Thomas, A Secret Life

by A. J. B. Johnston

  “Maybe try that again?”

  Thomas looks into Collier’s eyes. They’re grey if they’re anything. The man’s face is a mask, with next to nothing revealed. And yes he does have eyebrows, but they so pale and thin that they almost can’t be seen.

  “No, that’s good as it is. Nineteen.”

  “Where do you live, Thomas? And your occupation as well.”

  “To start, I’m on Saint-Thomas-du-Louvre. And my profession,” Thomas hesitates and glances fleetingly at the ceiling, “I’ve not yet completely worked that out. Some details still need to be … sorted. You understand. I’d say it’s unclear. At this point.” Thomas raises his eyebrows like they might be a punctuation mark. But then he looks away from his questioner in a hurry. He glances down at the tabletop then quickly around the room. When his gaze comes back to Collier he adds: “I’m thinking of medicine. But it’s too early to tell.”

  “I see. So, to put it bluntly, you have no means of support?”

  Thomas stiffens. The mask that is Collier’s face is too carefully arranged. Is he joking? Thomas is so young and he’s only just arrived. There must be hundreds, likely thousands, just like him.

  “I have means, some means. I’ll be all right for a while.” Something comes to mind. He hesitates to say it, then he does. “Is it Monsieur Collier? Is that it, or is there a first name that goes along with that?” Thomas smiles in triumph. He’s just turned the tables on the man across the way.

  Collier does not reply, nor does he give any more facial reaction than that which might come from a statue. Thomas shakes his head in defeat. He wonders how a person gets to hide his thoughts and feelings like that. It must be handy to be so in control. So much practice it must take. But then, judging by the colour of this Collier, who is as pale as a corpse, the man must never get out in the daylight. Perhaps all he does all day is practice how to be a mask.

  “Yes, I have means,” Thomas says, breaking the silence. “Though it’s true I need to look for a position appropriate to my … my aspirations.” As soon as the word is out of Thomas’s mouth he regrets it. He sees Collier’s eyes pinch to a closer focus.

  “And these aspirations, what might they be?”

  “I … I’m not sure. At this time. Not right now. What I need is to find something. Some work. A position. Later on....” Thomas halts, not knowing what to say next. He doesn’t have a clue what might come later on. All he has is an aspiration to be and to possess more than he is and has.

  “Could you say a little more?” Collier adds a slow, deliberate blink of both eyes. Thomas begins to spill what’s going through his mind as if the cork has just been removed from his bottle.

  “This … coming here … with the name Strombeau gave me on that piece of paper, folded over. He made it sound like it might be a job. He did. Or that’s what I wanted to hear, I suppose. I don’t know. But he did suggest that I need to start somewhere. Leading to a position. I have much to offer. Yet you’re grilling me like I’m a criminal. I’m not a saint, but I … I come from Vire. That’s in Normandy. My father is a clothier....” Thomas waves a hand to dismiss the last remark. He doesn’t know why he’s told Collier so much. “Sorry.”

  “What are you sorry about?”

  “Nothing.” Thomas shifts in his seat. “Look, I need to go. It’s getting late.”

  “Thomas, do you know that the name on your piece of paper, the one Monsieur Strombeau gave you, that of the Marquis d’Argenson, that he is the Inspector-General of the police of Paris?”

  Thomas’s eyes widen, yet he makes himself hold his tongue.

  “And do you also know – I think you suspect – that it was the marquis himself you were speaking with near the entrance to this building. After you wandered in.”

  “I had deduced that.”

  Collier says no more. He simply sits there staring at Thomas. After a count of four, Thomas feels forced to speak. “I see,” is what he says.

  “Exactly. You see.” Collier’s hands slide across the tabletop to clasp together. “And what do you see?”

  “I see, well, I see.” Thomas rolls his head as he waves at the walls and the ceiling of the room.

  There begins a silence that stretches as taut as a rope before it is forced to snap. With Collier’s eyes on him, Thomas shifts his away to burn at only one thing. The closed door and how he’d like to go out. Now. Thomas pushes back his chair, hands on the table’s edge, but with his ass still planted firmly on the seat. He thinks: this man, this Collier, he has no right to keep me here. I’ve done nothing wrong. I have rights in this kingdom as an innocent man.

