A Citizen Of Nowhere

by Seth Lynch

'Were you expecting to find a bar packed full of young ladies?' someone calls.

  I am a source of amusement for these strange people. They have given me a drink, in a clean glass, so I'll allow them a few minutes' fun at my expense before I leave.

  'What's this place?' I ask.

  'A café,' somebody replies.

  'Don't you worry, mate, we won't eat you.' The guy speaking walks up to me and offers his hand. I shake it. 'This is our café. We have one rule, if you can stand it you can stay.'

  'What is the smell? You can smell it?'

  'The smell is us, mate, and no, I can't, not any more. My name is Louis and these are my workmates.' He gestures around the room and a few of the heads nod at me as I scan around. 'We operate the shit pumps.'

  I finish my drink and order another so I can listen to the rest of his story with something to see me through. I don't want to stay too long as I fear I am getting used to the smell. Louis explains that he and the other men here empty the city's cess pits. They travel with a pump on a wagon and suck up the effluence. They'd be driven out if they tried to enter any other café. I down my second drink and bid them adieu. I must remember never to go there again.

  Filatre is standing by his door ready to collar me as I enter the entrance hall. He's wearing a pair of flannel trousers with a white vest and dressing gown.

  'Not managed to sleep?' I ask.

  'I got a few hours in around eleven. I've been up reading since three.' The expression on his face changes as I approach. 'What's that smell? Have you trodden in something? Don't walk it all over the house man, take your shoes off.'

  'The smell is me, not the shoes. Can't talk now, I need a wash.' I ought to bathe too but the public baths don't open 'til six. I can fill a bowl and soap myself down for now. I'll visit the baths when I wake up.

  'If you aren't tired, come down after and have a game of chess. You can let me know what you've found out. Did you make it to Kuo and Partners?'

  'I'll be down soon. A scrub with a cold wet flannel and carbolic soap is going to wake me up. I'll probably conk out around nine. When are we going to get hot water in here?'

  'What do you need hot water for? You can boil a pan for shaving and the baths are less than half a kilometre away.'

  'You get some coffee ready; I'll be down in twenty minutes.'

  I undress in the corner of my apartment piling my clothes near an open window. I wash myself down with cold water and apply ample Eau de Cologne. Hopefully Filatre will have the coffee ready - he is the devil for forgetting and asking me to make it. Those clothes will have to go to the wash house in the morning. If they still smell after that I'll leave them for the rag pickers.

  Filatre has set up the chess board. A steaming cup of coffee sits alongside – good man. He is puffing on his pipe, giving the area the enchanting aroma of a good club. I sit down and adjust the position of my knights – Filatre always places them pointing forward where I prefer to have them looking towards the rooks. I push my king's pawn forward two squares. If the last few games are anything to go by, we should be heading for the Evan's Gambit.

  'So, how goes it, Monsieur the Detective?'

  'Very well indeed. Kuo's secretary is a nymphomaniac and invited back me to her place. We went at it like a pair of professional wrestlers.'

  'Then her husband came home and emptied a chamber pot over your head.'

  'No, then I popped into a café occupied by cess pit cleaners. They spend the night working and then retreat to their café - they aren't allowed in any others. Nice chaps, but you really wouldn't invite them home for dinner.'

  'What of Kuo himself - did you get anything out of him, or were you too distracted by the secretary?'

  'You know me, Filatre, business first. I had a good interview with Kuo. He told me that they had let Marty go. The secretary told me more: he'd been ripping people off. Diddling them out of their savings. All this was technically legal. He then went to work for another brokerage called Lacman Brothers.'

  'There are a lot of people involved in fraud these days.'

  'Why do you think that is?'

  'The government let people down with its financing of the war. Bonds which promised six percent were realised at four and a half. By the time they cashed them in, with inflation and currency devaluations, they had made a considerable loss. So, people either took their money and stuffed it under the mattress or they started looking for alternative schemes. Then there's all the tax avoidance. You know what we French are like; we'd rather spend two francs to get out of paying one franc in tax.'

