by D. B. Gilles
Juliet’s face sunk.
“I’m afraid Dalton’s right,” said Proctor. “Our best chance of finding her is today or maybe tomorrow, before she settles in to a new life. It’s like when a serious crime is committed. The police say that the most important timeframe are the first forty-eight hours. We have to keep a positive attitude.”
Juliet nodded. “It’s just... I’m scared about not finding her and I’m scared about finding her. For the better part of seven years I thought she was dead. That she might be here in Paris is... ”
“I understand,” said Proctor. “Look, from reading her journal entries, she has come to Paris to experience a fresh start. It took enormous courage to do what she did. Once she settles in she’s not going to waste time.”
“She’s probably in the same boat we are,” said Dalton. “She’ll need clothes, housing. And the money she has won’t last forever so she’ll need to find a job. And if she’s really set on finding Toulouse-Lautrec, it’s just a matter of going to various bars and cafes. He could be a lot easier to find than Eliza.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” said Proctor. “I know a bit about Mister Toulousse-Lautrec. He spent time outside of Paris. If he’s out of town, we can forget about him for the time being.”
“But if he is here it’ll be a plus.”
“Yes. He lived and worked in Montmartre and ventured into Pigalle, which is in the ninth Arrondissement. If he’s here we will find him.”
“What if we don’t find Eliza today or tomorrow?” said Juliet. “What if days go by or weeks or months?”
Dalton didn’t know what to say.
Proctor said, “I may have an alternate plan. I suppose now is as good a time as any to inform you that I have no intention of going back.”
“What?” asked Dalton. He turned to Juliet who looked equally stunned.
“I never did,” Proctor continued. “I’ll be seventy-four years old next week. Paris is my favorite city in the world. I wish to spend the rest of my life here amidst the great artists and minds of the late nineteenth century. That being said, when the time is right for you two to go back, I will send you. I will continue to search for your dear sister. I will employ people to find her.”
“How are you going to afford that?” said Juliet.
Proctor gestured to his money belt again. “I have enough to live out my days quite comfortably. As to your sister, if and when I find her, should she choose to go back, I will send her. Should she decide to remain, well, I will tell her that you came to look for her.”
“That’s something we won’t need to deal with for awhile,” said Dalton. “Let’s just get to Montmartre and start looking.”
“You’re right, Dalton. However, it may not be wise for the three of us to stick together. Two young people and an old man would be too easy for Luger Pabst to spot. And at my age I’d just slow you down. I suggest the following scenario: I will sell some of my jewels, we’ll buy appropriate clothing, then check into the hotel after which you two continue on to Montmartre to search for Eliza. It stays light in Paris until eight or eight-thirty. If you have no luck by then, return to the hotel. The address is Twenty-two Rue de Buci. Agreed?”
Dalton and Juliet both nodded yes.
“Take an individual one-horse carriage. You’ll get there faster. Allow plenty of time for transportation. We are in a place where life was harder. There is very little instant gratification, even for the wealthy. There is no speedy way to get something done. If you need to reach someone quickly, you send a courier and wait for a response. Fast food? No such thing. A carriage ride from one side of Paris to another could take hours. There is no Metro. No cars. No taxis, other than horse drawn carriages and omnibuses. Nothing happens quickly. We come from a world where we get everything we want when we want it. No e-mails, texting, cell phones. While we are here we have to make do with what everyone else has. The ride to Montmartre will be another hour. Horses only move so fast.” He turned to Juliet. “Finding your sister will be a matter of doing what the military calls ‘boots on the ground.’ Look everywhere. Leave no stone unturned. Don’t be afraid to ask anyone. Knock on every door.”
And our ace in the hole,” said Dalton. “Could be Toulouse-Lautrec. If we find him, we just may find Eliza.”
Proctor nodded in agreement, then his thoughts turned to finding out the date.
Chapter 29
Luger picked up the switchblade lying on the ground, closed it and put it in his pocket. Out of habit he patted his right front pocket and felt that his wallet was missing. As he did so he looked up at the obelisk above him.
The portal he said to himself.
He looked at the sketchbook in his hands and recalled how they tried to get it back from him, which made him presume that he might be able to use it to make sense out of what was going on.
He pulled it open and noticed that there were drawings and entries on almost every page. His inclination was to read what it contained immediately, but the throbbing pain in his head from the lightning bolt, and the boot kick from the old man, were too much for him.
One thing caught his attention. There was a simply drawn map of Paris and the only area that was emphasized was a place called Montmartre. He had no idea what it was, but there were arrows and lines pointing to it from where he stood.
He wanted to read more, but the intense pain made him realize that tending to his wound took precedence. A hospital would be the ideal choice, but in the clothes he was wearing it would draw unnecessary attention. He would be better off tending to it himself. He was well adept at first aid and knew that with a few supplies he could do something for it. He assumed that there would be no antibiotics in 1889, but he could live with the pain. He knew how to live with pain.
