Liberty's Fire

by Lydia Syson

  ‘And your grandmother …?’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘Was she …?’ How could he put this?

  ‘A fille-mère too?’

  Suddenly the hard challenge was back in her eyes. Just for a moment. ‘Of course not. She couldn’t have been stricter with me. She nearly disowned my mother when I was born. Once she had me in her charge, she did everything she could to stop me from going the same way.’

  She rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands, and then shook her head, and smiled brightly. ‘You’re thinking about how we first met, aren’t you? You’re still wondering how bad I really am?’

  Anatole tried to protest. But she put her arms round him again, and the hunger he’d never felt during the siege flooded his body.

  ‘I’m not telling you,’ she mumbled through kisses. ‘Because it’s a stupid way to think.’

  He didn’t want to be thinking anyway. Eventually they separated, and he kissed her eyes again, first with his lips and then with his eyelashes, which he brushed against hers, left to left, right to right.

  Zéphyrine smiled, returned his fluttering touch, then broke away. ‘An eye for an eye.’ She looked at the ground, suddenly sombre.

  ‘What?’ Anatole reached for her with both hands, and cupped her face and kissed each eye again until he had her attention.

  ‘An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth,’ she said. ‘That’s what the Commune is saying now. There must be reprisals.’

  Now he understood. She was talking about the latest decree: the Commune’s threat to shoot their own hostages, even the archbishop, if Versailles killed one more prisoner in cold blood.

  ‘Do you think they really will?’ he asked.

  Her eyebrows came together. ‘I don’t know …’ she said slowly. ‘But I think perhaps they should.’

  And then like a shadow in the sky on a bright windy day – eyes screwed up, you look up, but already the sun is back – the darkness quickly passed. Just at that moment it was easy to pretend. You didn’t have to think about hostages, or prisoners, or executions when the leaves were green and bright and fresh, and the air was warm on your skin.

  Anatole and Zéphyrine held hands and wandered among the booths, through the spiralling music, the bursts of laughter and applause, and the sweet, sweet smell of gingerbread and blossom and roasting nuts. Other couples were courting too, and kissing in the dappled shade of the trees round the edge of the square. Today the world was indulgent and everything delightful. This year, of all years, the Gingerbread Fair was set to run for an entire week: a week of endless unclouded festivity, like a promise.

  17.

  Late that night, Anatole came whistling up the stairs, his arrival breaking the building’s silence. Luckily there weren’t many left here to be disturbed by his good humour. Just a few maids, who wouldn’t bother to open doors and shush him now that their masters and mistresses weren’t around to complain. The last removal wagon had come and gone: the neighbourhood seemed almost deserted except for the servants.

  He grinned in the dark. Tomorrow evening Zéphyrine had agreed to meet him again. Late, after the canteen was shut, and when she’d got her committee work done. But she’d agreed. It was incredible. His whole life had been turned upside down.

  He reached the top landing, closed the door behind him and immediately crashed into the side table in the hallway. Feeling his way into the drawing room, suppressing a curse, he scrabbled for a match to light the gas.

  A hand closed tightly on his wrist and Anatole bellowed.

  ‘Is this what you’re looking for?’ Jules pressed his silver Vesta case into Anatole’s palm.

  ‘Oh it’s you,’ said Anatole. ‘Obviously.’ His heart was thumping harder than he was prepared to admit. ‘Thank you.’

  He lit the gas in silence, without looking at Jules, who leaned against the wall, watching him.

  ‘Well?’ said Anatole eventually, shaking the match out and walking through to the dark drawing room, where he flicked it into the grate. A few embers in white ash.

  ‘Well, what?’

  ‘Was that meant to be a joke of some kind?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then what were you doing alone here in pitch-blackness? Why didn’t you say anything when I came in?’

  No reaction.

  ‘Why aren’t you saying anything now?’ Anatole persisted.

  ‘Why should I?’

  Anatole sighed. He felt himself going hot. Partly with anger, but also with guilt. Some part of him knew that he hadn’t behaved well, but he wasn’t prepared to admit it, not even to himself.

