by EJ Swift
“Exactly!” I say. “Exactly. You can’t beat a windmill. I really, truly think—”
We are diverted by a commotion on the building site—the stone is threatening to roll from its moorings. Five men pit themselves against it, their feet sliding in the muddy foundations.
The architect leaps up, finally knocking over his hat.
“God in Heaven and all the sacred saints!” he shouts, my schedule still clutched in one hand.
The propelling pencil has fallen to the ground. I pocket it quickly, and set the top hat upright. About to leave, I notice my beloved Doc Martins and sigh. I pull off the Pikachu sticker and stuff it into my pocket, then scoop up a handful of mud and smear it over the purple uppers. The mud is thick and cool and gritty. Something about its touch and smell goes the final way to convincing me; this is not a dream or an extended hallucination. It’s not an elaborate projection. I am in 1875. I have travelled through time.
As I leave the scene I hear the architect calling to me. I hurry over.
“Be careful, young man.” He scrutinizes me once more, hesitates, weighing his words. “As I said, this area is not what it once was.”
I have the feeling he might have said more, but there is a shout, the boulder is stuck. He is distracted. I can’t do much more to convince him today. The chronometrist will just have to wait. And the afternoon is wearing on, I need to find a place to stay. I know now I have arrived in an uneasy city.
Chapter Seventeen
ALL AFTERNOON I walk. North of the river I find myself a pair of trousers and a shirt, which have blown down from someone’s washing line (any qualms I might have about theft quickly vanish at the thought of covering my calves and arms). Gradually, I am looking the part. At Bastille I buy piping hot chestnuts from a man in a threadbare coat and a Russian hat. For over an hour we talk. His voice is slow and scrapes in his throat. I tell him I’m from Marseilles, come to make my fortune in the capital. I ask about the siege and he tells me tales of hunger and bonemeal whilst he stirs the chestnuts with a wooden spatula, slowly, carefully, around the spitting stove. His frame beneath the coat is as spare as a scarecrow.
Twilight falls and with it my worries return, and my hunger. The wealthy of Paris languish in elegant cafés, bright and cloistered, places that are closed off to me in my dishevelled, impoverished state. As the gloom deepens before the gas lamps are lit, it becomes harder to read people’s faces. I recall the architect’s warning and walk faster.
It is completely by accident that I stumble upon the Folies Bergère, tucked away on rue Richer. The poster outside shows a woman swathed in diaphanous material, appearing to float on one improbable toe, and the evening’s entertainment is listed below:
Acrobats! Dancers! Operetta and Comedy Song!
I could cry with relief. At long last, evidence of debauchery in Paris. I am saved.
I join the queue for the Folies. The young man at the ticket booth eyes my hair with visible anxiety, but I ignore him, taking my slip and pushing through the barrier accompanied by a sea of hats. Everyone else is far too concerned with getting a good view of the stage to notice the slim androgynous figure amongst them.
My idea—the only idea I have—is to make my way backstage and mingle with the performers. They are my best chance of camouflage. I could even get a job. (Will I need a job? A frightening thought. I push it away.) Addressing the more immediate of my problems, there are bound to be costumes and spare clothes lying around backstage, perhaps even a pair of shoes.
The hall inside is filling up with eager spectators. Gas lamps cast a soft, entrancing light, the chandeliers overhead lending a sense of grandeur to the bustling scene. Women flow up and down the staircase to the balcony, skirts billowing, décolletage encased in square necklines and offset by flashing stones. Are they real or fake? Who comes here, given the nature of the entertainment about to unfold? The Moulin Rouge does not yet exist, although its advent is not far off—but Montmartre has not yet become that famous den of iniquity, and Paris has barely emerged from years of war and famine. You can see it in the damage done to architecture. You can read it in the eyes of people on the streets. No wonder they flock to the Folies. The theatre air leaves a malty taste in my mouth, the odour of packed bodies and cigar smoke and palpable need.
In the orchestra pit, musicians are tuning their instruments. I slip through the crowd, intent upon my own mission. Moving out of the main hall, I spot a gaudily-dressed acrobat trailing a pair of wings. He opens a door and disappears inside. I am at the door, ready to follow, when a voice accosts me.
