The Black Tower

by Louis Bayard

  “Was I unclear? Was I unclear?”

  One good thrust, and Nankeen falls to earth a good body’s length from where he started.

  “Mind your elders!” cries Vidocq. “Move along!”

  With clinical attentiveness, he watches Nankeen reach for his toppled hat and, without a backward look, trot round the corner.

  “This papa of yours,” he says, peering off in the direction of the Val de Grâce. “He never mentioned any dauphins, I don’t suppose?”

  “Never. He was—he was the son of a notary. Mother came from potato merchants. We weren’t the type to mix with royalty.”

  “Ah, but you know the old saying, I’m sure. Strange times, strange bedfellows? And if there was ever a strange time, it was the Revolution.”

  He does something quite unexpected then: loops his hand round my elbow and, with a gentle pressure, pulls me along. We’re strolling now through these narrow, gently decanting streets: gentlemen of leisure, fresh from the Théâtre des Italiens.

  “I was in Arras,” says Vidocq, “when all the wheels were coming off. We had a woman there, I’ll never forget her, Citizeness Lebon. Used to be a nun in the abbey at Vivier until the Jacobins forced her to marry the curé of Neuville. A real love match, as it turned out. She decided who the Republic’s enemies were, he made sure they died for their sins. I was there the day they executed Monsieur de Vieux Pont on account of his parrot.

  “Seems Citizeness Lebon had overheard said parrot crying, ‘Vive le Roi!’ Before the week was out, the parrot’s owner had been divorced from his head. The bird himself was pardoned and handed over to the citizeness for reeducation. She was still working on him, probably, when they came for her.”

  Half smiling, he tilts his head toward mine.

  “You can see how things worked in those days,” he says. “A woman of the cloth becomes a woman of the people and spends her waking hours with a royalist parrot. Three estates, rubbing shoulders under one Republic.”

  Without my realizing it, the Rue Neuve-Sainte-Geneviève has stolen up on us. Once more we stand on the corner. Once more I stare at the crackling plaster housefronts, the old well, the mud-blackened gutters…the street itself, falling away at such a pitch that horses rarely venture down it. Everything looms more real, somehow, through the departing fog-floes.

  “So you think my father might have rubbed shoulders with a Bourbon or two,” I say.

  “It’s possible,” he answers, shrugging. “The only problem—Doctor—is that everyone who can sort it out for us is dead. And unless you can figure out a way to make the dead speak, I’m afraid I must classify you as an official waste of my time.”

  And with that, he loosens his grip on my arm. He nods curtly, bids me good afternoon, and becomes once more that veteran of forgotten wars, marching down the Vieille Estrapade de Fourcy. Only two details mar the illusion: the right foot, dragging ever so slightly after him, more afterthought than wound—and the skewed smile that wrinkles his face as it turns back to me.

  “Now might be a good time to get reacquainted with your father. Don’t you think, Hector?”

  28 THERMIDOR YEAR II

  Must speak w/Barras & commissaries re restrictions. Am permitted to see Charles for only 1 hr in early A.M. Guard must be present at all times—confidences of any kind btw patient & me impossible. If I wish to stay longer, I must petition Committee 3 days in advance.

  For rest of time, Charles remains utterly alone in cell. No fire, no candle. Only sounds he hears are bolts; sliding of earthenware plate thru wicket; voices commanding him to go to bed; voices waking him up, periodically, thruout night.

  Before incarceration, boy was, by all reports, outgoing, good-natured. 6 mos. of confinement have left him almost entirely w/o affect: eyes languid, expression fixed & disinterested.

  Food extremely poor. 2 daily portions of soup, watery, flavorless. Morsels of beef. Loaf of black bread. Pitcher of water. Have explained to Barras that poor diet & long confinement have substantially weakened patient. Have expressed desire to personally escort Charles out of cell for limited exercise. Must await decision of Committee of General Security.

  This A.M., Charles asked why I was taking care of him. Because it is my duty, I said. But I thought you didn’t like me, he said. Quite the contrary, I said.

  It’s clear he experiences far greater alarm at kindness than at ill usage. Must learn more about prior treatment.

  3 FRUCTIDOR

  Progress. Charles able to walk for greater distances w/o support. Still experiences great pain in knees, ankles.

  Have just received word from Committee: Exercise request has been granted. Patient may leave cell for 10 minutes, no more. Must be escorted at all times by me + 2 guards.

  Upon further consid, have made addit petition. Given patient’s extreme sensitivity to light, wd like to schedule exercise for twilight. Am awaiting Committee’s decision.

  6 FRUCTIDOR

  Request granted. We are now required to have 3 addit escorts.

  7 FRUCTIDOR

  Prospect of leaving cell did not appear to gladden Charles. Expressed serious doubt at idea. Agreed to join me only after I promised he might return as soon as he liked.

  As precaution, I tied linen bandage round eyes. Led him carefully out of cell. Guards followed at 10 ft. We approached stairs—1st stairs patient has undertaken in 1+ years. He leaned heavily on my arm. Climbing v. hard for him—legs gave way more than once—was breathing v. hard when we reached top of Tower. I sat him down until such time as he cd stand again.