  ‘Be like that, if you really want to. I’m going to bed.’

  ‘Good idea. It’s very late. Goodnight.’

  But neither of them moved.

  ‘Look,’ said Anatole, in what he hoped were measured tones. ‘You’d better just tell me what the matter is.’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ Jules replied. ‘Nothing important.’

  Anatole had just had a perfect day. He’d been hoping that Jules would be fast asleep by the time he got back. He wanted to slip into bed, without a word to anyone, and lie in the dark and rehearse every last moment of the past twelve hours in his head. He had calculated that the pleasure of that would keep him going for the next … nineteen and a half. How could he have thought he knew what it would be like? Nobody could know, before it happened. To be so close, to be able to say anything, to be caught in someone else’s eyes and breath like that. And you could kiss a girl under a tree, without shame, and nobody even notice. There was no confusion.

  But the day would be tainted if it ended like this. Everything would be tainted. Anatole made himself try again. At least he made it seem as if he was trying again.

  ‘Well, you’re quite clearly angry about something. Something I’ve done, presumably … is it dust again? Did I get dust on your plates or your negatives or something the other day?’

  ‘No. You didn’t.’

  His voice suggested that Anatole knew perfectly well it was nothing like that. But Jules was the sophisticated one, the one who knew everything, who was so good at explaining the way the world worked. Wasn’t it up to him to put this thing into words, whatever exactly it was? Anatole had never quite understood that.

  ‘If you don’t tell me, I’ll never know,’ he said. ‘Which means you’ll probably go on being angry. Which will be no fun for either of us.’

  He spoke lightly, much more lightly than he felt, and waited for a reply. Some invisible line had been crossed, but what? There was a chance that his instincts were wrong. Anatole and Jules had spent so many months together – touching, and not touching, talking, and not talking. Drifting happily, because they could. They never said anything out loud, not anything important, and it seemed stupid, almost dangerous, to change that now. Actually, to Anatole, it felt impossible. The silver matchbox was heating up in his hands. He looked at the engraved letters – JHWC, all intertwined – and leaned forward to slip it back into Jules’s pocket. Jules seemed to freeze as he did so. And then he sighed, and put the case on the side table between them both, as if he did not want it to burn him.

  ‘It’s not important.’

  Anatole was driven to sarcasm. ‘Obviously not.’

  He picked up the silver matchbox, and tossed it gently in the palm of his hand, producing a soft, rhythmic rattle. Then walked over to the uncurtained window and stared out. The panorama in the west was impossible to ignore any more. Every night another volcanic display started up, flashes and sound effects and coloured smoke so remotely beautiful it was hard to believe that beneath them buildings were burning, women and children cowering, and men dying. Anatole pulled himself away from the sight, back towards Jules. ‘Except … oh!’ He pretended to understand. ‘You were waiting for me. Waiting up for me. Oh for God’s sake, you’re turning into my father!’

  Jules, still leaning against the wall, the gas roaring gently in his ears, closed his eyes. He spoke very quietly, almost
despairingly. ‘Your father …? Of course I’m not. That’s ridiculous.’

  Anatole remembered other nights Jules had waited up for him, nights when he had been late back from performances, and they had stayed up talking for hours. Birdsong had interrupted them. And he remembered bright mornings modelling in the studio in early autumn, sunlight warming bare skin under the camera’s gaze. Of course Jules was nothing like his father.

  ‘I think you’re being ridiculous,’ he said, hearing how feeble he sounded. Then his anger returned. ‘No, I know what’s bothering you. You thought I might bring Zéphyrine back?’

  ‘I – I —’

  ‘For God’s sake. How dare you?’ Anatole hurled the Vesta case across the room at him. It bounced off the wall a few feet from his head. Suddenly he had the upper hand. Suddenly he felt in the right again, and not in the wrong. ‘How dare you?’

  Jules flinched again.

  ‘You think she’s a common tart, don’t you? That’s what all this is about.’ Anatole slammed his fist against the mantelpiece. ‘You think she’s a fille publique who just wants to get me into her clutches so she can screw me for all I’ve got. Which isn’t much anyway …’ His fists clenched and unclenched.

