A case of curiosities

by Kurzweil, Allen

  a fortress."

  "If so, it is a fortress under siege," the coachman replied. "Look below." Indeed, on the ground, hundreds of itinerant soldiers were now storming the gates. They were not wielding harquebuses or pikestaffs but carried instead barrows and baskets, scutches, saws, and sacks of every shape and size. Claude, sitting high up on a pile of parcels, was fearful that the briefest blink would deprive him of some novel observation. He swung his head and neck about like a shipyard crane, taking in the street life.

  When Lucille reached the deppt, the coachman shouted, "Scotch the wheels!" Claude jumped ftom the coach. His deadened legs buckled. He kicked the wedges of wood under the wheels with recently acquired proficiency and looked around at the mass of lacquered vehicles: whiskeys, berlins, cumbersome mails, a fleet of Perreaux cabs.

  The coachman called down, "I must check the manifest, and there will be disputes about missing cargo. I will meet you here this evening, at the stroke of seven. Do not be late." He pointed to the tower clock in the Place de Greve.

  The coachman descended laboriously and was immediately assaulted by a merchant hoping he carried a consignment of horsehair from Auvergne. The coachman yelled one last encouragement to Claude before more merchants and middlemen surrounded him, all waving papers in his face. "What was it that you said your Abbe told you? Something about keeping the organs of vision trained on all that swirled around you?"

  Claude completed the phrase: "... for the satisfaction of ocular knowledge."

  "Right. Well, do so." The coachman was then enveloped by the chaos, leaving Claude to explore the city of Paris on his own.

  What did Claude see?

  He saw a tasseled ribbon vendor flirting with a nun.

  He saw the stony kings of Notre-Dame and marveled at the metal work of the west doors, until, that is, he was pushed away by the bargain-hungry faithful comparing prices of plaster medallions.

  He saw a drunk vomiting up a substantial quantity of red wine.

  He saw a child play with the unsheathed sword of an amused Swiss guard.

  He saw an old man rescue an edible scrap from a pile of refuse, while a young girl entreated the public to taste her aniseed-sprinkled muffins.

  He saw a blind beggar eye a legless colleague whose power of locomotion returned unexpectedly when he was accused of unfair and unsanctioned competition.

  He saw the "door of death" at the Hotel Dieu and watched as healthy tourists laughed at the ingoing procession of pestilence and disease.

  He saw a man in red habit with a saber around his waist, a string of teeth around his neck, and a peacock feather in his hat.

  He saw batiste handkerchiefs and torn rags cover faces of pedestrians passing the mephitic stench of a parish burial ground, where leg bones were stacked like firewood.

  He saw powdered contradictions in the city's diverse professions. A chimney sweep and a barber's apprentice crossed paths, one blackened by soot, the other whitened by flour.

  He saw another nun—the city seemed awash in nuns—spit prodigiously.

  He saw large things reduced and small things enlarged. The oversized world included shop signs bearing boots for giants, spectacles the size of paired coach wheels, scissors that could cut through tree branches. But more interesting for Claude were the objects of diminished scale that he observed in the stalls of a covered gallery: a tiny porcelain fair booth imported from Ludwigsburg, a pair of stuffed water rats dressed in miniature finery, gold and silver fish swimming in a glass case with canted corners.

  He saw a butcher shop display of a flayed calf. The proprietor had dressed the meat to proclaim the full measure of his skills. One side of the creature was gentle-eyed, adorable, and intact. The other side was skinned, its skull sawed away to reveal the spongy contents of the brainpan. The delicate, inviolate half met up with one exposed lung, one kidney, half of a stomach, and a length of intestine that had fallen to the ground. Blowflies swarmed over the dissection and paid special attention to the fallen viscera. Claude saw what he saw with the selective vision that children and artists often share. But sight was not the only sense stimulated. He also heard the novelty of the city.

  He heard the clop of iron hooves against the paving stones, a clop unlike the dirt-muffled clop of Tournay.

  He heard the imprecations of the deformed and the destitute.