  'Marty must have been running something like that. Apparently people came looking for him and, by the sounds of it, were planning to beat the cash out of him.'

  'That's probably why Kuo placed that notice in the press. People are fools when it comes to money - money and love. Are you going to go to the Lacmans' place?'

  'I don't have anything else to go on, other than the Marty who's living in Saint-Denis.'

  'Your old stomping ground. I don't suppose a trip up there will bring back any happy memories.'

  'None at all. You know, there are times in your life which you know were bad then, years later, you start looking back on them fondly. I occasionally remember moments from the war and catch myself thinking, "it wasn't so bad". Despite the horror, the fear, the death, I can still think that on occasion. Saint-Denis has never evoked such feelings. If it ever comes to mind, I recall the pettiness, the nastiness, and the way the people fed upon each other. Do you know what my fondest memory of the place is?'

  'Yes, you've mentioned it a few times. Something about it raining.'

  'That's right, going out at night to stand in the rain. Watching the slurry running down the road while getting soaked. That is my fondest memory of the place. I remember getting home one morning and seeing a crowd of people out in the street. An old bloke from up the road had died of hypothermia. The gathering was to watch him get carted away. Most watched in silence. Someone shouted, "the old bastard won't be cold much longer - not where he's going". That prompted a wave of laughter, which I joined. We were all laughing and watching that man, who died of the cold, being carted away.'

  'I think that's the fifth time I've heard the rain story. The dead man is a new one though.'

  'Sorry, Filatre, I don't wish to bore you with reminiscences from the miserable quarters of my life.'

  'Think nothing of it, old chum. Before we go on, I should remind you that this is Friday morning and we made a vow not to get maudlin on any day other than Sunday. So say something cheerful, or concentrate on the game.'

  Filatre is being blunt, as we have learnt to be about such things. If it wasn't for this watchfulness, any moment could dissolve into self-pity.

  'If you really don't want to go to Saint-Denis you do have the option of sending Hervé. I know you use him for paperwork, but he'll do a bit of snooping if the money is right. If I understand the situation correctly, all he needs to do is go up there and find out how old the fellow is and whether he hails from Belgium.'

  'Do you think he could do that? That would be wizard. I hadn't thought of that. Oh, but getting other people to do my dirty work is exploitation. If I ask Hervé to do this, how can I distinguish myself from the factory boss who sends children to work down the mine?'

  'I'm not sure it's the factory bosses who do that, but if the idea troubles you, pay him more. Think of a reasonable sum then double it. When he comes back give him a tip. Then the difference will be that you pay a living wage.'

  The relief at not having to go back to Saint-Denis has left me feeling light-headed. I don't even care that Filatre has beaten me for the third consecutive game. Well, actually I do care - rather than engage him in a fourth game, I bid him goodnight.

  Entering my apartment I can see my clothes piled up on the window sill. This is a sight all the more pleasing because I cannot smell them. The dawn has broken and light fills the room. I close the shutters in the bed
room and climb into bed.

  A nagging sensation which I can't quiet fathom keeps me from falling asleep. I have an irritating brain itch which requires a very specific thought to reach down and scratch it. The whole thing makes the backs of my eyes hurt. Exasperated, I give up and turn on the bedside light – we may not have hot water but at least we have electricity. I pick up a book and read until my grip on the book loosens and my head starts nodding. I'm about to fall asleep when I realise what has been annoying me. The brain itch was that girl! One of the laughing girls from outside the Copenhagen, I have seen her before - she is Robert's kid sister.

  Her name is Megan; she's a friend from my childhood. Our elder brothers, Alfred and Robert, were friends. Really I guess it was our parents who were friends, but that wasn't how Alfred put it - and Alfred always knew best. As snotty-nosed tykes, Megan and I were fobbed off on each other: Alfred didn't want to know me when Robert was around.