  “Do you know what we do here, Thomas? Here in this part of the police of Paris?”

  Thomas relaxes a little, though he keeps his hands on the table’s edge, ready to propel his body to a standing position.

  “Catch thieves, I suppose. And vagabonds. Murderers too. People like that.”

  Collier exhales.

  “Very good. But those are only some of the useless people we put away. Sometimes before we punish all we do is anticipate. That’s right, anticipate.”

  Collier lifts both hands and spreads them in the air in front of him as if he has been asked to conjure a globular shape. His eyes stay fixed on Thomas’s eyes as his hands hold the shape and his explanation rolls on.

  “Paris is an apple. That’s right. And sometimes there are worms and rotted spots. By anticipating, we can cut out those worms and spots. Before they spoil the rest of the fruit.”

  Thomas blows out his mouth like a silent whistle. This man is crazy, as baffling as a mystical monk. Thomas has heard enough. He cannot fathom how any of this relates to him.

  “Can I leave now?” Thomas tilts his head toward the closed door.

  Collier asks, “Are you afraid?”

  “Afraid? Afraid. Why would I be afraid?” Bewilderment fills Thomas’s face and his voice. He feels a trickle of sweat under his arms. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  For the first time, Collier allows his face an expression. It’s a smile. Well, a smile of sorts. “Your friend Strombeau, he was once associated with this force, the Police de Paris. Did you know that?”

  Thomas starts to nod like he agrees, but then he shifts his motion. His head sways side to side.

  “He started out around the same age as you are now. Young and recently arrived. He too had ... what did you call them? Oh yes, aspirations. He too had aspirations. That was long before he began to make money in other ways. When that happened Strombeau moved on. Man of business instead. Relocated to Bordeaux. But Strombeau started here. And, as you see by the note he gave you, he still takes an interest in what we do. And occasionally, every year or so, he sends us someone, someone like you.”

  “How?” Thomas’s hands are off the table edge. They’re clasped in his lap. His body is leaning back trying to grasp what Collier is saying.

  “How does Strombeau do it?”

  “No, how does this affect me?”

  “Do you know what flies are?”

  Thomas shakes his head. He doesn’t want to say small flying bugs. He wishes now he hadn’t said his name was Tyrell or that he was nineteen. His heart is knocking against his chest. His hands and armpits are all wet. Why didn’t he just say that he’s Thomas Pichon, barely past fifteen? His face feels so very flushed. It comes to him that it’s maybe not too late. He should set the record straight with this pale-faced man. He wants to have the success of Strombeau. Prosperity, a puffy waistline, people to know his name.

  “I … my … I’m not really Tyrell and I’m not really nineteen.”

  “In a moment.” Collier holds up a hand to stop Thomas before he can say more. “We’ll get to all that. First, let me tell you what you would have to do as one of our flies.”

  —

  It is late afternoon when T
homas gets back to the attic room. He heard church bells tolling somewhere in the distance as he was approaching the building. He wasn’t sure if it was for nones or vespers, and didn’t care. It is late and he is tired. His head is spinning with all he’s heard from Collier. There’s no obligation, said Collier at the end, no compulsion. It’s merely an opportunity, an opportunity for Thomas and for the kingdom too. Yes, Thomas could see all that clearly enough while they were speaking face to face and he had said as much. Yet after the shake of hands and with Thomas retracing a weaving path through the warren of streets back to the building with his attic room on Saint-Thomas-du-Louvre, he began to have second thoughts. Is this why he left Vire? Is this really what he is destined for, what he wants to do in Paris after all it took to get him here? The answer might be no. There is a choice here. He doesn’t have to do what Collier suggests. Still, there is the matter of an opportunity, an opportunity he might not get again. Should he not take something certain, something that will pay him a not half bad sum, until something better comes along? The answer to the question put that way is yes. Of course the bird in the hand is worth more than two in the bush. His father liked to say that. He also said he never looked the other way when an opportunity – a pretty term for a customer – walked into the shop. “A sale has to be made when one can be made, because it may be a while before there’s another.” Funny how his father’s words come back to him. He thought he’d left the man and his advice behind.

