Twelfth Arrondissement. I’ve never heard of that street, but there are thousands in the city and I only know some of the ones in my neighborhood.”
They researched until they found the address. It was not far from the newly reinvigorated area of Bercy, a former quarter of wine warehouses and the like, which had been turned into an attraction called Bercy Village for both tourists and locals.
Next time Yves had the car out, they took a drive east into the Twelfth Arrondissement for a lark. The street, near the Rue de l’Alouette and the Bois de Vincennes, was an alley inside a stone tunnel leading to a courtyard It was one of those tucked-away corners that one finds at odd places in Paris, always a surprise to stumble upon when one does. The number was old and rusty, white lettering on a small blue enameled square, on a mossy stuccoed wall near the tunnel’s end, beside a beat-up looking old steel door with rivets and metal straps for security.
Meanwhile, Hannah also did a search on the name Vervain. She came up with various persons of that name, along with references to the beautiful flower verbena, but no Claudette Vervain, and nowhere near that address. Further searches in the broader ?le-de-France and then in other French cities yielded no meaningful results. Nothing jumped out.
Puzzled, Hannah pushed the journal aside and went on with her life, which was busy enough.
How happy Dad and Mom would be to see their kids now, Hannah thought as she and Yves strolled arm in arm along the Seine near the Notre Dame de Paris cathedral. The bells rang and thundered musically as if in a salute. She was once again happy to be back in her own life, as he had been after the funeral in Oregon only weeks earlier.
Paris felt like home now. She loved the city, with all of its beautiful and gritty aspects. It could be a sunny city at times, and then a gray one. Often a playful one, like when the authorities brought in sand and created an artificial beach on the wharves of the Seine.
It was great to be back to work, to be in harness and back to normal. She relished her rides in the Métro and RER train networks. She loved her walks at lunch under the great square arch newly built to complement the classical Axis running from the Tuileries Park through the Arc de Triomphe and across the river to la Défense.
On their day off, she and Yves took a twenty-minute stroll past the Île de Paris with its Notre Dame cathedral and the Sainte-Chapelle. They strolled on the Quai Anatole France along the Left Bank.
Hannah never suspected that this would be yet another day that changed her life forever.
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