by Lydia Syson
‘Vive la Commune!’ came the cheerful reply. ‘Would you like to see the view from here?’
‘Of course we would,’ shouted Zéphyrine. ‘But how do we get up?’
More Guardsmen emerged from the shadows. ‘Here. Step down over here, and then come up this way. Just don’t tell the boss.’
Zéphyrine turned back to Anatole, her eyes gleaming in the shadows. ‘Ready?’
She jumped down into the ditch, as instructed, then turned and held up her hand for him to join her. Their feet sank into the sand. It smelled cool and damp, like seaside without salt. The looming barricade looked higher than ever. Undaunted, Zéphyrine gathered up her skirts and began the ascent, a foot on a cannon wheel, fingers scrabbling against stone, then hessian and sand, then stone again.
Anatole looked at the violin case in this hand, and decided to take the risk. He glanced around to be sure nobody was watching, and tucked it into the shadows, hiding it well under a tarpaulin. A moment later he scrambled up too, close behind Zéphyrine. It was easier to find toeholes than he’d imagined. Towards the top, strangers’ hands heaved them both up, and then Zéphyrine reached out for Anatole.
He swayed a moment as he found his feet. ‘You were very quick,’ he said to her.
‘Practice,’ she said. ‘I grew up on the coast of Brittany, remember? All sorts of good reasons to get quick at climbing rocks by the sea.’
‘And isn’t it worth the climb to get a view like this, citizens?’ said one of the guards. ‘Just wait till it’s finished.’
It was worth it. Anatole began to feel giddy, but not because of the height, or the ditch below. It was the thought of where he might or might not be heading. It made his head spin to think of being tipped into a future without Zéphyrine now, that if he put a foot wrong she might walk away from him. But the alternative was equally unnerving. It felt alluring, and dangerous, and he realised there was no refusing her. Looking out across Paris, and then back at Zéphyrine, who was standing on tiptoe, Anatole lost his balance. His hands flew up as he tried to right himself.
‘Oi! What’s he doing?’ A shout. At the far end of the barricade, another sentinel was getting edgy. He raised his weapon aggressively. ‘Stop him. He’s signalling!’
‘Arrest him!’ shouted another, turning likewise. ‘He’s sending a message to Versailles!’
Several more men grabbed Anatole from behind. Their breath felt hot on the back of his neck as they gripped his wrists, jerking his arms nearly out of their sockets.
‘Oh stop it! Shut up! You’re being ridiculous!’ Zéphyrine waved her own arms to calm the lot of them. ‘Be quiet and listen. He’s just a bit unsteady on his feet, isn’t he?’
The men were surprised into letting go, leaving Anatole rubbing his wrists.
‘Yes, that’s right. I lost my balance.’ His knees felt so weak he feared he might again. But Zéphyrine steadied him again with a broad smile.
‘Sorry about that, citizen,’ said a fédéré. ‘No hard feelings?’ A biff to the upper arm this time.
‘Indeed not.’
‘We’ll drink to that.’
Hands were shaken and a flask was passed from hand to hand and mouth to mouth, though Zéphyrine shook her head when it came her way. It was rough stuff, but very warming, and it went straight to Anatole’s head. He leaned daringly against Zéphyrine, and she leaned back, balancing him. How hard it was to know what was happening.
From this unfamiliar perspective, as they looked out across the Place de la Concorde, it seemed enchanted. The huge square was brilliantly lit, its fountains sparkling. The obelisk in the centre rose proud and tall, and you could almost forget that barely a month ago the Prussians had marched right through here in their spiked helmets. Almost. Flap, flap. The noise was as mournful as an idle sail. A rising wind had begun to catch the black crêpe de Chine still wrapped round the statue of Strasbourg, a stone woman in mourning for the loss of Alsace-Lorraine. And somewhere, not far off, yet another battalion was on the move. A hundred tramping feet echoed off the facades of the buildings that lined the boulevards. In the north-west, thin columns of white smoke rose into the darkening sky.
‘I hope we’re getting the best of it,’ said Zéphyrine.
