She might have remembered the evenings spent helping her son organize the growing pile of newspapers he was saving for his father, or the Sunday when Octavio would teach Blind Grenelle the story game. It was the first Christmas of the war: the two of them on the front step shivering in the cold and mimicking an illustration of soldiers huddled around a trench fire. They were a happy group, the poilu on the front page, a few of them singing, one fellow enjoying a pipe and a steaming mug, a pair dancing what appeared to be a jig.
Or she might have remembered the knot loosening in her stomach as she pictured her Emile, warm and safe like the scene in the newspaper; or as she stood watch at the top of the cake-slice, her son and Grenelle linking elbows and twirling across the cobbles below.
What Madame Lafrouche would remember was 1916. Soldiers returning to Paris on leave, but not her Alphonse. Hollow men slumped in doorways, broken men struggling with new crutches. But no sign of Alphonse. The postman knocking at her door that summer; the way he took off his cap and wiped the sweat from his forehead as he handed her the telegram. The word that had hovered over the eighth since the winter: Verdun. Then the instructions as to where Madame might find her husband’s resting place, once the fighting had moved on and the army could arrange suitable memorial plots. She would remember the darkness of that summer and the mad hope that the army had made a mistake. Most of all she would remember the pain in Madame Notre-Dame’s eyes, worrying that her own man had met such a fate, and Grenelle’s quiet reassurance to the baker’s wife. No news is good news, he had whispered.
Blind Grenelle would remember the spring of 1918. Bread finally rationed. Everyone now complaining, standing in day-long queues for meagre allotments, that such privation meant a slow and certain death for the country’s soul. He would remember the low thudding of heavy guns outside the city, the catch in people’s throats as they talked of the enemy massing on the outskirts, the story he conjured to distract Octavio as news of bombs landing in the city spread through the shop. Pay no attention, he told the boy. That is our army, not theirs. Our boys are setting off fireworks, practising for when victory comes. Imagine the celebration we will have when your father marches through those doors.
——
Octavio would remember his tenth birthday, August 1918, and his mother asking him for a story. Something from your book, she said. He was stunned. He ran up the spiral staircase to the attic and returned with the Arabian Nights, opening it to the picture of a man in a turban and elegant robes riding a flying horse. He couldn’t tell the same story he and his father had told each other. He wanted something special for his mother, she had never asked for a story before. This is one of Papa’s horses, he said, knowing how she would reply. But your father hasn’t got any horses, she said. Is he hiding them, somewhere in the cellar perhaps? Octavio chuckled. That would be silly, he said. No, Maman, this horse is one of the kings who pulled the cart delivering Papa’s marble. I see, she said, pretending to be surprised. And who is the fellow riding this Louis?
Octavio would remember his response. That is Papa. Flying over the war and on his way home.
What a birthday present that would be, Madame said.
And then the final November. There had been murmurs for weeks. The city vibrated with them, daily, almost hourly.
Madame was sitting in the cellar, flour dusting her arms white, her face glowing in the heat, her back feeling the first chills of winter seeping through the old stone walls farthest from the oven doors. In this lull after the day’s first rush of customers she tried, as she had every morning since Emile had turned the corner that afternoon four years earlier, to remember his face. The silly grin as he marched backwards and out of sight. The picture had gone soft now, more a flicker than anything she might reach out and hold. Lately she had begun working herself into fits of panic as she imagined a bullet thumping into her husband’s chest, or a table where a doctor was frantically trying to stop his bleeding, or him stumbling along a stretch of road, all alone, the trees on either side blown to stumps.
It was then she heard the bells of Saint-Augustin.
On a Monday? Madame thought.
The sounds of running footsteps came next, on the street outside the cellar window. There were muffled shouts. She couldn’t make out what they were saying. She thought she heard singing. The shop’s floorboards above her head began creaking more than usual. Something was going on upstairs.
As she moved toward the stairs, Octavio’s face appeared at the top.
