Paris Time

by D. B. Gilles

  Had Eliza not stayed in La Bonne Franquette for the next three hours, there was an excellent chance that she would’ve been spotted by Juliet or Dalton or both of them. But the conversation with the two elderly gentlemen kept going from one topic to another. She had used them to test not only her fluency in French, but to try out the story she would be telling everyone about herself -- that she was an American art student studying in Paris – was viable. When the subject of where she was staying came up, Jean, the more jovial of the two, recommended a boarding house for women less than a ten-minute walk away. She sought their advice on transportation, shortcuts, areas to avoid, shops for clothing and where to buy the best cheese, wine, meats, fruit and vegetables.

  When she felt an appropriate amount of time had passed she coyly asked if they had ever seen Toulouse-Lautrec at the establishment. Unsurprisingly, they knew little of the man. In 1888 he hadn’t as yet made his reputation through his association with the Moulin Rouge, which wasn’t even in existence. That wouldn’t happen until October 6, 1889. To these elderly gentlemen and probably most Parisians, he was just another struggling painter in Montmartre. It was only after she described him by bringing up his short stature that one of them recalled him, but without exception.

  Antoine, the other man, caught her off guard when he asked her how she, as an American newly arrived in Paris, had heard of an obscure painter such as Toulouse-Lautrec.

  She stumbled for a moment, but recovered by saying that she had received a letter from a friend who had seen his work in the south of France.

  The two men seemed satisfied with the answer. She decided then and there to be cautious about what she revealed to anyone about the future.

  Chapter 42

  Hours passed with neither Dalton nor Juliet having any luck. On three separate occasions they passed each other, stopping only to chat briefly about their lack of success in finding Eliza. After their last encounter they even stuck together for forty-five minutes before separating.

  Each left the main streets surrounding Place du Tertre and explored the outlying paths and walkways before returning and continuing their search among the crowds.

  Dalton felt frustrated in not having a clear idea of what Eliza’s face looked like. Searching for her strictly by her height was limiting, but he kept on.

  He found himself missing the creature comforts he took for granted, starting with his iPhone. It would be so easy to communicate with Juliet if they could talk by phone. As he walked, he tried to imagine what the citizens of Paris did with their free time. He knew life was harder in the nineteenth century, especially for the working classes.

  Movies weren’t in invented yet, he thought. But they had live theatre. Could the average Parisian afford it? Did they go dancing? Did they go to cabarets? Maybe they read books? But how many could read or afford to buy a book? They didn’t have pubs like in London, but there were endless cafes. Did everyone find their entertainment by people-watching and sipping wine? Maybe they don’t have much free time, he thought. Maybe it’s mostly about surviving. Did they have take-out? Or did most people cook for themselves because it was cheaper?

  He looked at the men and women sitting in the cafes and thought of all the times he sat in a Starbucks. The people looking at the various paintings and artists reminded him of the Union Square market. He saw posters announcing concerts of classical or religious music, mainly at churches in various parts of Paris.

  He watched street performers comprised of singers, musicians, jugglers, mimes and magicians, and thought of Washington Square Park.

  He’d been in Paris less than a day and he missed New York, but he kept asking himself one question: Do I miss New York or do I miss the life I’m used to leading there?

  He kept on walking and looking for Eliza, hoping that they could find her fast and get back home.

  Chapter 43

  Several hours had passed since Luger had come to the café. So as not to draw the ire of the owner and waiter he ordered an expensive bottle of Bordeaux, which he sipped. He also handed the waiter twenty francs with a firm nod implying he wanted privacy.

  While he waited, he studied Galignani's New Paris Guide for 1888 soaking up pages of information about the city. His method of reading and watching was to literally keep one eye on the page and the other on the walkway.

  It was almost 7:30 p.m. when he saw her.

  Not Eliza, but the only other woman he knew in Paris.

  Juliet, he said to himself, recalling Proctor calling her name.

  As he zoned in on Juliet, Luger knew that the crowds would work to his advantage. He tried to gauge if she was alone or if the old man with The Brimstone and the younger guy were with her. He rose quickly, tossing money on the table and carefully slipped out of the café. He spent several minutes observing her and decided that she was by herself and most likely looking for someone.

  Was she looking for the woman who owned the sketchbook? he thought.

  Certain that Juliet was by herself he made his move, approached her slowly, lowering his top hat and covering the bandaged wound on his neck with the collar of his jacket. When he was less than two feet away from her right side, as she looked towards her left, he said, “Juliet?”

  Juliet turned to her right spontaneously, assuming the voice belonged to Dalton even though it didn’t sound like his. For the first few seconds she was taken aback at seeing the well-dressed man. His face was red and sweating. He looked as if he were in incredible pain, yet he was smiling as if he knew her. Awkwardly, she smiled back, then she noticed the bandages and something tucked under his right arm.

  Eliza’s sketchbook.

  “Look what I have in my right hand,” he said.

  Juliet did and saw the pearl-handled switchblade.

