Thomas feels Gallatin tug at his shoulder, but he does not yet yield his place at the broken shutter. The stiff-backed older servant is busy. He has two fresh carafes of wine, red in one hand and white in the other. Thomas imagines the man a dispossessed Polish count who has somehow lost all his family wealth in some war and now finds himself service bound. Back to the host goes Thomas’s gaze, to the ruddy-faced older man. The fellow pauses in mid-sentence and rests an elbow on the table. Everyone in the room, the diners and the servants, wait for his cue. Thomas shifts his gaze to the lady on the right. She’s turned in her chair now, facing the window. Her taffeta dress shimmers in precious hues of silver and gold. There’s a bow of muslin clinging to where the cleavage begins. Dark eyes, dark hair and pearls round her neck, with one hand just off her lips.
Thomas stiffens to recall that Hélène, judging by her dress at Le Procope, has now entered this world.
The woman at the table is now touching the fabric that rounds her waist, surreptitiously pushing up the unseen inner shields that lift up her breasts. Thomas feels in his loins a longing to be by her side.
The host is speaking again, pointing to the tapestry on the end wall. All eyes that way turn. Then the host lifts the carafe of red and stands to offer a few words. The toast completed, he tips the carafe and pours a burgundy arc into a lady’s glass and then a second arc into his own. There are splashes – it cannot be helped – but the host he does not seem to mind. The white linen tablecloth is there to absorb what misses the mark.
“Hey.” Gallatin nearly spits in Thomas’s ear.
“Sorry.” Thomas steps back. “That’s enough for me. My feet are getting cold. You stay and see how it comes out, this little play of yours.”
Gallatin adjusts the shutter so it is more closed and steps over to where Thomas has moved. “Joke all you want,” he whispers, chin sticking out. “It is a play, a play of our so-called betters. Don’t forget that if we were in there, we’d be servants at their table.”
Thomas holds up his hands, as if in protest. Gallatin continues: “For a few people to live like that, the rest of us have to suffer. That’s how it is, don’t you agree?”
Thomas supposes that might be true, but he takes exception to the thought that if he were inside this house he would be a servant. He doesn’t think that has to be true. There might be ways for him to rise. However, he is not going to argue atop a crate in the dark of an alley outside a house. If they were caught where they are, they’d be thrown in prison and it wouldn’t be easy to get out. Thomas goes to the edge of the crate and starts to climb down. This little adventure has gone on long enough. He’ll just tell Collier the truth: that a report on the bookseller Jean Gallatin will have to wait. He will not mention anything about this alley at all.
Down at ground level, Thomas starts to trudge away.
“Hey,” calls out Gallatin, “wait up. I want some answers.”
—
“So, what’s this all about?” Jean Gallatin has lit a small fire in the grate of his room. “And don’t say Ovid, all right?”
He passes his guest a brown cup whose handle is broken off. Thomas takes hold of the cup. Gallatin splashes a generous portion of red wine, filling the cup to near its brim. Thomas takes a sip. The wine is strong, not diluted with water the way it often is in the cabarets. It tastes of the earth. It’s as if there are granules of the soil in which the grape vines were grown.
“It’s good. Where’s it from?”
“Saint-Emilion. Inland from Bordeaux. Are you stalling?”
“I suppose I am.”
Thomas looks around the main room of Gallatin’s apartment. He sees and smells that the bookseller burns tallow candles: the dark yellow ones made from animal fat not wax. They give off a stink when lit. So Thomas is ahead of Gallatin in that regard. He now burns beeswax candles in his rooms.
There are a half dozen rush-seated chairs and two tables – the small one they are both sitting at and the larger one that appears to function as a desk. It’s piled high with a couple of stacks of books and a bundle of loose paper tied with a black ribbon. Along two of the walls are piles of books, more books than Thomas has ever seen before in someone’s living space. It is almost like a bookshop. The room itself is about the same size as the one Thomas lived in when he first came to Paris and stayed in for far too long. If Gallatin is still living in a place like this then Thomas is also ahead of him in that regard. Yet Thomas doesn’t see a pailleasse or any bed or mattress anywhere. So where does the bookseller sleep?
“You’re wondering about the bed?” Gallatin is smiling. He appears to be amused at Thomas’s not-so-secret survey of his room.
“None of my business, I suppose.”
“That’s right. But because you do not ask, I shall explain. Who knows, my example might even serve to inspire you to change your ways. From what I hear, you need it.”
