by D. B. Gilles
There were authors and personalities he admired greatly who ate or drank there regularly. He decided to drop in and see if any of these late Nineteenth century giants might be having lunch.
Jules Verne would be fun to meet he thought. He had dined several times at The Jules Verne restaurant in The Eiffel Tower. I wonder what he would say about having a namesake restaurant in of all place The Eiffel Tower?
Chapter 37
“What if my sister didn’t make it through,” said Juliet, looking straight ahead and taking no interest in the buildings they were passing or the Parisians walking the streets.
“Why would you say that?” said Dalton. “My father made it through. We made it through. Why wouldn’t she have made it through? Proctor put the setting on the exact spot my father did. Like Proctor said, we can’t be negative. She’s here. And probably only an hour or two ahead of us. I’ve been to Montmartre. It’s pretty much touristy and crowded. Lots of places to eat and buy souvenirs, street artists doing sketches of people. But back in eighteen-eighty-nine it was less so. It was kind of like Greenwich Village in old New York or the Lower East Side in the Sixties with hippies drawn there because of cheap rent. We’ll have a much easier time finding her now.”
“Assuming she wants to be found.”
“Don’t think like that, Juliet.”
“I have to. She left without a goodbye or a note or anything. She hates me.”
“You’re sisters. Plus considering the circumstances.”
“I told you. I was a bad sister.”
“You were fourteen years old.”
“I should’ve let well enough alone. She wanted to get away and she did. I’m not even sure what I’m going to say to her. ‘Don’t stay in the place you’ve always wanted to be, come back and we’ll hang out?’ Should I say that? Or should I say ‘I guess if mom and I weren’t important enough for you to leave us a note or something you won’t give a damn that I traveled through time to find you?’ Should I say that? Maybe we should just go back to the hotel and tell Proctor to send us back. Eliza will not be happy to see me. And I don’t even know if I’ll be happy to see her.”
“You’re not thinking clearly. If we find her... when we find her you’ll be happy. If I had the chance to see my father after seven years, I’d be happy.”
He put his right hand on her left hand and squeezed it gently. “And when we do find her, I’ll be there. That’s going to matter. She knew my father. It’s a connection.”
Juliet moved closer to Dalton. “I need to tell you something. The reason Eliza and I didn’t get along was because I blamed her for our father’s death.”
The statement threw Dalton. “I thought you said he died in a car accident.”
“He did.”
“How could it be Eliza’s fault?”
“He was taking her to some kind of doctor for her agoraphobia. It was winter and the weather was bad that night and Eliza changed her mind about going because she had to leave the house. My dad had to drive fast to get to the appointment on time and if she weren’t late it wouldn’t have happened. I blamed her. I was eleven. I needed to blame somebody. The reason I came back is to find her and tell her I’m sorry and hope she’ll forgive me.“
Dalton said nothing. He put his arm around her and pulled her close. She came to him and put her arm around his waist.
They rode in silence. At some point Dalton closed his eyes and nodded off. The next thing he knew Juliet was tapping him gently on the right shoulder saying, “We’re here. We’re at Montmartre.”
They were operating on adrenaline as they made their way up the steps that led to Place du Tertre. Off to the left Dalton noticed the early stages of construction of Sacré-Cœur. For an instant his mind flashed back to his third trip to Paris when he visited the completed Basilica with his father.
“How do you want to do this?” asked Dalton.
“I think we should split up.”
“Is that smart? We don’t know our way around.”
“I thought you said you were here before.”
“When I was a kid. I remember it a little, but not enough to know where I’m going. We should stick together. That’s all we’d need is to get separated.”
“We can cover more ground apart.”
“I’m not even sure what Eliza looks like. All I saw was the drawings of herself.”
“They were very accurate.”
“But still... “
“There’s one other thing that might make her stand out. She’s tall. Five ten. She always stood out in New York because of her height. She was self-conscious about it. Weren’t people supposed to be smaller in the past?”
“Some anthropologists say so.”
“So look for the tallest woman in the streets. Let’s try it separately and we can meet somewhere later.”
“Where?”
Juliet looked around and saw a church. “There. That church.” She started walking towards it. Dalton followed. There was a plaque. “The Church of Saint Peter of Montmartre. We’ll meet here.”
“In say, three hours?”
“That’s not nearly enough time. Five hours. No. Six or seven. Let’s say eight o’clock.”
“We don’t have watches. How will we know when it’s eight o’clock?”
“Ask someone,” said Juliet.
Dalton reached into his pocket, removed a handful of coins and handed them to her. “Take these. In case you want food or something.”
“Thanks.”
“I just had a thought,” said Dalton. “If one of us gets lost or if anything goes wrong and I’m not here at eight or you’re not here, let’s meet back at the hotel. And take some more money. Just in case.”
Juliet nodded as he handed her more coins. “Which way do you want to go?
“It’s your call.”
“I’ll go this way,” she said. She turned and started to go, but then ran back to Dalton and hugged him, kissing him on the right cheek.
“Thank you!” she said.
“For what?”
“For being here.”