Come quick, Maman. It is all true. The war is over. Papa is coming home.
By noon Madame Notre-Dame was elbowing her way through drunken, dancing streets to the war department.
She stood in a long queue of women. When she reached the counter Madame informed a small man that she had heard nothing from her husband since the war began. The clerk moved his bottle of brandy to one side, asked a few questions, scribbled notes in a ledger, explained the unfairness of the tens of thousands of such cases and the handful of clerks assigned to resolve them. He advised that patience and celebration were the order of the day, madame; the matter would be looked into. In the meantime did she care to join him in a toast to peace?
Day after day, Madame would close the bakery during the afternoon lull and return to the war department. The queue outside, the hundreds of wives and girlfriends and mothers and children huddled in hope, would only grow longer.
The young woman turns a corner and bumps into a rag picker, knocking into the gutter the three hats the old woman wears. Her cart is overflowing with clothes. The young woman apologizes and bends to pick up the hats, no worse for their fall.
There is no need to rush, mademoiselle, the old woman says. Her voice softens. Whatever you are late for, my dear, will still be there when you arrive.
The letter came months later, the return address a hospital near Amiens.
—your husband has been under our care. He was discovered some two years ago now, starving in the ruins of a village near here. How he had managed to survive in the cellar of a bombed-out bakery we will never know. When he was brought to us he barely spoke. He seemed not to hear when we asked him to write his name. For a while we thought he might have gone deaf, what with the shelling you understand.
Apart from his tag number we have had no way of knowing who he is or where he came from. We sent letter after letter to the war department inquiring about our brave number 6694. Just imagine our pleasure at finally learning his name. Be at peace, madame, knowing your man is well and whole if still very thin. His voice has returned and he tells us the most remarkable stories. We are further pleased to inform you he will shortly be returned to you by train. We shall miss our Emile Notre-Dame, infantry first-class. He has been a most cooperative patient and has lightened our burden through these dreadful years.
Soldiers crowded the station platform, shuffling into ragged formation, their faces unshaven, dirty, old before their time. Madame clutched the letter, searching each blank stare as the men marched past, their double ranks parting around her. Emile Notre-Dame was not among them. When she realized she was alone on the platform, she began to panic, her hands trembling as she unfolded the letter and read for the hundredth time the hospital’s instructions regarding the train from Amiens.
Madame saw him from the corner of her eye. Monsieur Notre-Dame stood under the station clock, fidgeting with the one remaining button of his tunic. Had she not turned her head she would have passed him altogether, another soiled uniform in a grimy ocean pouring off the trains. His face had gone as white as cotton, his eyes shrunk into his head; streaks of grey ran through his shaggy hair. His trousers hung from him as though he were a boy playing in his father’s clothes. A stamped square of paper—Paris 8e—had been pinned to his chest.
Madame stepped in front of her husband, her eyes searching to meet his. She reached for his face.
Monsieur let go of the button and looked up. A smile was slow to appear.
I am sorry, mademoiselle
, he said. I was looking for someone.
You were looking for me, Madame said.
The grey in his eyes caught the light. Then you must be the Lady France. I am your servant, madame.
He struggled to bow from the waist.
Octavio watched a man who looked like his father slump into a chair. He couldn’t make sense of it. He tried starting a story. Home, he said. His father didn’t respond. He felt his face grow hot. He couldn’t stop himself from pulling on his father’s sleeve.
But, Papa. This is wrong! Home! With a goose under your coat, you said. You would be the fattest baker in all Paris! You’re not fat at all. Where are your medals? It was all numbers and legs, you said. Onetwothreefour. I saved your newspapers and I was good! I helped Maman. It’s not fair, Papa!
Octavio felt his eyes filling with tears. You promised, Papa. You promised a Christmas goose.
Madame took hold of her boy’s hands. Go and find Grenelle, she said.
Grenelle cleaned his spectacles and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dim of the shop.