He’d been to Paris once, for two days twelve years ago, on an assignment that allowed him zero time for sightseeing, so he was at a total loss as to where a hospital might be or for that matter, where anything was located. As he pulled himself up he noticed a fountain on the south side of where he was standing. He moved slowly to it, still dazed, breathing deeply trying to get his blood circulating. When he got there he leaned over and feverishly splashed water onto his face and neck wound. It was cold and it stung, but there was at least some comfort.
He needed a drugstore and wondered if such things existed in 1889. He guessed that they were probably called pharmacies and pharmacists were called chemists. He remembered a few of the international symbols of pharmacies: the pestle and mortar, the combined RX, the green cross.
He would look for one of them.
As to which way to go, his decision was made for him. He would head in the direction the people with The Brimstone moved.
Making his way across the street to The Tuileries Garden he knew that before doing anything about the wound he needed to obtain clothing in order to fit in. He wasn’t too concerned about not being able to speak French. Cash and the proper attitude would get him by. And if things got touchy he had not only his knife, but two hands that were considered lethal weapons.
With the seasoned eye of a predator, he looked around to see anyone walking alone, specifically a man of his build and height, which was five-ten and 160 pounds.
First he would get clothing, then money, then find a pharmacy, then a hotel where he could treat the wound, then he would study the contents of the sketchbook, then find out what the place called Montmartre was all about. He would need a map too and as he spotted a man in his early thirties with a slight limp and a distinguished red handlebar moustache wearing a black suit, straw hat and carrying a satchel, walking at a leisurely pace in his direction, he knew he had his first mark.
He glanced around to see if there was anyone else approaching. There were a handful of people in the distance. Hoping the man spoke some English, he approached him with a practice smile, pointed at the wound on his face and said, “Can you help me! Hospital! I need a hospital. Can you help me?” And then he pretended to faint.
The man stopped, we
nt to him and was bending over to say something to him, when Luger delivered a karate chop to the left side of the man’s neck. Limp, the man fell to the ground in an instant.
Luger dragged him by the shoulders behind a nearby shrub, quickly removed his clothes save for the underwear, changed, put them on, then reached into the man’s coat pocket and found a billfold and identification. It contained two hundred francs and in the man’s pockets were several pieces of change.
Stuffing the billfold and coins in his pocket and placing the satchel in his left hand, he stared straight ahead and saw The Louvre. He guessed there would be no pharmacies there, so he turned to his left and over the trees and a wrought iron fence, could see distinguished-looking buildings. He headed in their direction.
As he moved slowly, he again pondered the idea of being stuck here. He knew a little about history and that unless you had plenty of money, life was difficult. If he had to he could accumulate cash by robbing people, but there would never be enough that way. And if he had to remain in Paris the language would certainly be a problem. He also knew himself well enough to know that he was someone who required the creature comforts. He needed his hi-def television and streaming video and cable and the Internet with all its choices especially the porn. This was Paris and there would certainly be some kind of pornography, but not the kind he was used to. Did they even have movies now? And the food. He had never been interested in fancy eating or fine dining. He was a man of simple tastes. Junk food was what he loved. What would be the 1889 equivalent of junk food? And he despised cheese and croissants.
The only thing French that he liked was French fries. As he reached the street he looked for a name and saw a sign that said Rue de Rivoli. He was right. There were elegant buildings most of which seemed to be hotels. He could tell by the well-dressed doormen that they were fine establishments. He doubted that the money he had taken from the mustachioed Frenchman would be enough to check in to one of these hotels, so he found a cross street and walked down it, looking for cheaper accommodations and a pharmacy.
As he walked down a street called Rue de Palais he found himself missing his BlackBerry.
There were so many reasons to find The Brimstone and get back to his life.
Despite the fact that he was such a tough, fearless individual he found himself starting to panic that he would never leave this place. He was wondering when his knack for good luck would kick in.
As he crossed another street he saw the RX sign of a pharmacy. He made a beeline to it and walked inside.
He would be looking for over-the-counter medicines, then known as patent medicines, specifically an antiseptic. He wondered if aspirin or codeine or even Mercurochrome had been invented yet.
He approached the chemist standing behind the counter, showed him his wounded neck and pointed at it, then gestured to the man as if to indicate that he had been cut by someone.
The chemist nodded and proceeded to gather the items.
Chapter 30
Eliza’s mind reeled with wonder from the ride through the Trocodero across the Seine to Le Bon Marche in the 7th Arrondissement. Besides being caught up in the sheer life and energy around her from the numerous carriages, some being pulled by two, three or four horses, Eliza relished the idea that she was passing buildings and monuments that she’d seen in countless books and films. And now she had a clear view of The Seine. She could see several of the famous Paris bridges and boats. She counted more than a dozen of various sizes. She couldn’t wait to go for a ride.
She was relieved that the francs she had, which were dated 1887, would be safe to use. Unlike her favorite female painter of the time, Mary Cassatt, who came to Paris at the age of 22 under the supervision of her mother and family friends acting as chaperones, Eliza would be on her own.
The 9,000 francs from Peter would enable her to rent a decent apartment and studio to work in. Her knowledge of the 1888 French economy told her that she could expect to pay 15 to 20 francs per month. She could live well if she were frugal.