  ‘Calm down,’ said Jules. ‘It’s not about money.’

  ‘I was calm … until you started all this. You were the one who wasn’t calm when I came home.’

  Jules seemed almost relieved at Anatole’s anger. Having provoked it, he remained annoyingly in control of his own emotions. Perhaps the relief came from finding something they could argue about, something that could be said.

  ‘Well, let’s both be calm now,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t want to be calm any more. I don’t feel calm.’ Anatole sat down. Elbows out, his hands kneaded the upholstered arms of the chair, as if he might spring up again at any moment.

  ‘Look, it’s not for me to judge … Zéphyrine …’ Jules spoke her name as if trying out a foreign language. ‘But —’

  ‘No, you’re right,’ snapped Anatole. ‘It’s not for you to judge. So don’t. You don’t know anything about her.’

  ‘But I do know she’s not … Well, you told me yourself.’

  Anatole wished he’d never said anything about that first encounter. But it was too late now. ‘What exactly are you afraid of?’

  Jules swallowed and shook his head. Still Anatole refused to admit to himself that he had not been kind to Jules. He persuaded himself that if nothing had been said, nothing could have happened. Guilt made him angrier, and more cruel still.

  ‘You don’t think she might simply have fallen in love with me?’ Anatole said.

  He might just as well have hit him. Jules looked down, tracing the pattern of the carpet’s golden scrolling with a bare toe. It looked completely out of place, completely vulnerable. Anatole even noticed a shirt tail hanging from beneath a waistcoat. He realised Jules must have gone to bed and then got up again, unable to sleep. Meanwhile, Jules opened and closed his mouth, and finally spoke to the carpet.

  ‘I’m sure she’s happy to let you think you’ve seduced her. It’s how most tarts operate, the clever ones. Haven’t you ever noticed? One minute you’re both in love, without a care in the world. The next minute you’re paying her rent and God knows who else she’s entertaining at your expense.’

  ‘I bought her a gingerbread pig. I didn’t buy her a château on the Loire.’

  ‘I’m just saying —’

  ‘What?’ snapped Anatole.

  ‘That you’ve got to be careful. I’m not sure that you know what you’re doing. When you get mixed up in …’

  ‘I understand. You think she’s going to “infect” me. That because she’s poor she must be diseased?’

  ‘I didn’t say that,’ backtracked Jules.

  Anatole glared at him, eyes narrowed, thinking.

  ‘You’re talking about her as if she wasn’t a proper human being, and you don’t even realise it,’ he said.

  Jules shrugged. Something happened inside Anatole. It was like the moment an E string unexpectedly snaps and spirals away from a bow. But it’s not so unexpected. It had already been coming. There’d been a false note, a subtle variation in pitch that demanded attention, which was easier to ignore than fix. Until the string actually broke. Suddenly Anatole was fed up with all the toing and froing with Jules, so thrilling, uncertain and surprising in the early days of their friendship. Perhaps something to do with the fact that his friend was a little older, wiser, more worldly – certainly a great deal richer. But now he wanted something different. A different kind of excitement altogether. Zéphyrine offered him admission into a world he knew nothing about.

  ‘Oh, I see. It’s another kind of infection you’re worried about. You think her politics are contagious?’

  Jules didn’t answer at first. The silence between them felt explosive. Then he muttered, ‘Who knows? But if you’re going to turn yourself into a hero of the people, you’d better get back into uniform as soon as you can.’

  Anatole was still breathing heavily. ‘I damn well will.’

  ‘It won’t be long before you’re arrested if you don’t,’ said Jules.

  ‘Feel free to join me. The battalions round here need all the help they can get, Zéphyrine says.’

  Jules didn’t rise to that. He declined with a brief dip of his head, as if refusing a second cup of coffee.

  ‘Something tells me I’ll be more valuable as a photographer than a fusilier.’

  It was true that his reputation was spreading. Officers sidled up when he set up his tripod these days, with mumbled queries about the cost of an illustrated visiting card. Up in the studio, Jules had a whole collection of barricade pictures. He’d taken them all over Paris. He never charged.