  At first we played near to each other but not together. This was spiced by squabbles and territorial battles. Over time our games merged - we began hunting spiders or snails together. Then, one day, I found myself looking forward to her visits. I remember paying her the highest compliment I could, one she didn't seem to appreciate. I'd said: 'Megan, sometimes I can almost forget that you are a girl.'

  As I grew older I spent years shut away at boarding school, then university, and our meetings became infrequent. When we did meet, rather than hunt spiders, we played tennis or croquet. It meant we could spend time together without any awkwardness. The last time I saw her must have been mid-1914. She wrote to me once at the Front. And now she is here - somewhere in Paris.

  CHAPTER TEN

  I wake to catch the last trace of light leaving the afternoon sky. My head is fuzzy from lack of sleep but I'm too excited to remain in bed. I will not visit the Lacman Brothers, I will go to the Café Copenhagen and search for Megan. There is no point tracking down a stranger for a stranger when there is someone I want to find for myself. Once I have found her I'll recommence my search for Marty: in fact this will be good practice.

  I walk to the Copenhagen, observing every face hidden behind a scarf or under a hat. When you start looking at them in turn, you soon realise that there are far too many people in Paris. Keep the ones who smile at me, or are at least indifferent, the rest, the ones who snarl, should be sent to live in Peru.

  Mikhail watches me enter the café then beckons for me to join him. He is partially concealed beneath a fog of hashish smoke, a micro-climate which, at this hour, affects only his table.

  'Good to see you again,' he says. He gestures to the chair next to him with a casual wave of his hand.

  'You too, Mikhail. Have you got the board?'

  He reaches beneath his chair and produces a backgammon board. He also produces his smoking paraphernalia and commences rolling something for us to share. I don't mind, it's late afternoon and I was planning on spending a few hours here to see if Megan turned up.

  'It is good to spend time with someone my own age,' Mikhail says while passing me the reefer. 'These students bring youth and beauty but they also bring too many of their follies. They talk about revolution and pester me for titbits about Lenin. Pah! I never liked the man when he was alive, why should I care about him now that he is dead? Trotsky, I did like. He was always ready to share a joke. Trotsky was also able to forget about politics and concentrate on the important thing in life – ladies, and how to seduce them. We had some good nights out in the Zurich Old Town. Today, it seems, it is wrong to like Trotsky; it's all Stalin, Stalin, Stalin.'

  The dice rebound around the board as Lenin, Trotsky and Stalin are forgotten.

  'Mikhail, the other day I saw someone.'

  'Did you my friend? Was she amenable?'

  'We didn't speak. I spotted her that's all.'

  'Monsieur Salazar, you are shy! You must never be shy with a woman. A slap on the cheek is a small price to pay for what the others will do with you. I'm absolutely certain that this is what Jesus was referring to when...'

  'It's not that. I didn't get a chance to speak. I think I know her from England. Megan Fitzwilliam - have you heard of her?'

  'I don't believe so. Does she come in here? There was a time when I would have been able to describe every woman who ever entered this place right down to the colour and texture of her underwear. Now, I smoke and play board games. If I tried anything else, either Astrid or Helen, or more likely both, would hang me by the scrotum from the spire of Sainte-Chapelle.'

  'Can you keep an eye out for me - I'll clear it with Astrid and Helen if you like. Megan is about five foot seven with black hair. Her nose is a little larger than it has any right to be. She has a tiny scar on her chin. When the mood takes her she can lose herself in laughter. I used to feed her jokes to see if she might actually explode.'

  'If I see her, I promise, I'll let you know.'

  'Oh, and Mikhail, if you decide to revert to your old ways with this one, I'll nail your scrotum straight to your forehead - there won't be any messing about with the Sainte-Chapelle.'

  I leave the café, having spent a couple of distracted hours with Mikhail, feeling guilty. Whatever I may or may not want to do I can't escape the fact that I've given my word to Marie Thérèse. I told her I would search for Marty and until I tell her otherwise that is what I ought to be doing; I'm back on the case. My days shall be spent in pursuit of Marty and my evenings spent in the Copenhagen, on the café terraces of Montparnasse, loitering outside the dance halls, in all the places where Megan might show up. Tomorrow I'll get Hervé to start asking around at the Prefectures to try and get an address for her. I could write to her parents and ask them to send me her address. Megan's mother always used to like me. Provided she hasn't heard the stories of my post-war exploits, she should send it to me.

