Thomas, A Secret Life

by A. J. B. Johnston

  “But your parents, they still need your help.”

  “So what can I do?”

  “Well, you’re a lawyer and it’s the law that’s got them…”

  “I’m not, Jean-Chrys. I’m not. I work as a copyist in a law office. Though maybe I could…”

  Just then, Thomas glances over Jean-Chrys’s left shoulder. He sees that Le Grand Thomas is all packed up and his watchers are heading home. The fortune tellers and ointment sellers have already folded their tables and the jugglers are gone as well. Thomas turns his face to the sky. It’s gone close to dark. The only light is from the overhanging lamps now lit. He’s supposed to be at the bookseller Jean Gallatin’s by now.

  “What time is it?” Thomas almost shouts.

  “I … I don’t know.” Jean-Chrys is startled by the question and the volume at which it’s hurled at him.

  “Have to go.” Thomas fears he’ll be late for the very reason he’s come across the river and over to its left side. “I have somewhere … something … I have to do.”

  “But …” tries Jean-Chrys.

  Thomas holds up. “I must.”

  “Your parents,” cries out Jean-Chrys as Thomas widens the gap between them.

  Thomas’s momentum does slow. “Where are you staying?” he shouts. “I’ll come by later this evening. We can talk some more.”

  “Rue des Aveugles. Right across from the church. Third floor.”

  Thomas repeats the address twice as he begins to run. Rue des Aveugles. It should be easy to recall. Then it’s back to business. Thomas has to have his wits about him for the conversation at Gallatin’s bookshop. Collier wants something, and what Collier wants is for Thomas to provide.

  —

  It has descended to near black. The flickering glow from the streetlamp near the small bookstore is just enough for Thomas to see that the possibility of satisfying Collier is still there. Thirty paces ahead he makes out the lean frame of Jean Gallatin standing outside his shop. He is putting on the padlock.

  “Jean!” The name comes out garbled. Thomas is breathless from having run for three blocks. He didn’t think he’d make it. With his destination in sight, he starts to slow down. “Jean. Jean Gallatin.”

  “Pichon? Thomas? Is that you?”

  “It is.” Thomas comes to a full stop beside the bookseller. He folds over to allow his lungs to catch up. He hears Gallatin laugh, a snicker of sorts.

  “Who could have guessed? The quiet Pichon, the observant one, inclined to run like a … like a thief, I suppose.”

  “You’re right.” Thomas is gradually regaining his breath. The words come between gulps of air. “I’m not. Just. Had to. See you. Before you closed.”

  “Too late for that, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh no, I want to buy a book.”

  “So badly that you ran? Must be some book.” Gallatin digs in his pocket to grab hold of his key.

  “Ovid,” says Thomas with a satisfied expression. His self-satisfied smile suggests that the mere mention of that particular author is answer enough.

  Gallatin’s eyes go wide. He shakes his head and looks dubious. “Ovid? The Roman poet?”

  “Yes.”

  “The erotic verses?”

  “No, the Metamorphoses. I used to have a copy but it was stolen. A gift from a friend, it was. I’d like to get another so I could give it back. He’s from my hometown but in Paris this week. I just saw him this evening. I could give it back.”

  “If it was a gift, why then are you giving it back?”

  “That’s right.” Thomas’s expression deflates. “I thought I’d return the favour, that’s all.”

  Jean Gallatin shakes his head. “To give your friend back the same book that he gave you?”

  Gallatin makes a show that he has changed his mind. He’s putting the key to the padlock back into his pocket. He will not re-open the shop after all. “Come on, Thomas, you have to do better than that. I have somewhere else to go.”

  “I’ll take the other book then. The erotic verses.” The words jump from Thomas’s mouth. He doesn’t want to show panic, but he has to report back to Collier tomorrow on a conversation with Gallatin that he is yet to have.

  Gallatin starts to walk away then comes back to make his point. “Look, you’ve never before come to my store. Not once. Yet tonight you run here as I’m closing to purchase Ovid. Who has been dead, I don’t know, maybe seventeen hundred years. And if it’s not one book you want then it’s another. I’m not opening up the shop for some bizarre little joke.”

