Thomas, A Secret Life

by A. J. B. Johnston

  The conclusion Thomas comes to on one of his early morning walks, approaching the fountain of Esmangard on his way to a quick tour of the inside of the church of Saint-Thomas – he no longer worships on his knees in front of the Blessed Virgin, but he does still like to walk past the painted statue and give her a knowing nod ­– is that the mighty lawmakers don’t know the particulars of his situation. If they were in his shoes, they’d see it the way he does. Is not justice supposed to be blind? Exactly. And if it’s blind, it means that no justice officer nor any pope in Rome for that matter, can grasp what Thomas grasps. And that is that little, maybe nothing, is as simple as white or as black. No one but Thomas knows about the obligation his parents are supposed to have. If the two of them, or even one to start, would only think about what really matters they would come to the same conclusion that he has. Reason, simple reason, is his one and only guide.

  Thomas stops at the fountain, puts a hand in the water and stirs it around. He supposes he’ll miss the fountain a bit, though he knows there are bigger and better in some other towns.

  Yes, it’s clear. If his parents really want him to show backbone and be a man, they’d want him to carry out the plan that’s in his head. One could almost say they owe it to him. That’s right. But he’s going to save them the trouble of figuring it out for themselves. His father and mother are the parents of an aspiring and capable son. He should not be held back by their non-recognition of a solution for Thomas’s situation that is right before their eyes.

  More than a few times at night in his bed, Thomas rolls over on to his back and focuses his gaze on the little window across the room that looks out on the world. Starry sky, cloudy night, the milk-white of the moon. It doesn’t matter. Each time he comes to the same conclusion. It’s not his fault, it’s theirs. His parents owe him a choice, something other than what they know he doesn’t want. If there be selfishness or stubbornness anywhere in this scheme, it’s on their part not his. He wants only what nature intends, that he live up to his talent and aspiration. He’ll follow the seabirds’ example and peck his way to meat.

  —

  For two more nervous weeks Thomas works out what he hopes are all the necessary details. First, there is the question of the diligences to Paris. Twice a week there is one that rolls through Vire in the early morning. It arrives around seven a.m. en route for Lisieux. From Lisieux another carriage takes travellers on to Paris. Two nights at inns along the way, then the coach pulls into the great city. Thomas has heard that it has a thousand spires and domes and that there are maybe half a million people living there. It’s hard to imagine. Thomas can hardly wait. He has picked his time, the last week of May, when servant Servanne is supposed to be away, back home visiting her mother in Condé-sur-Noireau. Next, he selects what he’ll take with him. Not much, for little does he own. Just a satchel. In it he’ll put the necessary bread and cheese, the book Jean-Chrys loaned him that he is going to keep (Ovid’s Metamorphoses), a change of breeches, chemise and socks, and the sheets of paper with his verses between board covers. That’s all he needs. For now. The future when it comes will be when he’ll acquire lots more things.

  “Something wrong?” Thomas’s mother asked a couple of times.

  “No, why?” he’d reply, with as much nonchalance as he could muster.

  And so the calendar advances, onward to the night that Thomas has picked. All that is left is that which is hardest of all, the doing of the imagined deed.

  —

  Thomas goes toward the corner counter, hands spreading the dark air. The plan calls for him to light no candle. He’ll just have to work in the dark. He does not want to give any clue to someone who might be walking by on the street and see a glow. His blind right hand makes contact with the counter ledge first, the left clutching on quickly after. He slides sideways and bends down to where the strongbox is kept. If it’s not there, if his father somehow divined what kind of plan was forming in his son’s mind, then it will be all right. Thomas can still go back to bed. This is a point of easy return.

  The strongbox, however, is there. All right. The plan can move ahead. Thomas is to drag it out to where he can lift it and move it to an open place.

