by Claude Izner
‘The poor child has no one else in the world. I was wondering, as Tasha isn’t here, whether you might look after her until her father comes out?’
‘I’d be only too happy! Where are her things?’
‘I’m afraid she has no other clothes.’
‘Yes I do,’ Yvette corrected. ‘The ones the women from the charity gave me. They’re at home.’
‘I can take up one of my dresses for you. But first of all you must have a snack. Do you like fruit cake? And what about barley water? Would you like some marzipan? Perhaps you’d like to have a bath?’
Struck dumb by this torrent of questions, Yvette allowed herself to be led away into the kitchen, much to the relief of Victor, who went down to the bookshop.
‘Any orders?’
Joseph, red-faced with his hair on end, was battling with a piece of brown paper and a roll of string as he attempted to make up three parcels of books. Victor could tell by the look of irritation on his face and the accompanying heart-rending sighs that it had been a busy day.
‘Where is Monsieur Mori?’
‘At the tailor’s having some alterations done,’ Jojo grumbled.
Victor told him about Yvette, and asked whether he would back him up.
‘OK, so the story is that her father’s in hospital. It’s good to know you trust me … Damn this string!’
‘Give me those scissors. I’ll let you off this chore and the deliveries can wait until tomorrow. I need you to go and ask after Léonard Diélette.’
Joseph rushed out before Victor could change his mind.
The cabman was nodding off, filled with a sense of well-being. This fare was a godsend. Two hours paid up front just to sit there in Rue des Saints-Pères doing nothing — the only inconvenience had been fitting the bicycle in the back, but a tip had taken care of that little problem.
The emissary, his face pressed up against the window of the cab door, was wondering how long this game of hunt-the-thimble would continue. The handle bars were digging sharply into his ribs, but he didn’t mind. What should he do next? Follow the assistant or lie in wait outside the house containing the link in the chain that would lead him to the abomination? If the associate was sheltering the brat, it was because he was on to something.
If I follow the assistant, I risk losing sight of the associate, he thought to himself. What if it’s a trap? What if he knows he’s being watched and is creating a diversion? He can’t fool me! It’ll take more than that to shake me off.
Coralie Blinde was next to her shack, cooking offal in a casserole over a small fire. To complement her feast she was baking a potato in the embers — the height of luxury. Clampin the donkey searched the stony ground dolefully with his muzzle, unable to find the hoped for juicy thistles. A half-naked toddler cried out as he lurched forwards on unsteady legs, and was quickly snatched up by his sister who moistened a corner of her skirt with spittle and wiped the grime from his cheeks. The two of them stood transfixed beside the bubbling stew, sniffing its delicious aroma.
As soon as Joseph arrived, they ran away. Coralie Blinde stood between him and the pot, arms crossed in a gesture of defiance, as though protecting her dinner.
‘Oh, it’s you again!’
‘Those children look starving. Call them back and I’ll give them a coin.’
‘Don’t waste your money on those vultures. They stare at you with those big round eyes as if butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths, but they don’t take me in — I’m not stupid. Their parents should work for a living, but instead they sit all day and watch the world go by, then gaze at the stars all night.’
‘You were glad enough of my help yesterday.’
Coralie Blinde pursed her lips, snapped a few twigs and stoked the fire.
‘Don’t mind me. I’m in a bad mood today. There I was, strolling down Boulevard de l’Hôpital, minding my own business, when Mère Cloporte, a madam who’s as fat as a pig and stinks like one too, called me a bag of bones and said I was scaring away the punters. I’m an honest woman, I am. I sell the future, not my body! Go on, show me your palm, it’ll only cost you ten sous.’
‘No thank you. Once was enough. Have you seen Léonard Diélette?’
‘He’s vanished into thin air, same goes for his brat.’
She leant forward and whispered in his ear. ‘I noticed this morning that someone’s been inside their house, so I padlocked their door just in case … I don’t want any trouble. I’ve enough problems of my own.’
‘Give me the key and I’ll go and have a look.’
