by Felice Arena
Frederic’s father is tough and his voice is deep and filled with authority. Frederic expects the thieves to turn and bolt.
But they don’t. Instead they drop what they’re doing, clench their fists and move forward.
‘Marcel will be on his way,’ Claude says to Frederic. He crunches his neck and stretches his shoulders backwards – Frederic knows he’s preparing to fight.
But there is no sign of Marcel and Frederic begins to panic as the men move closer. His father can’t take them all on.
‘I’ll find Marcel,’ Frederic says, putting down the lantern.
‘He’ll be here,’ says his father. ‘But right now, I need you to step up with me, son. I know you can do it. Show them that courage I saw the other day on the bridge.’
Frederic raises his fists. The men are only metres away.
But in the lantern light, Frederic can see that his fists are shaking. He suddenly knows he can’t do this. That his father needs a real fighter.
‘You need Marcel, Papa!’ he says. ‘He’ll help you.’
His father nods, and Frederic grabs the lantern and runs.
Frederic dashes into the darkness, his lantern swinging and shaking from side to side, causing shadows to dance on the wall. He runs to the eastern part of the wing, where Marcel, during their food break, had told them he would be.
‘Marcel! Marcel!’ he cries. ‘We need help!’
But Marcel is nowhere.
This is crazy! Where is he? Frederic thinks, already turning and charging back towards his father.
Frederic gasps with every stride, his lungs burning. As he reaches the Galerie d’Apollon, two of the men bolt out in front of him, one of them clutching the portrait in his arms. They almost knock him over as they run past.
And just as Frederic is about to take a sharp right into the room, he collides head-on with the third thief. They both crash to the ground, the thief ’s mask and cap go flying.
In the flicker of the lantern’s light, now spinning on the ground, Frederic gets a brief, but good, look at the man. His eyes are beady and intense and he has an unusual streak of white hair – as if someone had painted a stripe on his slicked-back black hair.
The thief springs to his feet, scoops up his cap and sprints away after the others.
Frederic’s legs wobble as he regains his balance and runs into the room.
His father is lying on the floor, motionless.
‘Papa!’ Frederic falls to his knees at his father’s side, his heart sinking to his stomach. He can’t breathe. He shakes his father frantically, tears streaming down his face.
But he can’t wake his father up.
The rain falls. And it doesn’t seem as if it’s ever going to stop. Every day during the first three weeks in January 1910 grey skies hang over Paris, soaking everything. But in this new year, Frederic barely notices the bleak wintry days.
It’s dawn but still dark outside as he ties his boots, throws on his heavy woollen overcoat and steps towards the front door.
‘Don’t forget to eat something,’ comes his mother’s voice.
Frederic turns back to his mother’s room. He sits on the edge of her bed.
‘I won’t, Maman,’ he says softly. ‘I’ll eat something once I get to the stables.’
There’s silence. Frederic can tell what his mother is thinking. He’s waiting for her to say something. But she doesn’t, so he does.
‘It’s his birthday today,’ he says in almost a whisper.
‘I know, mon cher. He would’ve been forty-one.’ She sighs heavily.
Frederic has become used to her sighs. They come in waves, in long breathy murmurs filled with deep sorrow and pain. He sighs the same way.
It’s been almost six months since that traumatic night in the museum – the night his father died – but they are still adjusting to Claude’s absence. Still expecting him to come home. His mother still occasionally sets a third place at the table. Frederic still lies in bed every Sunday wondering why his father hasn’t woken him for their usual savate training session. Before he remembers . . .
Even though the long police investigation was over they still had not caught the thieves or recovered the painting. After all the painful questions, all they knew was that Marcel had been an insider working with the thieves.
The newspapers had focused more on the stolen portrait, than on Claude’s death. Frederic had avoided walking past Journal for a long time to avoid hearing about the theft and being reminded of what happened.
At times it had all been too much to deal with.
Frederic’s mind drifts. Last year, he would have been getting ready to go to school, after meeting his father on his way home. But now he has to work. The income that Frederic’s mother makes as a seamstress is not enough to keep them both.
