Louis stared at the note in his hands intently. He read it for the seventh or eighth time. Then he threw it on his desk, tiredly. It seemed to him that the only thing he had done lately was to follow the suggestions and instructions from these letters. He pinched the bridge of his nose and leant back on his chair. He had never thought that establishing a firm would be such a gruelling task.

Business was doing fine. After about a year of struggling, they had succeeded in forming a working team of masons and labourers who were careful and dedicated in their work. They worked on as many commissions as they possibly could at a time, and there were always one or two waiting for their attention. They weren't making a fortune, but money was coming in steadily. There had been enough of it to rent ample offices in a fancy district and to hire a secretary who took care of bookkeeping, correspondence and established the appointments with clients and contractors. But having to cope with all the engagements, supervising the constructions and dealing with Erik's inexhaustible energy and constant stream of new ideas was taking its toll on Louis. Louis huffed when he remembered he had once considered Erik to be an old and helpless invalid.

In the past two years he had learnt that one could never take anything pertaining Erik at face value. First, he had discovered that though Erik was older than he, he was anything but an aged man. Louis still had to figure out a way of finding out exactly how old Erik was ―direct questions had never been the right approach to his elusive partner― but taking into account the few silver strands on his hair and Gracie's age, one could safely guess he was somewhere between his mid thirties and his mid forties.

And then there was the relationship between Erik and the Persian, something that had puzzled Louis from the start. Erik had introduced the Persian as his 'dearest friend'. Where had they met and how had they come to have such a close friendship that the porter of the building in which Erik lived believed them to be brothers? One could never think that the short, stout, olive-skinned Monsieur Kahn was really related to the lean, whitish Erik. And yet the little girl called him 'Uncle Nadir'.

And, of course, the greatest mystery had been Erik's illness, though that was one Louis had partially solved already. Many months after he had first been admitted into the apartment at the Rue St. Jacques, Louis had started to suspect that Monsieur Devaux's ―they had still been on formal terms then― alleged ailment was not the consequence of a stroke, as Louis had first believed. Devaux spoke clearly and articulately, and the movements of his head and torso were well coordinated. Though his right hand remained still on his lap, it was elegant and slender, just as his left. For a long time, it must have been a year or so, Louis had wondered what kind of illness plagued the reclusive Devaux.

And then, one day, Devaux came up with an astounding proposal.

To begin with, he had invited Louis to his apartment. Until then, Louis had gone through the necessary ritual of calling twice or three times before he gained admittance to the ever-darkened sitting room. In the beginning, Louis had only gone through the process when he had something vital to consult with Devaux, and thus had passed three or four months in which they only met a few times. But the amenity of their talks had led Louis to seek Devaux's company more often. He found himself making up different excuses to see the man until one afternoon when Devaux had suggested they played chess. It had happened just when Louis had been hopelessly running out of excuses, and so Devaux himself had given him the reason he needed to visit. They had met regularly afterwards, but although Devaux didn't give any sign of being bored with Louis's company, he never gave signs of wanting his visits either. He would never hint at wanting to meet once again. Louis would usually set up the date of his next visit and wait to see if Devaux agreed or not.

The afternoon of the invitation, he had knocked at Devaux's door with some trepidation. He had been admitted to the sitting room, had sat on the couch and had been offered a glass of cognac. Then Devaux had handed him a newspaper with the announcement of a public contract to construct several buildings for the Mairie. Louis had seen it a few days before and had wished he had the time and the experience to make his own project. If he ever won such a commission, his future as an architect would be secured. But he had dismissed the idea immediately. He was too young, too inexperienced. His drafts would not even compete against those of the most renowned architects unless they were brilliant, and Louis knew his own limits. With a resigned sigh, he had thrown the newspaper on the coffee table and looked at Devaux. The man had stared back.

"Yes?" asked Louis at a loss.

"What do you think of it?" Devaux's left hand had drawn an arch, indicating the newspaper.

"It's an exciting commission," Louis shrugged. "It'll be interesting to see who gets it. Probably Giroux?"

Devaux cocked his head and regarded him for a little while. It started unnerving Louis, who fidgeted with his glass.

"What would you say if I told you I know we can get it?"

Louis's eyebrows shot upwards.

"We?"

Devaux nodded and seemed to wait for a reaction, but didn't get any. At last, he indicated a large notebook which was lying on the coffee table.

"I have been making some drafts. Have a look."

