Paris Adrift

by EJ Swift

  “Did she?”

  The girl giggles. “Perhaps.”

  “You’re deranged.”

  “How cruel—you are!”

  I stare at her numbly.

  “You wanted me to come here. Why?”

  The girl sets down her basket of laundry and sits in it. She fluffs up the dirty clothes around her, tucking in her legs and arms as though she is nesting.

  “My dear, I am just so sick—of looking at that hideous basilica. I thought perhaps you could have a word with the architect—whisper in his ear, put your considerable charms to work. Dear Monsieur Abadie, such a lovely man, such a terrible instinct for design…”

  “The basilica? What’s wrong with the basilica?”

  “Sacré-Coeur, yes, basilica, cathedral, it has many names, but whichever way you look at it, it’s a monstrosity, don’t you think?” The girl simpers.

  “I think you’re insane. Talk to the architect yourself.”

  “I would, but I haven’t got the range, my dear. I simply can’t get that far, even in a bird. Whereas you—you can go anywhere you like!”

  “Then I’m going back to the twenty-first century.”

  The girl’s expression turns sly.

  “Oh, but you can’t.”

  “Watch me.”

  “I would, with pleasure. But your efforts will be futile. You need a return flare, you see. And who knows when that will be? It might be days, weeks, months…”

  “You tricked me.” My hands bunch into fists. “You tricked me into this.”

  The girl lifts a hand to her mouth, tittering. I take a step towards her. I can feel the heat in my face, my anger rising. Whatever the hell this is, she is responsible.

  The girl raises her hands in a show of fear.

  “Oh! She’s angry! I do like an angry one…”

  My vision is beginning to blur again. This isn’t happening. This can’t be real. The girl is laughing. She won’t stop laughing. She’s pointing at me, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes and she won’t—stop—laughing. I’m stuck here, stuck in 1875. She’s done this.

  I lunge at her, lock my hands around her throat and squeeze.

  All expression disappears. The girl’s face goes slack. She gurgles. Then her eyes widen in shock.

  “Please,” she gasps. “Miss, ple—”

  I release my grip and back away, horrified. Still sprawled in the laundry basket, the girl is holding her throat, wheezing. Tears—real ones this time—are streaming down her cheeks.

  “Oh, my god—I am so, so sorry—”

  I feel sick to the core. How could I have lost control like that? I start to apologise again, stumbling over words, but when I look up, the girl’s face has altered once more. A snide expression occupies her features.

  “You should be. Such a violent spirit in there. Who would have thought?”

  Tingling in my legs and palms. My heart rate begins to pound, a bomb lodged in my chest. I’m in 1875. I’m in 1875 with a non-corporeal psychopath and I can’t get home. I can’t get home. I can’t get out.

  I’m trapped.

  “Breathe, my dear,” she says. “Do keep breathing.”

  “You stay away from me,” I say shakily. “And leave her alone!”

  She flicks the hem of her skirt, eyes me saucily. With my vision tunnelling she looks distorted, a Picasso figure.

  “I might be persuaded to let her go. But I really am very upset about that basilica.”

  My chest clamps tight.

  “I can’t help you,” I gasp.

  “No? Then I’ll just have to stay in this body. We’ll have some larks, me and she. Does she like to dance, I wonder?”

  She starts to jig, hopping from foot to foot, moving faster and faster until the girl’s face turns a deep red and I feel dizzy watching. The girl loses balance, but keeps dancing. Now the chronometrist has her leaping over the basket. She’s going to fall, break her ankle. I sit where I am on the cobbles and put my head between my knees, struggling to regain control of my own body.

  “Stop it,” I manage. “Please—”

  “Or—sing?”

  She throws back the girl’s head and howls. It’s a terrible, strangulated noise. If she keeps this up the entire population of Paris is going to come running.

  “Stop it!” I hiss. “Stop it! I’ll speak to the architect!”

  She pauses, one foot raised, mid-jig.

  “You will?”

  “On one condition. That you leave her alone.”

