Paris Time

by D. B. Gilles

  As for Dalton’s love life, because he was still learning to speak French, he had a thick accent. He spoke slowly, tentatively. He could competently converse only if someone was patient like Juliet or Proctor. Many French words had two or three meanings and he had a huge problem with that. Learning to write in French was also trying for him. He knew that in the twentieth century English was a required course in most European schools, but the majority of the Parisians he met spoke barely a few words. Because of this, talking to French women made him self-conscious, so he backed off.

  Occasionally he would encounter a woman from the States or the United Kingdom who he could talk to, but they were either tourists or students in Paris for a semester abroad, so there was little time to develop a relationship.

  He’d never been much of a people watcher in New York, but in Paris it had become his new hobby. He would sit alone in cafés with a coffee or glass of wine, practicing his French, thinking about the arrival of his father and ruminating about his life in New York that he missed so much: going to Jets and Yankees games, movies, watching his favorite TV shows, the theater, hanging with his friends, reading The New York Times, reading books in English and just not being back in his world, his life.

  July 14, 1889

  89 Days Until October 5, 1889

  Bastille Day

  Chapter 60

  It was an amazing day in Paris as July 14th had always been for the last hundred years. With The Eiffel Tower being the sensation of the World’s Fair on the Left Bank, the only event that could upstage it was the military parade celebrating the 100th anniversary of Bastille Day.

  Bastille Day is the name given in English-speaking countries to the French National Day, which is celebrated on July 14th of each year. In France, it is formally called La Fête Nationale and commonly le quatorze juillet (the fourteenth of July). It commemorates the 1790 Fête de la Fédération, held on the first anniversary of the storming of the Bastille on July 14, 1789.

  The anniversary of the storming of the Bastille fortress-prison was seen as a symbol of the uprising of the modern nation, and of the reconciliation of all the French inside the constitutional monarchy which preceded the First Republic, during the French Revolution. Festivities and official ceremonies are held all over France. The oldest and largest regular military parade in Europe is held on the morning of 14 July, on the Champs-Élysées Avenue in Paris in front of the President of the Republic, French officials and foreign guests.

  And this, being the one hundredth anniversary, meant the parade was even more significant.

  Because Eliza now considered herself a citizen of Paris, combined with her knowledge of French and Parisian history, it was an event she wouldn’t have missed.

  Dalton, Juliet, Luc also attended the parade. Proctor felt a bit under the weather so he stayed in.

  Parade-goers lined both sides of the street, at least ten deep. There were banners, bunting, a military salute and cheering crowds. Because of the agoraphobia that had plagued her for so long she’d never been to a parade, save for one year, when she was nine, her father took the family to the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade in Manhattan.

  But now, cured of her agoraphobia, she attended the Bastille Day parade with joy.

  That joy was intensified and then squashed when she saw Dalton on the other side of the street with a woman that she instinctually knew was Juliet, and a man with his arm around her shoulder.

  She hadn’t seen her sister since she was fourteen, but she was convinced that this grown woman was Juliet. Making her away across the avenue was impossible. She watched helplessly as the three of them gradually blended into the crowd.

  But seeing Juliet and Dalton, knowing they hadn’t returned to New York, gave her a new resolve. Whenever she was out, wherever she went she would be on the lookout for Dalton and Juliet.

  As she strained to see Juliet one more time, she wondered who the third man was as he kissed her on the lips.

  October 5, 1889

  Chapter 61

  Dalton woke up at a few minutes past six. He’d tossed and turned all night and, as he opened his eyes, felt emotionally drained. It was the day for which he’d been waiting for more than a year. All he could think about was that his father had spent 23 hours in Paris on this day in 1889 and that he had buried a letter for him in the Luxembourg Gardens.

  During the last 399 days he had gone to The Medici Fountain dozens of times. Every trip he made was to scout the area and to imagine what it would be like when he encountered his father. He knew every inch of it by heart and even tried to guess where the letter might be buried.