It is a smoky, syrupy, sinuous kind of voice, and it says:
“Will you look at you. Bold as polished brass.”
The owner of the voice stands a couple of feet away, watching me. She sports a glossy, preposterous coiffure and an array of bright jewels, and is standing in what is evidently an established pose, hand cocked at her waist, head tipped to one side.
I let go of the door handle.
“This isn’t the ladies’ room?”
The woman waggles a finger.
“No, it’s not honey, and you know it. I’ve been watching you since you got here. Now I’ve got no quibble with you sneaking backstage, but what I don’t understand is this: why are you going backstage? You know the money’s out here. Them artisans got nothing.”
“I’m not sure what you mean—I’m looking for the ladies’ room?”
The woman winks.
“Darling. You’re not from round here.”
She shimmies closer. Her perfume is heady, floral, and through it I can smell the warmth of her skin, treated with powder and creams.
“There’s two reasons why I said that. One, I’m talking to you in English and you answered sharp as a regular Thames brat, and the Parisians don’t do that. Two, you’re a girl dressed as a boy, which to my way of thinking means you’re operating some kind of disguise. Hair’s a bit overlong for it, too.”
I touch my hair. The ragged tufts have grown a centimetre since I talked to the architect on the hill.
I make a feeble attempt at defiance.
“And what if I am? In disguise?”
“It’s nothing to me, ’cepting what you might call idle curiosity. I’m not from around here either. That’s why I said hello. Couldn’t let a fellow miscreant fall into trouble now, could I? Or did I get it wrong? Are you one of the trapeze girlies after all?”
“I’m not a trapeze artist. I’m here because I hope to... to audition.”
“I see. Well, you’re a skinny thing, so I suppose you’ll fly easy as pie.”
It’s clear that the woman doesn’t believe a word I’ve said, but she is playing along anyway.
“So, what’s your name, honey?”
“It’s—” Who do I need to be in this situation? Who would remain unfazed in the face of utter surrealism? “I’m Gabriela. What’s yours?”
“My name? Fleur, cabbage. Fleur Chaubert. At your service.”
She delivers the last line with a little curtsy. I remain unconvinced, but I cannot stand here talking all night. The show is about to begin. An usher is standing at the entrance to the main hall, and at any moment he might turn and glance this way. I need allies. But who is she?
I decide to take a leap of faith.
“Look, I’ll be honest. The problem is, I sold my hair because I thought I’d be safer as a boy, but now my hair is growing back rather faster than expected, and I need a skirt to look like a girl again. You’re right, I’m from out of town—from the country. My belongings were stolen on the journey here. I have no clothes of my own and no friends in the city to ask.”
“So you’re going to nick some clothes backstage? Why didn’t you say so in the first place? Go get ’em, I’ll watch the door for you.”
“You will?”
“Promise. Here, take my fan as a token. I love a joke, me. Or a good theft. That’s a joke! Well...” She lifts my hand and slips the loop of the fan over my wrist. “Be quick and qu
iet, they’ll never see you.”
She gives me a firm push. The usher is still at his post, but I am masked by Fleur’s copious skirts and her hive of hair. I open the door and slip backstage.
It’s darker and danker back here, a warren of corridors leading on to rows of shabby dressing rooms. The doors are open, the performers within exchanging idle gossip whilst warming up muscles or smearing their faces with greasepaint. A singer cycles through arpeggios. I pass a room of ballet dancers flexing their feet in woodblock shoes. They wear tutus and tiaras. At the next door, a contortionist bends over backwards and peers at me through his legs. I follow the corridor round until I find what I’m looking for: a room full of clothes rails. All manner of things are hanging up: spangles and chiffon, bonnets and boots. I am about to filch a set of petticoats when a grey head pops up from between the rails.
“Hello, chicken. I don’t recognize you. One of the new lads, is it?”
“Er, that’s right.” I curse inwardly. “It’s my first day.”