  Too fatigued to think about it anymore, Thomas empties his bladder in the chamber pot. He notices that there has not been any additional contributions since he left hours before. Hélène must have been out all day. He goes to the pailleasse and tumbles down. He grabs at the blanket and pulls it up over him as his cover.

  Hélène, he thinks, but where’s Hélène?

  He gets up on one elbow and looks around the room. No sign of her or, what is stranger, her things. He recalls that she had a sack that contained all her clothes. He stands to take a better look. He scans under the table and moves the few chairs. Nothing. Over to the rickety standing cupboard. Again not a thing. There’s no sign Hélène was ever in this room.

  “Where’s she gone?” Thomas asks the table and its chairs. If she were just out – getting something to eat or looking for work or something else, would she have taken her sack? Maybe. After all the talk he heard from Collier about foists, nips, whip-jacks, cutthroats and footpads, Hélène may have been wise to take her things with her, just so she could be sure her stuff was safe. But then again, could she not have been attacked? Is she lying in an alley somewhere?

  Thomas sucks in a deep breath. Hélène, where are you? The eyes narrow. There comes a different thought. Much as they have enjoyed their few days together, the kiss and touch and the slap of belly on belly, how much does he really know about his Hélène? She’s pretty and fun loving, but what else can he say? That she used to do what she does with Thomas with other paying men at her aunt and uncle’s inn. Could she have so despaired of this disappointing attic room – he knows she didn’t like it, she made that clear – that she’s gone off on her own to find some better space?

  Thomas stands and finds his key. He will lock the door and head out onto the streets. He has to find Hélène before something happens to her.

  IV

  Positions

  Paris

  December 1719

  It’s long since dark when Thomas leaves the building. The man he and everyone else calls Rooster, the red-haired office clerk who rents one of the other attic spaces in the building, stopped him on the stairs and asked him where he was going. Thomas was evasive. “Stretch my legs. Back in a bit.”

  It was true enough, just not the whole truth. The last thing Thomas wanted was for Rooster to tag along. It is one thing to spend a few minutes chatting with the man on the stairs of the building or even occasionally going inside his room. It would be quite another for Rooster to come along to meet the group Thomas regards as his true friends. Well, true acquaintances, because Thomas is not quite sure what it is that distinguishes a friend from an acquaintance. Some people are smarter and better looking than others; some have more money and talent; and some are more or less useful depending on the situation. All that is clear enough. But what should he call the fellows he’s hurrying to meet? Like-minded acquaintances, though that’s too long a name, is it not? Good sources. True, but that sounds like he’s using them. Which maybe he is, but he likes them too so that has to count for something. Besides, it’s not entirely correct to suggest any kind of exploitation. Some of his friends, or acquaintances, would be flattered if they knew that Thomas sometimes repeats one of their stories, maybe even two. He often has to embellish their tales, to be sure, but he does give attribution where attribution is due. So he doesn’t think it’s wrong to bandy about their names when the occasion arises. They should likely thank him for that. Give them a bit of a reputation among those who care. How rare it is, they would have to admit, that something they said turned out to be of consequence to anyone but themselves. But since Thomas’s friends don’t know a thing about his life as a fly and the tales that he passes on to Collier, his contact in the police, it’s best to keep it that way.

  Thomas could see from Rooster’s eyes – real name Pierre Charpentier, but no one uses that name because the nickname fits so much better, what with the reddish hair and the way his upper body jerks when he walks – he could see from Rooster’s eyes that he suspected Thomas was not just stretching his legs but heading out to meet someone. Yet he didn’t say so nor did he did press to come along. All Rooster said was: “Maybe I’ll see you later then, my friend.”

  “All right,” said Thomas with the smile he uses when he knows there isn’t the slightest chance of his doing whatever the asker has asked.