Louis leant forward and opened the notebook. He was more and more stunned as he paged through it. The drafts were. . . To say they were brilliant was somewhat of an understatement. Louis had always known Devaux was a competent draftsman despite his alleged handicap, but this was the first time he saw some of his original drawings. Louis looked up at the man in awe.

"I would bet you will win the commission, Monsieur."

Devaux smacked his tongue in a slight sound of impatience. His rebuke was sharp.

"I can hardly work on any such thing while confined to my home, Monsieur Menand."

Louis looked down, at a loss for words. He fingered the corner of one of the pages of the sketchbook, uneasily.

"On the other hand, if we. . . If we presented the project together we could. . . We could divide the workload."

Louis looked up, surprised. Devaux, who'd always been extremely articulate, seemed to be battling for words. And then it struck Louis that Devaux was asking him to work with him, in equal terms. There was no way he could match Devaux's skills.

"I would be working for you, Monsieur. I could take care of all the practicalities but as to the designs," Louis's hand waved over the sketchbook in a helpless gesture. "There's nothing I could add to them."

Louis leant back on the couch, in dismay. He had known all along that he wasn't good enough to compete with the most renowned architects in Paris. He had barely managed to keep his firm afloat for over a year now, and that because he accepted any kind of work that was thrown at him. He had hoped he was a good architect of the average sort, but Devaux's designs were a cruel reminder of his shortcomings. He looked at the cognac glass wistfully. He needed a sip of alcohol, but it stood on the coffee table, and it seemed as distant and impossible to reach as his dreams of becoming a respected professional. Then a low, cackling sound caught his attention. Devaux was chuckling. Louis's self esteem was ruffled. Was the man laughing at him now?

"There's a lot more to an architect's work than drawing beautiful buildings, Monsieur Menand. Dealing with suppliers, contacting clients and contractors, making decisions on the site. . . All those things are as important as designing the buildings," Devaux seemed to have regained the use of his speech all of a sudden.

"They are but menial tasks, Monsieur Devaux, secondary to the creative work," huffed Louis.

"Oh, but they are not secondary at all. Of all people I would know that."

That statement piqued Louis curiosity. He regarded Devaux. Devaux seemed pleased with having got Louis's attention so completely. He leant forward a little bit and lowered the tone of his voice.

"You see, those were the tasks I failed at when I tried to establish myself, Monsieur Menand. I know how essential they are. Besides," he continued after a heartbeat, leaning back again. "I think you esteem yourself too little. There are a lot of things to correct in those designs. And plenty of suggestions you can make about them."

Louis gave out a soft snort as he shook his head.

"There's nothing I can improve in your work," he protested.

"Of course you can. It wouldn't be the first time you've criticised it."

Louis's forehead furrowed. Criticise Devaux's work? He'd never done anything like that!

Devaux breathed out sharply, in what seemed a curt grin.

"You have commented on one of my buildings more than once. And your critiques have been most enlightening."

Louis gawked at the man.

"Your. . . Your buildings?"

Devaux chuckled and nodded, amused.

"But. . . Which. . . When. . .?"

"Oh, allow me to keep that as a portion of mystery, Monsieur Menand. Would you like to work with me on this? We will probably not win the commission anyway."

Louis was insulted by that.

"Of course we will. With these designs," he stated, pointing at the notebook. "Of course we will."

Devaux roared in laughter, and Louis was taken aback by the rich quality of his mirth. He then realised he'd been persuaded without even noticing. He burst out in laughter himself.

Louis shook his head, amused, when he remembered those first days of their partnership. They had worked steadily and feverishly on the project. Never had Louis taken so many pains over any other job. Never had he had such an observant and sharp working partner. Devaux went over every detail with an obsessive care, poring over the blueprints, the estimates for the materials and the work. He discussed every step of the process with Louis. They even went over the details of the interview with the committee that would evaluate the project, the interview in which they would be solely represented by Louis. As the day in which the results would be published approached, Devaux seemed to grow more and more apprehensive. And the morning when Louis, out of breath after having run up the five floors to Devaux's apartment, announced to him that they had got the commission, he almost jumped out of his armchair in joy.

They worked steadily in the coming weeks, facing the problems they encountered, considering every solution from different points of view, finding a comfortable working rhythm. That first project had laid the foundations of a working relationship that was to develop and flourish further on. By the time they finished the government buildings, they were already calling each other by first name, and Erik had discarded the plaid blanket and the slippers. Louis was by then perfectly aware of the fact that Erik wore a mask and that he had been feigning an illness to conceal it. It stroke Louis as odd that somebody wanted to conceal an object normally used to hide something else, but it had never come up in their conversations.