Thomas sits up straight, his brow wrinkling. Gallatin laughs at the bewildered reaction. He rises to put another stick of split wood on the fire. Next, he goes to the chamber pot and takes off the lid and unbuttons his breeches. “You don’t mind?” he says over his shoulder, his back facing Thomas. Thomas shrugs. He barely hears the sound of Gallatin’s piss hitting the pot above the crackle and spit of the fire. But the smell of urine does waft around the room. It puts a little bite into the air. To change the scent in his nostrils Thomas sniffs the wine. He glances over at Gallatin who is now finished. The lid is back on the chamber pot and Gallatin is splashing his hands in the water in a basin. Thomas wonders if that is something the bookseller does each time after he performs his necessaries or if it’s a show just for him.
“Neither bed nor mattress,” says Gallatin, coming back to sit once more across from Thomas, “because I don’t sleep here. I live with a widow in an apartment across the hall.”
Gallatin pauses to see how Thomas reacts.
“Ah, look at that. A little smile from a man who lives alone but spends many an hour poking whores.”
The bookseller waits again, but Thomas does not say a thing, though his eyes narrow slightly.
“Let me tell you this, Pichon, she’s a good woman, she is, my Marie. And good for more than you’re thinking. Women, if you don’t know this already, they’re different.”
Thomas raises his eyebrows. He speaks at last. “I did notice that, Jean. A couple of differences I can think of. They’re built for us, for instance. To receive us. To give us pleasure.”
“No.” Gallatin waves his hand dismissively. “No, I used to think that as well. But it’s wrong. Women are not built for us. They’re built for children. That’s not the same thing. They think differently than us, Thomas, they do. And sometimes, not always but sometimes, they come up with better than we would on our own.”
Thomas leans back in his seat. He tries not to smirk. This is good, really good. Here is Jean Gallatin, cynic, skeptic, he who makes caustic pronouncements and instant dismissals when the writers gather, the man is a femme-o-phile. Thomas is not sure this is a word, yet it fits nonetheless. Here, in his rooms, Jean Gallatin is a domesticated cat whose claws are trimmed.
“And do you have children with this Marie?” Thomas strokes his chin to help keep a straight face.
“No, Marie is past it now. She bore three with her husband but they had all died when they were young. Before I met her. So no, alas. That husband fled, disappeared up north somewhere. Calais, I think.”
Thomas feels his eyes flutter. Gallatin’s widow woman is old enough to be his mother. “I see,” is all Thomas says.
Gallatin’s face registers disappointment. He turns to studying the fingernails on an outstretched hand.
“It’s important to keep yourself clean, do you know that, Thomas?” Gallatin says without looking over at his guest.
Thomas does not reply. He doesn’t know what to say.
Perhaps it’s time to go.
But Gallatin is not finished with the topic. “It is, Thomas. Hands, face, the whole body.”
“The whole body?” Thomas’s face wavers between bewilderment and amusement. He takes a sip of wine. “Everywhere?”
“Especially everywhere.” Gallatin gives Thomas a knowing look. “The arsewipes people use, they’re not enough. And instead of covering our stink with musk and ambergris and other scents, we should all be washing. Cocks and asses too. And women, they need to clean their furrow with water. Did you know that?”
Thomas is incredulous. He is thinking of the risks there are to putting one’s body in water. The chills and the risk of vapours.
“Look to the ancients, Thomas, the ancients. The Romans sat in baths for hours. Your precious Ovid too, I’m sure he bathed long and often.”
Thomas looks away. The reference to Ovid makes him livid. So stupid of him. He takes a longer sip of the wine. Sit in water and wash every part! Whatever is the bookseller talking about?
The conversation staggers along awkwardly. A polite inquiry from Thomas about Gallatin’s Marie, which leads to a long answer Thomas barely hears. Then an insincere remark by Thomas that yes, he should find himself a good woman and stay out of the stalls. Gallatin jumps on that one with warnings about how if Thomas picks up a malady the mercury treatment might make him drool and burn his thing right off. That thought makes Thomas and Gallatin both take a long drink. Thomas is the first to leave the thought of venereal diseases and their treatment behind. He finds himself again wondering about Gallatin’s widow across the hall. Just how old is she and is there anything left of her looks? He’d be curious to meet her and see for himself.
“Your Marie,” begins Thomas, not knowing exactly how to proceed, except cautiously, “she lost her children you say? How did you meet?”
“Look, you don’t care about that, so don’t pretend that you do.” Gallatin’s face is gone stern and serious. “I’ve not forgotten about your earlier deception, Thomas. You running to my shop. That had nothing to do with any book, did it?”
Thomas’s mind races to find a way through the maze he created for himself with that fake cover story. Why not take the safest path? Start with the truth, or at least a portion thereof, and see where it leads.
