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formal dining room, with its long table, the place had few furnishings. In the front of the atelier were huge period windows encased in dark green iron, overlooking the rooftops across the narrow street.
    Christian Figeac’s face was a mask, yet anxiety emanated from him.
    “Something wrong?” Aimée asked.
    He tore out of the room and rushed down the hallway.
    Aimée followed.
    “Idrissa, Idrissa, I’m back,” he shouted.
    By the time she’d caught up with him, he was leaning against the wall of the dark-timbered kitchen.
    “Weren’t you going to show me …”
    “She’s gone,” he interrupted.
    “Who’s gone?” Aimée asked, looking around. A blue iron La Cornue stove filled a third of the kitchen.
    “My girlfriend, Idrissa. Idrissa Diaffa,” he said. “Her bags, her things, her prints gone from the walls.”
    Piles of dishes, encrusted with dried food, filled the porcelain sink. A pot of turmeric-peanutty-smelling stew sat on the cook-top.
    “I’m sorry, but we really need to continue talking about your father’s work.”
    “After I sold the apartment, we were going to invest in Gouée, that island in Senegal,” he said, his tone wistful. “She’s from there.”
    Then he sniffled and his head drooped. Like a beaten dog, Aimée thought. He wiped his runny nose with his jacket sleeve.
    “Anyway, I must get rid of this museum,” Christian Figeac said. “Sell it.”
    He seemed to gather himself together. Had this happened before, she wondered, or was he used to being abandoned? Aimée noticed a dark wood-paneled room off to the right. The room was sealed—protected from trespassers—with glass. Women’s clothes were strewn on the bed, leopard jumpsuits and fringed vests. He followed her gaze.
    “That was my mother’s room. Le Palais de Nostalgie , I call it, like a shrine. Papa wouldn’t let it be touched.”
    The ghoul factor, she thought. Someone would want this apartment just for that … not to mention the location.
    She noticed the scuffed woodwork and cobwebbed corners.
    “Do you live here?”
    “Most of the time,” he said, scratching his arm. He kept his jacket on in the musty apartment. “But I haven’t been back since I heard the typewriter.”
    “The typewriter?”
    “Papa had a typewriter.”
    What was this about? He knew his father was dead. It was hot and sticky and she felt cranky.
    “Why don’t you show me your father’s room, tell me about his work,” she said, keeping her voice level.
    “There’s nothing to see,” he said. “Take my word for it.”
    Christian seemed intent on being contradictory. Something sad clung to him, like a shroud.
    “Sorry, all this must be difficult,” she said. “And I understand it’s painful but I can’t help if you don’t let me see it.”
    “The room hasn’t been cleaned.” He stood, hesitant.
    “No problem.” Even better, but she didn’t say it.
    In the front hallway, Christian Figeac took a ring of old-fashioned keys from a hook. He tried several before one grated in the lock, which opened with a loud click that echoed in the parquet-floored entrance.
    The twenty-foot double doors swung back to reveal a rectangular breakfast room, spacious and light due to floor-to-ceiling windows.
    “Doesn’t look used much.”
    “I haven’t stepped inside since …” He paused. “The cleaners should be here soon.”
    “Maybe your girlfriend …”
    “Never,” he said. “She didn’t like rooms where spirits linger.”
    “Lingering spirits?”
    “That’s why I curse him,” Christian Figeac said. His voice had slowed. “We told the newspapers Papa took his life in bed. But he shot himself here.” He pointed to the long panel of a desk, in the middle of the room. Chocolate-looking smudges covered the wallpaper behind the chair.
    Poor Christian Figeac. Why would a father let his son discover that?
    “Right at his desk,” he said. “Couldn’t be bothered to do it in the park. Left his brains on the wall for me to