by Lydia Syson
‘There. That’s done,’ she said, and patted his fist.
The movement was so quick, her skin rough but so warm and alive. Anatole sat with his hand still extended, silently wishing she hadn’t let go. He opened his tingling fingers, and looked at the coins in his palm.
‘What’s the matter?’ Zéphyrine asked quickly. ‘Isn’t it enough? I’ll count it again.’
And just so that he could feel her fingers on his again, he let her.
‘That’s right,’ they said together, and then a roar of laughter from the meeting across the landing made them look at each other in alarm. It was quickly followed by scattered applause and the scrape of chair legs on parquet. Flustered, Zéphyrine stood up, seemed on the verge of speech, and then started down the stairs, her wooden soles clattering.
Anatole rushed after her, almost falling into her in his haste. ‘Please wait,’ he called. ‘Stop. Where are you going? Don’t go. Please.’
He hadn’t rehearsed this at all. He didn’t have a clue what to do to keep Zéphyrine from disappearing. She stopped and looked back up at him, with a gaze that didn’t seem to want to let go. The turn of her bare neck caught his eye, and he wanted to touch that too, and take her cap off so he could see the colour of her hair better. What did it mean, the way she kept on looking at him? It made his skin shiver. It felt familiar and yet completely strange. He ran down and caught up with her.
‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘I wondered … that is to say …’ He was about to ask if she was hungry, invite her to have supper with him, but suddenly he was afraid she’d be insulted. ‘Are you busy this evening? Might you —’ And then he looked down at his empty hands and remembered. ‘Oh no! I’ve left my violin. I’ve got to go and get it.’ He had messed everything up. He would have to let her go, and that would be that.
But she just leaned against the curve of the wall, gripping the banister behind her back, and looked him straight in the eye. ‘I can wait.’
The voices from the landing above grew louder again. The meeting was definitely breaking up. Zéphyrine continued to stare at him, and he didn’t move until he realised her gaze had shifted slightly. She was looking at Marie, who was now standing at the top of the staircase, holding the fiddle case, her face unreadable.
‘You forgot this,’ she said, holding it out to him, just as everybody else came sweeping out of the meeting room, all arguing and singing and shouting. Voices and shoe leather banged and clattered down into the lobby and out onto the pavement. Other singers and musicians came out discussing the meeting and were now parting, calling farewells and arranging rendezvous across the square. Zéphyrine stood by the stage door, her arm suddenly in Anatole’s tight grasp.
He looked at his hand as if it belonged to someone else, and immediately removed it. ‘So many people … all the excitement … I was worried that … but of course, I know perfectly well you don’t need my help to get down a staircase. Please don’t think I make a habit of …’
Nobody had ever taken Zéphyrine’s arm in that way before, a way that made her feel alive with something that wasn’t anger. Nobody had ever looked at her quite like that. He made it hard to look away. She wished he hadn’t let go.
‘A habit?’ she asked. His earnestness made her want to laugh, but also cry. It was very confusing. His hands were beautiful, with their long, strong fingers. She had touched them. ‘Now, let me see … I think you’ve grabbed hold of me every time we’ve met so far.’
Anatole looked quite forlorn. ‘You’re right. How strange. That does look like a habit, doesn’t it? But I only seem to do it with you.’
‘Which means …?’
Before he could answer, Marie was there again. ‘I might have to start asking for tips,’ she said lightly, handing Anatole his violin. ‘You seem to be confusing me with a porter.’
Then, utterly gracious, she held out her hand to Zéphyrine. ‘Good evening,’ she said.
It was a bit like being introduced to a princess, Zéphyrine thought later. There was something so perfect about Marie: the way she held herself, her hair, her beautiful dress. All she needed was a glittering coronet.
Zéphyrine nodded. ‘Pleased to meet you.’ She’d never expected someone like this might ever talk to someone like her, let alone shake her hand.
‘I beg your pardon, both of you,’ said Anatole, more flustered than ever. ‘Please allow me. Mademoiselle Le Gall, may I introduce —’
‘Le Gall?’ interrupted Zéphyrine, her face bright with recognition. ‘You’re not from Brittany, are you?’
