Fearless Frederic

by Felice Arena

  Dashing past the cathedral, he steps up to a bronze statue of a man on horseback. It’s supposed to honour the famous king and emperor Charlemagne, but Frederic is here for the horse, not the man.

  He stands alone in front of the giant bronze statue – it’s too early in the morning for crowds. Amazingly lifelike and majestic, the horse is powerful yet graceful at the same time. It’s the type of horse Frederic dreams of riding one day.

  Frederic admires the statue for a few minutes before turning and running towards the Pont au Double, an iron-cast bridge that connects the Île de la Cité with the Left Bank of the city.

  ‘What took you so long?’ Frederic’s father calls out to him, already standing in the middle of the bridge. ‘Don’t tell me you’re slowing down in your old age!’

  Frederic smiles as his father hugs him.

  ‘Bon anniversaire!’ Claude says. ‘Are you ready for your birthday surprise?

  Claude gestures for Frederic to follow. They jostle and bump into each other, shadow-boxing and laughing as they walk across the bridge and into the Left Bank of the city.

  They cross a busy road, dodging horse-drawn cabs and motor cars. Even though they are now a part of everyday life, Frederic still marvels at the automobiles – their open-air carriages, large wheels and their put-put noisy engines. Most of them have been made by the great French motor car manufacturer De Dion Bouton.

  A man with a scruffy long beard shuffles up to Frederic and his father. At first Frederic thinks it’s another homeless person begging for money, but as the man gets closer he sees it’s one of the many silhouette artists who make their money selling paper cut-outs to tourists in the city.

  The man is holding up a paper silhouette cut-out and Frederic leans forward to look – it is an amazingly detailed cut-out of a man and a boy, in a fighting stance, their arms and legs suspended in action.

  Frederic smiles. It’s very impressive. He is always amazed at how quickly the men work – cutting out images as if they are drawing a sketch.

  ‘For you,’ the man says. ‘It is you.’

  ‘No, thanks. Not today,’ says Frederic’s father politely, brushing past the man.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t hear that?’ says the artist, cradling his art materials and scissors close to his chest and falling into step with Frederic’s father. ‘I’m a bit deaf. Did you say perhaps later today?’

  ‘No, I didn’t,’ Frederic’s father says, laughing. ‘Sorry, Monsieur, I’m not interested. Good day to you.’

  Frederic glances back over his shoulder to see the artist approaching the next people who step off the bridge.

  ‘It was very good,’ Claude says to Frederic, ‘but I have something else to buy this morning.’

  A few minutes later they turn into a narrow alley called rue de la Bûcherie, and Frederic’s father leads him to a store with a sign above the door. In swirly white lettering it says: Jouets et Articles de Paris, Toys and Articles of Paris.

  ‘Really?’ says Frederic. ‘A toy store?’ He feels disappointed.

  ‘I knew it!’ exclaims Claude. ‘I know you’re thinking – I’m a little too old for toys! Well, we’re not here for a toy.’

  A small bell chimes above the door as Frederic and his father step inside.

  The first thing Frederic notices is the almost overpowering scent of wood and polish.

  He doesn’t know where to look first. On shelves reaching from floor to ceiling are dolls, fabric bears, miniature kitchen equipment, board games, marionettes, novelty cards, and curious playthings that he has never seen before. The entire floor of the store is packed with tricycles, wicker prams, wooden sailboats and rocking horses.

  ‘Ah, Monsieur Lefosse,’ comes a gruff voice from the back of the store. ‘I just opened – early for you, as arranged.’

  A giant of a man steps up to them. Frederic thinks he looks more like a pig farmer or a soldier than a store-owner. His hands are the size of boat paddles, and he almost crushes Frederic’s hand when he shakes it. His cheeks and large nose are flushed bright red.

  ‘I’m Monsieur Bertrand,’ he says, smiling, ‘and your father has been waiting for this day for a long time now. I have your surprise at the back. Just wait.’

  Frederic furrows his brow.

  His father winks at him.