She turned around and headed towards the north side of the square.
Chapter 38
Eliza’s carriage came to a stop at the foot of the hill. She was used to wearing sneakers or walking shoes in New York not to mention loose-fitting casual clothes, so as she made her way up the stairs, she readjusted herself, fixing the gray cotton frock she’d bought at La Bonne Marche. She found it uncomfortable. Even though she considered herself a recovering agoraphobic, she’d lived so much of her life indoors that she was used to modern clothes. Every move she made, even the slightest twist or turn, made something pinch or bind her.
After making it to the last step she headed straight to La Bonne Franquette on Rue des Saules, a stone’s throw from Place du Tertre. She knew that with the passage of time it had become a touristy lunch venue, but in 1888 it was an absinthe bar at which Lautrec would drink with his friend, Vincent Van Gogh. She knew that his favorite cocktail was called the Earthquake: two parts absinthe, one part red wine and a large dollop of water.
As she stood before La Bonne Franquette she recalled that in 1888 it had been there for three centuries. There were tables outside, occupied by several men eating. All the outdoor tables were taken, so she went inside and sat down.
A friendly young waiter approached her with a smile, “Bonjour mademoiselle. Puis-je vous aider?”
“L'absinthe s'il vous plaît. Et soupe à l'oignon.”
“Très bon.”
Everything that Eliza had memorized about Montmartre ran through her mind. Set upon a hill and removed from the city center, Montmartre had an identity distinct from central Paris. Its rural roots were evident as working windmills still dotted the landscape. The narrow, winding and haphazard streets also contrasted Montmartre with central Paris, where Baron Haussmann’s urban modernization plan had created a coherent design with broad avenues and uniform street lamps.
As she sipped her a
bsinthe, Eliza’s thoughts turned to Peter Hillyer and how their unlikely friendship began. What started as him being her mentor in Agoraphobics In Motion gradually blossomed into a friendship based on a mutual love of all things French, specifically anything having to do with Paris. She told him of her desire to go to there, that it would be the first place she would travel to once her agoraphobia was cured.
He regaled her of his many trips to Paris, of the meals he’d eaten, wines he’d enjoyed, people he’d met, sights he’d seen. Like she, he had a love of Parisian history. She couldn’t get enough of his talk of Paris. No matter how small the detail, she wanted to hear it all. She felt like a daughter to him and she knew he viewed her the same way. She loved his protective nature. Since her own father had died in the car crash, she hadn’t known what it was like to have the guidance and protection of a male figure.
Her thoughts turned to Toulouse-Lautrec. From her reading, Eliza knew that the art of Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec was inseparable from Montmarte.
Cheap rents, along with the profligate culture, had been attracting young, avant-garde artists, who reveled in Montmartre’s pleasures. Toulouse-Lautrec was its quintessential chronicler in the late Nineteenth century. After moving to Paris in 1882, he immersed himself in the culture of the district, painting and drawing by day and dwelling in the cafés and cabarets by night.
Knowing Toulouse-Lautrec’s future was both a joy and a sorrow for Eliza. Working in several ateliers, where he became friendly with other young artists enthralled by the district, he honed his artistic skills. He soon gained recognition in Montmartre, and as his posters were pasted on walls all over Paris, he became nearly as famous as the event or celebrity it advertised. Toulouse-Lautrec remained prolific, experimental, and original for the next decade, until his death in 1901 at age thirty-six.
Eliza hoped that when she met him this knowledge would not affect the mentoring relationship she hoped to have with him. She tried to focus on where Toulouse-Lautrec might be living now. She knew that he had lived at No 19 and No 21 Rue Fontaine when he arrived in Paris from the south of France. At No 19 Edgar Degas had a studio on the ground floor. She recalled that Toulouse-Lautrec’s posters appeared in Paris at the same time as electricity. She knew that he had a studio at No 7 Rue Tourlaque. All the posters were designed there.
I know more about his life then he does she thought. How incredible it will be to finally know him.
For a moment she entertained the notion that perhaps, if she got to know him well enough, she might somehow be in a position to point him in a different direction that would not only prolong his career, but his life.
By the time she had finished her drink and the soup, she’d lost all track of time. She was about to ask for the bill when one of the two elderly gentlemen sitting two tables down from her said, “Vous ressemblez à ma petite-fille chérie.”
Eliza smiled. He said that she resembled his darling granddaughter.
He then invited her to join him and his friend.
She accepted the offer, deciding that it would be nice to have friends in Paris, and so soon. Besides, she had always felt comfortable with older men.
Chapter 39
Proctor sat at a corner table in Procope savoring the fact that he would spend the rest of his days in Paris living in high style. The food, the wine, the culture, the company he hoped to be keeping was such a magnificent thought for him that it made him giggle with anticipation.
He also relished the fact that he, and not The Duchess, was the first member of The Brimstone Society to travel in time.
But his joy was short-lived because he couldn’t shake the thoughts about the person who had landed with them and wanted The Brimstone. Although he knew that the odds of an encounter with Luger Pabst in a city the size of Paris were astronomical, he felt in his bones that Pabst was clever enough and focused enough to somehow find him.