Octavio wiped his runny nose on his sleeve. Maman has tried all she can, he said. Papa doesn’t want to eat. I brought him one of his papers. He wasn’t interested in that either. I think we need help, monsieur.
Monsieur had fallen asleep where he sat, his uniform covered in crumbs. A newspaper lay across his lap. Grenelle told Octavio to open the curtains, then asked where his mother was.
Octavio moved from window to window. Upstairs, he said.
Sunlight poured into the shop, stirring the sleeping baker. Monsieur jolted upright, his gaunt face twisted in fear.
Welcome home, my friend, Grenelle said. Wouldn’t you be more comfortable upstairs?
Monsieur’s eyes darted back and forth as though he had been struck blind.
Safer in the cellar, he said, a hand digging into his trouser pocket, searching for a watch Grenelle knew was long lost.
Monsieur looked outside. Any minute now. The guns will start. We are dead men if we stay here.
Grenelle turned to Octavio. We’ll need a blanket and something for his head, he said.
In the cellar Grenelle fashioned a bed on the table in front of the ovens. Octavio brushed away a few nuggets of hard dough and flour dust. I was born on this table, he said.
Then if it is good enough for babies, Grenelle said, it is good enough for their fathers.
Helping the baker to his feet took little effort. The thinnest for certain now, Grenelle thought, guiding the man down the narrow stairs into the cellar. Monsieur curled himself on the marble table. Octavio pulled the blanket over his father’s shoulder.
Grenelle left the cake-slice and returned within the hour, carrying a wheel of cheese, a tin of sardines and a few bits of fruit in a string bag. Lunch for the four of us, he said. He asked if Madame had come down at all.
Octavio went to the rear of the building, stood on the bottom step and called up the stairwell, straining to hear the scrape of chair legs, the shuffle of feet. There was none. He returned to the bakery. She must be very tired, he said.
We’ll keep the bakery closed for now, Grenelle said. Everyone is tired.
That night Octavio lay on the floor under the table and his snoring father, the cake-slice creaking and moaning above them. Drifting in and out of sleep, he thought he heard footsteps on the stairs. Our Lady Herself then appeared at the cellar door, her glowing hands holding a tray heaped with pains au chocolat. Octavio rolled over. The dream faded as Mary spread her arms and smiled.
Blind Grenelle sat in a corner of one of the shop windows. Knees pulled to his chin, head lolling against his arms, he fought the exhaustion clouding his head. He wanted to stay awake; dawn would come soon enough. He imagined various excuses and apologies, ones he would tell in quiet tones when he peeked out from the blue doors and greeted the day’s first customers. I know how much we’d like matters to get back to normal, he would say, and Madame has asked me to thank you all for your concern. It’s been quite a journey for our baker. There’s much catching up to do. We’ll just leave them alone for a day or two, shall we? Let them get reacquainted. I am sure you understand.
—
By noon the next day Madame had still not come down to the bakery. Grenelle told Octavio to keep an eye on his father. I’ll go upstairs to fetch a few things from my place, he said. Back in no time.
Grenelle reached the top-floor landing. The door to the Notre-Dame apartment was open. He called out to Madame. He could hear something coming from the bedroom. He stepped inside and called again.
He found Madame sitting at the side of the bed and staring into nothing. Grenelle’s first thought as he saw her swollen eyes and raw cheeks was that she hadn’t stopped crying since yesterday. In front of her the armoire door was ajar, wedged against the bed.
Madame? Grenelle said.
Leave me alone.
Why don’t you come downstairs. I’ll make us some coffee.
Madame turned to the blind watchmaker.
I wanted to change, you see. Wear something nice. To welcome him home. But I couldn’t move the bed. Now I’ve gone and jammed the drawer and—
Let me help you, Grenelle said.
—now it’s too late. I don’t think Emile will notice anyway.
I’m sure he will, Madame. He simply needs time to adjust.
Please go away.
If you’ll allow me, Grenelle said.