  Out front of the building, having shed Rooster and believing he has also evaded the eyes and ears of the concierge, whom he calls La Sentinelle, Thomas quick-steps from the entrance. He does not slow until he knows he’s safely away, out on the rue du Louvre. He’s relieved that there is not a soul close by. The dark months are upon Paris and there’s a special chill in the air. The latest cold snap is keeping people off the streets unless they absolutely need to be out, which is how Thomas feels about his own outing. He has his needs, three in fact this evening. First, there will be the enjoyment of his circle of friends. Second, he must come up with a report of some sort for Collier. And third, best for last as the saying goes, he will satisfy his soldier. Since Hélène left him that first day in Paris four years ago, without so much as a trace, he has had to find his body’s pleasure with someone else, someone in the plural and as often as he can afford. It’s a secret he keeps to himself, which only adds to the satisfaction he feels.

  He turns one corner then another, hurrying on, hoping to make the first rendezvous with time to spare. That way, the second meeting and especially the third will unfold as they should, the third at a sweet pleasured pace. Thomas wonders what might come up this evening with his writer friends. Of course, there will be the usual complaints and ambitions. There always are. It’s a sacrament to be observed, about how unappreciated they are. In Thomas’s case, the litany of gripes is fodder to be chewed on and noted for later recall to Collier’s ears.

  There is also the matter of the Mississippi Company. Thomas wants to talk to the group about it. By all reports, no joke, everyone is getting rich, or will be soon enough. Too good to be true, yet so it is. That’s why the company headquarters on the rue Quincampoix now has soldiers guarding it, to hold off the frenzied would-be investors. The shares have taken off and there’s no limit to how high they’ll go. From five hundred livres a share they’ve gone to ten thousand. That’s what Thomas is hearing. A genius, that canny Scot John Law, everyone is saying so. Thomas wants to be a part of it and will say so this night. Some instant wealth would give him rank and position right away. How much better than waiting years and
years. Yet Thomas wants to know first, before he sinks in his teeth, his hard-earned money, what the others think, these grumbling scriveners he meets with at Le Procope. Are they in already? Would they be willing to go in with him and buy some shares together? They could all begin to live lives they’ve only dreamed of, instead of watching others do so from the downcast sides.

  With the river twenty paces ahead, Thomas puts his imaginary future wealth out of mind. He has to have his wits about him going over the bridge. He has chosen the Pont Neuf because it’s the only one that does not have buildings on it. That gives good visibility in all directions, especially at night after the daytime spectacle has come and gone. Gone are the pedlars and jugglers and charlatans and booksellers, and the hundreds of gawkers and buyers and the pickpockets too. Nonetheless, there are always dangerous types lurking about and more in the dark than in the light. Once Thomas gets to the other side, over to the left bank and on to rue Dauphine, he’ll be back in an area with street lamps and feel better. A father’s warnings and a mother’s worries come back to him. How often they warned him back in sleepy Vire about the darkness and its perils. How much greater the dangers are in this city than in Vire. Fingerers and rogues, cozeners and lunatics, they’re all about. Thomas sees them in the streets day and night and has so far been spared their impact. But he hears tales of the criminals’ wrongdoing every day. That Paris has lamps is good, yet it is no cure-all, he knows that. The large lanterns, once lowered and lit and hoisted back up by the ropes, don’t give off so much light as one would hope. Paris at night is a city of lights, but those lights are dim, a mere smoky glow. And the large candles don’t last much past midnight. So if Thomas is out really late, there’ll be no glow at all. After four years of living in the city, he knows the nighttime is to be feared. Anything is possible, oh mother of surprise.

  Thomas pauses midway on the Pont Neuf. He stands beside where the statue of the equestrian king, Henri IV, rides his horse of bronze. He takes a deep breath. Were it still daylight, there’d be beggars round about, huddled near the long-dead king, hoping for the chicken Henri promised for each of their pots. By day, those beggars use outstretched arms or religious appeals, and sometimes a threat of damnation, to win a coin or two. By night, they need no such ruse. In the darkness, they simply take what they want. The parapet railing on the bridge is low all the way across, so Thomas does not get too close to the edge. One push and he’d be over. It was only a few days ago that some poor soul, drunk perhaps or more likely shoved, fell off. No one knew until the next morning, when someone spotted the body in the water down below. Of course, every day someone’s found dead somewhere in Paris, usually in an alley, of one unnatural cause or another. If the city were to mourn them all, the citizens would be swimming in tears.