  “I give you my word.”

  “Forgive me if your word doesn’t inspire me with confidence.”

  The girl’s face turns solemn. She whirls to a halt and gathers herself, standing with heels together and hands clasped behind her back.

  “I swear,” she says. “By the code of practice. What will you swear by?”

  “By—by Millie’s.”

  “A tolerable deal, my dear.”

  “Where will I find him?”

  “Oh—well, on the hill, I’d imagine.”

  She bends to pick up her basket of laundry.

  “Wait—”

  “Yes?”

  “In there, in the tavern, I was speaking French. And I understood it too.”

  “Ah yes, the language acquisition. Think of it as a gift. From the anomaly—to you.”

  “But how—”

  The chronometrist shakes her head. “You know, in my day—a long time ago, I admit—people would show some gratitude.”

  She settles the basket on one hip and walks slowly away. I watch her go, pathetically grateful that I don’t have to face the owner of that body. I can feel the trembling in every muscle of my body. The horror that I could have hurt her. What was I thinking?

  I wasn’t.

  I bite down on the last of my panic. I can’t let anxiety take over. If I’m going to survive this, I need all my wits.

  And a smoke. That will help. That will calm me down.

  I extract my Golden Virginia. Inside the pouch are a few measly threads of tobacco. I’m out of Rizla.

  “Oh, shitting fuck!”

  I was intending to replenish on my break. And now I’m in a different century being blackmailed by a murderer and I can’t remember if cigarettes have been invented yet or if we’re still in cigar-country, but in any case I have no local currency to purchase either. What I have is a bottle opener, a Clipper lighter, a pencil, a strawberry glitter lipgloss, a handful of euros, and the Millie’s weekly schedule. I don’t even have my phone—it’s charging in the vestiaire—not that I could call anyone. Alexander Bell won’t obtain his patent for another two years.

  This isn’t happening, I tell myself. None of this can possibly be real.

  Still, I think. If it isn’t real, if it’s all some mad delusion in my mind—then whatever I do next can do no harm.

  Chapter Fifteen

  ONCE MORE I brave the boulevard. Back in the public eye, it’s my trousers that appear to be causing the greatest offence. Women in this century do not wear trousers. Which means—I spy, on a side road, a sign advertising potential salvation—I have to become a man.

  There are two men in the barber’s: one smothered in shaving cream and the other wielding a pair of scissors. I watch through the glass as the barber snips and shaves, then takes up a knife and scrapes it under the customer’s chin. The barber has deft hands and a bald head himself, which from time to time he scratches. I wait until the customer’s head has been cleansed and pomaded. He twitches his collar into place, squints at the mirror, nods. The barber stands back and wipes scissors and knife on his waistcoat. A bell tinkles as the customer leaves.

  I eyeball my reflection in the glass, wipe away the last of the jungle makeup, and slip inside.

  “Good morning. I wish to sell my hair, please.”

  The barber looks at me and acquires an expression of surprise sprinkled with revulsion, which seems to be the standard reaction thus far. He leans over and lifts a tangle of my hair.
<
br />   “It is very long and extremely clean,” I say. “It will make a good mattress. Or a wig.”

  That’s what they use it for, isn’t it?

  “It’s like a nest of birds,” says the barber. A note of wonderment creeps into his voice. “And I don’t mean little songbirds—this is like eagles, or, or falcons!”

  “Enough about birds, if you don’t mind.”

  “I’ve never seen so much hair on any woman...”

  “Exactly. It’s strong, thick hair. That’s the Greek in me. Will you buy it?”

  “What price are you offering?”

  “What is the standard rate?”

  He narrows his eyes, appraising. My first error. Now he will offer me a low rate and I will have to bargain.

  “I can give you ten francs per ounce,” he says.

  I feign shock.

  “Ten francs! This is theft, pure and simple. I might consider it for twenty, but not a cent—a centime less.”

  “Now who is the robber? Twenty is an outrage, you’ll bankrupt me.”

  “I’ll settle for eighteen.”