  Platform here = gallery, offering views of Temple courtyard + streets outside. We stood there for some time bf Charles, w/o asking leave, removed bandage from eyes in single motion. Stood blinking in dusk. Able to keep eyes open for 5–10 seconds, no more.

  Patient’s attention gradually shifted toward sounds. Asked me what bird that was singing? I informed him it was nightingale. Yes, he said. That’s right. One by one, he asked me to identify sounds: water carriers, crossing sweepers, hacks, stagecoaches, fruit carts, etc.

  One sound in particular. What’s that? he asked. Whistling, I said. He begged to know who was doing whistling? Grp of children, coming down Blvd du Temple. Describe what they were doing? Chasing each other, somersaulting, laughing, rude noises, buying cakes at corner, etc.

  Intelligence appeared to satisfy him. However, I observed alteration in demeanor. Asked if something was wrong. He shook head. Later, tho, as we descended stairs, he asked (in a whisper) if the children were coming to kill him.

  17 FRUCTIDOR

  Have made repeated requests for assistant. 1 hr/day of care not sufficient. Guards refuse to carry out instructions. Lacking anyone to administer physics, salve & dress lesions, exercise limbs, etc., patient unlikely to recover. Have been told that Committee has it under consid.

  20 FRUCTIDOR

  No word.

  22 FRUCTIDOR

  Still no word. Delays v. frustrating.

  23 FRUCTIDOR

  Word reached me late A.M.: Committee has granted request. Assistant to begin work next week.

  Have been told little about him. Trade: upholstering. Repub credentials: impeccable. Modest experience in nursing. Name: Chrétien Leblanc.

  CHAPTER 13

  An Ancient Relic Rediscovered

  HERE’S A WONDER. At dinner, Nankeen breathes not a word of our recent encounter. Whenever I catch his eye, he’s the one looking away, and as soon as dinner’s over, he excuses himself and retires upstairs to his studies.

  He’s ashamed, is that it? Or else, in those few moments when Vidocq held him by the shirtfront, he caught scent of a different world—where civilization and nankeen trousers availeth a man not. Or maybe I’m only saying that because it’s the way I feel.

  At any rate, the disappointed Rosbif and Lapin retire without bloodying any of their fellow eaters; Charlotte takes away the dishes; and the only ones left in the dining room are Mother and me. Not that she notices. This being Friday night, s
he is polishing her silver.

  The silver was part of her bridal trousseau, and to the best of my knowledge, it has never actually been used. (All the lodgers of Maison Carpentier make do with pewter.) In no way does this discourage her weekly ablutions. She wraps one of Charlotte’s aprons round her black tulle dress, sheathes her sleeves in muslin, and bears down, with a surgeon’s fixity. Before five minutes have passed, her arms are coated in a viscous, pearly lather, as though she had plunged them into a whale.

  “Mother.”

  She doesn’t look up or greet me or do anything that would loosen her mind’s grip. She says only:

  “The newel post is still loose.”

  “I know.”

  “You said you’d get to it.”

  “I will.”

  “You said that yesterday. The day before, too, if I—”

  “Mother, please. I need to ask you about something.”

  My temples are pulsing, and as I pass my hand over my face, a slick of sweat comes free.

  “Not something,” I correct myself. “Someone.”

  “Who?”

  “Father.”

  And here she does, in fact, pause in her labors. For one second.

  “What could I possibly tell you,” she says, taking up her chamois once more, “that you don’t already know? You grew up in this house, you saw him every day of your life. That was you living here all those years, wasn’t it?”

  “That was me.”

  “Well, what a relief. I thought perhaps you were…a changeling or…something like that….”

  For the next half minute, the only sound is the friction of cloth against teaspoon.

  “Of course,” I say, “just because you live with someone doesn’t mean you won’t have questions about them.”

  The cloth halts for a fraction of a second, then hurries on.

  “People are what they are, Hector. There’s no point in…there it is.”

  “He was a doctor once.”

  “Who?”

  “Father.”

  Her eyes now are flat and gray, and orbiting, as though she’s mislaid something.

  “That was many years ago, Hector.”

  “Why did he stop?”

  “Ohh.”

  She wipes her forehead with her sleeve. The gray froth clusters over her eyes like a third brow.

  “He had his reasons,” she says. “I’m sure he did.”

  “What were they?”

  “Oh, how ridiculous you sound, Hector! What were they? As though I could even—when it was so long ago.” She shakes out the cloth. “Over and done with. Not worth another thought.”

  There you are: a perfect specimen of Restoration thinking. My mother does exactly what her nation asks of her. For many years, she hung a tricolor from her window; now it’s a white flag with three golden fleurs-de-lis at the center. The eagles and bees that once graced her porcelain cups have given way to the royal arms. The only thing she has that even hints of the past is a bud vase with a single gilt N. She keeps it in a secret niche in the drawing room and never puts flowers in it.

  “When Father was a physician,” I say, keeping my voice light, “what sorts of people did he treat?”

  “Oh, all sorts, I expect.”

  “He wouldn’t have—I was only wondering if he might have had occasion to—to treat an aristocrat. Someone like that.”

  The silence bears down.