“Don’t be nervous, I’ll get you kitted out. I’ve been here since the beginning. The very very beginning.” She laughs, but it turns into a fit of wheezing. “Excuse me. Second act, I suppose? Corsairs? Here, take one of these.” She hands me a pair of breeches. “And these.” A shirt follows, stockings, a tricorne hat, an eye-patch, a pair of boots. “Sweet Jesus, you’re a skinny thing. Could do with a few dumplings inside you.”
I thank her and change into the bundle of clothes, hiding behind a rail. I wrap my own clothes around my DMs and tie them together with two trouser legs. The wardrobe mistress gives a nod of approval.
“Don’t you make a lovely pirate? Just watch out for the ladies with that pretty face. Coline in the ballet troupe’s a minx, she’ll have your breeches around your ankles before you can say parrot.”
There is no denying that this is worse than the ragamuffin garb I started out with. Maybe I shouldn’t fight it, but accept my fate and become a pirate in the second act, whatever that entails. I can foresee a life of theatrical banditry, myself as a not-quite-modern-day Viola trapped in the circus. But first, I need to return Fleur’s fan.
As I head back the way I came, stuffing the eye patch into my pocket, a procession of clowns approaches down the corridor. Their chalk-white faces and cross-hatched eyes loom strange and solemn. I move to the wall to let them pass, but one of the clowns turns to me, grinning. With a flourish, he pulls a small yellow bird—a canary—from between his teeth and presents it upon a silver platter. The clowns convulse in silent, pantomime hysteria. The bird twitches. It’s alive, moving. The clowns gather around the bird. I push forward.
“Don’t hurt it—”
They shuffle closer, joining hands over the platter, obscuring my sight. When they part, the canary has vanished. The clown who produced it mimes his surprise. The others shrug. One wipes a tear from his cheek. They continue, bearing their empty platter aloft, oversized shoes slapping the floor until they disappear around the corner.
From one of the dressing rooms I hear a scream, followed by a burst of laughter.
Chapter Eighteen
I FIND MYSELF alone in the corridor. All at once I feel the weight of it, how isolated I am in this alien Paris, decades from home. What do I call home now? Another city? Another century? I have an overwhelming urge to put my head in my arms and weep.
Instead I return to the stage door. It is a shock to be back in the hall of the Folies, under the shifting glow of the chandeliers. Mystery Fleur is waiting.
“What in heaven?” She appraises me. Do I look ill? I feel ill. “I thought you were after a skirt?”
“Oh. That. I was. She gave me this instead. Here’s your fan, I’m going to join the show, I think it’s best if I become a pirate—”
“No, no, no. If you’re staying as a boy, you can be my escort. I’ll call you Gabriel, like the angel. Come on—if we’re quick, we can steal a spot on the balcony.”
“What? No, I—”
Going with Fleur is a terrible idea. I’m wearing a corsair’s costume. I look like a complete fool. Again I feel the urge to weep. Fleur tugs my hand. I can hear the string section tuning. The show is about to begin, and I must see the show. It’s too late now anyway. Fleur is whisking up the stairs and I am in her wake.
“Thank you, thank you, so kind,” says Fleur in that syrup-and-smoke voice, nudging her way to the front, and people smile graciously at Fleur and ignore me. I stash my bundled DMs at my feet. I’ve had these boots for too damn long to lose them in another century. Below us, I can see the pressing crowd, the black stripe of the conductor above the orchestra pit.
“Isn’t this the most exciting thing?” says Fleur.
A sudden hush takes the audience. The conductor’s arms rise and fall, a wall of sound surging up to meet us. Two figures are climbing the ladders to platforms on either side of the stage. They are identical in height and build, dressed alike in green shoes and feathered headpieces. Only the slight curvature of breasts distinguishes the female artist from the male. Reaching the platforms, they dust chalk on their hands, and each takes hold of the bar of a trapeze.
A drum rolls. Fleur nudges me with the end of her fan.
The aerialists plummet. Loosed arrows, their bodies flash in the light from the chandeliers, gaining height with each muscular beat, until at the apex of their swing they seem to disappear into the rafters. The female artist drops, somersaults through the air and catches the hands of her partner. One swing, two, and she’s back to her bar. Hanging from her knees, now from her feet. The crowd gasps with every trick. What if one of them were to fall? What if they break those fragile, gleaming bodies? What if—
The orchestra reaches a climax. My skin is tingling, my heart in my mouth. The aerialists cross mid-air. There is a long, terrible moment where it seems that they must crash and fall, that their outstretched bodies cannot possibly pass this distance, before they catch the opposite bar.