The grumbling thunder was continuous now. The Guardsman raised his flask again. ‘Course we are. It makes all the difference in the world, doesn’t it, protecting what’s yours?’
From the length of the half-built barricade came a murmur of assent.
‘We’re not like them. We believe in what we’re fighting. They’re paid to kill their brothers.’
Zéphyrine nodded. ‘We’re defending what’s right,’ she said firmly.
Keen to keep the peace, Anatole told the men about his photographer friend, how good he was at taking portraits. He promised to send Jules to the barricade the very next day. There was much excitement at that idea.
‘Will he really come?’ whispered Zéphyrine. ‘Here?’
‘I’m sure he’ll come if I ask him,’ said Anatole. ‘And he’s very good. A real talent. You should see what he can do.’
‘I’d like to.’
Then Zéphyrine smiled at the thought of all the extra polishing of belts and shining of brass buttons that would take place later that night, the waxing of moustaches in the morning. Imagine! A picture of yourself that you could keep forever. Maybe everyone in Paris would have their own photographic visiting card soon enough. Wasn’t that equality?
All over the city, church bells began to ring the hour.
‘It’s eight o’clock,’ she said. ‘Do you want to come?’
‘Come where?’ he asked.
‘To the club of course.’
13.
Jules spent that evening reading in the drawing room, Minou purring on his lap. He found himself skating over the same poem over and over again: something about a terrible dream landscape, with staircases, palaces and waterfalls. He couldn’t take it in at all. At one point the noise of the bombardment made him so anxious that he went upstairs and right out onto the rooftop beyond the studio, in an effort to work out exactly where the shells were landing. Of course it didn’t set his mind at ease, as he had no way of knowing what had become of Anatole, nor why he hadn’t yet come home, and he was glad to retreat.
Finally he caught the faint ring of the outer bell on the ground floor.
At last, thought Jules. He’s safe. Any moment now he would hear his elastic-sided boots on the stairs. And then, in another few minutes, Anatole would be perched once more in his usual place on the other side of the hearth, knees up, heels balancing on the seat of the chair in that slightly rakish way he had, absent-mindedly playing with the cat. With hands clasped in front of him and arms slightly hugging his knees, Anatole would begin his report on the day’s dramas, and Jules would reply with his own, such as they were.
Minou jumped down and ran to the door of the apartment, and Jules put his book face down on the carpet and rose from his armchair. It was ridiculous to worry so much, he told himself. Of course Anatole was safe. But the door didn’t open. Instead, there came a gentle knock.
When he answered it, Marie was standing on the landing.
‘Mademoiselle …’ he began, ‘how kind of you to call. Please, let me take your coat.’
She took it off without speaking.
‘Would you like to come through to the drawing room?’
‘Anatole …?’
‘I’m afraid he’s not here. I thought he might be with you in fact.’
‘Oh. No, he’s not. He was at the meeting at the theatre earlier, but it finished a few hours ago, and I just thought perhaps by now … sorry.’
‘It’s quite late,’ they both said at once. And then Marie murmured, almost to herself: ‘I shouldn’t have come. I’m not sure why I did. He’s probably … I just wanted to check …’
Jules’s manners got the better of his disappointment. Anyway, he could do with the company. And he was curious about Marie.
&n
bsp; ‘I’m expecting him back any time. Would you like to wait?’
Marie nodded, following him. She was obviously curious about him too, or Anatole. Jules wasn’t quite sure. Her eyes roved over the marble fireplace, the gilt clock. They stopped briefly at the two closed doors leading to the study and the bedrooms, and then fell on a little set of inlaid drawers on a side table, and an unusual vase, cream with angular blue and gold leaf patterns, and two funny handles like indignant arms.
‘Japanese?’ she asked.
Jules was impressed. ‘Yes, that’s right. Do you like it?’
‘Very much. It reminds me of something that belonged to someone I … I used to know.’
She suddenly seemed less certain of herself again.
‘Please … sit down.’