  “Perhaps even a member of the royal family,” I suggest.

  She snatches up a butter knife. “Hector,” she says, “I can’t say I like your line of questions. Whoever your father knew or didn’t know—a quarter of a century ago—can be of no concern of yours.”

  “It is a concern.”

  A statement of fact, that’s all I intend, but something startles her eyes back toward mine. The scrubbing subsides, and in a dark brown tone, she says:

  “That horrible convict.”

  “No.”

  “He’s put you up to this.”

  “Mother.”

  “Badgering you about your poor father.”

  “It’s me asking, Mother. No one else.”

  She turns away from me now. As far as she can manage without actually leaving.

  “Shame on you, then, Hector.”

  “Shame,” I repeat in a low voice. “Why shame? If Father led such a quiet, such an unimpeachable life, what shame could there be in knowing more about him?”

  A long silence before she coils herself back round.

  “Your father was a good man. That’s all you need to know.”

  She’s holding my eye now—the better to gauge her missile. On it comes, low and deadly.

  “He certainly never squandered his family’s assets on a common whore.”

  The strange part? Instead of cowing me, it frees me. Something in my head turns lambent and still, and I draw out a chair, and I sit in it, and I look at her, and because all the niceties have been burned away, I can stay looking at her, I can stare her out of all countenance.

  And when I speak, how gently my voice ripples.

  “It’s true what you said before, Mother. I’ve lived here all my life. And I’ve never really known the first thing about Father. Or you. Of course, I never worried so much about him because no one else seemed to know him either. You least of all. I guess I just assumed he didn’t want to be known.”

  With great deliberation, she strips the muslin sheaths from her arms.

  “And now? Now I think I was wrong, Mother. I think there was something in him that didn’t want to be known. Something happened to him. A long time ago. And he couldn’t square it away, and he couldn’t forget it. Of course, I don’t have any proof. But I think you might, Mother. I think you know exactly what happened.”

  There is a kind of woman who will throw tears in your way when you draw too near. Eulalie was one of those; Mother, to her credit, has never been. To intruders, she has only one answer: rage.

  And this is its truest expression. A raucous, fast-descending cry, like a crow rustled from a tree.

  “I have nothing more to say to you on this subject!”

  And as I walk out the door, she sends a last cry after me, and this one carries, to my ear, a note of ragged hope—as if it could erase an entire conversation.

  “Your father was a good man!”

  TEN MINUTES LATER, I’m standing in the foyer. In my coat and hat, my hand resting on the doorknob. Ready for my evening walk, you see—and not ready. Beneath those counterpulses, the knob actually trembles.

  And then I hear a cough. Cough doesn’t quite cover it. A barking, heaving, chest-splitting sound.

  It’s Father Time. Leaning against our grandfather clock.

  The coughing at least gives me leisure to study him, more closely than I ever have before. That patriarchal beard—that’s the beard Moses came down from the mountain with, isn’t it? That tall, tottering frame: a Doric column ever on the verge of toppling. Whatever was straight in him is now bent. He’s all angles, like an attic.

  “Are you all right, Monsieur?”

  He puts out a hand to allay my concern. With the other, he pounds his chest until the air begins once more to stream.

  “Nothing to…” One last cough. “Nothing to worry about, just a bit of—salivation, I think, going down the—the wrong aqueduct.”

  “Can I help you with anything?”

  “Me? Oh, no no no. You see, I couldn’t help but—hear you. You and your mother, I mean….”

  He does something startling then. He touches me. A scaly, salty hand, pressed against my shoulder.

  “See here, my boy, you really ought to look kindly on her. It’s been a hard road, hasn’t it? Ah, but if it’s your father you’re wanting to hear about, there are plenty of other people to ask.”

  This look he’s giving me…it’s the same look he gave me the other night over the dining table. That helpless complicity, oddly soothing when it first came my way. Here, after all, was Father Time. Old friend of
my father’s.

  Attendant at my father’s funeral.

  “Of course,” I hear myself say. “Of course.” I peer into the slow-opening crypt of his face. “You mean I could just—ask you questions about my father? His past, I mean?”

  “Oh my, yes,” he says, smiling. “It’s one thing we’re good for, old vanes like me. You can always get us to point back, eh? The further back the better. Why, if you asked me what we had for dinner tonight, I’m afraid I couldn’t tell you. Whiting, perhaps.”

  “Chicken.”

  “Ah, you see? Gone. Utterly. Now ask me how I dined the day Mirabeau died, I can tell you. Down to the last drop of cassis, yes.”

  His eyes go rheumy with memory. His hand clenches and unclenches.

  “I know it’s getting late,” I say. “But would you mind terribly if we…?”

  “Mind?” His features swarm with confusion. “Ah, you’d like to—you mean now, is that it? Well, I suppose that might work. Yes, we could—we could even retire upstairs to my quarters if you…do you know, I might have some cocoa first. Things flow better, don’t they, with a little chocolate?”

  “Monsieur,” I say, raising a hand. “Before we say another word, I must beg you to tell me. Did my father ever have cause to meet a prince?”

  “Why, yes,” he answers. “Yes, of course. Everyone was a prince in those days.”