Everyone had known. In 1909, the twenty-year license that Gustave Eiffel had been granted would be up. The city authorities would then order the tower to be dismantled. Even if he couldn’t be the foreman, Thomas had wanted to apply to work on that job. “I put that tower up, and I’ll take it down,” he used to say. But it would break his heart to do it.

So a chance meeting early in 1908 had brought him great joy. He’d been working on a project to the south of the Eiffel Tower, and if the weather was fine he would walk past the tower at the end of the day. One evening, he saw Monsieur Eiffel just ahead of him in the dusk. He couldn’t resist going up to him to pay his respects; and to his pleasure, Eiffel recognized him at once.

“Well, Gascon, it’s good to see you again.”

“It is possible, monsieur, that you may see more of me next year. For I shall certainly apply to dismantle the tower, although it is a terrible shame to do it.”

Eiffel smiled at him.

“Then I have good news for you, my friend. I have just concluded an extension of the contract, until 1915.”

“Another six years. That is something at least, monsieur.”

“And I have other plans too. Do you realize the usefulness of the tower, my dear Gascon, for radio communications?”

“I had not really thought of it.”

“Well, I can assure you that the tower is the finest radio mast in the world. And I have a few other things up my sleeve. Trust me, my friend, and I believe I can save our tower. Just give me a little time.”

And some time later Thomas had read in the newspaper that the army and navy had declared that the tower was essential for their military communications.

Once again, the genius of Eiffel had triumphed. The tower was now sacrosanct. It was part of the defense of France.

So today, before they returned home, Thomas Gascon could pause, point to the Eiffel Tower and tell his children: “That tower is so well constructed, it will stand as long as Notre Dame. And always remember,” he added proudly, “that your father built it.”

Luc was waiting for him at the restaurant. The restaurant didn’t open on Sundays, so the shutters were closed.

It was strange for Thomas to realize that his brother was a man in his thirties now. He hadn’t changed that much. His pale face was a little more fleshy. Thomas’s short brown curls had thinned, but Luc had exactly the same dark hair falling handsomely over his forehead. He looked like an Italian restaurant owner.

And his small restaurant, though it wasn’t making him rich, was undoubtedly providing him with far more income than Thomas could ever earn in manual work.