Frederic kisses his mother goodbye and heads out into the biting cold. It’s grey – again – but at least the rain has eased off for now.
Frederic looks up for the balcony grannies. It’s too early and too wet and cold for them, he thinks. But the balcony door abruptly swings open, and one of the grannies steps up to the railing. She is covered in furs from head to toe, as if she’s about to trek the Alps.
‘Another day of shovelling horse manure, boy?’ she says, not unkindly.
Frederic nods. ‘Oui, Madame,’ he mutters, his shoulders hunched and his hands deep in his pockets.
‘Nothing keeps a boy more honest than handling an animal’s poop,’ she says.
Frederic shrugs and continues walking. He doesn’t have far to go. First a right into rue Sainte-Croix de la Bretonnerie, and then a quick left into rue Vieille du Temple.
Five minutes later, Frederic reaches the place that has become his life for the past couple of months – the Saint Jean Stables and Fiacre Depot.
Out the front, several carriages are lined up ready for hire. He walks past the front one and pats the side of the horse out front. It’s Tempête, Storm, the mare that had been spooked by the motor car on Frederic’s birthday last summer.
He runs his hand over Storm’s soft nose and she snuffles at his jacket, hoping for treats.
He feels comforted for a moment but then feels overwhelmed by guilt.
Would I have this job if my father were still alive? He wanted me to train with Monsieur Dupuis. He would have done everything he could to make that happen.
Frederic is grateful for the job Leon and his uncle Gustave have given him. It’s a dream come true for him working with the twenty-five horses in the stables.
Boss Gustave, as he likes to be called, is a good man, but Frederic knows he won’t stand anyone being late for work.
‘Sorry, Storm,’ he whispers. ‘I’ve got to go.’
‘You’re late!’ Boss Gustave barks as Frederic pushes open the large wooden door leading into the stables. ‘And I need you to do a very important errand. I’ve just acquired another horse from the Alma Stables, and I want you to go get it and bring it back here. But . . .’ He pauses and pulls a face.
‘But what?’ asks Frederic.
‘It’s not the friendliest of beasts. He needs retraining. You can use your magic touch to settle him down.’
‘Magic touch?’ Frederic laughs. Leon had told Boss Gustave about what happened with Storm and he was straightway convinced that Frederic had a special way with the horses.
‘Watch the traffic when you lead him back – go via the back streets if you can. And when you return, I want you to muck out Soleil’s, Flocon’s and Rafale’s stalls.’
Boss Gustave names all the horses in his stable after different types of weather – Sunny, Snowflake, Windy and Storm. He’s obsessed with the daily forecast.
‘I’m sure there’s more wretched rain on its way,’ he says as he leaves the stable.
Leon saunters up beside Frederic and hands him a baguette.
‘Bon appétit, my friend. What’s my uncle going on about today?’ he says.
‘I’m going to Alma Stables to get a h
orse. It’s going to take me a couple of hours.’ Frederic stuffs his mouth with the warm, freshly baked bread. ‘It would be so much quicker if I could ride the horse back.’
‘Shhh!’ hisses Leon, almost choking on his last bite. ‘If my uncle hears you even talking about riding these horses, you’ll lose your job. Carriage horses are not for riding. Besides who do you think you are? A soldier?’
‘Frederic?’ calls Boss Gustave. ‘I’m not paying you to eat and chat. Go! Now!’
It takes Frederic well over an hour to reach the Alma Stables. The trip is made longer by the fact that Journal stops him with the news along the way.
‘The Seine’s banks overflow,’ he calls, waving a newspaper. ‘Small towns and villages underwater! Landslides! Rising water!’
‘Landslides?’ Frederic repeats.
‘Yes, look,’ says Journal, flipping through the paper and showing Frederic an illustrator’s impression of a town submerged under mud and water.
‘That’s unbelievable,’ Frederic says. He notices that Journal has a half-eaten apple sitting on a pile of his newspapers.