  Thomas is lost for words. He’s embarrassed by the idiocy of his poorly thought out pretence.

  “What’s the real reason you’re here?” Gallatin gives Thomas a searching look. His dark eyes and arched brows pinch even more than usual. Thomas opens his mouth to explain, but before he can say a word Jean Gallatin jumps back in. “Someone told you, didn’t they?” He waves a finger accusingly.

  Thomas hasn’t a clue what Gallatin is referring to but he’s more than willing to play along. It might be a way out of his stupid Ovid request and into further conversation. He smiles coyly. “I’m not supposed to say.”

  “La Coste. It was La Coste, wasn’t it?” Gallatin runs a hand over his eyebrows. “La Coste or Tinville, it doesn’t matter. Neither could keep a secret if his life depended on it.”

  Thomas shrugs. If the bookseller wants to blame La Coste or Tinville, why should he argue with that? Means to an end, he thinks, means to an end.

  “All right,” says Jean Gallatin, out-shrugging Thomas, “you can come along. You didn’t need to pretend you were looking for Ovid.” He studies Thomas’s reaction. “That is why you’re here, right? To see for yourself?”

  “I was hoping.” Thomas tries not to wrinkle his brow. He has not the slightest inkling what it is that Gallatin is talking about. When the bookseller says “see for yourself” and “come along,” what is he referring to? Are they going somewhere?

  “One thing, Thomas.” Gallatin holds his index finger skyward. “You have to do what I say. Follow my lead. Understood?”

  “Understood.” Yes, but no.

  Gallatin nods. A twist of the shoulders and a roll of the head tells Thomas they are to get going. The bookseller wheels and sets off down the street. Thomas hurries to keep up and walk alongside. Literally and figuratively in the dark, Thomas is nonetheless pleased. He might still get what he wants, additional information out of Gallatin for Collier. Nighttime is indeed the mother of surprises and this time, for once, for something good.

  —

  The conversation is limited. How cold it’s been, how much wood each has to burn and what it costs. Thomas waits five minutes before attempting to steer things toward a way that might bear more fruit.

  “So, Jean, what do you think now of the Mississippi Company and John Law?”

  Gallatin blows air out his lips then mutters: “Made Controller General, can you believe it?”

  Thomas waits half a block then tries again. Not knowing where they’re going or what will happen there and then, he realizes that he’d better get to the subject of Collier’s interest before it’s too late. “That night at the Procope, a while ago, did you mean what you said about the Duc d’Orléans?”

  “And what was that?” Gallatin’s voice is as ordinary as it can be.

  “About him being no better than a fool.”

  “Do you really have to ask?”

  On they go, another block; Thomas ventures once again.

  “I’ve been thinking, Jean. The English have a superior system of government, don’t you think? Their checkered monarchy, I mean.”

  Gallatin puts a hand on Thomas’s shoulder. He brings the two of them to a halt.

  “What’s with you? We’re out for a bit of fun and you’re r
unning the inquisition. If you want to talk politics and government, wait till later. After we’re done. I’ve most of a bottle of wine back in my rooms. All right? Now, that’s it. No more talk. We’re coming up to the alley just ahead.”

  “Right.” Thomas nods acquiescence. He’ll be able to get back to what Collier wants in a little while. The alley is just ahead. What alley is that? And why would Gallatin take him to an alley?

  “It’s checked. The English government. You said ‘checkered.’ That doesn’t make sense. Checkers is a game, nothing to do with government. Checked means it’s balanced or restricted.”

  “I see.”

  Gallatin keys an imaginary lock on his lips in pantomime. Thomas does the same. It feels like a game, whatever it is they are about to do. Together, they enter the alley, which is complete blackness compared to the dimly lantern-lit street.

  From what Thomas knows of this part of Paris on the left bank, he guesses that the alley might twist and turn all the way through the block over to rue Mazarine. That is, if it goes that far. It could just as easily and maybe more likely be a cul-de-sac. Why are they going into a cul-de-sac?

