In the Shadows of Paris

by Claude Izner

  She put on her old slippers. Since poor Onésime had died, she’d grown stout and her face, once graceful, had become bloated and jowly. She drew some consolation from the knowledge that her friend Euphrosine was on the same slippery slope. It created a bond between them, like an old couple, sharing confidences, falling out with each other, making up, each alert to the slightest hint of a reproach from the other.

  Micheline Ballu hauled herself up out of her chair.

  ‘There are no two ways about it, life’s a rotten joke and the last laugh is on us! Our bodies grow dilapidated but inside we still feel fifteen.’

  Rue Visconti ran along between Rue de Seine and Rue Bonaparte. The house where Madame Pignot and her son lived was located in the narrowest part of the street. A studded door led into a cobbled courtyard where stables once used as coach houses had since been transformed into sheds.

  One of these, adjoining the old lodge of a seventeenth-century nobleman’s house, was Joseph’s study, his refuge, crammed with books, magazines, newspapers and military paraphernalia from the Franco-Prussian War. This ivory tower gave on to the two-bedroomed ground-floor apartment and kitchen he shared with his mother, Euphrosine, former costermonger now housekeeper to her son’s bosses, Monsieur Mori and Monsieur Legris.

  Just inside the entrance to the apartment stood a small stone privy, which Euphrosine called either her house of ease or her buen retiro – an expression in vogue among the upper classes. This relic from the Age of Enlightenment was her pride and joy, despite not having a flushing mechanism. The wooden seat with its acanthus-leaf design and the chipped pink marble bowl offered a degree of comfort that was only found in middle-class homes. The biggest drawbacks were the smell and the flies, which in stormy weather would spill over into the bedrooms. Euphrosine tackled these twin pests with copious amounts of water and ammonia, a product that irritated the mucous membranes. For Joseph this chamber, which even the king entered on foot, was a godsend: he could lock himself in there for ages and dream up new plots for his serialised novels away from his mother’s prying eyes.

  ‘Run along, pet! I’m going to give your father’s museum a good scrubbing before it gets too hot. It’s the early bird who catches the worm.’

  ‘And why not the owl?’ protested Joseph, packing up his things and leaving the room.

  Armed with a duster, shovel and broom, Euphrosine began her relentless assault on his sanctuary.

  ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Ah! The cross I have to bear! I am the most unfortunate of souls!’

  She glanced up at the crucifix wedged between two piles of journals, and rubbed her back before kneeling awkwardly.

  ‘Lord, have mercy on me for I have sinned. I know very well that a fault confessed is half redressed, but however will I explain to my boy that me and his dad lived outside the sacraments of marriage? I’m afraid it might drive him to despair if he finds out that in the eyes of the law I’m still Mademoiselle Courlac. He’s such a sensitive soul!’

  She rose to her feet and half-heartedly dusted a sideboard then appealed despondently to the crucifix.

  ‘And while I think of it, try to make him a bit more tolerant, and force him to be less harsh on Mademoiselle Iris. Let them get married and give me some grandchildren, even if they do look Chinese. Amen, thy will be done.’

  Feeling more cheerful, she began whistling the first few bars of Les Cuirassiers de Reichshoffen26 as she set about cleaning with gusto.

  Joseph was meditating on the edge of the toilet seat. His novel had been languishing in the doldrums since his love life had turned sour. He was finding it extremely difficult to think up what might happen next in Thule’s Golden Chalice!

  ‘Concentrate. Frida von Glockenspiel is in the cellar. Her mastiff is scrabbling furiously at the floor. Where do the human shinbones that the mutt digs up come from?’ he pondered.

  His gaze fell on the wodge of newspaper cut into squares that was hanging from a hook to the right of the toilet. He tore one off and read under his breath:

  ‘Nobody knew that the man strolling beneath the arcades on Rue de Rivoli had once been a renowned writer. Alas, fame is all too fleeting! An author’s words are written on the wind.27

  To be continued in the next issue28

  ‘There’s no danger of that happening to me. They’ll still be talking about my Chalice in 1950!’