  I think I'll visit my client again. I forgot to ask her some pertinent questions; who is Gustave Marty? What does he enjoy doing? Does he have family? After all, an opera buff must visit the opera and a loving son must visit his parents. I'll go in the morning - I'm not exactly compos mentis at present.

  Instead of walking around peering into people's windows, I decide to ride the Métro. It's not something I'd normally do for such a short distance but if Megan is in the area the chances are high that she'll be down here at some point. And although Paris is large enough, the expatriates tend to stick around here.

  Whereas a walk opens up my mind, Métro journeys leave me thinking about rain. I get a vague notion of sheltering under a rock on a windswept Pennine hill. On that hill it is always raining. I'm never sure how I got there or what I'm doing there. The daydream is repetitive and dull, constructed by my subconscious to numb the sensation of subterranean rail travel. There can be no worse a method for getting from place to place. You are shut up in stinking, hot, airless, metal containers being unceremoniously dragged from station to station. There are plenty of windows with nothing to see other than the reflection of your own miserable face. No scenery breaks up the monotony or gives the journey some markers. Not wanting to look at the depressed faces around me, I gaze at the dirty grey floor. Why didn't I just walk home?

  After five minutes of travel I start feeling as if I'm on that hill. I never get a proper fix on the sensation; all I get is a picture of a rock, the rain, and me. The process puts me into a trance. The other passengers seem to have entered trances too; are we all hiding from the Yorkshire rain? A jolt in the line brings me back from the hills of northern England. I look up and perform a quick scan around the carriage to make sure no buskers, with their accordions and God-awful renditions of Maurice Chevalier's Louise, are likely to interrupt me.

  I notice her sitting a few seats further along the carriage from me. She must have gotten on at Montparnasse Bienvenüe or even Vavin. I've not been paying attention to my fellow citizens again. The Métro is not a café; I do not have to pay attention to them down here. Here we are not people with sparkling eyes and dreams f
or tomorrow. Here we are cattle being transported to market and resigned to our fearful destinies. These trivial thoughts flash through my brain, as I don't know how to act. This isn't the shyness Mikhail accused me of; this is a fascination. Finally I take a deep breath and let myself go.

  'William FitzMegan!'

  I walk towards her and she turns round.

  'Well pluck a duck!' she says.

  She stands and holds out her arms to embrace me. The train judders and we fall unceremoniously to the floor. She, I notice, is half-cut.

  'Shall we get off and catch up?' she says.

  'Yes, right now.'

  I pretend to reach for the emergency cord and she grabs my arm.

  'I still can't believe I've run into you like this,' she says.

  'Yes,' I say, 'a real coincidence.' I won't tell her that I've been searching for her and hanging about in places she may happen to visit. Or that I was going to employ Hervé to track her down. If we hadn't met here today, it would have been tomorrow at the Copenhagen or the day after on the terrace of one of the Cafés in Montparnasse.

  We get off at Saint-Sulpice and find ourselves right outside the conveniently placed Métro Café.

  'In here?' I ask.

  'No, it looks shabby.'

  She loops her arm through mine and guides me towards boulevard Saint Germain.

  'You know I'm nearly home, I normally get off at the next stop,' I say.

  'Then we could get a bottle of whisky and go to your place, or would you prefer the Deux Magots?'

  'The whisky idea is good, but I'm not sure that it's a good idea tonight.'

  'Why not? Would it be embarrassing for you to have a woman in your apartment? Do you have one of those old crone concierges who hates you having guests? Or is there someone else there?' A crooked smile creeps across her drunken face.

  'Christ, no! In fact I have very few friends and no concierge at all. I live above an office and mine is the only apartment there. It's just...'

  'Yes?'