Louis had noticed the way in which Erik shrunk from direct light, the manner in which he often angled his face away to hide the mask. Louis had decided never to mention it unless Erik spoke about it first. It had evidently forced Erik to retire into his apartment, had prevented him from developing a successful career and had hindered his contact with others. So Louis was determined not to let it stand in the way of what he thought could become a partnership. And he was proven correct in his decision.


A month after they had concluded their first project, several weeks after Louis had proposed Erik to turn his firm into Devaux & Menand, Architects, a couple of days after Erik had finally acquiesced, Louis had descended the stairs from Erik's apartment to bump into Monsieur Kahn in the foyer.

"Monsieur Menand, I would like a word with you," the Persian stated, in a tone of voice as definite and indisputable as Erik's when he called out a checkmate.

He led Louis to a nearby café, and after ordering their drinks and making some petty conversation, he attacked the matter.

"Erik has told me you are going to start an architectural firm together."

He nodded dubitatively at Louis's affirmative answer.

"How exactly does one start a firm here in France? You see, Monsieur, I am not familiar with the legal procedures in this country."

"Well, Monsieur Kahn, it varies a little bit depending on the size of the firm and the conditions of the partners. If one of the partners, for example. . ." started Louis, who had researched the matter not that long ago.

"Yes, yes, but in your case, what are the requirements?"

"In my case?"

"Yours and Erik's."

"Then it's really simple. I will have to make a legal statement of my willing to have a partnership with Monsieur Devaux. You see, because I have a previous firm myself, we'll have to turn it into one where Erik figures as a partner. Change its name. Then my attorney will make a draft of a partnership contract and if Erik agrees we'll sign it. It'll have to be legalised by a notary and then inscribed in the. . ."

"And how long will Erik have to study this contract?"

Louis lifted an eyebrow. What was Monsieur Kahn getting at? At first, Louis had thought he had only been asking out of mere curiosity.

"He'll have as long as he wants. He can hire an attorney to study it if he prefers."

Monsieur Kahn nodded again in his slow, reflexive way.

"I see."

After a heartbeat he added:

"And the legalising process. . . You said the contract has to be brought to a notary?"

"It has to be signed in front of a notary. And a witness."

"Have you talked to Erik about that?"

"No," Louis admitted. "But surely he knows about the process, doesn't he?"

"Erik has been secluded in his home for quite some time, Monsieur Menand. I have been representing him in legal matters for years."

Louis was annoyed by this. If the Persian was representing Erik, why weren't they having this conversation in Erik's presence? And why hadn't Erik told Louis anything about it?

"I didn't know you were representing him in this matter, Monsieur Kahn," he deadpanned.

"I'm not."

Louis rose.

"Then I don't think we have anything. . ."

A gentle but firm hand on his forearm stopped him.

"Please, Monsieur Menand. I'm acting in Erik's best interest."

Louis watched the Persian evenly, refusing to yield, trying to gauge the amount of truth in the man's words. The Daroga met his eyes and held his stare, with the tranquillity of a man with a clean conscience. At last, Louis sat again.

The Persian had a sip of his coffee. Louis was irritated with his calmness. He decided to attack the matter directly, even if it meant abandoning politeness.

"What are you implying, Monsieur Kahn? Do you think I'm going to defraud Erik? To take advantage of him?"

The Persian lifted his eyebrows.

"No."

Louis breathed in, more calmly.

"But, Monsieur Menand, please understand," continued Nadir. "I've seen people. . . How do you say it? Betray Erik more than once in his life."

Louis opened his mouth to protest, but was stopped by an imperious gesture.

"No, please, let me finish. I've seen him lose everything more than once. I've seen him ruined, his home destroyed, chased like an animal, abandoned by those he had confided in. And yet. . . And yet he has found it in himself to start again, to move on, even to trust people once again. You can't possibly fathom what kind of gift, what kind of honour it is to receive Erik's trust, Monsieur Menand."

The force of emotion contained in the Persian's words was such that it stunned Louis to silence. At last, he rubbed his face uncomfortably.

"Believe me, Monsieur Kahn. I'd be the one who would lose the most if our partnership dissolved. The firm would not survive without Erik's talents."

The Persian smiled.

"I know. I've seen him work in the past."

Louis forgot his aggravation and discomfort in a second.

"Have you? When?"

"Ah, many years ago," answered Nadir. "Hasn't he told you about the palace he built for the Shah-in-Shah?"

Louis shook his head.

"Ah. Well, then I suppose I mustn't. . ."