  The Medici Fountain was located on the east front of the Palais du Luxembourg, Rue De Vaugirard being the nearest entrance from a sand and stone walkway.

  Extending from it is a forty-foot rectangular pool with shrubs roughly four feet in height evenly separated by two yards on each side. The letter would be buried somewhere under one of the shrubs. The biggest decision he had to make was when he should get to the fountain to assure that he wouldn’t miss his father.

  He’d discussed his plan with Proctor and Juliet on numerous occasions, always presenting the same theory.

  “My father arrived at Place de la Concorde early in the morning,” said Dalton. “Probably the same time we did. He wouldn’t go straight to the Luxembourg Gardens. Where does he go first? Second? Third? Where’s the ninth place he goes? Tash said he saw all kinds of sights. What prompted him to write me a letter? Obviously in the course of the day he learned something I needed to know.”

  Proctor and Juliet would agree with him and nod accordingly. Both were hopeful that Dalton would be able to reunite with his father and save him, but privately felt it couldn’t happen. They kept their opinions to themselves.

  Despite the fact that the odds were against his father going to The Medici Fountain immediately after his arrival at Place de la Concorde, Dalton wanted to take no chances. His normal hyper-vigilant personality cranked up even more so. Operating under the assumption that Peter arrived at the same time he, Juliet and Proctor did, he got to the fountain at eight a.m.

  Staying awake was the big problem. Despite his nervous energy and the adrenaline rush, after the first few hours his body and brain had fallen into a normal regiment. If he felt himself dozing off he’d stand, stretch and walk around.

  To help him pass the time, both Juliet and Proctor sat with him. Proctor arrived at eleven and brought a lunch that Juliet had prepared. Juliet herself came at four o’clock with fruit. She would stay with him until six when she had to go to work.

  Both visits were spent largely in silence. The three of them had gone through enough to utilize the gift of not having to talk all the time. Juliet tried to start several conversations usually talking about her relationship with Luc or some new recipe she’d come up with. She was especially excited about a friendship she’d begun with Martha Distel, publisher of La Cuisinière Cordon Bleu magazine, which offered recipes and tips on entertaining. Having been a food blogger in New York, Juliet had written Martha Distel with the hope of being involved in the magazine. To Juliet’s great joy, Mademoiselle Distel responded and invited her to contribute to the publication.

  For most of the day he had an optimism and anticipation of seeing his father, but as the time passed he began to worry that his father wouldn’t show up. He posed dozens of rhetorical questions, not expecting an answer, just thinking out loud.

  What if he doesn’t come? How can he be alive here when he’s been dead for seven years?

  Juliet managed to calm him.

  “All we know is that time travel works. We’re here. My sister is here. We know your father got here and returned to New York.”

  “And we know what happened then,” Dalton snapped. “I have a chance to save him.”

  “I know that’s what you want to do, but you may not be able to. Maybe you can. I don’t know. But I’m certain he will be here. You have to believe. He will be here.” She looked at her pock
et watch, noting that it was almost six o’clock. “I have to go.”

  They both stood. She gave him a hug. “He will be here.”

  Dalton nodded. She turned and headed for Rue de Vaugirard walking on the stone and sand pathway. Dalton watched her for a few seconds, then sat down. He ran his hands through his hair, rubbed his eyes and sighed. He decided that he needed to walk, the desire of which had hit him a dozen times that day. Because the base of The Medici Fountain faced the Palace it gave him an almost full view of the surrounding area. He could see anyone coming into the park from Rue de Vaugirard, from the walkway of trees on the opposite side or from the basin of water in the center of the park.

  Although he felt physically and emotionally drained, he was alert enough to hear the voice of a child utter the following: “Look at the little man and the funny way he walks, mama.”

  “Don’t stare,” the child’s mother said.

  “Why does he walk so funny?” the child continued.

  “Because he’s probably deformed. Don’t stare.”

  “Is he a dwarf?” asked the child.

  “Andre, you must stop!” she said, shaking the child gently and giving him a stern look.