  He heard an ambulatory concert performed by a street musician carrying a flute, a drum, cymbals, and a tambourine, while pushing a cello rigged with a tiny wheel on its spike.

  He heard the jingle of silver, the whinny of horses, the gurgle of the water pumps off the banks of the Seine.

  Late that afternoon, the sun emerged—like an egg yolk on a pewter platter, Claude imagined the coachman would say. And with the sun came unbearable heat. The young tourist took refuge in a dark side street near a quay that was populated by goldsmiths, jewlers, gilders—and watchmakers. At first, he was disappointed by what he saw, though willing to allow that he saw very little. Disappointed, that is, until he caught sight of the subject of his first Parisian sketch. It stood behind glass, at the end of a courtyard. A beam of sunlight bounced off it as if it were some highly polished burning lens. The object forced him to reconsider everything he had seen and heard in the city, or knew from the books he had read. It played further havoc with his appreciation of scale and capped a day overflowing with the satisfactions of ocular (and auditory) knowledge.

  What was it he now saw and heard? A five-foot-tall altar clock. He knew it was of religious conception. The biblical motif was everywhere: in the tablets of silvered brass bearing the Ten Commandments, the Lord's Prayer, and the Creed; in the statues of the saints placed at the sides of the clock dial; in the pavilion adorned with angels and cherubim. Though Claude's religious education was limited, he could pick out some of the more famous figures turning around the clock. There was Pontius Pilate washing his hands, Christ on his way to crucifixion, and someone else bearing a cross. (It was Simon the Cyrenian.) The three figures made one complete revolution each minute.

  Claude could tell that the mechanism was spring-driven and that the lunarwork complication demanded a simple but exactingly filed gear. But other aspects of the design remained a mystery. With the push of a lever, the clock was able to plink out five tunes. Five. He tried to engage the shopkeeper in a discussion but was met with an icy and suspicious silence, so he squatted in front of the altar clock and sketched.

  If there was anything that could make Claude forget time, it was the beauty of a clock in motion. The cherub struck the hour, and Claude sketched. The cherub struck the hour again, and Claude continued sketching. It was only when more mighty tower clocks clanged that he realized it was seven and he would have to rush to meet his only friend.

  20

  THE COACHMAN HAD demanded promptness not because he was a punctual fellow—the anguish of punctuality was not common in late-eighteenth-century Paris—but because of the strategies necessary to obtain a table at Madame V.'s. He hurried Claude through an unlit web of narrow streets until they reached his favorite restaurant.

  "Restaurant" is not quite apt. Technically, it was a gargote, a meagerly furnished place where wine and food could be cheaply had. The door, the coachman was relieved to see, was still locked. He counted the heads of the patrons standing in front. "We're fine. We will just make it. Down those steps, Claude, a feast awaits us. Once we have eaten, we can assess your life and chart your plans." Since Madame V. usually opened her door at a quarter to eight, the coachman passed the time amplifying the description he had started on the road.

  "For twenty-two sous you are treated to a rare performance, a meal from the hands of Madame V." Claude could not fully appreciate the economizing but he knew enough to be impressed. He nodded.

  "Madame V. is one of the few Catholics who truly subscribes to the charitable tenets of her religion. She could charge more than she does for the meals she serves, but doesn't. How can she keep the price so low? When it comes to buying foo
d, Madame V. is a ruthless bargainer in a city known for ruthless bargainers. She uses her age to advantage, pretending frailty if it will lower a price. Anyone who gets in her way, however, will quickly feel the bony protuberance of Madame V.'s elbow.

  She can be kindly and tender, or she can be brawling, turbulent, and mean. She is cheap enough to have been born in Lyon. Her methods are legend. From the butcher, she acquires the unsalable parts of the carcass: the waste scraps discarded in carving. She keeps her eyes trained for'bones that would otherwise be fed to the dogs. She loads her little cart with these bits and moves on to terrify the fruit sellers. They do not bother her with perfectly shaped pears, or costly Corbeil peaches, but if they have wrinkled apples, cabbages that are turning, or an overabundance of turnips, they know she will pounce, buying what she buys at a fraction of the usual cost."