"No, please," Louis interrupted him. "Erik is too modest, and I'm eager to learn more about his past works. Would you describe it for me?"

"Oh," Nadir said, containing his grin at the avidness in the eyes of the young architect, as bright as Gracie's at the promise of sweets.

"I guess a brief description won't do any harm," he continued after a climatic pause. "You see, the palace was built. . ."

Ten minutes later, the mood of the conversation had changed drastically. The tension had completely vanished. They were chatting in very amiable terms and Nadir thought it appropriate to steer the talk back to where he had originally intended.

"Erik will not go to a notary's office. To any office, for that matter," he remarked casually.

"I know," answered Louis. "A notary would come to Erik's apartment to legalise his signature."

And after a heartbeat, he added:

"He can choose the notary himself, as well."

Louis didn't know what had prompted him to say that, but he was pleased when Nadir nodded, apparently relieved.

Louis smiled. At the time, he had sensed that the Persian was going through all that trouble out of a sense of protectiveness, the same kind of protectiveness that had led Françoise to slam the door of Erik's apartment to all the people that tried to pry in. But he hadn't had any clue as to how far that protectiveness stretched.

The Persian had convinced Erik to hire an attorney to study the contract, and had contacted a notary himself. He had also signed as witness, unwilling to let anybody else into Erik's apartment. Later on, Louis had found out that the Persian had even researched into his own past. A certain André Legrand, who turned out to be a private detective, had asked for references at the university and the Societé Centrale des Architectes. He had also interviewed some of Louis's former classmates, and all of the contractors he had worked with. Louis had been irritated at the time. It was completely far-fetched and quite rude that the Persian thought it necessary to meddle into Louis's private life.

However, Louis had decided not to mention the matter to Erik. Their partnership had just been budding and Louis had the strong feeling that Erik would cower back at the slightest sign of trouble, just like Louis's grandfather had shied human contact and locked himself in his room after his stroke.

Louis sighed and stretched his tired legs. He put his heels on his desk and leant back. He contemplated the ample, well lit room and remembered the day he had finally convinced Erik to go and have a look at their offices. It had taken him over three months to do so. As far as Louis knew, Erik never left the apartment. Louis understood Erik's fear of other people's stares after having experienced his grandfather's embarrassment at his own illness, so it had come as a surprise when Erik acquiesced after only some months of coaxing. The visit itself, which had taken place late in the evening when everybody but the night guard had left the building, had been a bit uneasy. Erik had not shown the delight Louis had expected at seeing the copper plaque at the entrance door that announced that those were the quarters of Devaux & Menand, Architects. Nor had he been particularly impressed by the size and disposition of the offices. He had uttered some polite expressions of admiration and then was absorbed by the blueprints displayed on Louis's desk, the latest copies of their current project. They had spent the next two hours discussing the building, just as they would have done in Erik's sitting room. Louis guessed that was an encouraging proof of Erik's confidence that he could relax in a space so foreign to him, but he was a little disappointed. He had expected a more enthusiastic reaction.

That first outing had, however, opened the door to another weird, albeit gratifying and necessary business practice: their visits to building sites during the night. Whenever there was need to recognise the progress of the works, they would agree the day and the hour; Louis would hire a cab and wait at the corner of Erik's street for him. Sometimes Erik would come alone; at weekends he would take Gracie with him. Louis would drop a generous tip on the watchman's hand and they would tour the site. Erik was as obsessive with the building process itself as he was with the drawing of blueprints, and thus they would spend a good part of the night inspecting and checking, discussing what had been done until then and trying to find solutions to whatever problems they encountered. Then Erik would often invite Louis over for a bite and a glass of cognac at his apartment. Louis would usually arrive to his own apartment with the first lights of dawn.

No wonder he couldn't keep up with the working rhythm, Louis mused as he tipped his head to one side to relieve his taut muscles. There was a tap at the door.

"Yes?"

Mademoiselle Renaud's head appeared at the door.

"Monsieur, Françoise has just brought this."

She showed him one of Erik's envelopes. Louis rubbed his temples and shut his eyes tight. Jesus. Not another one.

"Would you. . . Should I. . .?"

"No, Mademoiselle. I'll read it. Thank you," replied Louis.

She gave him the envelope.

"Would you like a cup of coffee?"

Louis smiled.

"Yes, Mademoiselle. Coffee would be just fine."

He ripped the envelope open. His burst of laughter made Mademoiselle Renaud freeze on her tracks.

The note was two lines long. It read:

You've looked exhausted as of lately. Why don't you hire an assistant to take care of the contractors?

E.