Jules turned his back on her, busying himself with the fire. He wondered if they should start rationing the coal again. He decided to speak to the concierge about it in the morning. Or perhaps he would simply check the cellars himself. It would be good to know exactly how they were supplied just now, in every respect. He was aware that Marie had turned to the photographs now: framed on the wall, and leaning on the mantelpiece waiting to be hung up. So many of Anatole.
‘You’ve got a very good eye,’ she said quietly. ‘These are beautiful.’
He stood up. ‘Thank you.’
At last Marie sat down. She picked up the volume of poetry he’d just been reading and frowned at the strange image on the cover: a grinning, cross-legged skeleton, with tree trunks for arm bones, hovering over a bed of richly coloured flowers. The thought of her opening the book slightly alarmed Jules. If only she’d picked up the cat instead. But Minou was in the hallway, chasing a feather that had fallen from Marie’s bonnet.
‘Can I offer you anything …?’ he said at last. ‘A glass of wine?’
‘No. Nothing.’
A brandy might fortify him though. He moved towards the cabinet. Marie suddenly dropped the book and sank her face into her hands.
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Jules, appalled, picking up the book and quickly putting it away in the bookcase. Jules had always thought of opera singers as worldly sort of women. Anatole certainly hadn’t given him the impression that Marie was an innocent. ‘You’re not fond of poetry.’
She shook her head with a grim smile. ‘It’s not the book.’
He hovered delicately at the back of her chair, and waited for her to elaborate. All this black silk, he thought. In Paris, unlike Pennsylvania, it was hard to tell if a person was in mourning or at the height of fashion. Jules contemplated Marie’s exposed neck, perfectly white against the dark taffeta. By art or accident, a delicate tendril of golden hair curled at the point of her hairline, just below the chignon, which was tied with black lace. Anatole had been right. He really ought to photograph her, he decided. Would she take it the wrong way if he asked her this evening? It was quite hard to judge.
‘You’ve had bad news? Is it your brother?’
Marie looked up, handkerchief pressed to her mouth. ‘No … that’s exactly the problem.’ She gulped, but did not weep. ‘No more news of Emile at all, and I simply don’t know where to go to find out. Anatole has been very kind to me, you know. I thought perhaps he might be able to help again. Or that maybe you would have an idea what I should do now?’
She gazed at him imploringly. Neck turned, a three-quarter profile, looking slightly upwards. A long exposure. Jules had recently seen some very successful English portraits taken from exactly the same angle. Very strong lighting, that was the trick. He forced himself to think about her problem. He had no idea how communication with the Versailles army could possibly be operating now. Presumably she would have to persuade them to let her go to Versailles, and that would need some kind of passport.
‘Have you asked at the City Hall?’ said Jules, walking up and down as he pondered the question.
‘Oh no! I’m much too frightened to go to the Commune. They terrify me, these revolutionary types. So ruthless and bloodthirsty.’
‘But what could they have against you? You hardly look like an enemy of the revolution.’
‘No! Of course not. But if my brother is a soldier of the line …?’
‘Oh, I see what you mean. And I have heard —’ Jules quickly stopped himself. This wasn’t the moment for rationality and reason.
‘What? What have you heard?’ said Marie, looking even more worried.
‘Oh, not a great deal. There have been a few arrests.’
‘Arrests …? What kind of arrests?’
‘You can guess the type … some priests, of course … and informers – police spies from the old regime —’
Marie jumped to her feet indignantly. ‘I’m not a spy! Why should they think me a spy?’
‘No, no, of course you’re not,’ soothed Jules. ‘And I’m quite sure they won’t think that. Why indeed should they?’
If you weren’t for the Commune, did that mean you were against it? He hoped not. Luckily, Marie seemed reassured by his words. It was as if simply by being spoken out loud, with his calm male authority, they became true. He was beginning to work her out a little more. She seemed to be the kind of person who liked to map out her life, to plot a course that would take her where she wanted to go. The war had driven her off course, understandably; she was fogged by uncertainty. Perhaps she just needed some help in drawing up a new chart.