  "I hope turnips don't turn up in tonight's meal," Claude interjected. He never liked turnips. Bad associations.

  "No, I expect not. Anyway, let me continue. She makes her way to the fishmonger for more economic scraps, heads mostly, and then it's off to the baker in the late afternoon, after the price of bread has dropped. She takes this food, none of which is much esteemed, she takes it to her miserable kitchen, and she whips, beats, stews, coddles, cuddles, and spices it lovingly until it issues forth in dishes of a fine and smooth texture and unparalleled taste. Some of the food is distributed free to the needy. The rest is served in here."

  A tugged toggle ended the coachman's little discourse. A door swung open. The diners—a team of five stonecutters with lime under their fingernails, two journalists (one published, one not, both ink-stained), a prostitute, the coachman, and his companion—pushed past a bony arm. "That's ten. I won't take any more," Madame V. cackled. With unexpected force, she shoved the toggle back through the staple of the hasp lock, keeping out as many potential patrons as she allowed to enter.

  The interior, despite the dismal nature of the filthy street outside, was clean and warmly lighted. Madame V. said nothing after she closed the door. The routine was familiar to most of the lucky dizaine. They scrambled for plates and spoons and a cup of gros rouge each. They sat themselves down on plankboard seats in front of plankboard tables that ran along two walls of the tiny room. The plates were already filled with the first installment of the evening meal, a small assortment of boiled vegetables, measured out to avoid the aggressions that would have been provoked by a communal serving dish. After brief but nervous inspections of portion sizes, the diners settled down.

  The atmosphere was restful. For a while, the only sounds heard were the clatter of cutlery, mouths in motion, and an occasional belch of satisfaction. Some patrons allowed the food to dissolve in their mouths like the host consecrated in the Eucharist, while others chewed more demonstratively. Madame V. toured the tables and swept the coins into her apron before retreating to a bubbling pot from which she ladled out the second course, a kind of lamb stew.

  Claude and the coachman sat in the corner, next to the published hack, whose manner showed he clearly knew his way around the printing district of Paris. He was providing a description of the profession's methods to an eager companion who had paid, Claude observed, for both meals. More food arrived, and the coachman, taking a break from eating, wiped his brow, neck, and nose, and asked, "Is this not worthy of a merchant's table?"

  In Claude's estimation, the meal was good enough to warrant a parallel with the accomplishments of Marie-Louise. "Better than my first taste of boar's tongue."

  "My only criticism is the wine," the coachman said. "It is a sin against the art of the grape. I will keep myself on water." He poured out two glasses and pulled from his belt a flask of vinegar. He squirted a drop in his glass and a drop in Claude's. "To avoid the Parisian purge," he explained. "Now tell me about your first day. What conclusions have you drawn? Or should I say what drawings have you concluded?"

  Claude talked about the many things he had seen and heard, but spoke mostly of the clocks that chimed throughout the city. He replicated the clang of the tower bells by tapping and rubbing on the glasses in front of him. He described the timbre in such detail that the journalist turned from his paying companion to take note of his neighbor's observations. When Claude described the motions of the altar clock that had almost caused him to be late—an account that was at once exacting and accessible— the journalist was intrigued enough to introduce himself.

  This is how Sebastian Plumeaux entered Claude's life.

  Plumeaux was a hack who stitched together a livelihood of sorts by writing works of scandal, Utopian novels, and bits of doggerel. He was forthright in assessing the limits of his virtues.

  "I am not a member of the Academy and never will be. My name will never appear on the rolls of their literary pensions. There will be no gratifications or traitements for me," he said without hostility. "No, my name surfaces on a few works, and in the files of the Paris police: 'Plumeaux: lawyer, writer, expelled from the bar. He produces juridical memoires on shady cases, and scurrilous pamphlets.'"