  He pulled off another square. In the middle of the advertisements section, a notice framed in black jumped out at him.

  Cousin Léopardus

  invites friends and customers of Monsieur Pierre Andrésy, bookbinder of Rue Monsieur-le-Prince, Paris, to attend his funeral at La Chapelle Cemetery on 25 May.

  ‘For the blossom in May beckons us from the fields.’

  Stunned, Joseph reread the text. Impossible! The fire had only happened last Wednesday!

  He searched frantically for the name of the newspaper as he tore the squares off the hook. He crammed the whole lot into his pockets and raced back to his study.

  Euphrosine had mounted a successful operation and the dust had been routed. A sprig of anemones brightened up the rows of books and magazines next to the gleaming spiked helmets and shell cartridges ready to pass muster. The cretonne curtain was drawn across the window.

  Joseph made a quick assessment of the damage: an urgent assignment would require returning the room to its former chaos, which was key to his creativity.

  ‘I hope you haven’t used any of my newspapers for toilet paper!’ he yelled.

  ‘May God strike me down if I ever dare touch your things, pet! Madame Ballu lets me have Le Figaro once she’s done reading her serial. You should be grateful to have them at hand instead of grumbling. And don’t give me that tragic look! Just like an old bachelor with his quirky habits! Monsieur’s breakfast is served.’

  ‘Do you know the dates for these Figaros?’

  ‘How should I know? I only cut them up for toilet paper. You’ll have to ask Madame Ballu!’

  Joseph, his mouth twisted in a bitter smile, couldn’t help himself and declared, ‘I wish I was an orphan!’

  This was the last straw. Euphrosine’s face turned bright red.

  ‘And to think I work my fingers to the bone day in day out, washing his clothes, cooking him nice meals, slaving away and all for what? Just so that I can pick up the pieces!’

  ‘What pieces?’

  ‘The pieces of your broken marriage! Oh, I’ll have a clear conscience when I leave this world. I bled myself dry to bring up this great oaf. I made sacrifices. I never took up with another man. And this is what I get for giving up life’s pleasures. Monsieur refuses to make me a grandmother!’

  Euphrosine Pignot beat her chest vehemently.

  ‘I can forget about bouncing babies on my knee, even if they are half Japanese half Charentais!’

  She went away grumbling to herself, ‘Oh, the ungrateful brat! This is the thanks I get for giving him a nice new toilet! Honestly!’

  Resigned, Joseph placed the scraps of newspaper on his desk and slipped the death notice into his jotter.

  ‘I tell you, Madame Primolin, these students! The government’s closed the local trade union office. Talk about a hullabaloo!’

  ‘My husband is very concerned. I expect we’ll be going to stay with our cousins in Ville-d’Avray,’ replied an elderly lady with a sigh, before beginning her climb to the fourth floor.

  ‘That’s right, fly away, little birds, it’ll make less work for me,’ muttered Madame Ballu, bumping into Joseph with the dustbin she was pushing.

  ‘Watch where you’re going, lad!’

  ‘Sorry. I came to ask about the copies of Le Figaro you gave my mother. Do you know the date they came out?’

  ‘It’s written on them.’

  ‘They’ve been torn up so it’s impossible to tell.’

  ‘Well, it’s nice to know my gifts are appreciated! I gave her a huge pile. The tenant on the third floor lets me have them. I love the serials. The one I’m reading now is
terribly sad. It’s about an old writer who…That reminds me, how’s your serial going?’

  ‘I’m about to finish it. About those newspapers, do you have any idea of the date?’

  ‘The beginning of the month.’

  ‘Which month?’

  ‘This month of course, July!’

  Joseph hurried off to open the bookshop, leaving the concierge standing there ranting at the dustbin about the general decline in manners.

  The guardian angel of shop assistants was watching over Jojo: Monsieur Mori had gone out and Monsieur Legris was sailing up and down on his bicycle between Debauve & Gallais, purveyors of fine toiletries, and the bookshop.

  ‘Boss, I’ve something most peculiar to show you.’

  He handed the notice to Victor, who examined it critically.