  Out of sheer boredom more than curiosity, Dalton turned in the direction the child and his mother were looking. He recognized the little man immediately as Toulouse-Lautrec, but his concentration was focused on the woman he was with who towered over him.

  He knew instantly it had to be Eliza.

  His immediate reaction was to run to them, tell Eliza that Juliet was nearby and beg her to stay put. Then he wondered if it would be better for him to run to Juliet first and tell her he’d found Eliza. But overriding those choices was his concern that if he left The Medici Fountain, even if only for a minute, he risked missing his father. He tried to weigh the odds of his father arriving now and felt that he couldn’t take the chance. But he didn’t want to risk missing the opportunity to unite Juliet and Eliza.

  He knew he had to make a decision. There was no telling if he would ever find Eliza again. After another quick glance at Eliza and Toulouse-Lautrec walking further into the park he knew he would lose them if he didn’t act fast. Fortunately, because of Toulouse-Lautrec’s disability, they moved slowly. Dalton decided his best option was to run after Juliet and bring her to Eliza.

  As if his eyes were a camera, he panned in a complete circle to see if his father was approaching. There was no sign of him. He saw Juliet approaching the exit to Rue de Vaugirard and took off after her, screaming her name, which turned out to be a mistake because it drew the attention of two gendarmes patrolling in the park. Because the decibel of his voice was so piercing they couldn’t make out what he was saying. All they could see was a man running at a feverish pace. Thieves and gypsies were always a problem in Paris and with the World’s Fair the rate of crime had quadrupled. So they decided to stop this running, screaming man and inquire about his business.

  Because Juliet was so far away she didn’t hear Dalton bellowing her name. She’d heard a distant noise that sounded like someone shouting, but didn’t look back. She was running late for work.

  As she was walked purposefully out of Luxembourg Gardens onto Rue De Vaugirard she didn’t notice the elderly man dressed in the ill-fitting, out of style suit walking past her, moving at an equally purposeful pace. Their respective left arms, brushed against each other.

  “Excusez-moi,” said Peter softly, nodding with a slight glance.

  “Il n'a rien, je vous remercie,” said Juliet with a modest smile.

  Not that she would’ve recognized Peter Hillyer even if he were standing next to her. She’d only seen a photograph of him when she was in Dalton’s office and the small picture of him on the jacket of his fact checking book.

  The gendarmes’ interrogation lasted two minutes before letting Dalton go, during which time he watched helplessly as Juliet made her way out of the park. They warned him to walk slowly and not to raise his voice. He promised to do so and headed back to The Medici Fountain, again checking to see if his father was there. He wasn’t.

  Because Dalton was unable to draw the attention of Juliet, he had no choice but to try and reach Eliza as she and Toulouse-Lautrec continued to walk further into the park and away from the fountain. He gauged them to be about a hundred yards away, but moving slowly. He knew that if he didn’t start after them now they would get too far away and he would lose them.

  He made one more circuitous look to see if there was any sign of Peter, but saw nothing.

  He might’ve seen him heading in his direction if Peter hadn’t stopped for a moment to catch his breath. He’d been on the move constantly since arriving shortly after eight that morning, stopping only to eat breakfast and lunch. In New York he was a brisk walker, but never had he done so much walking as he did today, and never at such a constant pace. Despite the fact that he was a minute’s walk from his destination Peter felt dizzy and needed to rest. He found an empty bench, sat down, stretched out his legs and leaned back.

  It was impossible for Dalton to recognize him at this angle. Although he could see him, Peter appeared to be just another man on a bench relaxing.

  So Dalton, guessing that his father would not be arriving at the fountain within the next minute or so, took off towards Eliza, moving briskly, but not shouting.

  After a two-minute breather, Peter headed straight for The Medici Fountain. He was concerned that there would be people around, sitting, enjoying the early evening sun. Would he have an opportunity to bury the letter? At a tobacconist on Boulevard Saint-Germaine he’d purchased a sturdy silver, circular snuffbox roughly 5” in diameter and placed the letter, folded in quarters, inside. He also purchased a pocketknife to dig a hole.