  The journalist alternated between writing and tutoring. As a writer, it seemed he was partial to narratives based on contrived structures. He had told tales through the progression of a card game, a round of chess, and other forced conceits. He was currently at work on a Utopian Trialogue in which three portraits argued with one another from the walls of an Arctic palace. Also, he was collecting notes for an unauthorized adaptation of an Englishman's Hieroglyphic Tale. As a tutor, he pursued quick fees and free meals, which accounted for the companionship of the unpublished but not impoverished writer. Introductions were made all around, and the diners talked at length. Plumeaux was wise enough to sit back, listen, and assess Claude's unusual and potentially profitable eccentricity, which he called "a rare gift of aural acuity."

  "Where do you live?" Plumeaux inquired toward the end of the meal.

  "Nowhere, as yet." Claude described his situation. The hack offered to help. Receiving a sign of approval from the coachman, Claude accepted. He inquired about the value of his foreign currency and watches. After a brief lesson on currency transaction in the city, he was reassured that he would have no trouble paying for lodging.

  The coachman rose to leave, pausing to finish a scrap Claude had left on his plate. "Lucille and I are marked down for a two a.m. departure. Your new acquaintance will take over." The coachman passed the reins of friendship over to the journalist. "I will get in touch through Madame V. upon my return."

  Good-byes were offered all around. As the coachman exited, he said, "I must go and earn my crust."

  "Let us hope it is finely baked," Claude rejoined with a smile.

  Claude, Plumeaux, and the unpublished writer left the gargote. They stopped in a street of moneylenders, and after considerable negotiation, Plumeaux was able to obtain an acceptable price for Claude's watches. He took only a very small, not unreasonable commission for himself.

  The young unpublished writer, bored first by the exuberance that accompanied the talk of bells and then by the haggling with the moneylenders, felt snubbed by the redirected interests of his paid companion. He walked with Plumeaux and Claude only as far as the river, leaving them to search for accommodations alone.

  They first made inquiries at Plumeaux's residence, the Ber-nardine College off the Place Maubert. There were no vacancies, so they moved on. Plumeaux had been optimistic, but then that was, Claude sensed, in his nature. Rejection only slightly eroded the hack's confidence as they went from one house to the next, looking for a room to let. They circled the squares around the printing district and then circled the quarter and went on to perform other geometric and house-hunting impossibilities. They called in at a wineshop, where lamplighters were taking a break from their rounds. Claude received a succession of unhelpful comments on the difficulty of finding a place to sleep. It was well past midnight when lodging was finally obtained.

  He had just about given up hope when Plumeaux noticed a woman across from the St.-Severi
n church sweeping the entrance of a stone-fronted building. Conversation revealed that a journeyman joiner on the third floor had left the day before. His lodgings were available, but the price was too dear. Despair returned, until the sweeper said it came with attic space. "Three little cabinets" is what she called them. Claude took the rooms sight unseen, much to the relief of Plumeaux, who wished his acquaintance good night and good luck before pursuing nocturnal solicitation under the groins of a distant meat market. Chuck paid for four nights. He was tired and had no choice.

  To get to the room, the sweeper, who was also the landlady of the building, and Claude had to mount a helix of rotted wood and rusted iron. It was too dark to see the state of the rest of the building. Claude's nose, however, picked up a stench. Behind one door in particular, there was an odor that recalled the putrefaction of the cemetery Claude had passed. The landlady mumbled something about hay stuffing. From another part of the building came a baby's cry. "Wet nurse across the courtyard," the landlady said. They reached the top landing after a long ascent. Claude had lost count at one hundred and three. The landlady huffed and handed him a stump of a candle. "Here you are, good night." Claude moved forward and hit his head squarely on the lintel. "Watch your head," the landlady said.

  The attic was under a steeply sloped roof that cut off much of the floor space to people over three feet tall. Claude inspected what he could. The place was wretched, flimsy, misshapen. As a student, he had been tested by the Abbe on planimetry, the part of geometry that concerns the measuring of plane surfaces. The attic was beyond his capabilities. It had been expanded, divided, cut down, and rewalled to multiply the possibilities of habitation and storage. The work had been abandoned before completion, and decay had taken over.