Until Luger Pabst was dealt with, Proctor knew he could never rest easy or enjoy himself.
His thoughts turned to Eliza.
He genuinely wanted Eliza to be found, not only for Juliet’s peace of mind, but for his own selfish reason.
He wanted to make friends with her. He had a suspicion that Juliet’s goal was to convince her sister to return to the New York of the present, but based on what he’d read of Eliza’s writings, he was certain that Paris is where she wanted to be, whether it was 1889 or 1888.
As he was going to remain in Paris, Proctor knew it would be mutually beneficial for both of them to have an ally. To live without the conveniences he’d grown used to would not be easy, but to have a companion with whom he could share the secret of their own pasts, would be comforting. He’d had a turbulent relationship with his own daughter and if Eliza were in need of a father figure or grandfather figure or mentor or someone from whom to seek counsel, he would make himself available. Having read the entries in Eliza’s sketchbook, she impressed him. Her honesty and sincerity combined with her courage for risking everything to attempt to go back in time added another level of admiration.
As to the immediate future, if Eliza was in Paris and could be found fast, because he was in control of The Brimstone, he could send Dalton and Juliet back, and Eliza too, if she desired, then he would find an apartment, large enough for dinners and parties.
He would reinvent himself as a wealthy American who had moved to Paris to spend his retirement years. He would seek out men and women who had already succeeded in their fields, as well as those who had not, but who Proctor knew had brilliant futures.
It’s going to be a grand life he said to himself.
But then, again, Luger Pabst got into his head. He removed Luger’s wallet which he had taken at Place de la Concorde and looked through it. Other than the driver’s license, one hundred ninety-four dollars and an American Express platinum card it contained nothing else. He stared at the photo on the driver’s license. Luger was smiling.
A smiling killer thought Proctor. He knew that even if Dalton and Juliet found Eliza by day’s end and if they all went back to New York, Luger Pabst would still be hunting down The Brimstone, and indirectly, him. There would be no peace. He would be looking over his shoulder at every turn.
His reverie was interrupted with the arrival of the first course of his meal: Soufflé au Fromage cheese Soufflé, which would be followed by Gratinée de Coquille St Jacques, Scallops gratinéed and for dessert profiteroles au Chocolat.
The wine was a Bourgogne Aligoté. As he poured himself a second class Proctor tried to get Luger Pabst out of his head, but he refused to disappear.
Chapter 40
By the time he made it up the 300 steps, Luger’s whole body ached. He was convinced he had an infection.
He was pleased that there was a crowd. It would be easier to blend in, especially considering the hideous wound on his neck. He’d managed to cover it slightly with bandages, but in one sense that made him stand out more.
He had put to memory the face of the woman in the sketchbook, but in the event he spotted someone who resembled her, he’d torn out the drawing and had it in his pocket.
Because he was in such constant pain and feeling weak, he ruled out walking and searching the streets, at least for the time being. He decided his best option would be to find an observation point. A café with an unobstructed view of Place du Tertre. From the number of painters hustling their wares and from what he had gleaned from the sketchbook, the woman was an artist herself. He guessed that she had come here to be among her peers and find refuge or friendship with them.
He would sit there until she walked by. He had mastered patience. It was the penultimate talent for someone who earned a living as he did. He had once sat in one spot for nineteen hours without moving, waiting for someone to come out of a building. He had learned to control his bladder, his need for sleep, food and water. He would sit in this chair in this café and wait for as long as was necessary.
He was good at waiting. And he was feeling lucky.
&nbs
p; Chapter 41
The amount of people taking in the sights amazed Dalton. He assumed that most were tourists, in Paris to see the World’s Fair. He was glad that Juliet had told him of Eliza’s height. That could be a plus.
What amazed him more than anything as he strolled purposefully along the streets of Montmartre was the difference in the clothing now and when he first was here with his father. The casual dress of twenty-first century girls and women in shorts, tops and sandals revealing leg, thigh, mid-riff and cleavage was gone and replaced with women of today in their long dresses and blouses buttoned up to the neck. He was surprised at how many women carried umbrellas to shield themselves from the sun. Or was it a nineteenth century form of modesty?
Although he had a vague idea of what Eliza looked like from her self-portraits in her sketchbook, he focused on her height rather than her face.
When he saw women who struck him as being the right age sitting in cafes and restaurants, he felt helpless. He decided to continue to pace and pretend to look at the paintings the local artists were doing until a woman who looked the right age stood up and left the restaurant.
Without exception, they were all short or considerably shorter than five feet ten. If Eliza were here she would definitely stand out like a giant.
He continued walking, stopping only for a baguette with ham, butter and cheese. He would’ve appreciated a Diet Coke or bottle of water. He was given a choice of lemonade, root beer or wine. He took the root beer.
Juliet wasn’t having any luck either. She had circled Place du Tertre two dozen times and walked the winding cobblestone streets as much. She thought about going off the beaten path and following the streets that led away from the main shops and restaurants, but felt in her gut that she should stick to the area around Place du Tertre.