  ‘Probably,’ said Anatole.

  They both shifted uneasily, feeling the argument was at an end, if not resolved, but unsure how to disperse the remaining heat. Then they were both drawn back to the window by the sound of distant crackling, no louder than paper being crumpled in a fist. Side by side, Anatole and Jules stood and watched the flashing sky.

  ‘I’d never seen you as a revolutionary before,’ said Jules quietly.

  ‘I’d never seen you as an artist.’

  ‘I’m not sure if I am one.’

  ‘I think you are,’ said Anatole. He smiled. Jules’s face was untightening at last, his eyes softening. That was more like it. Jules didn’t drop his guard for many people, but Anatole was one of them, and that fact made him happy. He could see Jules was more pleased than he wanted to admit. ‘A real artist. And anyway, you are still serving the cause, however you might feel about it. There will be much more freedom for artists in the Commune, Zéphyrine says. There’s talk of a new federation. All sorts of ideas, apparently.’

  ‘I look forward to hearing about it,’ said Jules.

  Anatole decided to make the request he’d been mulling over on the way home. Jules could always say no. ‘I was wondering … I was thinking … this isn’t for the cause, though … it’s just for me.’

  ‘What were you wondering?’

  ‘I thought perhaps … not that I’ve told her—’

  Maybe he shouldn’t ask. Maybe it was too much to ask.

  ‘A photograph of Zéphyrine?’

  ‘Yes … that’s right. How did you know?’

  ‘Just an idea.’ Jules hid his face as he bent to pick up the matchcase. ‘Of course. She’ll be interesting to photograph. A challenge … Oh don’t take that the wrong way. I just mean to capture all that life, and energy, and keep it still. As it happens, I’ve arranged for Marie to come here for a portrait session the day after tomorrow – I told you she called for you a few nights ago, didn’t I?’

  Anatole thought he probably had.

  ‘She’s very interesting. More complicated than I realised. Anyway, why doesn’t Zéphyrine come here at the same time? They would make an interesting contrast, wouldn’t they? Visually, I mean?’

  Anat
ole hesitated. Having urged Jules to look for new models to photograph, he could hardly object, but he felt very uneasy at the prospect of Zéphyrine and Marie posing side by side. He couldn’t think how either would react.

  ‘I don’t know. They’ve only met once. I think individual portraits would be better.’

  ‘Yes, you’re probably right.’

  Jules was suddenly so reasonable.

  ‘But you still want Zéphyrine to come at the same time?’ asked Anatole.

  ‘It would certainly make things easier for me. I’ll have everything set up, you see.’

  ‘Yes. Thank you, Jules. You’re very generous. I’ll ask her tomorrow.’

  ‘Let me know, so I can prepare the plates.’

  ‘Yes, I will, but I won’t tell her why I’m bringing her here. I want it to be a surprise..’

  ‘Really? If you think that would be best.’

  Anatole decided it would. He felt very grateful to Jules, and it made him want to hug his friend, but he stopped himself.

  ‘I wasn’t going to ask,’ he admitted. ‘You seemed so angry.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘It’s wonderful,’ said Anatole happily. He didn’t think to apologise himself. ‘Thank you. Thank you so much. She’ll be amazed. I hope I can persuade her to come. I wonder if she’ll have time. She’s so busy, you see. So much to do, isn’t there? I’ll ask her tomorrow. What should I tell her? Oh, I’ll think of something. Thank you, Jules.’

  The dreamy grin Anatole had worn in the dark on the landing was back.

  ‘No need to rush things,’ said Jules gently. ‘We could do it next week instead.’

  ‘But I want to rush things,’ said Anatole. ‘I want to.’

  ‘Evidently.’ A half-smile from Jules.

  ‘Oh, I know it seems odd, to have fallen like this, so suddenly, so hard. I can’t explain it myself. Can you ever really explain something like this?’

  ‘No,’ agreed Jules quietly. ‘Probably not.’ He pulled a chair to the fireplace, and picked up the poker. He glanced down at his bare feet, as if surprised to see them himself, then wriggled his toes and began to prod the embers.