  The sound of scraping on the floor makes him shudder. He pauses to listen if it has brought someone running. He could just take off and no one would know who brought it out from under the counter. No, Thomas doesn’t hear a thing. So lift the box he does, though it’s heavier than he recalls. Is that because of the dark or does it contain more than it did that day his father let him hold it? Let it be the latter. Thomas struggles to swing the weight past the counter, and strikes his hip on the counter edge as he goes by. The hip flashes pain and Thomas clamps his lips tight shut. He staggers with the box to the open area of the dark shop he has come to know well. This is where he’ll have the room that he needs. He puts the strongbox down and listens once more. He counts to five and hears not a thing. All right, on to the next step.

  He feels his way over to the display shelves where this month’s selected fabric bolts are on show. They run from cheap to fine, beginning at the bottom. Just like in society, Thomas often thinks. No cloth of gold and silver in his father’s shop, but he does have some satins, taffetas, moirés and corded silk. Then the different wools, linens and cottons. Thomas bends down to the lowest display, the green serge he hates so much. This is what he decided a few days ago to use. Anything better would be a waste. Waste not, want not is one of his father’s credos.

  Thomas unrolls the bolt, spilling unseen ells to the floor. Down he lays what’s left of the bundle of unfurled fabric, beside the bunched-up spill. It must wait its turn.

  He stands above what he can but only dimly see. His eyes have adjusted a bit to the dark so the shop is coming to him a little clearer than before. It occurs to him that it’s still not too late to put things back. He’s left himself this additional point of possible return. Yes, he could tidy up and go back to bed.

  But no, Thomas shakes his head. He’s doing this not just for himself but for everyone involved. He has reasoned it for two weeks, and the conclusion was exactly this. He has to follow nature’s call. He has to become what he is capable of and not wear the cassock for which he has no call.

  He bends to lift the strongbox one more time. “Rest in peace,” he whispers, and beams at his wit. As he wiggles his fingers beneath the shaky old wooden box he extends the thought. What he is doing, moving the box from its hiding place to the centre of the floor, it is a sort of funeral procession. Not just for the strongbox but also for him. By following through he will be burying a life that was never for him.

  Thomas gets the box in the air, and labours with his legs to carry it a few steps. He comes to feel the spread-out serge beneath his shoes and he sets the thing down. He can’t help but issue a delayed grunt and a gasp. Another listen, just in case. Still nothing.

  Thomas reaches out with his shaking hands to grasp the wooden box. He feels the strong iron bands and he tugs at his father’s new lock. He cannot but smile. He rolls the box upon its side then completely upside down. “Weakest side up,” he mouths to himself. He cups a hand to his ear. There’s nothing amiss. A cat somewhere out in the street or in a nearby yard is merely yowling some complaint.

  He grabs the rest of the bolt of serge and places it as thick as he can on top of what is now an upside-down box. He bunches the fabric thick and thicker still, enough to do the job.

  Still not too late, he thinks again, though his head shakes a different answer. No, it has now come too far. With a sigh and the sense of a rope tightening round his chest, Thomas listens once more. This time it’s a count to a mere three. His racing pulse won’t let him go on. No, no one’s coming. Yes, it is time.

  “So be it,” he says, softly like in church. An intake of breath and he moves swiftly toward the door he came through only moments ago, though it feels to him like an hour. T
he eyes are seeing better now, the adjustment to the dark fully made. And his heart is beating like it’s in a race.

  He goes into the kitchen and over to the stack of split wood piled beside the hearth. The tip of a wooden handle is sticking above the top layer of wood. “There,” he says in a voice that is near normal. The word is out before he can stop it. He freezes on the spot, his left hand across the offending mouth. The house is quiet except for the racing of his breath.

  No, what’s that? Something is moving, a rolling sound. Thomas’s heart stops its race for a moment, till the sound comes clear in his ears. Someone down the street is moving a wheeled cart on the cobbled stones. The sound is coming this way.

  Thomas forces his feet to lift and steps long across the darkened kitchen floor. He grasps the contoured handle of the axe hiding behind the pile of wood. The handle is surprisingly smooth and accommodating to the touch. He lifts the axe up and away, and takes it back into the shop.