‘If I could just find out where Emile is now, if he has even left Bavaria … Oh, why do we have to be trapped like this again? This is worse than the last siege.’
‘There probably is a way. If you’re prepared to —’
She sat down again, and leaned forward. ‘Tell me what you think I should do.’
14.
Anatole was not on his way home of course. In fact he had completely forgotten he’d told Jules he would be. He and Zéphyrine had stopped at a church.
‘Well? Shall we go in?’ she said, watching him carefully.
‘Yes, of course. I’d like to,’ he said quickly. ‘After you.’
‘It’s not where I usually go, with my friend Rose – you know – you met her that day at the Hôtel de Ville. This is quite a new club,’ said Zéphyrine. ‘But I’ve heard the debates here are very lively. You can learn a lot.’
She pushed open the door, and he followed her in. There were fewer men here than at Saint-Pierre, but Anatole didn’t stand out too much. It was hard for anybody to stand out really, when everybody was so different. Zéphyrine pointed out an empty pew halfway up the church where they could sit together. ‘I’ll explain later.’
‘But there is work more urgent still, which is calling the women of Paris today,’ the speaker was warning. Her accent was Russian. ‘Our country is in danger. Not just our country – the ideals of the revolution itself are in danger. The Versailles army is massing as I speak. Thiers is building a new army, the prisoners of war returning to bulk its force. But the men of the National Guard cannot fight alone. The time has come when it is no longer enough simply to offer our support as cantinières and ambulancières. Food and nursing is vital, of course, but I have a question for you …’
A fire-stoking pause.
‘Is your heart not as stout as your brothers, fellow citoyennes? Can you bear to stand by when your sons and fathers are dying for your sake?’
‘No! No! We must do more!’ shouted a young working woman with a red cockade pinned to her shawl. ‘We must fight too!’
The woman in the pulpit suddenly flashed a sword, and the church erupted. Some cheered, while some shook their heads or roared disapproval.
‘Can anyone just say what they like here?’ Anatole whispered.
Zéphyrine shrugged and nodded, as though she were an old hand at all this. ‘That’s what the clubs are for.’
Anatole raised his eyebrows, settled back in the pew and continued to listen. Someone was listing the steps taken already by the Women’s Vigilance Committee. Organisation. That was women’s work. And with each d
ay’s fighting, there would be more orphanages to organise, more innocent mouths to feed. Another argued that fighting was not the point: it was not too late, there was still time for reconciliation with Versailles and women should march to Thiers with their demands. Then somebody else shook out the day’s newspaper and began to read out the latest declaration made by the National Guard’s Central Committee.
Zéphyrine yawned despite herself. Her eyes slowly closed, and her mind began to drift. She awoke with a jerk, forced them to open again and did her utmost to concentrate. The discussion moved to prostitution – how best to ban it. How could such a horror exist under the Commune? It had to be wiped out.
Yes, yes, thought Zéphyrine, feeling sick as she remembered how close she had come, how different everything might have been. Maybe Anatole was right. It had been fate.
Then her eyelids began to droop again. The voices all around her merged into a single murmur, each speaker indistinguishable, a kind of rushing wind in her ears like a late summer breeze in the pines near the seashore. Or the rise and fall of a shell as you hold it to your ear. Her head floated, sank and tilted, coming to rest on Anatole’s shoulder.
He shifted slightly, to make her more comfortable. His arm moved round her, and, without her awareness, her body instinctively absorbed the warmth and ease offered by his. She began to dream.
A single strand of dark hair hung loose over Zéphyrine’s face, not quite black. Anatole twisted his neck to watch as it gently rose and fell, fluttering like a miniature banner with every breath. Tiny sighs, almost inaudible. Somehow, even in the middle of all this, he felt alone with her. The voices around them seemed to blur and recede. He had to seize this moment: it might last only minutes. But for those few minutes he wanted to concentrate.
He gazed at Zéphyrine’s face long and hard. It was the kind of face you had to keep looking at: it was so hard to tell whether it was strange, or beautiful, or both at once, and until she slept, it never quite stopped changing. This was his chance to see it still.