At eleven thirty, with no customers, nothing left to do, and a batch of Star Pies in the oven, I log on to the old laptop that I keep behind the register—I “borrow” WiFi from Jessica Gregory’s gift shop next door—and I slowly type in www.google.com. Once there, I pause. What am I looking for? I chew my lip for a moment and enter the first name on Mamie’s list. Albert Picard.
A second later, the search results are up. There’s an airport in France named Albert-Picardie, but I don’t think that has anything to do with Mamie’s list. I read the Wikipedia entry, nonetheless, but it’s clear that this is something else altogether; it’s a regional airport that serves a community called Albert in the Picardie region of northern France. Dead end.
I click back and scan the other search results. There’s a Frank Albert Picard, but he’s an American attorney who was born and raised in Michigan and died in the early 1960s. That can’t be the person she’s looking for; he has no ties to Paris. A few other Albert Picards come up when I add the word Paris to my search string, but nothing seems to fit with the time Mamie lived in France.
I bite my bottom lip and clear the search field. I type in White Pages, Paris, and after a few click-throughs, I wind up on a page titled Pages Blanches, which asks for a nom and a prénom. I know from my limited high school French that this is surname and first name, so I type in Picard and Albert, and under the blank asking Où?, I enter Paris.
One listing comes up, and my heart skips a beat. Will it really be this easy? I jot down the number, then I erase Albert and fill in the second name on Mamie’s list: Cecile. There are eight matches in Paris, including four people listed as C. Picard. I jot down those numbers too and repeat the search with the rest of the names. Helene, Claude, Alain, David, Danielle.
I finish with a list of thirty-five numbers. I return to Google to figure out how to call France from the United States and jot down those instructions too; I work out the overseas number for the first Picard and reach for the phone.
I pause before I pick it up. I have no idea what international calls cost, because I’ve never had to make one before. But I’m sure it’s something just short of a fortune. I think about the check for a thousand dollars Mamie wrote to me and resolve to take the long-distance charges out of that and deposit the rest of the money back into her checking account. It’ll still be a lot cheaper than buying a ticket to Paris.
I glance at the door. Still no customers. The street outside is empty; there’s a storm brewing, and the sky is darkening, the wind picking up. I glance back at the oven. Thirty-six minutes left on the timer. The smell of cinnamon is wafting through the bakery as I breathe in deeply.
I dial the first number. There are a few clicks as the call connects, and then a pair of almost buzzerlike pulses. Someone picks up on the other end.
“Allo?” a woman’s voice says.
It suddenly occurs to me that I don’t speak more than rudimentary French. “Um, hello,” I say nervously. “I’m looking for the relatives of someone named Albert Picard.”
There’s silence on the other end.
I search my memory desperately for the correct French words. “Um, je chercher Albert Picard,” I attempt, knowing that’s not quite right but hoping that it conveys my point.
“There is no Albert Picard here.” The woman speaks clear English with a heavy French accent.
My heart sinks. “Oh. I’m sorry. I thought that—”
“There is no Albert Picard here because he is a useless bastard,” the woman continues calmly. “He cannot keep his hands from touching all the other women. And I am done with it.”
“Oh, I’m sorry . . .” I say, my voice trailing off because I’m not sure what else to say.
“You are not one of these women, are you?” she asks, suddenly sounding suspicious.
“No, no,” I say quickly. “I am looking for someone my grandmother once knew, or maybe was related to. She left Paris in the early 1940s.”
The woman laughs. “This Albert, he is only thirty-two. And his father is Jean-Marc. So he is not the Albert Picard you search for.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. I glance down at the list. “Do you know a Cecile Picard? Or a Helene Picard? Or a Claude Picard? Or . . .” I pause. “Or a Rose Durand? Or Rose McKenna?”
“No,” the woman says.
“Okay,” I say, disappointed. “Thank you for your time. And I hope, um, that you work things out with Albert.”