  “Let’s take a walk.” With his left hand he took Juliet by the right arm and guided her away from the square. “As I said in New York in Central Park, I don’t want to hurt you. I still don’t. All I want is The Brimstone. When I saw you last you were running away with it while your two friends were fending me off. They were lucky I was injured and dazed. Being struck by lightning and traveling through time when you’re unprepared for such a journey does that to you.” He laughed. “But that’s not important now.” He moved a few inches closer. She noticed how red his face was and how much he was perspiring. “Who has The Brimstone and where is it right now?” He let her see the knife again.

  She opened her mouth, but nothing came out for several seconds. “How did you find me?” she managed to blurt out.

  “I wasn’t especially looking for you. I was looking for Eliza. I assume that’s the name of the person who owns this sketchbook?”

  “Yes.”

  “We can talk about her after you tell me where The Brimstone is. Obviously it’s with the old man or the young one or both if they’re together. Don’t waste my time. I want to get out of Paris in eighteen-eighty-eight and back to where we came from.”

  “You mean Paris eighteen-eighty-nine.”

  “No. Eighteen-eighty-eight, you idiot! Or was the old bastard you were with lying to you too? Where is The Brimstone?”

  “I’ll tell you. I promise. But I need to know the exact date it is today.”

  “The thirtieth of August, eighteen-eighty-eight. Why would I mislead you?”

  “I need to see it with my own eyes, then I’ll tell you.”

  “I’m losing my patience.” Still holding her arm, he turned to see if there was anyone nearby reading a newspaper, holding one or if anyone had tossed a copy away.

  He spotted an old man wearing a black beret sitting on a bench with a newspaper next to him, folded in half. “There. Let’s go.” He pulled her along. “Juliet, do you speak French?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t either. Sit down next to the newspaper. It’ll be in French, but you can make out the date. Probably under the masthead. Move.”

  Juliet did as she was ordered. As she sat next to the old man she smiled at him and he a
t her, then after a few seconds gestured at the newspaper, smiled again, picked it up and with flirtatious, pleading eyes said, “May I?”

  The old man chuckled and smiled. She nodded and quickly looked at the front page. There it was at the top of the page, under the masthead.

  6 Août 1888

  As she set the newspaper on the bench she felt as if she was going to vomit. It meant that if she, Dalton and Proctor had landed on the wrong date, Eliza wouldn’t be in Paris. She could be anywhere. Searching for her these last several hours had been a waste of time.

  She looked at Luger who was staring at her intently. She remembered his name.

  Luger she said to herself.

  He motioned his head for her to get up, which she did, and return to him.

  “Believe me now?”

  “Yes.”

  He noticed that she was shaking and that she seemed as if she were in a daze, almost as if she could faint at any moment.

  “Why is this date so upsetting to you?”

  “We were supposed to arrive on October sixth, eighteen-eighty-nine.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “To find my sister. Now I know we got here on the wrong date. I’ll never find her.”

  Luger’s degree of empathy for other human beings was minimal to non-existent, but considering the circumstances and the context of this conversation, he felt a twinge of sadness for Juliet.

  “So I should assume that your sister also transported herself from the future to now?”

  “Yes.”

  “The same way you got here? Or should I say we got here?”

  “Yes.”

  “When did she leave?”

  “Seven years ago.”

  “Why did you wait so long to go after her?”

  “I didn’t know where she was until yesterday.”

  “And you just happened to have The Brimstone handy and two men willing to take an unusual journey with you?”

  “It all happened very fast. The only reason we left last night was because of you.”

  “Me?” Her statement genuinely surprised him.

  “Proctor said that someone named Henri Arpin was trying to get The Brimstone. He was worried that he would send someone bad to get The Brimstone.”

  “Someone bad?” He giggled. “Were those his words?”

  “Turns out he was right. We were going by the plan and suddenly you showed up out of nowhere.”

  “Don’t think of me as a bad person. I’m just a man doing the job I was hired for, which is to bring The Brimstone to Henri Arpin. Of course, this is more than just another assignment to me, seeing as I want to get back home as quickly as possible. Should I assume that you want to get back home too?”

  “Not until I found my sister, but now... “

  “Which brings us back to where is The Brimstone?”

  “Proctor has it,” she said, wondering if Proctor knew.

  “And where is he now?”

  “At the hotel.”

  “And the name of the hotel?”

  Juliet’s mind went blank. She tried to remember the name, but nothing popped. She recalled Dalton taking a card from the hotel front desk, but she hadn’t.

  He squeezed her arm hard. “I’m going to assume that you have no idea what it’s like to be struck by lightning. My entire upper body feels as if it’s soaking in a cauldron of boiling oil. My entire body hurts me as I was stomped by an elephant. I require proper medical attention. I need you to remember the name of the hotel.”

  “I... I... 22 Rue de Buci is the address.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  Chapter 44

  As Dalton continued to comb the streets, he remembered the happier times with his father.