‘What’s more, that padlock’s new and I’ll want reimbursing.’
‘Will twenty sous do?’
‘Twenty-five with the key.’
A tornado had swept through the single room. A foul-smelling tide of rotting wood, bones, iron, cardboard, cloth and papers had submerged a rickety table, two seaweed mattresses, a horse blanket and a chest of clothes. Joseph’s heart sank as he picked his way through the stinking mess without success: there was not a trace of the jewelled goblet. He mouthed the words to a poem he had recently learnt.
A king of Thule of old
Was giv’n by his lover
In true memory of her
A chalice of polish’d gold1
Thule’s Golden Chalice! That would be the title of his next novel! Thrilled at this unexpected visit by the muse of inspiration, he forgot all about his agreement with Coralie Blinde and handed the key back to her. She waited until he was some way off before calling after him.
‘A long journey, a very long journey, one from which there’s no return!’
‘It’s late Madame la Comtesse. We’re closing …’
‘Monsieur Legris,’ announced Olympe de Salignac, ‘I have no intention of leaving without a copy of Mortal Loves by Maxime Fromont and The Girls of Écouen by Mary Summer. Contrary to Monsieur Pierre Loti, who admitted during his reception speech to the Académie Française that owing to mental inertia he never reads, we are interested in literature.’
Victor made an evasive gesture.
‘I’m afraid we only have biographies and novels by acclaimed authors.’
‘But, my dear man, Maxime Fromont and Mary Summer are highly esteemed novelists.’
‘In that case I shall order them for you.’
‘Nonsense, I no longer believe in your promises!’
The door chime rang. Joseph entered, frowning, and shook a newspaper at Victor, who ignored him as he desperately tried to think of a suitably trashy novel with which to placate the battleaxe. His eye lit upon a gaudy cover on top of a pile that was going to the second-hand booksellers.
‘Ah! I think I have the ideal thing for you: The Crime at Virieux-sur-Orques2 – a bargain at sixty centimes.’
‘Surely you wouldn’t recommend such reading to a young expectant mother?’
‘Who is expecting?’ Victor asked, caught off guard.
‘My niece Valentine. Any day now. What on earth is the matter with that assistant of yours? Is he suffering from St Vitus’s dance?’
‘It has to do with my cousin Yvette,’ Joseph said pointedly.
‘And what about your cousin?’ cried the countess, squinting at him through her lorgnette.
‘I came to tell my boss that we must find her a place to stay urgently as her father …’
Joseph gestured with his chin towards The Crime at Virieuxsur-Orques.
‘Well, in that case I shall leave you alone to discuss your family matters,’ said the countess sniffing contemptuously. ‘I shall come back tomorrow,’ she added, before slamming the door.
‘It’s terrible, Boss,’ Joseph whispered as soon as she had gone. ‘The rag-and-bone man — he’s dead!’
‘Dead?’
‘In the cab on the way back, Boss. I’d already bought the paper. There it is, there.’
‘Calm down, let me read.’
MAN MUTILATED BY TRAIN
A train driver inspecting the tracks at the goods depot at Orléans ye
sterday made a gruesome discovery. At the foot of the gasworks on Rue …
‘How can you be sure that it’s Diélette?’
‘That street, Boss, it’s right next to Cité Doré. And then there’s Coralie Blinde’s prediction. “I see the big red eye of a train bearing down … I see a man flying above the railway tracks.” I thought she was seeing into my future and that I was going on a trip, but when I left her just now she shouted after me: “A long journey, from which there’s no return!” She looked scared, Boss. I swear she must have had a premonition. And it’s no accident because the rag-and-bone man’s place has been turned upside down and there’s no sign of the goblet.’
‘Don’t breathe a word of this to anyone, and hide the newspaper.’
‘What will you do about the girl, Boss?’
‘She can stay here for a few days, and then we’ll have to tell her the truth and make other arrangements … How awful!’
‘Yes, especially since our case seems to have reached a dead end too.’
‘I know where the goblet is.’