‘My grandparents were. I was born in Paris.’
‘And I am from a village near Concarneau. My name is Zéphyrine.’ Citoyenne Zéphyrine, she almost said. ‘But I’ve been a Parisian too these last few years. Still, you’re the first opera singer I’ve ever met. You are a singer, aren’t you? You must be.’
Marie laughed politely, musically, delightfully.
‘Yes, I am. And I hope I won’t be the last you meet. You must come to our concert, mustn’t she?’ she said, turning towards Anatole, who frowned.
‘What concert?’
‘Oh, I’m sorry … I forgot that you missed the end of the meeting. Doctor Rousselle is organising some public concerts to raise money for the ambulance stations, and for the widows and orphans of … the Commune.’ The last word seemed to stick a little in her throat. ‘So our work together may not be wasted after all, Anatole.’
‘I hope not,’ he returned stoutly. ‘Is there a date for it?’
‘Not yet, nor a place. I daresay both will be decided soon enough.’ She shuddered. ‘The situation seems to be becoming more urgent by the day.’
‘Well, I’ve never been to a concert,’ said Zéphyrine. ‘I’d like to come. If I’m not working of course.’
‘Naturally. I hope we will see Mister Crowfield at the concert too. What do you think, Anatole? It was such a pleasure to meet him last week. You must know Mister Crowfield too …?’
Zéphyrine shook her head. ‘No. I’ve no idea who you’re talking about.’
‘Really? I assumed … So you and Monsieur Clément … Do tell me where you met …’
Zéphyrine was struggling to know what to make of Mlle Le Gall. She and Anatole obviously worked together. But were they familiar in other ways? Zéphyrine decided that if she made herself quite clear, perhaps the singer would too. It was best to be clear. And the discussions at the club had made her bold, far bolder than she ever used to be. She narrowed her eyes and spoke in a hard, matter-of-fact kind of way.
‘He picked me up near the market about ten days ago. He thought I was a tart, a fille publique. Can’t really blame him. I thought I was about to become a whore myself. Well, you know how it is … a girl’s got to live.’ She shrugged, as if she didn’t care how close she’d come to falling. And then she worried that Anatole would think worse of her for talking like that, and wished she hadn’t.
Marie began to twist and turn the tassel of her little bag. Of course she knew how it was. There was barely a woman in Paris who didn’t, who wasn’t making such calculations to survive, day after day, at one level or another – whether she admitted it or not.
‘I wonder …’ started Anatole, but another troop of marching men was coming over the bridge and getting closer. It was hard to speak through the noise, and impossible not to turn and stare. Nobody could ignore that heart-twisting bugle call.
‘So. Are you going to help defend the barricades?’ asked Zéphyrine, following his gaze. ‘If the Versailles army gets any closer?’
‘I hope not!’ said Marie, before Anatole could answer, turning away from them both, all composure gone. ‘I must go now,’ she said. ‘This city … this war … I can’t …’ She hurried off.
‘Wait …!’ Anatole called after her, but far too quietly. As he watched her go, he ran a hand through his hair as if it might straighten his thoughts too. But Zéphyrine was reassured. If they cared for each other in the way she had feared
, Mlle Le Gall would not have gone, and he would not have let her go.
‘Her brother was captured by the Prussians – he’s still a prisoner of war,’ he explained. ‘She has no other family living …’
‘How awful for her.’ Zéphyrine was instantly sympathetic. At least some of her family were alive, even if they wanted nothing to do with her. And her little brothers – half-brothers – they were still too young to fight. Zéphyrine could afford to feel sorry for Marie.
‘They say Thiers is negotiating to get the prisoners released more quickly, so maybe he’ll be back soon,’ Anatole continued.
‘Of course he is!’ said Zéphyrine. ‘He’s going to need them to defeat the forces of the Commune.’
‘True,’ said Anatole. ‘But that doesn’t make things any easier for Marie, knowing Emile might be back to fight another war, and a civil war too.’ Another thunderous roll of cannon fire had begun to sound in the west.