  As Dalton approached Eliza and Toulouse-Lautrec, he slowed down, not wanting to frighten them. He noticed that she had lost weight and was wearing her hair differently. Catching his breath and trying to bring some decorum to himself, he called out her name.

  “Eliza?”

  She turned, as did Toulouse-Lautrec. She recognized Dalton immediately.

  “I’ve been looking for you,” she said excitedly.

  “And I you!” He turned to Toulousse-Lautrec. “Pardonnez-moi, monsieur Toulousee-Lautrec.”

  The painter looked at him curiously

  “Juliet?” said Eliza. “Is she...”

  “She’s here. In the Garden. I just left her a few minutes ago. I know you didn’t want to see her...”

  “I changed my mind. Months ago. I don’t know what came over me. I went to the hotel you said she was, but you had checked out.”

  “I don’t mean to be rude, but I have to meet someone.” Someone you know, he thought. “You can find Juliet. She’s on her way to work at a restaurant in the Marais. Le Chien de Paw. Just off Place des Vosges.”

  “What if she’s not there? Where does she live? I don’t want to lose her again.”

  “Forty-two Quai de Borge. I have to go.”

  He turned and headed towards the fountain wondering what she would say if she knew that he was waiting to meet his father.

  Toulouse-Lautrec turned to Eliza and said, “How did he know my name, Eliza? He observed me as if he knew who I was.”

  Without missing a beat, Eliza said, “Your posters for the Moulin Rouge opening are all over Paris. He’s undoubtedly one of your many fans.”

  “I have fans?” he said. “I didn’t know I had fans. At least not in Paris. Except for you.” The answer seemed to satisfy him. “This Juliet person you two spoke of, who is she?”

  “My sister,” she said. “We haven’t seen each other in... a while.”

  “Odd. You never mentioned a sister.”

  “It’s been a long time,” said Eliza awkwardly. She turned and watched Dalton moving quickly in the distance.

  “You’re quite the mystery woman,” he said, arching his left eyebrow.

  If you only knew, she said to herself.

  In the time that Dalton was ta
lking with Eliza, Peter had made his way to the fountain. He approached the shrubbery slowly, trying to appear as if he were an amateur gardener or botanist attempting to get a closer look. What he was really doing was trying to find one shrub planted with dirt soft enough to dig a hole and bury the snuffbox.

  Because of his age and demeanor he didn’t draw the attention of anyone, most of the people there were young lovers, kissing, flirting and pre-occupied with each other. The handful of others read newspapers or magazines. He seemed to be just another old man in the park.

  He noticed that the dirt under one particularly thick shrub seemed softer as if it had recently been planted. Following his plan, he reached for the pocketknife, then pulled an orange from his pocket and proceeded to peel it. As he did so he gave another look to see if anyone was watching him. Deciding that no one was, he turned around and dug a hole roughly seven inches deep. Quickly, he pulled the snuffbox from his pocket, placed it into the hole, filled the dirt back in and smoothed it over. It took less than a minute and without close inspection no one could tell that the ground had been disturbed.

  He turned around and proceeded to eat a slice of orange. Despite the fact that he felt that he had drawn no attention, he decided to linger and continue to pretend to look at the shrubs. He wanted to make sure no one had seen him burying the snuffbox and would try to dig it up.

  Walking at a pace that wouldn’t draw the attentions of the gendarmes, Dalton pushed on to the fountain perhaps only thirty yards away. As he got closer, he noticed a man eating an orange standing near the shrubs.

  At the precise moment Dalton observed him, Peter, feeling confident that no one would be tampering with the snuff box, made his way back toward Rue de Vaugirard.

  Peter had unusually broad shoulders as a young man, but as he aged gravity took over and unless he caught himself, he walked a bit hunched over. Dalton recognized his father and immediately ran towards him screaming “Dad!”