  “Sixteen!”

  “Done.”

  I am already thinking about the tobacconist’s.

  The barber seats me in the chair and throws a cape around my shoulders. The counter in front of me contains an array of gels, shaving creams, horse hair brushes, talcum powder and metal combs. To my left is a bowl of water upon a stand, the surface opaque with scum and clippings. I turn my gaze to the mirror as the barber lifts a handful of my hair. Something falls out. He bends to pick it up.

  “What is this?”

  “Just a glowstick. You can keep it, if you like.”

  The barber frowns, as though I have offered him something deeply offensive, and drops the neon glowstick into my lap.

  “Anything else in your hair I should know about?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “There could be. I lost a bottle opener a while back.”

  The barber’s frown deepens. I shouldn’t have said that. Now he’ll think I am a drunk, and probably a prostitute as well. Oh, Hallie. You never did manage to think before you speak.

  He lifts the scissors in one hand, takes a rope of hair in the other. My reflection meets me: dark-eyed, solemn faced. My skin is pleasingly smooth and glowing, but that could be the effects of gas lighting and a mirror that hasn’t been polished in a while. I stare at the mirror until my vision blurs. If this is a dream, this is the moment I will wake up.

  “Ready?” asks the barber.

  No. But I will need money if I am going to survive here. Hair always grows. I clasp my hands together.

  “Do it.”

  The scissors open and shut close to my scalp. Nothing comes away. Again, the barber snips. He checks the scissors against his thumb for sharpness, tries again, selects another pair.

  “Sweet Mary mother of Jesus, it’s tougher than I thought,” pants the barber. “Have you put something in it? Egg yolk? Pomade?”

  “No, no. Only a bit of conditioner.”

  I squeak as the hair tugs at my head. It hurts. It hurts the way it hurts in the real world. The barber wipes trickles of sweat from his pate. Finally, a chunk of hair comes away. He holds it aloft.

  “Doesn’t look like I’ve taken any off at all.”

  The ordeal continues. Three times the bell tinkles and a customer enters. The barber turns them all away. Four pairs of scissors are blunted. My hair claims a comb which is never rediscovered. The barber pants with exertion. He is sweating freely; rivulets run down his neck and under his collar, a sour aroma permeates the room. But it is a matter of pride now. He will not let my hair defeat him.

  The last lock falls away. The barber collapses on a stool.

  In the mirror, my head seems very small. I gulp.

  “My payment, please.”

  The barber is too exhausted to speak. He points to a wooden box. I extract my fee. I suppose this counts as a successful transaction—I have no hair, but I have some money and I look like a boy.

  “Now, can you tell me where I can buy some cig... cigars?”

  He gestures in a vaguely uphill direction.

  “Thank you,” I say. “It’s been a pleasure.”

  The barber gazes at me, bemused. The bell tinkles as I let myself out.

  I wait for the scene to dissolve or evolve. Nothing happens. It appears my subconscious wishes me to make my own way through this curious territory. I raise my newly-shorn head and begin to climb.

  Chapter Sixteen

  THE BUTTE MONTMARTRE is teeming with activity. There are men in caps and overalls, frenziedly digging, leaning on spades, shouting at one another, chewing tobacco. There is no evidence of building works having begun, except for a hole in the ground and one large travertine boulder, wedged precariously in place with struts of wood. That’s something.

  Scanning the occupants of the hill, I fix upon a morose-looking gentleman slumped on a wooden crate beneath a tree. He is short and rotund, bearded, dressed in a dark coat, waistcoat, chequered trousers and a bowtie, his top hat on the grass beside him. Absorbed in his thoughts, the man is repeatedly flicking a finger against the hat, rocking it back and forth.

  The gentleman does not notice me until I am stood right next to him.

  “Hello,” I begin. “I hope you don’t mind my coming to speak to you. I thought that you looked very sad, and it does not seem to be a sad day.”

  “Sad?” replies the gentleman. “Not sad. Disappointed, yes. Frustrated, one could say. Such is always the way when one’s work leaps from the paper to the stone.”