  ‘The typesetter was probably in his cups. I say, it seems Salomé de Flavignol has had a revelation. Now that Guy de Maupassant is dead she wants to read his complete works. Kenji has made up a parcel for delivery this morning.’

  ‘Is that all you can say?’ Joseph was fuming. His boss, who fancied himself a super-sleuth, was pooh-poohing his discoveries.

  ‘It makes no sense, Joseph! Pierre Andrésy died on 5 July so the date of the funeral couldn’t possibly be 25 May. I don’t suppose they’d hold his corpse for burial until next spring. You really shouldn’t believe everything you read in the newspapers.’

  Narrowing his eyes, Joseph snatched up his cap and the parcel of books.

  ‘Well, if that’s the way it is, I’m off. It’s stifling in here!’

  Jojo stormed out. Victor leant on the counter, resting his chin on his clenched fists. A shadow danced before him, beckoning. No! He wouldn’t give in to his old demon. He’d promised Tasha: no more cases.

  ‘Abandon all hope, ye who enter here,’ Jojo murmured, quoting Dante.

  He had got shot of the parcel at Mademoiselle Flavignol’s house and, acting on a whim, had dipped into his own purse for the cab fare to Porte de la Chapelle.

  After wandering about for quarter of an hour looking for the phantom cemetery, he asked directions from an old tramp who was sharing a piece of cheese rind with his dog.

  ‘Cross the ramparts and go up Rue de la Chapelle then turn off when you reach Chemin des Poissonniers. You’ll find your city of the dead at Saint-Ouen!’

  Joseph wandered through a maze of rusty sooty railway tracks, lost his way, then reached Rue du Pré-Maudit,29 which he left as fast as he could. He walked back past buildings covered in obscene graffiti, seedy hotels and vacant lots overgrown with wild oats, where circus strongmen were rehearsing. Behind the Ceinture line station stood the grim bulk of a railway arch. He passed some alarming figures: ragged girls on their way to buy groceries; pimps wearing espadrilles, a cigarette hanging out of their mouths; a group of vagrants, shivering after a night spent under the stars, heading for the slopes of the old ramparts.

  Beyond this Wall of China, he found himself surrounded by a patchwork of factories and kitchen gardens. The gardens were so verdant and filled with flowers that, had it not been for the tall factory chimneys marking out the road, he would have believed himself transported to the countryside. Butterflies danced above the cabbages and buttercups, and a few cows stood in a meadow.

  A funeral procession jolted down the avenues of the cemetery, the hangings on the hearse covered in a film of grey dust. The coffin was lowered, the family dispersed, the gravediggers filled in the hole.

  Joseph decided that rather than search for a hypothetical grave, he would ask the keeper. The man consulted a register: there was no Pierre Andrésy buried there.

  Joseph turned on his heel, muttering to himself.

  ‘This needs investigating, there’s definitely something fishy going on here. That was no typo. I’m going to pop in to Le Figaro, if only to annoy the boss.’

  Caught up in his reflections, he walked past a small drinking fountain where a man who looked a little too smartly dressed for the neighbourhood had stopped to quench his thirst. A few small children holding jugs waited their turn.

  Frédéric Daglan wiped his moustache, and walked over to a bistro where he sat down at an outside table and ordered a coffee. He pulled three newspapers from his pocket and began reading one of them. As he perused the second, he nearly sent his cup flying. Between a domestic incident and a drowning was a report about the disappearance of a printer named Paul Theneuil. His book-keeper had found a mysterious message in his business correspondence that mentioned a leopard.

  A panting dog stopped to lap at the water running along the gutter. The whole world was thirsty.

  Victor skimmed a pebble across the lake, disturbing the smooth surface of the water and scattering the ducks, which quacked furiously. He didn’t pause to admire the reproduction of the Temple of the Sybil at Tivoli perched on the summit of an artificial cliff, but walked on towards the exit from Buttes-Chaumont. Joseph had had the nerve to return to the shop late in the afternoon with a smirk on his face. That lad was becoming a nuisance, and the prospect of having him as a brother-in-law was exasperating. Although nothing seemed less sure than that union. In two minds as to whether he should bring about its definitive end or restore his sister’s happiness, Victor turned into Rue des Dunes.