  Thomas feels his body temperature rising as he goes. He doesn’t enter alleys for a reason. The streets of Paris are dangerous enough; the alleys are worse, worlds unto themselves. They’re unlit, dark even at midday, and this one is like going down into a mine at night. Anything could be lurking in here. If Thomas had known Gallatin was taking him into an alley on this walk, he might have declined. Then he remembers why he’s here. He has to satisfy Collier’s curiosity and keep earning extra coins. Thomas tries to take a deep breath. It does not want to come.

  Not three steps into the alley the smell becomes strong, very strong. Urine, shit and rot. Whether it comes from men or animals Thomas cannot say. Nor does it matter. He steals a shallow breath and blows out the vapour in tiny puffs as he goes on.

  There are puddles where they step. How is that? It hasn’t rained all day yet there is standing water here and there. Or are they pools of piss? Thomas recalls a cave he was once in as a boy and all the blood and guts. His heart begins to thump so he tries to relax by making a little joke. The voice that comes out is nearly as high-pitched as a girl’s.

  “No minotaur at least.”

  Gallatin grabs Thomas’s arm and gives it a pinch. With the other hand the bookseller places a single finger in front of pursed lips.

  “Forgot,” Thomas whispers back.

  Jean Gallatin mimes the act of cutting a throat.

  A dozen carefully raised and lowered paces into the darkness, that’s when there comes a noise. It sounds to Thomas like a whir, maybe a bird in flight. No, that’s not right. It’s more likely a pack of rats. Yes, there goes a rat. The long tail trailing behind the large thick body that climbs up and over what remains of a broken-up wooden crate. The two men jump back.

  “All right,” Jean Gallatin whispers. He gestures that it’s safe to continue on.

  Thomas glances back to see how far they’ve come, wondering about a retreat. He vowed long ago to never go anywhere without the possibility of an out. Gallatin notices the regard. With a waving hand and a shake of his head he warns off Thomas of any thought of turning back. Thomas tries to exhale his worried breath.

  The two young men creep forward into the darkness. They advance like they are boys again, testing a winter river’s first ice. From who knows where, Thomas hears two lines in his head.

  Something here, something to fear.

  Eye can’t see and ear can’t hear.

  He turns to Gallatin. His gaze asks the bookseller if he too hears the verse. Apparently not. Gallatin stares uncomprehendingly back. Thomas treads on. This is the first time in five years, not since he moved away from Vire and the childhood he had there, that verses unbidden have come Thomas’s way. There comes one more.

  Bravura, brave boy

  Thomas recognizes that one. He’d heard it in the subterrane on the outskirts of Vire. It makes him shudder. What’s going on? Are darkness and fear the missing muse? Must he put himself at risk to have poetry come his way?

  Advance soft shadow

  Down the dark wind

  Deepen the twilight

  Dust of the sinned

  He opens his ears very wide. He recalls them from on high, overlooking Vire’s river outside its walls. He would dearly love to hear them again, and this time come to their natural end. Thomas stops and stands and closes his eyes.

  “Hey.” Gallatin spits the word.

  He grabs the laggard by the wrist. The bookseller is pointing at a squint of light coming from the building up ahead to the left. Thomas stumbles forward, the lines of verse jarred and scrambled. He looks skyward, into the dark. There’s nothing there. The words are gone.

  Forlorn, Thomas steps to where Jean Gallatin is jerking with his thumb. With a scowl on his face Thomas turns to see why Gallatin is so excited about this escape of slender light from the building in the alley. It looks to him like a shutter has slightly spread. It must be a broken latch or maybe a warped frame. He turns to Gallatin to ask with only the expression on his face: is this is it, is this the destination for our jaunt? He shakes his head as if to say, surely not.

  Gallatin ignores Thomas’s inquiring look. With an odd grin on his face he climbs up on an abandoned crate to put himself at the same level as the sliver of light emanating from the shuttered window. The bookseller presses one eye cautiously to the glowing chink. He seems to settle in. Thomas is drawn to see for himself. He pulls himself atop the same crate. Gallatin elbows him to wait. It is a minute, maybe more, before Gallatin steps back. He gestures Thomas to put his eyes where his have just been.