Madame finally screamed at the blind watchmaker.
As you wish, Madame. I’ll come back later.
Grenelle gently closed the bedroom door behind him.
Late afternoon the following day. Grenelle checked his watch. It had been another twenty-four hours. Or more, by his reckoning, and still Madame had shut herself away. He was about to leave the shop and go upstairs when a uniform appeared at the bakery doors.
The police inspector explained the reason for his visit.
I know the Notre-Dames, Grenelle said. Monsieur is not well and Madame is not yet awake. You may leave your report with me.
The inspector said it was most irregular and he was behind in his rounds and had a full morning of notices to deliver but under the circumstances he would be on his way and please express the department’s condolences and have a pleasant day monsieur goodbye.
In the cellar, Grenelle pulled the report close to his face, searching for the focus. He cleared his throat, and began to read aloud.
It is this officer’s duty to record that one Madame Immacolata Notre-Dame, lately of the eighth district, was pronounced dead at thirteen minutes after two o’clock yesterday morning, in the vicinity of the Church of Saint-Augustin, having succumbed to grievous injuries suffered while being trampled by a horse which was engaged at the time of the incident in pulling the delivery wagon of one Monsieur Philippe Lecler, resident of Courbevoie, eel monger and documented owner of the aforementioned animal. Despite a variety of testimonies regarding the moonless night and the resulting blackness, the weight of the eels, the momentum of the wagon, as well as the victim’s observed agitation and depressed physical nature at the time, testimonies that were duly obtained during an exhaustive examination of the scene and through notarized eyewitness accounts, as included herewith, the incident was determined by this officer to be an unavoidable and unfortunate accident. No further action was deemed necessary and the aforementioned Monsieur Lecler, having been declared by this officer innocent of any negligence or wrongdoing, was permitted to return to his residence with the animal and cart in question. Signed and dated et cetera.
Grenelle looked up from his reading. Monsieur had said nothing. Apart from one eyebrow cocked a little higher than the other, there was no expression on Octavio’s face. As though the watchmaker had been speaking a foreign language.
Searching Monsieur’s face for any sign of understanding, Grenelle could only find what was in his own mind’s eye. Madame gathering her shawl around her head. Finding a dark gap between the street lamps. Waiting for Lecler’s ol
d mare to gather speed. Timing her step off the curb. Closing her eyes.
Monsieur smiled. He asked if anyone would like a story.
He has been in there a long time, someone says. Do you think he is all right?
Would you be? comes a reply.
The crowd assures itself that with the brigade already at work, the baker is in the best hands he can be.
Heads tilt back as the brigade appears amid the ruins of the top floor of the cake-slice. One or two of the younger firemen forget themselves, wave their helmets and puff their chests, roll their shirtsleeves to pump sooty muscled arms. A few in the crowd, eager to be characters in a dangerous tale of city life they will tell their disbelieving country relatives, forget themselves and wave in return.
Grenelle stooped to pick up the flowers that had begun to accumulate on the bakery’s doorstep. Madame Lafrouche approached, in her hand a red carnation. I believe they were a favourite of hers, she said.
Certainly the colour, Grenelle said.
How is the boy?
Good days and bad, madame. Like yourself, I suspect.
Madame Lafrouche drew a deep breath. My Alphonse—yes—two years ago now—feels like yesterday—loved his sourdough—sorry—yes—the boy—you say he is well?
He will be, madame. He is a strong boy. It is a great comfort to his father.
Are they reading his book? Madame said. It was a gift, you know—Alphonse’s idea of course—still—
Grenelle took the carnation from the woman’s hand. A lie would do no harm, he thought. They read it every day, madame.
Madame Lafrouche wrung her hands. This may not be—the right time—but I was wondering—if—when—the bakery might open again. It would lighten all our burdens.
Soon, Grenelle said, soon. And you are right to ask, madame. It would be good to return to normal. I will see that Monsieur gets your flower.
The Emperor of Paris Page 8