‘Are you going to have the rest of that?’ asks Frederic, pointing at the apple. Journal shakes his head, and Frederic grabs the fruit, shoves it in his pocket, and hurries to the Left Bank of the river.
‘Follow me,’ orders the owner of the Alma Stables as soon as Frederic arrives.
As Frederic trails the owner to a long row of box stalls lining the back of a large courtyard, he catches sight of the top of the Eiffel Tower peeking over the rooftops.
Most Parisians don’t like the wrought-iron tower, but Frederic’s father had always loved it, right from the time it was constructed for the World’s Fair twenty-one years ago – and for that reason alone, Frederic loves it too.
‘Here he is,’ says the stables’ owner, reaching the last stall of the row. ‘He’s a big boy, strong and unpredictable. A former military horse, part Andalusian, part Percheron.’
‘Former military?’ Frederic asks excitedly. ‘So he’s used to being ridden?’
‘If you’re brave enough or stupid enough,’ the owner says. ‘He’s got a temper. But because of his size and strength he’ll be perfect for a four-horse team. Just right for the kind of carriage Gustave is thinking of buying.’
But Frederic isn’t really listening. He’s in awe of the striking grey stallion – its elegant head and long neck, its thick mane and tail, its massive chest and hindquarters. Frederic has never seen a more beautiful or athletic horse. With a pang of sorrow, he realises that he looks just like one of the horses from the painting in the Louvre.
‘What’s his name?’ Frederic asks.
‘That’s horse number onze, eleven,’ says the owner. Then noticing Frederic’s perplexed look, he says, ‘It’s just a horse. It doesn’t need a name.’
Frederic holds his tongue. Doesn’t need a name? How absurd! he thinks, as he opens the stall and takes a step towards Eleven.
‘Hey! Don’t just walk in like that,’ warns the owner. ‘Let me get you a stick or a whip.’
Frederic is disgusted by the thought. He shakes his head.
Eleven snorts and rears backwards. The horse is skittish and wary, that’s clear. And it easily weighs over a thousand pounds. Frederic knows that, if he wanted to, this stallion could charge and crush him. But he also knows that horses are sensitive creatures and can sense how you feel. And Frederic feels certain that the stallion knows he feels no fear and intends him no harm.
Frederic closes his eyes for a moment, takes in a deep breath, exhales, and then slowly takes a step towards Eleven.
He looks up at the stallion.
‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ he says in a soothing voice.
Eleven snorts a couple of times and then lowers his head.
Frederic reaches out and gently scratches him around the neck. ‘Do you like that?’ he says. He strokes Eleven’s nose, then lightly rubs the bone above the stallion’s eyes. Eleven’s eyelids begin to droop, as if he’s about to doze off.
‘I don’t believe it,’ says the owner. ‘I’ve never seen this horse so docile. You’ve almost put him to sleep.’
Frederic leads Eleven out onto the Paris streets. When he and the horse are a good distance away from the stables, and out of sight from the owner, Frederic turns to the stallion.
‘Eleven is a dumb name for a grand horse like you,’ he whispers. ‘From now on, I’m calling you Charlemagne.’
Frederic comforts and chats to Charlemagne every step along the way. ‘Ignore the traffic, boy,’ Frederic whispers as they reach the busier streets.
Cutting ghostly figures in the grey drizzle, Frederic and Charlemagne make their way along the avenue.
Frederic notices a crowd gathering on the Pont d’Alma – Alma Bridge. Everyone is peering over the railing, looking at the river.
What’s going on? Frederic wonders. He risks leading Charlemagne over to take a closer look.
From his jacket pocket Frederic pulls out Journal’s apple and, as Charlemagne crunches on it, he approaches the crowd.
Frederic overhears people talking about the level of the river – the water is rising at a rapid rate. Frederic leans over to look. It’s true – he has never seen the water so high. What’s more, tree branches, boxes, barrels and other debris are bobbing in the fast current.
He looks up at the two stone statues of soldiers standing on pillars attached to the bridge. They are giant – as tall as eight big men standing on each other’s shoulders. Usually the river flows just below the base on which the statues stand. One of the soldiers, the one closest to the right bank is a Zouave – a French colonial soldier holding a rifle. The river is lapping up around his waist!