  Through the chink of the broken shutter Thomas sees into a dining room with four people at table, two men and two women. It is an evening gathering, a dinner of some sort, in a very fine home. The walls are painted a pale green with decorative pastel-coloured flowers emerging from carved wood trim along the spaced vertical lines. But he ignores what’s on the walls and takes in instead that there are cabriolet chairs along one wall and an impressive secretary in the middle of another wall with a delicate-looking clock directly above. As for the four diners, their eyes are wide, their gestures animated as they move in and out of conversation. Thomas recoils. He turns to Jean Gallatin.

  “You brought me to peep?” It’s an angry whispered complaint. Jean Gallatin’s eyes blink in surprise. He beckons Thomas to come close.

  “Aristocrats. They don’t even know we’re here. I thought La Coste told you.”

  Thomas is lost for words. The expression on his face gives him away.

  “He didn’t, did he?”

  Thomas shakes his head.

  “Then what—?” Gallatin grabs Thomas’s coat and bunches it at his throat. “We’ll talk later, you understand?” Thomas raises his eyebrows and makes big eyes. Gallatin lets go of his coat.

  The bookseller turns back to his peep while Thomas finds his face forming a gradual grin. He has to admit that peeping in on the diners at table does feel pretty good, fascinating in a taboo way. He taps Gallatin on the shoulder and asks with curling fingers only if he can have another turn.

  “Not so opposed to this pleasure after all?”

  Thomas blinks. “Guess not,” he whispers back.

  “The English,” says Gallatin in Thomas’s ear, “they call it keeking. To steal a look, to spy on private scenes one doesn’t normally see.”

  “That makes it all right? As long as we name it, as long as we give it a word then it’s all right?”

  “Correct.”

  Thomas settles in a second time at the chink of light. Left and right as far as he can see. There are a couple of good-sized tapestries on one end wall. Hunting scenes they are, with a stag taking his last breath in one and a party of high-born riders in t
he foreground of the other. On the other end wall there are three framed prints, hung side by side. Engravings of a single battle scene. That means this is a man’s house or at least a man’s favourite room. That same end of the room has a long buffet of dark wood. Toward the corner there hangs a portrait of some notable from at least a century ago. The time period is revealed, more or less, by the man’s suit of armour and that he’s sporting a now passé long curly wig. An ancestor of the host no doubt. All the trappings around the room are furnishings that only money, lots of money not good intentions, can acquire. Whoever owns this place has inherited well over several generations.

  Thomas steps back, gesturing like a gentleman to Gallatin. Gallatin waves him back, and holds up two fingers, which Thomas takes to mean two more minutes.

  He obliges the bookseller and again puts his face to the chink. This time, he focuses on the four diners. All, he notices right away, have the posture, facial expressions and gestures of those born to comfort and grace. He wonders how it is that the well-born can do things so differently from everyone else. It’s as if there is an imaginary artist in the corner giving the diners instructions on how they should lean this way and that, turn their profiles just so. Or how to hold out their hands and wrists with purpose and subtly curl their full lips. Is it learned or does it come to them from birth? Of course, it’s but an accident of birth that they are in there at table and he is out in the cold. Yet how he wishes it were the other way around.

  Thomas watches as a dark-skinned servant boy, trafficked out of Africa or the Islands, no doubt, enters the room. He looks to be not more than eight or nine, and he stumbles with the tray of opened oysters he’s labouring not to spill. The host of the dinner, or at least the man Thomas thinks is the host because he’s the oldest in the room, stands and lends a steadying hand. Then he points the servant boy over to where he is to set the tray down. The host is wearing a salmon-coloured coat. What ease he shows in retaking his seat. He is directing the proceedings from his spot at the table head. A roll of the wrist seems to bring forward another domestic. This time it’s an older man. His posture is upright stiff with an almost arched back.