  Isn’t it a lot brighter now? Why it’s almost like day. Oh my God, am I taking too long? What if Mother, or worse still Father, wakes early and comes down to the shop? Thomas stops and stares at the mound of piled serge on the floor, visible now in the rising light of an approaching dawn. It’s a dark lumpy shape with something hidden underneath. Ah yes, that’s his future under there.

  The cart’s rumbling wheels on the cobbled street are just outside the shop, but they sound like they’re inside his head.

  Feet planted and axe on high, Thomas hesitates. Then he whispers to himself: “In remembrance of me.” He winces at the blasphemy but sucks in a shallow intake of air and completes the arc of his swing. The unstoppable weight of the blunt end of the axe comes down.

  The crash is muted, the green serge having done its job. It is only a thud, less than he feared. The splay of wood, the crack and splinter, sound good to the ears of a son turned thief. He closes his eyes to take in the delayed tinkling of a hundred pounded coins. The rumble of the cart wheels out on the street is beginning to subside. It is moving safely away.

  Thomas stands over top of what he’s done. He almost tosses the axe away but hold on, he may need it yet. As a weapon. He swivels at his hips to stare at the doorway that connects the shop to the house. He sees that he left it open in his haste. He listens for footsteps, intending to count to twenty to be safe. But he stops at nine. The throbbing in his chest he has to control. He must exhale. He has to slow his heart’s pace.

  I could still put it all back, he tells himself. Then he looks down at the splintered box and scattered coins at his feet. No, it’s too late for that. Unfold the fabric and scoop the coins, he urges his hands to begin. He needs enough, just enough to get away. To start his life anew. Cannot be caught. I’m past the point of return.

  From his knees, with cupped hands, Thomas dips and delves a dozen times. He nods a silent count, depositing the handfuls into his satchel. Yet there’s still so much left, so he scoops on past the number twelve. It’s a change of plan he cannot resist. At sixteen he stops. There, that’s enough. Then he scoops two more into the satchel. Let them keep what’s left. They, his parents, they’ll need something too. The breathing settles. The heart finds a slower pace.

  Up Thomas stands. He grabs the green serge by its scruff and drags it and its lightened load, the smashed strongbox and remaining smatter of coins, over to where it is routinely kept. He shoves it with his foot under the corner counter. There, it won’t be seen until someone goes and looks. By then it will be too late. He goes back to get his satchel, to test its weight. It’s heavy, yes, but not too heavy to carry down the street. Its uncounted treasure rests atop what clothes he put in first. He puts the satchel back on the floor. Down there underneath his future is all he owns in the world. Two pairs of socks, two chemises, an extra pair of pants, half of yesterday’s baguette, a block of cheese wrapped in its linen cloth, and some pages with his verses kept between the two board covers and Jean-Chrys's Ovid. Oh, and a small square of blue silk. Thomas doesn’t expect to need it anymore, not in Paris, but he brought it along rather than leave it behind.

  Thomas slides an arm through the handles of the satchel and swings it on his back. He can tell right away that the weight is going to leave a red mark on his shoulder. No doubt about that. So be it. A small price to pay to purchase a life that he wants, not the one his parents wanted to impose.

  Thomas sweeps to the door then descends from the shop down to the cobbles of the street. The cart he’d heard before is nowhere to be seen. There’s not a soul, and the only sound is the creak and whine of his father’s shop sign. Oh, he was wrong, he sees. There’s that old yellow mangy dog curled up on the steps of Monsieur Carré’s house. The dog raises his head to study Thomas then lowers it again. Down the street Thomas pads.

  So far, so good. Every few steps he shifts the weight of the satchel from one shoulder to the other. It is much, much heavier than he thought, and it’s getting worse with every step. The strap is burning into his shoulder, but he staggers on.

  —

  Thomas peeks round the corner to check the time. It’s a little after half past six according to the clock on the tower gate. Worry darkens his face. The diligence should have already arrived. More importantly, it should have already set off again, with him safely aboard and cleanly away.