Frederic wonders with alarm how much higher the river can rise.
He loops Charlemagne’s lead rope to a nearby lamp post and presses up against the bridge railings to take a closer look.
From this height, when he turns to check on Charlemagne, he spots a boy, not much older than himself, circling the crowd. He looks suspicious – for one thing, he’s the only one not paying any attention to the rising water.
The boy trips and bumps into a well-dressed man. But as the boy straightens and apologises, Frederic sees him reaching inside the man’s coat. He snatches something that glints in the light before it vanishes into his sleeve.
It’s the man’s pocket watch, Frederic suddenly realises. The boy is a pickpocket!
‘Thief,’ Frederic mutters under his breath. Just the sight of this act triggers the memories of his father and the thieves at the Louvre. Frederic’s heart pounds, and he feels anger bubbling throughout his entire body. But he also feels sick with guilt – and the guilt mixed in with anger makes him want to burst.
Without thinking, he shouts at the boy: ‘Stop! You dirty rotten thief!’
The boy’s eyes widen as he spots Frederic. The gentleman turns at the sound of Frederic’s cry, pats his coat pocket and realises he has been robbed.
‘My watch! My watch!’ the man hollers after the boy, who bolts down the embankment.
But Frederic is right behind him, charging at him in full stride.
The boy stumbles and Frederic pounces. The two hit the cobblestones hard and roll down the street, wrestling furiously. They collide into a park bench and break apart.
Frederic hardly feels the pain. He springs to his feet.
They face each other with raised fists. The pickpocket is the first to lunge. He throws a right punch, but Frederic blocks him with an upper left-elbow deflection, followed by a powerful right-heel thrust to his gut.
The pickpocket doubles over, but only for a moment. He bounces up and pulls a dagger from his back pocket. Sneering, he swings the deadly blade at Frederic.
Frederic ducks, spins, and executes a fouetté – a roundhouse kick – directly at the boy, booting the weapon right out of his hand.
Before the pickpocket can make sense of what has happened, Frederic lets loose with six rapi
d, sharp punches at his face – left, right, left, right, left and right.
As the boy drops to the ground, dazed, Frederic jumps on his chest and pins him to the ground.
‘Stay out of my business!’ the boy growls, his teeth and nose bloodied. ‘Wait until my gang hears about this. You’re going to pay!’
As if snapping out of a trance, Frederic is surprised and shocked. How did this happen? He hasn’t fought since that day in the boxing hall.
‘Yeah, well, from where I sit, you’re the one who’s just paid,’ Frederic tells him, retrieving the stolen watch from the boy’s shirt pocket.
When he gets up, the boy spits at him and runs away.
Returning to the Pont d’Alma, Frederic scans the crowd and spots the gentleman.
‘I don’t believe it. That’s remarkable. Thank you, young man. Thank you,’ the man says, taking the watch from Frederic. ‘Your heroic act needs to be rewarded!’
But as the man reaches inside his coat for his wallet, Frederic looks guiltily over to Charlemagne. The horse is safe but shifting nervously, still tethered to the lamp post.
‘It’s all right,’ Frederic mutters. ‘Ce n’était rien! It was nothing! I must get back to work. Good day, Monsieur.’
Frederic hurriedly leads Charlemagne away.
The following morning Frederic wakes to his mother calling him. It’s only just dawn. He bolts out of bed and is shocked to find himself splashing through a deep puddle of icy water.
‘Arrgh!’ Frederic yelps. ‘Qu’est-ce que c’est? What is this?’
‘L’inondation! We’re flooded!’ his mother tells him as she rushes around packing their things. ‘The whole apartment!’ She splashes to the front door. ‘It’s not raining! Where’s this water coming from?’
Frederic immediately thinks back to yesterday and the rising river. He wades outside and can’t believe what he sees. The entire neighbourhood is flooded, and the streets have been transformed into canals. Neighbours are streaming out of their homes in a panic – shouting at one another. Some are calling for help.