Her thoughts returned to the fact that she had arrived one year and five weeks earlier than she intended. Finding Toulouse-Lautrec would be more difficult. She knew the exact address where he lived in October 1889, but as for August 1888, she had no idea.
Eliza knew enough about the Paris of 1888 to accommodate her immediate needs. Her plan was to present herself as an American student and painter. She knew that Paris was a place that nurtured the artistic ambitions of young artists, especially Americans, and where art seemed to be a part of everyday life.
Her goal was to have her work shown in the renowned Paris Salon. Between 1748 and 1890 it was considered the greatest annual art event in the Western world. After the American Civil War, Paris was the quintessential cosmopolitan city, and the capital of the western art world. Art students went to Paris to enroll in one of the many art schools there, seeking to polish their academic education; while more established artists used Paris as a proving ground, leveraging its important international exhibitions to establish their artistic reputations.
The practical side of Eliza knew that besides studying art and living a bohemian lifestyle, she would need a supplemental income. She would find employment as a copyist at the Louvre. These were jobs, usually held by women for low pay employed by the state, who painted exact replicas of great art for sale. The museum also served as a social meeting place for French men and American female students.
Like Mary Cassatt before her in 1866, Eliza would have loved to apply for admission to École des Beaux-Arts, but women were not allowed. That wouldn’t happen until 1897. Also, like Cassatt, she would apply to study privately, but not with a teacher from the school. Once she met Toulouse-Lautrec, she would try to convince him to be her mentor. She had loved his work and admired his struggle with a physical handicap.
There was so much she wanted to experience. As for this first day, after leaving Le Bon Marche she knew exactly what she would do. Find an art supplies store and purchase several sketchbooks and drawing tools, check into the hotel then head to Montmartre.
She looked up and saw Le Bon Marche in the distance.
Absentmindedly, she glanced at her left wrist to check the time, but there was no watch. As Peter had instructed she would need to purchase a pocket watch. He had informed her that wristwatches did not exist in 1889 and that they didn’t become commonly used until the 1920s. If a man had a watch it hung from a fob and he kept it in his pocket. Women wore them around their necks as more of a necklace or pendant.
She again asked the driver what time it was.
He glanced at his pocket watch. “Neuf quarante-cinq.”
Nine forty-five, she said to herself. “Merci.”
As she settled into the seat she realized that French, not English, would be her first language. And that barring meeting other Americans or Brits she could conceivably never speak it again.
Chapter 31
As the omnibus made its way up Rue de Rivoli Proctor Newley’s mind focused on finding the date and year it was, as well as the exact time.
He glanced at the man sitting across the narrow aisle from them, noticing his pocket watch.
“Monsieur,” he said politely. “Quel est le temps correct?”
With a bored look, the man reached into his jacket pocket removing an expensive-looking watch. “Neuf quarante-cinq.”
“Merci,” said Proctor. He turned to Dalton and Juliet. “It’s quarter-to-ten. The shops should be opening soon. Juliet, you and I need to find the proper attire.”
“If it’s nine-forty-five,” said Juliet. “We’ve been here for about an hour? Assuming that Eliza arrived at the same time we did seven years ago, is it conceivable that she’s only been here the same amount of time?”
“Yes. But only if she experienced her arrival time like we did. We left New York at midnight and arrived around eighty-thirty. That’s six-and-a-half hours. The usual time difference between France and the States is six hours. I somehow doubt that the
way we got here had anything to do with the modern six-hour time differentiation. I can only guess that she and we arrived at the Luxor obelisk at the same time, or around the same time.”
“Would it take longer for us to get here?” said Dalton. “There were three of us. Four, counting the guy who we fought with.”
“I wish I knew. Perhaps it takes longer for four than one. Perhaps not. She has a head start on us. We can only speculate as to how long. And rather than spend time discussing it we need to take the necessary steps to find her, which we are doing.”
The omnibus made a right turn and headed for Pont Louise-Philippe which took them into the 6th Arrondissement.
As they rode along Rue de Seine, Proctor spotted a jewelry store on the corner. Someone, he presumed it to be the owner, was opening the door.
Although his 1970s suit was decidedly out of fashion, he looked neat and presentable. He pulled the rope to request that the omnibus stop at the next street. He, Dalton and Juliet got off.
Proctor noticed a café across the street. “Wait in that café for me,” he told them. “I’ll go in the store by myself. When I return we’ll go shopping.”
Dalton and Juliet went inside and ordered coffee and croissants.
Proctor waited a few minutes until the man who opened the jewelry shop settled in, then went inside. He decided not to waste any time with charm.
“Bonjour!” he said with an authoritarian flourish in an attempt to take attention away from how he was dressed. “Je veux vendre plusieurs morceaux de bijouterie.”
The man glanced at Proctor’s suit and in a less then welcoming tone said, “Venez directement dans, monsieur.”
Proctor approached the counter, removed his money belt, reached inside and took out three small diamonds which he set on the counter.