  When Monsieur Bertrand returns, he is holding a strange-looking contraption. It’s large – almost as tall as Frederic. Cotton canvas is stretched over a bamboo frame and it is shaped to look like a bird in flight. The bird’s wingspan is wide and strong. Its head turned to show off a regal profile.

  Frederic gasps. ‘Papa! Is that what I think it is? A cerf-volant?’

  ‘Yes, yes, it is! It’s a kite!’ His father laughs at Frederic’s shock. ‘I told you it wasn’t a toy!’

  Frederic can’t believe it. Kites are rare and expensive. Owned by wealthy adults and sometimes their wealthy children. How can his father even afford such a magnificent thing?

  ‘I know we haven’t been able to give you a lot of things in the past,’ his father says. ‘But your mother and I decided two years ago that we’d put aside some savings each week for your thirteenth birthday.’

  Frederic is beaming as Monsieur Bertrand hands the kite over to him.

  ‘It’s called l’Aigle, the Eagle,’ he says. ‘My cousin Charles designed it. He’s the leading kite maker in all of France, and you, young man, are one of the very first to have it. I wish I’d had this one at the Games.’

  ‘The games?’ says Frederic. ‘The Olympic Games?’ Frederic’s father nods. ‘Monsieur Bertrand competed in the kites event at the Summer Olympic Games here in Paris,’ he says.

  ‘That was only nine years ago. And look how far we’ve come in aviation since then,’ Monsieur Bertrand adds proudly. ‘Those Americans, the Wright brothers, getting all that attention for the first engine-powered flight. But it was us French that were the first to take to the sky – where would the world be without the Montgolfier brothers and their hot-air balloon, eh?’

  ‘And don’t forget the Frenchman who just flew over the English Channel,’ says Frederic.

  ‘Look who’s up to date with the latest news!’ says Monsieur Bertrand.

  ‘We might head out of the city this Sunday to fly it,’ Frederic’s father says to him. ‘We’ll make a day of it with your mother. What do you think?’

  Frederic beams and nods as he and his father say goodbye to Monsieur Bertrand.

  Frederic feels as if he’s the luckiest person in all of Paris to have such a gift in his hands. His mind drifts, imagining what it will be like to fly his kite, wondering how high he can make it go.

  ‘Are you happy?’ asks his father.

  But before Frederic can answer, his father curses. A few metres ahead of them on the other side of the bridge, Frederic sees the silhouette artist they had met earlier. He is frantically trying to grasp at a handful of his creations that are fluttering in the wind, but the paper cut-outs are flying across the road and into the busy traffic of horses, carriages and motor cars.

  At first Frederic doesn’t understand what is happening, but then he watches as the man steps back and in the way of an approaching motor car.

  In what feels like slow motion, the car swerves to the other side of the road towards them, forcing Frederic and his father to jump out of its way. It speeds down the road, almost colliding with another motor car.

  Horns honk and people shout and at the end of the bridge a horse rears up with a terrified sound, spooked by the near miss.

  The groom leading him cries out as his horse bolts and breaks away.

  Pedestrians scream and scurry sideways to get out of the way of the frightened animal.

  But all Frederic can think of is the horse. In such a frantic state it might slip over the cobblestones and break its leg or, worse, get hit by a motor car. He pushes the kite into his father’s arms and races towards the terrified horse. He skids to a stop directly in its path.

  Behind him he hear
s his father yell. ‘No, Frederic! No!’

  Frederic holds his open hands in front of him. His heart is racing but his breathing is calm. He no longer hears his father calling to him. He doesn’t react to the people and bikes scattering around them.

  All he sees is the horse charging towards him.

  Strangely Frederic isn’t afraid. His feet feel as if they’ve been stuck to the ground.

  The horse abruptly stops only a couple of metres from Frederic and rears up onto its hind legs, snorting and whinnying. Its ears are pinned back and its nostrils are flaring.

  When its front hooves clatter on the cobblestones again, Frederic can see that its eyes are white and large. He can feel its panic.

  ‘Reste calme – shhh, stay calm,’ Frederic says in a soothing voice. He is as still as he can be. ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’

  The horse dances around terrifyingly close to Frederic. He knows that if it panics again it will knock him down and he will be trampled under those huge hooves. But the horse is not panicking now – it begins to settle. Its ears move forward a little and its heavy breathing slows.