Zéphyrine repeated something she’d heard Rose say. ‘It’s a shame Thiers is so much better at negotiating with the Prussians than he is with his own people.’
Anatole looked impressed. ‘I don’t understand it. It’s all getting out of hand so fast. I thought there would surely be talks, discussion, something sensible to resolve the crisis. But the Versailles government seems so quick to fire —’
‘That’s because they’re scared,’ interrupted Zéphyrine, getting into her stride. She loved the way he drank in her angry words, feasted on her face. ‘Afraid of us. Democracy’s a dirty word for them. They think it just means poor people taking their things. They don’t understand. But they have to understand. And they should be afraid. This is a battle Paris cannot lose. It’s our last chance to make life fair.’
Anatole nodded, and gripped his violin case more tightly. ‘Let’s walk,’ he said suddenly, ‘while we still can walk.’
‘Just walk? Why? Where to?’
Anatole waved his hand towards the river, the bridge, the pale towers and turrets of the Conciergerie, the building that held the royal prisoners in the first revolution. ‘It doesn’t matter, does it? Wherever we can.’
They walked a long way, wandering westward along the river.
Little by little, the awkwardness dissolved. Within half an hour, they couldn’t stop talking. They took it in turns to interrogate each other, to find out as much as they possibly could, as quickly as they possibly could. There seemed no time to waste. Zéphyrine told Anatole about her grandmother. How she had loved and feared her, how she had struggled against her tight rein, yet would have done anything for her. She relived the dizzy despair she had felt at her death and the moment of utter panic as the last shovel of earth had covered the rough wood of her cheap coffin. How would she have got through those first few days without Rose, and the Lenoir family? What would she have done if Madame Mouton had not kept her room? And now she had her comrades at the canteen, and a whole new life.
When they reached the gardens on the far side of the Tuileries Palace, you could almost smell the rising sap. They pointed out to each other the buds on the trees, swollen almost to bursting. Soon it really would be spring, and about time too.
Then Anatole spoke of his bossy sisters, and of the excitement of arriving alone in Paris the year before. Nobody to tell him what to do any more. Everything had been new and glamorous to him. The city itself seemed to glitter and sparkle then – not like now – and at times Anatole had felt quite dazzled.
So they’d both arrived as innocents from the provinces, they agreed. But they were Parisians now, through and through. Living in the greatest city in the world, a city like no other.
‘But it’s not really one city, is it?’ said Zéphyrine suddenly. ‘It never has been, I don’t suppose.’
Anatole stopped. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean there are lots of different worlds in Paris. It’s just most of the time they never meet. The poor and the rich. Me and you.’
‘Oh, I’m not rich,’ said Anatole quickly. ‘Not at all. What gave you that idea?’
‘That’s what you think. Maybe you still have to earn a living. You don’t have a country estate, or servants. But you can’t really imagine what it is to have nothing. Really nothing. Nothing at all. To hang on to life by the skin of your teeth. Can you?’
‘No, but …’
Zéphyrine smiled, and touched him to make him look at her again. ‘It’s not your fault. I’m not blaming you. And you’re nothing like the speculators and the developers and the landlords and the aristocrats. I know that. Those people – the ones who hate us – I can’t imagine their lives and they can’t imagine mine. But they never try, do they? Because they don’t care. As long as other people are working to make their money, and they don’t have to see them.’
‘But not everybody’s like that, surely?’ said Anatole uncomfortably.
‘How would I know? It’s not as if I ever get the chance to ask them. Take you and me, we’d never be talking now, if it hadn’t been for the war and the siege. And the Commune, come to that. Unless …’ Zéphyrine shook her head. Of course there were times that girls like her used to talk to men like him.
‘Well …’ Anatole couldn’t deny it.
‘You know my grandmother hardly let me out of Montmartre before the war. Every day was the same: cutting, and shaping, and glueing. You don’t think I ever saw the flowers I made again? We’d take them to the back doors of the milliners and the dressmakers and get what we could for them. I used to peep through, and wish so much I could see the shops, and what became of our roses, and our lilies, and our violets. But that wouldn’t have “done” would it? Of course, they were always trying to lower the price, finding something to complain about, saying the nuns made them better, and cheaper too.’