  I offer him one of my newly acquired cigarettes (they exist!) but he declines. I light up, remembering just in time to extract the box of matches, not the Clipper. The sensation of smoke blackening my lungs is heavenly.

  “Are you with these people?” I enquire, indicating the workers gathered around the giant boulder.

  “They are the implementers of my design. How I shall trust them to do it justice…”

  “A fair point,” I say. “It is highly possible they will mess it up entirely.”

  The gentleman looks at me for the first time. A startled expression captures his face. Perhaps it is the sight of me; perhaps it is merely the shock of being pulled out of his reverie into the present. Whatever the reason, he is interested enough to put the question:

  “Who are you?”

  “A visitor. I came to see how the church was progressing.”

  The gentleman snorts.

  “As you see, there is not much of a church to view at present. Though there will be. One day, ah”—he peers at me—“young man, there will be a magical sight upon this hill. Magical! People will come from far and wide to see it. They will marvel at the white domes, gleaming in the sun, the statues, the interior, gracious yet commanding...” The gentleman’s voice tapers away. He appears to be having trouble convincing himself.

  My nineteenth-century doppelgänger, whose command of French I can’t deny is proving decidedly useful, says, “Forgive me, sir, but you seem doubtful.”

  The gentleman continues to look glum.

  “You have a particular interest in this place, do you not?”

  “It means something to me, it’s true.”

  “Humour an old man and allow me a hypothesis.” He lowers his voice. “You were one of the Communards?”

  I think of the Communards’ Wall in Père Lachaise, one of the first places I visited with Gabriela. Brutal times, said Léon. 1875. It’s barely four years after one of the bloodiest civil wars in France’s substantially blood-splattered history. What were those men talking about outside the tavern? Eating rats? That would be the Siege of Paris by the Prussians.

  The architect continues.

  “I will not hold it against you if you were, although they say this church is to be built to expiate those crimes.”

  “Is that why you say it is to be built?”

  The gentleman shrugs. “Young man, I am not interested in why it is
to be built so much as how it is to be built. That is, after all, my brief.”

  We assess one another cautiously.

  “And what have you devised?” I ask, at the same time as he comments:

  “That is a remarkable haircut you have acquired, young man. Shouldn’t have let the rascal get away with it. Never trust a barber, myself. Now, I could show you the design, but my notebook was thieved only this morning. This area is becoming disreputable.”

  You have no idea, I think. I delve into my pocket and discover the Millie’s schedule, crumpled and furred at the corners. In my other pocket is a propelling pencil. I unfold the paper and offer both to the architect.

  “You could draw it for me?”

  Paul Abadie eyes the pencil suspiciously.

  “What is this contraption?”

  I click the end. “There you go.”

  “I see.” He tests the pencil. “Remarkable,” he says again. On the back of my schedule, he begins to sketch out the familiar contours of the Sacré-Coeur. “Some people do not like it,” he says. “They abhor the Byzantine style.”

  “I would think very carefully about pursuing this route,” I say. “I mean, technically it’s cultural appropriation.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “If you must go ahead, couldn’t you go for something more... French?”

  Once again he looks gloomy.

  “French, you say? Who can say what is French anymore? Half the city is Belgians, Spanish, Italians…”

  “Precisely! Italian architecture is particularly fine,” I suggest. I am hoping that I will get my paper back, now that it has become a historical document, but the architect turns it over and examines the schedule curiously.

  “This is a very fragile material. Which printing press did you employ?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t remember.”

  I had better retrieve my pencil. The last thing I want to do is give him any entrepreneurial ideas. That wasn’t in the psychopath’s brief.

  He points to the Millie’s logo in the corner.

  “The windmill! Now there’s a design for you.”

  “A symbol of freedom,” I say.

  “Freedom?” He smiles for the first time, and doodles something on the paper. “The sails, yes, there is that illusion. A design with momentum in it. And yet constraint, also; ever tethered. As we all are.”