  ‘That’s it,’ Frederic says, inching forward. ‘Nice and easy. You’re okay.’

  With his right palm open, Frederic slowly reaches for the muzzle. He looks up at the horse and sees for the first time how beautiful it is – a chestnut brown mare with a dark tail and mane.

  The mare grunts and steps forward to sniff at Frederic’s hand. He slowly raises his other hand and gently pats the side of her face.

  ‘Thank you! Thank you!’ cries the horse’s groom, running up to them and taking hold of the strap. He’s a spindly young man, not much older than Frederic. Frederic doesn’t know him, but he has seen him before, handling the horses by the river. ‘I can’t believe what you just did. You’re a natural. Truly. I’m Leon. My uncle runs the stables on rue Vieille du Temple in Le Marais. He’s always looking for extra help. If you want a job you should drop by and see us.’

  Frederic nods. He is buzzing with excitement as the groom leads the mare away. He realises he is smiling crazily but he can’t stop – even when his father throws his arms around him.

  ‘I can’t believe it! Tel courage! What were you thinking?’ he says.

  ‘I don’t know,’ says Frederic. ‘I just did it.’

  ‘Well, that’s the courage that Joseph was talking about yesterday. You’ve got to show no fear and go for it. It’s that type of backbone and daring that shows you have the traits of a great fighter, my son. I’m very proud of you.’

  Frederic nods but his smile is fading now.

  It was the horse! he thinks. Fighting doesn’t make me feel like this.

  And a job with horses! How magnificent would that be?

  He hopes his father will understand.

  Later that day, when the summer daylight has turned to a soft pink haze, Frederic and his father set out for the night shift.

  Frederic’s mother sees them out the door ‘Don’t get in your Papa’s way,’ she says.

  ‘He won’t get in the way, my love,’ said Frederic’s father, kissing her before they step into the street. ‘See you tomorrow morning.’

  The balcony grannies are perched in their usual spot, looking down at the busy street below.

  ‘Monsieur!’ cries one of them to Claude. ‘Your son doesn’t say much, does he?’

  Frederic’s father greets them, tipping his hat. ‘Bonsoir, Mesdames, Good evening, ladies! He’s more action than words, my boy!’

  ‘Action? Action always leads to trouble!’ one of the ladies retorts.

  ‘Boys are drawn to trouble like rats to sewers. I’d keep an eye on that one if I were you,’ adds the other cheerfully.

  Frederic and his father laugh and wave goodbye to the balcony grannies and set out for work.

  Everything about the Louvre museum is grand. When Frederic stands in front of the colossal building on the banks of the Seine River, he almost can’t believe he will be allowed inside.

  He wishes he had someone to tell this amazing story to. Since he finished primary school last month he hasn’t seen any of his classmates. They have all found jobs and gone to work and he knows he will soon have to earn his own way in the world too.

  He wasn’t close to anyone in particular at school anyway. Perhaps I can tell Journal something for once, he thinks.

  The museum was first a fortress and then a king’s palace. Everything about it is royal and bold – especially the statues on the façade and the giant stone arch, the Arc du Carrousel, with its four gilded bronze horses pulling Emperor Napoleon in a chariot.

  Frederic is excited as his father leads him down a narrow laneway that carves into the museum building. They walk away from the main public entrances and through a hidden doorway.

  He feels as if he is joining some sort of secret society. When they step inside, they wind their way through a labyrinth of narrow corridors that lead to a small room.

  Frederic holds his breath as his father opens the door . . .

  Then he sighs, underwhelmed. Behind the door is a cramped change room, lined with wooden cupboards.

  Nothing grand about this, Frederic thinks.

  ‘Bonsoir, Claude!’ says a man wearing a guard uniform.

  ‘Bonsoir, Marcel,’ says Frederic’s father as he opens a cupboard and takes out his uniform and a truncheon.

  Claude introduces Frederic to his colleague as he changes into his uniform.