A roar of applause. I bring my hands together. What a display!
Fleur does not clap. She is tugging at my sleeve, agitated.
“Gabriel. Gabriel!”
“What, what is it?” I cannot take my eyes from the stage. Blink and it’s over; this will all dissolve before my eyes. All at once I’m glad that I saw this night.
“Valleroy is here! This is not good, Gabriel.”
“Who’s Valleroy?”
“Lord Valleroy! You must know him. He’s my first patron. And my other patron is here too! I saw him earlier, with his hussy of a wife. And if Valleroy talks to me, the other one will see, and I won’t be able to explain, see? Because of the wife! Oh, this is a royal cesspit of a disaster.”
Fleur snaps open her fan and raises it in front of her face, flapping fiercely.
“Maybe you should choose one or the other?” I suggest. The aerialists are descending and the clack of ballet shoes now fills the stage. “If they move in the same circles.”
“And limit my income? Two is nothing, two is the minimum, but neither should ever know the identity of the other! It’s all about the mystery. A girl loses her mystery, she could be any old brothel whore. Gabriel, we have to leave at once.”
“But the show’s just beginning—there’s the fire breathers and the chansons to come—”
“I’ll introduce you to the fire breathers later. I know them all and everybody knows me; that’s the problem, don’t you see?”
She pulls me away from the balustrade, rustling down the stairs, hurrying us past the ushers at the doors.
“Out early tonight, little Fleurie?” says the one on the left. The other coughs, but it might have been a snigger, suppressed. Fleur hisses in my ear, “Ignore them!”
“Do you have a carriage?” I ask hopefully. There’s a chill on the night air.
“Oh, you’re funny. Keep an eye out for purse snatchers, little ’uns are the worst of the buggers. And—” She hesitates.
“And what?”
“Not now.” A tense, almo
st frightened look passes over her face. “Not here. Come on.”
She sets off at a brisk walk. I cast a longing look back at the Folies.
“Where are we going?”
“Back to my garret, I suppose. Unless—” Fleur looks at me thoughtfully. “Now here’s an idea. You could occupy one of my patrons?”
“I’m dressed as a boy—a pirate!”
“Won’t bother them—oh, come on then. But honestly, it’s not a bad way to live—not bad at all. Most of them don’t want any fancy stuff doing—I mean that one, the lord, he likes being tied up with my stockings, but I’ve heard far, far worse. And I could be persuaded to share, if you spotted one you liked. For a percentage, of course.”
“Thank you, but I’ll try some other ways to make money first.”
“I’m low on candles, though, and there’s no gin. Say, do you want to go to l’Éléphant?”
“A tavern?” The thought of public spaces raises fresh anxiety. Tiredness sweeps over me; I am hungry and exhausted, emotional, befuddled, and if I think too carefully about where I am, I can feel an attack hovering. I want nothing more than to sleep.
“It’ll be fun! And the acrobats will be there later. The fire breathers. They all come out after the show.”
“Well—if you can introduce me.”
“Merveilleux! Hold this, will you?”
With a deft gesture, Fleur removes the hive of yellow hair from her head. An abundance of black curls tumbles to her waist.
“You’re a brunette,” I say stupidly.
Fleur smirks. “I get my way more when I’m a blonde.”
She stuffs the wig inside a muff. We go to l’Éléphant, which is full of raucous women and men and the smell of warm beer. Fleur orders absinthe and I find us a small table and a couple of stools. Fleur has her arm round my waist and introduces me to her admirers as Gabriel, her new friend from the country who has joined the Folies and doesn’t she make a lovely pirate (so I’m a girl again), to a chorus of appreciative oohs. The admirers draw up a circle of chairs. Fleur, her former skittishness abandoned, tells stories and soaks up adulation. She squeezes my waist and kisses my cheek. I drink absinthe, which magically replenishes itself every time I look away. I assume somebody is picking up Fleur’s tab.