  Is this not the day? And the hour? Thomas was sure that it was, but now … What if his father is up and in the shop? What if something is bothering him, and he decides to check it out? He will know something has happened. He will go right to the corner counter and look underneath. Thomas’s head swivels between where the diligence will board its passengers and the street that leads back up to his house. What if the diligence doesn’t come at all? It could be held up by highwaymen, Cartouche or some other. Or maybe a wheel came off outside of town. An axle broken en route.

  Thomas looks down at the satchel, pinned between his two feet, his knees touching above it like crossed swords. All he’s done so far is touch the top of the jumble of coins. He pulled out as many as he needed to cover the fare for the three-day diligence ride to Paris, no more. Yet what he glimpsed of the rest is more than enough. Four or five écus and even one Louis d’or, along with the expected mix of coins of lesser denominations, a hundred or more sols and deniers. His father has done well, done well to rebuild the business after the setback at the hands of La Motte. The man should be pleased with what he’s accomplished, his father should. He is good at what he does, being a cloth merchant. The portion Thomas is taking – an anonymous gift of sorts from unknowing parents – will not hurt them too much. No, he’s pretty sure about that. They’re meant to run the shop they own. It’s just that Thomas’s future is different from theirs. In time they’ll come to understand that.

  What exactly Thomas’s taking will all add up to he won’t know until he’s somewhere safe and settled. Then he’ll do a full count. That won’t happen on a street corner in Vire or anywhere else where there could be prying eyes. Thomas can’t be too cautious about that. There are thieves all around. His father taught him that.

  Thomas tips his head so his tricorn touches the stone wall beside him. It is as close as he’s had to a moment’s respite since the morning in full darkness began. He allows his lids to cover his eyes for just a moment. Much as he’d like to sleep, he knows he cannot. Not yet. He’ll just rest his warm eyes until he’s on his way. He allows his hands to dangle by his sides and they come in eager contact with the stones and mortar valleys of the wall. His fingers find the grooves and trace their curving path. He tells himself that once inside the diligence, once the departure is complete, why then he’ll…

  “Thomas? Thomas! What? Why are you…”

  Thomas’s eyes fly open. The hands jerk to come up as fists. It’s Jean-Chrysostome, whom Thomas has not seen in weeks, not since he began to work each day in his father’s shop. And there beside Jean-Chrys – Thomas feels his face pinch a
t the recognition – is Vinaigre. Thomas feels his chest contract and his whole body dips. His knees bang together in a ridiculous attempt to hide the satchel that is clearly visible and wedged between his feet. Thomas glances down and sees how stupidly he’s reacted. He fights to stand erect and nonchalant. It’s an awkward, failing attempt.

  “Up early you are, Jean-Chrys.” Thomas begins. His smile is as false as it is fleeting. He gestures at Vinaigre, “and with … a friend.” Thomas doesn’t recall Vinaigre’s real name and he doesn’t want to say Vinaigre. “Didn’t know you two…” He leaves the rest unsaid.

  “Bet not,” says Vinaigre with a sneer. “C’mon, Jean, let’s get going. Better get there early rather than late.”

  “A minute,” says Jean-Chrysostome, hand upraised. “Tell you what, Nic, you head on. Catch you up in a bit, all right?”

  “All right,” says Vinaigre.

  It comes to Thomas that Vinaigre’s Christian name is Nicolas.

  Vinaigre starts to walk away, but turns round over his shoulder and nods at Jean-Chrysostome. It looks to Thomas like Vinaigre is sending some kind of warning. “Till later, Jean-Chrys.”

  “Understood.” Jean-Chrys touches his tricorn with the tip of his finger as a goodbye to Vinaigre. He swings round to Thomas, whose eyes are burning into the one walking away.

  “Nic? You call him Nic?” parrots Thomas in a mocking tone. “What are you doing with that one? He smells like piss.”

  “He does not. And me, what am I doing?” Jean-Chrys’s voice rises in incredulity. “Haven’t seen you in weeks and when I do, here you are hunched over hiding round a corner, crouched like a wastrel looking like you haven’t slept. Is there somebody after you or something? And what’s that you’re trying to hide in the satchel? What’s going on?”