  ‘You’re going to spend an evening with the greats tonight, Frederic,’ says Marcel as other guards come and go. ‘And I’m not just talking about me and your father!’ Marcel laughs at his own joke and Frederic smiles politely.

  When Frederic turns back to his father, he almost doesn’t recognise him. He looks so different in uniform.

  He’s wearing a navy blue double-buttoned jacket over a light blue shirt. His pants are crisp and his boots are shining. His cravat and cap are neat and clean. Frederic has never seen his father looking so smart and official before.

  ‘We’re all assigned to different wings of the museum,’ Claude says, ‘but tonight I’m going to give you the grand tour, so I hope you’re ready for a lot of walking.’

  The three of them make their way through two more narrow doorways, before stepping into a large hallway.

  ‘The Denon Wing!’ Claude announces. ‘Let’s begin with some of the Italian greats.’

  Frederic’s jaw drops. He has never seen so many paintings gathered together – they line the walls of a grand corridor that seems to go on forever.

  Frederic and his father say farewell to Marcel.

  ‘You know most of the guards that work here have a background in savate like me,’ says Frederic’s father. ‘Except for Marcel. Marcel comes from Le Havre, where he worked as a wharf hand. He is one of those small-town, street-tough men that would make those apache gangs around Montmartre quake in their dandy boots. This type of job is only given to the toughest and strongest.’

  ‘So why did they hire you?’ Frederic says cheekily. Then he quickly ducks as his father grabs him in a playful headlock.

  For the next few hours Frederic shadows his father through the great hallways of the museum.

  He stands for a long time in front of a painting of a horse race – the jockeys urge their horses on under a dark stormy sky, and Frederic can almost hear the thunder of hooves. He thinks of the mare in the street and her wild eyes.

  His father calls him away and by the light of the lantern more paintings of great historical figures and scenes and battles seem to come to life. But after a while, as the night wears on, Frederic begins to tire. The works of art all start to look the same and the galleries and corridors seem darker and a bit spooky outside the light of the lantern.

  Around midnight Frederic finds a bench, upholstered in plush red cushion, and his father leaves him to sleep.

  Later, he wakes to Claude gently nudging him.

  ’You picked a prime spot,’ he says, holding his lante
rn up to a small painting in front of Frederic. ‘Her name is La Joconde, the jovial one, by an Italian artist called Leonardo Da Vinci. She’s one of my favourites. But I can never tell if she’s actually smiling. It depends on which angle you’re looking at her from. Come stand here with me.’

  Frederic steps in closer to his father and looks back at the painting.

  ‘I think she is smiling,’ he says. ‘Or perhaps that’s the way she looks when she’s hungry.’

  Claude laughs. ‘I get the hint! That’s why I came to get you. Time to head back to the change rooms and have something to eat.’

  ‘On our way, could we go back to see that horse painting?’

  Claude nods. ‘That painting, as fine as it is, has nothing on this one. Why does that interest you so much?’

  Frederic shakes his head. ‘No reason,’ he says.

  After a break, with his stomach filled with bread and cheese, Frederic follows his father back to a salon called the Galerie d’Apollon. On the way there, Frederic’s father suddenly freezes. He cranes his head slightly, as if he has just heard something.

  ‘Intruders,’ he whispers. ‘Stay close!’ And he begins to walk quickly towards the salon.

  As they get closer to the Galerie d’Apollon, Frederic hears a thumping sound, followed by muffled voices.

  Handing the lantern to Frederic, Claude takes his truncheon from his belt.

  Frederic’s heart is racing. There’s no denying he’s afraid, but his father expects him to follow so he does. He takes a deep breath.

  My father will keep me safe, he thinks. And he expects me to be brave.

  They peer around the corner of the entrance to the chamber. Three men are in the process of removing a portrait from the wall.

  They look like gangsters – wearing waistcoats, trousers that are tight at the knees and flared at the bottom, and sailor caps. All three are wearing black eye masks.

  Frederic’s father takes out a whistle from his jacket pocket and blows sharply again and again.

  ‘Don’t move!’ he calls, raising his truncheon. His voice echoes off the grand, gilded walls of the gallery.