‘You’re not serious!’
‘Do I look as if I am joking? The girl sold it.’
‘Who to?’
‘To a bric-a-brac merchant, whom I shall visit without delay. Have a pleasant evening, Joseph.’
The slick, uneven paving stones of Rue Mouffetard rose steeply, and the drizzle glistened in the shafts of light beneath the street-lamps. Unsure where to find number 127, Victor had entered the street at the level of the Panthéon, and was obliged to walk back down the slippery, dark street lined with ramshackle houses. A girl came out of a doorway and paused next to the open brazier of a vendor selling frites in greasy paper cones to the customers emerging from the wine bars. Festooned with washing, the façades of the buildings leaned in towards each other, as if confiding their secrets.
Facing the Église Saint-Médard and nestled behind a tiny public garden stood number 127, a tumbledown building next to the offices of the newspaper La Révolte. The first floor was occupied by a boarding house and the ground floor by a café. In the narrow smoky room, students, scantily clad young women, navvies and pimps stood elbow to elbow along a bar bristling with bottles and glasses of beer that glowed amber in the gloom. It was the time of day when the Green Fairy3 washed away all cares, working her poison in the veins of the faithful. Soon drunkards and lovesick tomcats would be singing their sweet songs.
The landlord stood quietly polishing glasses, and occasionally placing a domino next to the ones already spread out on the counter. When Victor asked after Clovis Martel, he raised an eyebrow without looking up from the game, which he was playing with himself.
‘I was told he lodged here,’ Victor persisted.
This time he elicited a groan.
‘Don’t waste your breath,’ whispered a woman in a low cut camisole that revealed her waning charms. ‘He’s scarpered. Fancy a tour of the basement with me? I’ll show you the philosopher’s stone.’
With her bright red lips and cheeks caked in rouge she looked like a doll that had seen better days. She was tall, a head higher than Victor.
‘Where is he?’
‘You’re a stubborn one, aren’t you? I told you, Clovis did a bunk.’
‘Hop it, Eiffel Tower, you talk too much,’ the landlord muttered.
‘You shut your trap, Lulu, I’m doing no harm, and if this gentleman wishes to spend the night in my love nest you’ll be in pocket, won’t you? You’re just upset on account of your Clovis running off without coughing up.’
‘He can run all he likes. I know where to find him.’
‘And where might that be?’ Victor asked.
‘Why should I tell you anything? We don’t know each other.’
Victor leant on the counter.
‘Because I’m asking you nicely. I may look harmless, but you wouldn’t like to see me when I’m angry.’
‘Steady on! You’ll find him at the Marché Saint-Médard on a Saturday morning, near number 10. Come on, have a snifter on me.’
‘No thank you, I’m on the wagon.’
‘So there’s no convincing you, eh? Pity. I was ready to show you all my charms from A to Z – including S and M,’ murmured the Eiffel Tower.
‘Don’t trouble yourself, Madame, I’m perfectly familiar with the alphabet,’ Victor retorted, exiting the bar.
The icy drizzle made him shiver. He thrust his hands into his pockets. As he hurried towards the lights on Rue Monge, he glimpsed a cyclist pumping up his back tyre.
The emissary stood up and, pushing his bicycle with one hand, walked into the café.
The steep streets of the Faubourg de Charonne dotted with gloomy cul-de-sacs displayed their dilapidated buildings like rows of rotten teeth along the edge of a piece of wasteland. Behind a picket fence, half a dozen caravans were gathered and a few acrobats practised their routines in the light of a camp fire. At the top of Rue de Nice, a woman pushing a barrel organ entered the courtyard of a tumbledown shack. Before parking her instrument under an awning, she stopped and peered through a darkened window. The bric-a-brac merchant’s shop was closed. The old pig must be asleep.
The woman climbed the steep staircase, carefully missing the fifth stair, which creaked, and paused on the tiny landing. She could hear voices. The old pig had a visitor. All the better; he wouldn’t hear her go up the stepladder and open the trapdoor to her garret.