‘I wonder if any of your flowers ended up on stage at our theatre … or in the audience,’ said Anatole. ‘They must have. Imagine that.’
‘Maybe. But then of course nobody wanted bright flowers during the war. Too frivolous. We kept lowering and lowering our price, but then we’d go into town and find the shops all shuttered up, and the hatmakers and couturiers gone. And then we had to pawn our tools. And then sell our pawn tickets, so we had no hope of getting them back, no hope of working again. It’s so easy to fall. You just get dragged lower and lower until there’s no getting back up, you see. You think you’re hanging on and then one day it just happens.’
Anatole was beginning to see.
‘Where do you live?’ asked Zéphyrine.
Then Anatole told her how he had stayed at first with an old cello teacher of his father’s on the other side of the river, in the Latin Quarter, and how much a friendly face had helped at first, and what a difference it had made to have a few introductions at the opera houses. But the couple really were very old, and it was a small apartment and altogether very awkward, and he had just been looking for a room of his own when he had run into Jules.
‘Jules?’ said Zéphyrine.
‘Mister Crowfield, as Marie called him. It’s her joke. Because he’s American, and Monsieur Crowfield sounds odd to her.’
And Anatole told Zéphyrine of the luck of that chance meeting. How generous, how sophisticated Jules had seemed … what good company he was, and so kind. How much easier city life was with a friend to share it with. Zéphyrine nodded, thinking of Rose. ‘Jules is a photographer now,’ Anatole told her. ‘He works very hard at it. Portraits mostly, and buildings. You have to keep extremely still. It’s scientific but quite magical too. Very precise, but also sometimes just a matter of luck.’
Zéphyrine was never quite sure about luck, she admitted. What was the difference between luck and chance and fate? Maybe all chance meetings were fate, Anatole said. Or just the ones you remember, suggested Zéphyrine. And they talked about their own good fortune in meeting, and finally Anatole convinced Zéphyrine that the money she had taken didn’t matter to him at all, and that his intentions really had been pure, if not entirely clear, even to himsel
f. She thought she probably believed him.
They walked arm in arm, both careful to keep a respectable distance, one from the other. Neither wanted to make assumptions. But in the small space between their bodies, the air seemed to hum and crackle.
As the gas lamps began to roar, Anatole and Zéphyrine came to a halt. They were in front of another barricade, but this one was vast. It would have been hard to imagine, unbelievable really, if you weren’t standing there right in front of it, and it wasn’t even finished. What a triumph of engineering! What shocking grandeur. And it blocked the grandest of streets. There was no need for anyone here to threaten or cajole passers-by for help. There were no semi-circles of iron grating in this great building work, or bits of wood, or benches, or children fingering the dirt. Workers had been paid to raise this barricade. They had stopped and started at set times. Somebody had consulted a plan, and told others what to do. Tomorrow they would start again. Wheelbarrows were lined up, waiting, beside a huge mound of earth. This was a barricade that really meant business.
On the stone rampart above the line of cannon, Guardsmen marched with lanterns. Up and down, up and down they went, cocky as hell, shadows swinging.
Anatole felt Zéphyrine stiffen. He didn’t guess it was pride that straightened her spine. He imagined she was afraid.
‘Will they let us pass, do you think?’ murmured Anatole. Jules always said you mustn’t let people intimidate you. But it was hard not to feel cowed by quite so many sandbags, a ditch so deep, and everything around so neat and orderly. He longed for a strip of braid himself, and wondered what had happened to his old battalion. The smarter the neighbourhood, the less likely its National Guard unit was to be in sympathy with the Commune. He ought to go and find out.
‘Of course they’ll let us,’ said Zéphyrine. With a flick of her head, she strode forward, pulling him with her.
There was a flurry of movement above, and Anatole was startled by the click of rifles being cocked.
Zéphyrine didn’t flinch. ‘Good evening, citoyens!’ she called up. ‘This is going to be the finest barricade in all Paris! And what a grand job you’re doing of guarding it. Long live the Commune! Vive la Commune!’