  He recalled in particular his father’s fondness for Sacre-Coeur, which would one day become the focal point of Montmartre. He’d seen many postcards, photos and panoramic views of Paris displaying the beautiful church, but he knew that it wouldn’t be near completion now. The foundation stone of the Basilique Sacré-Coeur was laid in 1875. It was consecrated in 1891, fully completed in 1914, and elevated to the status of a basilica in 1919, after the end of the First World War.

  On a whim he decided to walk to where the church would one day stand. It was only slightly beyond where the winding cobblestone streets began and there was nothing but a hill indistinguishable from others.

  When he arrived he observed a couple of dozen workmen at the site. He saw a number of people, tourists he presumed, sitting at the foot of the hill, eating lunch, resting or watching the construction. He moved closer to them. Most were couples or families. For the first time since he’d gotten to Paris he pondered the concept that he knew what was coming on the hill. He didn’t know much about Sacre-Cour other than the fact that like most historic buildings, it took years to complete. He recalled that it wasn’t officially opened to the public until either before or after World War One.

  He shook his head in dismay knowing that in twenty-five years there would be a catastrophic world war. He looked at a few of the children playing nearby and wondered if they would fight or even die in it.

  Despite the fact that he was miles away from The Medici Fountain and Luxembourg Gardens, his thoughts turned to the letter his father left him. For several seconds he tried to imagine what information it would contain. Knowing that his father was inscrutable in life, he would be the same in anything he wrote. Dalton decided not to think about it. He turned to head back for another stroll around Place du Tertre.

  That’s when he saw Eliza.

  It wasn’t the woman’s face that caught his attention, and it wasn’t even her height, which was substantial, at first, but rather the fact that she was drawing in a sketchbook. He needed to be sure. He had memorized the drawing she’d done of herself so he moved closer to within ten yards of her. He wasn’t sure how to approach her, but he decided to call out her first name.

  “Eliza?” he said softly.

  The woman turned and looked at him. “Parlez-vous de moi?”

  He knew enough French to understand that she asked him if he was talking to her.

  “Yes,” he said, then politely and with a smile said, “Are you Eliza Kinkaid from New York City?”

  Eliza’s body tensed. She looked Dalton directly in the eyes. How could he know my name and where I’m from?

  “I believe you knew my father, Peter.”

  Eliza let out a faint gasp. She started to back away. How could this be happening?

  Dalton moved closer. “I know that he helped you. I know about The Brimstone and how you got here.”

  “You’re... Dalton?” she said in a quivering voice. She felt as if she were going to collapse.

  “Yes.”

  “Peter told me about you.”

  Dalton was shocked. “He did?”

  “I can’t believe... how could this be... ?”

  “There’s something you need to know, Eliza.”

  “Where is Peter? He was supposed to come with me. We had a plan to meet, but he never showed up.”

  “He didn’t make it. The night you left, he was struck by lightning at the obelisk. He died.”

  “Oh my God!” She burst into tears.

  “There’s something else you should know.”

  She looked at him, trying to make sense out of what she was hearing. She felt her head filling up.

  “Juliet. She’s here.”

  Eliza’s legs started to buckle. “Here?”

  “In Paris. Looking for you. We came to find you. She’s here now at Place du Tertre.”

  “How did you and Juliet get here?” Eliza asked, barely able to get out the words.

  “The same way you did.”

  “When did you leave?”

  “Last night. At midnight.”

  “That can’t be. That’s when I left.”

  “Actually, not. You left seven years ago.”

  Eliza looked at
him, perplexed; she tilted her head to the left like a puppy.

  “But... ”

  “You’ve been gone for seven years.”

  “I’m telling you, I left last night.”

  “Three days ago you were declared legally dead. Juliet found your sketchbook hidden in your room. She read it, saw my father’s name, then contacted me.”

  “I’m telling you: I only got here today!” She was adamant. “This morning.”

  “So did we. I don’t know how much my father explained to you how time travel works, but it’s not about when somebody leaves. It’s about where they’re going. We left seven years after you did, but we all came to the same place on the same day, conceivably minutes apart.”

  Eliza’s eyes welled up. “Peter is... dead? I’m so sorry. He was so good to me. He made this all possible.”

  “I know.”

  “But how did you find out? It was our secret. He told no one except for his friend.”

  “Tash.”

  “You know about him too?”

  “Yes. Tash explained how he and my father put all the pieces together. I know this is a lot to absorb.”

  “Juliet is really here?”

  “We’ve been searching for you at Montmartre all day. From your sketchbook we felt it’s where you would go. She’s going to be thrilled!”

  “If I left seven years ago and I’ve been declared legally dead, does that mean Juliet is seven years older than the last time I saw her?”

  “Yes. She’s twenty-one.”

  “That’s how old I am. It means she and I are the same age. How can that be?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Time waits for no man... or woman, but I guess in the past, time stands still. That’s the best I can give you.”

  “The last time I saw her she was fourteen. How does she look?”

  “Cute. Blondish hair. Has a hipster look. She’s a chef, going to culinary school. She writes a food blog.”

  “She always liked to cook.”

  “Are you ready to see her?”

  “If I’ve been gone seven years,” she said. “What about my mother? Is she still alive?”