  The studio and living quarters he’d helped Djina Kherson rent were situated on the first floor of a plush apartment building. When he rang the bell Tasha’s mother came to the door; she’d dispensed with a maid in order to save money. It was a point of honour with her to do her own housework, which in a cramped three-room apartment was quickly accomplished in any case. As for the studio, a functional room containing a few chairs and easels, it was accessible from the hallway.

  Victor was surprised to find not only Tasha but also Iris and Kenji sitting around a samovar in the living room. Djina, who looked scarcely older than her daughter, was wearing a gathered skirt and a blouse decorated with Russian embroidery.

  Despite his show of polite disinterest, Kenji did not fool Victor, who could see the unsettling effect their hostess had on him. For her part, Djina paid him scant attention. She filled Victor’s glass.

  ‘I only have black tea,’ she said.

  Then she resumed her conversation with Tasha and Iris.

  ‘I’m glad he’s keeping busy. He needs to be active or he loses his will to live.’

  She had a soft voice, with only a hint of an accent.

  ‘Who are you talking about?’ asked Victor.

  ‘Pinkus. He’s sent us a letter – he’s going to pay you back,’ replied Tasha.

  ‘There’s no hurry.’

  ‘It’s a matter of pride,’ said Djina.

  She picked up the letter and translated a passage:

  ‘…In the end life here in America is not so very different from in Vilna: the poor die of poverty and the rich get richer, but I’m not complaining. I live in a two-roomed apartment on the Lower East Side. No more sewing on a machine fourteen hours a day in a garret in the Bronx. I’ve fallen on my feet…’

  ‘He’s gone into business with an Irishman who owns a gaming parlour. Imagine!’ exclaimed Tasha.

  ‘Do you mean he takes bets?’ asked Kenji, with a sidelong glance at Djina.

  ‘He would never stoop so low,’ she replied curtly.

  ‘They’re planning to invest in a new type of camera that uses twenty-four photographic images to give the illusion of movement. It’s on display at the Chicago World’s Fair,’ Tasha explained.

  Djina consulted the letter, trying to decipher the word. ‘An electric ta-chys-cope.30 Do you know what that is, Monsieur Legris?’

  ‘It must be a perfected version of the praxinoscope.’31

  Djina went on:

  ‘…the models we’ll be offering the public are marvellous pieces of machinery and I’m sure they’ll bring in a good revenue…

  ‘Your father, the revolutionary, managing a bar!’

  ‘That’s unfair, Mother. What’s wrong with him earning
his living? It’s not as if he’s exploiting anyone. He hasn’t renounced his ideals.’

  ‘I’d love to see some of those moving pictures,’ said Iris.

  Delighted that she’d finally expressed an interest in something, Victor suggested, ‘I’ll take you to Théâtre Robert-Houdin. Are you intending to take up your watercolour classes again?’

  ‘We’ve just agreed on a day,’ said Djina. ‘Come with me, my dears. The new paints I ordered arrived this morning.’

  As they left the room, Kenji drew his chair alongside Victor’s.

  ‘An Oriental manuscript was sold at auction last week to the Bibliothèque Nationale. A friend from the Booksellers Circle told me. It almost certainly isn’t ours, but…’

  ‘You suspect Pierre Andrésy of having sold Touty Namèh before he died?’

  ‘Of course not! It never even occurred to me.’

  ‘Exactly when was it auctioned?’

  ‘That’s what I’m going to find out.’

  What’s come over these two? First Joseph, now Kenji. It must be catching! thought Victor as the women filed back in.

  He remembered his vow to Tasha and felt suddenly annoyed; he’d promised to keep his word, yet he felt painfully like a bird which had had its wings clipped. Why couldn’t she accept his need for freedom? He was mortified to think that he behaved the same way with her, but the difference was that he was motivated not by jealousy but by fear for her safety.

  He glanced up. This time there was no mistaking it: Kenji looked positively bewitched at the sight of Djina.

  If he fell in love with her, the family portrait would be complete.

  Chapter Five

  Thursday 13 July