Anna Marcelli closed the trapdoor without a sound, and lit an oil lamp. She stood up straight, her back stiff after an exhausting day pushing her barrel organ through the streets where she was always cold, even when the sun was shining. How she missed her native Italy, Naples basking in the sun, lapped by emerald-green waters, ragged children running barefoot through the alleys, laughing and carefree despite their empty bellies. She had been one of them until her father had got it into his head that they would find paradise inside Paris’s city walls! He had been tempted by his fellow-countrymen’s tales of wealth and luxury in the capital.
See Paris and live!
They had packed their bags and crossed the Apennines.
‘We’ll be rich, Anna. Paris is the most beautiful city in the world; people have money to burn. Surely they can spare a few coins for an organ grinder and a prima donna. With my music and your voice, we’ll find fame and fortune!’
They had found only misfortune in the form of that skinflint, Achille Ménager, their benefactor, as her father used to call him for the simple reason that he rented them a draughty garret.
‘Che freddo!’4 Anna muttered.
Six months after their arrival Luigi had died of consumption. He was only thirty-five years old. Achille Ménager had paid for a funeral mass and a cheap burial.
‘One good turn deserves another,’ he had murmured, stroking little Anna’s head.
She had paid him back a hundred-fold, so that now she felt nauseated every time a man looked at her in a certain way. Eight years it had been, eight years chasing dreams of gold that had long ago turned to dust.
She hummed her father’s last ritornello:
For love is stronger
Than time that has flown …5
She was just nineteen, and had her whole life ahead of her.
She gazed at her reflection in the cracked mirror that hung on the wall above her straw mattress. She had hazel eyes, a pretty upturned nose, olive skin and, beneath the headscarf she wore tied under her chin, a mane of thick hair. She noticed that the blue pinafore that she wore for work with a white blouse and red dress needed mending again. She hung her cape over the back of a solitary chair and took a plate of lentils from the dresser, placing it on top of the lamp that was beginning to sputter, then contemplated the freezing garret adorned with portraits of Garibaldi and Verdi purchased from a stamp dealer on Quai Conti. She walked over to the shrine she had created in memory of her father. A necklace made out of shells and three pumice stones picked up on the slopes of Mount Vesuvius lay in a circle around the notebook Luigi had u
sed to jot down the words to his songs. Besides these souvenirs, her possessions amounted to a few items of bed linen, a jug and washing bowl, and some chipped crockery. Was this her home? More like the old pig’s sty! She could hear his rasping voice through the floorboards.
She knelt down and pulled out a knot of wood, like a stopper, from one of the planks. With her eye to the floor, she could make out Achille Ménager’s bald pate. Opposite him a spindly figure in a battered top hat was clasping a shiny object. Finally, Achille Ménager took two coins from his waistcoat pocket. The man in the top hat shook his head. Achille Ménager offered him a third. This time the exchange was successful and, the deal concluded, the man in the top hat took his leave. Achille Ménager went over to the window to make sure he had gone. Anna stood up and ran to open the trapdoor a crack. She could see Achille Ménager’s shadow looming large on the wall. He walked down the flight of stairs and, kneeling at the fifth, lifted the plank and stowed his recent purchase in the hollow. He then returned to his lodgings, only to leave again almost immediately, wrapped in a warm overcoat.
‘It’s Thursday. You’re off to see your Belgian whore at the brothel on Rue Petion, aren’t you! Vigliacco!6 You know you can’t try it on with me any more, even if you do threaten to denounce me to the police for not having a licence!’
She ran down the ladder, retrieved the object from under the stairs and hid it in her barrel organ.
‘I’ll rob you first then I’ll kill you, sudicione!’7
Burning with hatred, she went back upstairs to bed.
CHAPTER 10
Friday, 15 April
DAWN was heralded by the sound of pigeons cooing. Anna curled up under her coverlet, wrapping it around her as tightly as she could — it was so cold! Above her head, raindrops pitter-pattered on to the skylight that framed a rectangle of grey.