“You’re right, Jean. Ovid was just an excuse. I came to the shop …” he hesitates for effect, “because I wanted to see you. I wanted to hear your views on … on politics and forms of government. I’ve realized lately I’m not well informed.”
Jean Gallatin is silent, yet Thomas can see that the man’s eyes are busy trying to determine how much of what Thomas has just said he accepts. Thomas pretends to relax as he waits.
“You’ve never shown any interest in my views before. Not at all.” Gallatin raises his chin as he speaks. “Or not that much. In fact, we hardly know each other, Thomas Pichon. The only thing I can say for sure about you is that you don’t like Voltaire.”
“Voltaire! I’ve nothing against the man at all.” Thomas’s voice and hands go up in protest. “That time at Le Procope, it was all about something else. It was the girl with Voltaire, if you must know.”
“Really? The girl? She was pretty as I recall.”
Thomas shrugs.
“In any case,” says Jean Gallatin, “you and I have never been close. So why are you here tonight?”
“Exactly,” says Thomas, trying a new tack. He retrieves the cup of wine and this time he does take a sip. He likes the musky swirl in his mouth and then the warm line of descent it makes as it trickles down his throat. “It’s time to change that. You sometimes say interesting things, you do. About events and people. About the regent, for instance. And other things I don’t know. I’d like to hear more. If you would.” Thomas delays then adds in a softer voice, like he has the remains of a sweet pastry in his mouth: “Like what you think of the regent and the council, for example?”
Gallatin gives Thomas a long look over the top of his cup of wine, which is cradled in both hands in front of his mouth. The intensity of his stare forces Thomas to glance away.
“Sounds false.” Gallatin puts down his cup on the tabletop with a bang, spilling a few drops. “Made up. Puffery.”
“It’s not rehearsed, if that’s what you mean. I can tell you that,” says Thomas in complete honesty.
“You know what, Pichon, you’re trying to butter me like a piece of bread.” Gallatin snorts the air. “If I didn’t know better, and I don’t say this lightly, if I didn’t know better I’d say you were one of the Marquis d’Argenson’s flies.”
Thomas’s eyes go wide then dart away. His mouth opens yet no words come. He makes no reply.
“Thomas?” presses Gallatin, leaning forward. The eyes wait for an answer, some form of denial. Thomas shifts in his seat. “Thomas? Look at me, will you?” Thomas comes close to eye contact but cannot quite do what Gallatin commands. “Oh my God, you’re not! Don’t tell me that.” Gallatin claps a hand across his mouth and nose.
Thomas’s head is spinning, everything awhirl. He wants to come back with a denial, he wants to say oh no, it’s just a joke. I was just teasing, that’s all. But Thomas cannot find any such words to send past his lips. Instead, he feels a gush of air issue from his mouth. He’s suddenly chilled, and it’s a chill that spreads. There’s a knot in the back of his neck.
Gallatin’s hands spread wide on the tabletop as he waits. The opened-up hands want a reply. The only sound is the crackle from the fire. The taste of twin silences is bitter and dry.
Thomas licks his lips. He switches from one gaze to nowhere to another stare to another nowhere somewhere else. His left hand rises as if it might scratch the side of his head, but then Thomas notices it and wills the errant hand back down.
“Thomas?”
Thomas tries to meet the speaker’s gaze but he cannot. He continues to make silence his only reply.
Gallatin leans back in his chair, his right hand scratching his chin. Thomas knows he is being studied, but there is nothing he can do. His eyes choose to focus nowhere. He hears the bookseller take a shallow breath.
“Oh my, oh my, Thomas. Thomas, Thomas, Thomas.”
“I know.” Thomas looks up at Gallatin, with a hint of watery eyes.
“For how long?”
“Does it matter?”
“Suppose not.”
The admission on the table and confirmed, the two men sit in silence. They communicate with furtive glances and equally furtive sips of wine. In both cases the taste in the mouth is not what it was only a moment ago. It’s gone sour and flat. The wine has turned to vinegar in the last minute or two.
Thomas brings both elbows to rest on the table. He starts to put his hands up to cover the front of his troubled face. But he resists the urge and sends the cowardly hands back down where they belong, flat on the table. He thinks it important that Gallatin sees his face just as it is. More than that, he wants to know what the bookseller thinks of what he has just found out.
“Is it wrong? I mean, have I really done anything so very wrong?”
“Only you know that.” Gallatin’s face is glum, resigned.
Abruptly, Gallatin stands. Thomas flinches yet Jean Gallatin is not making a move at him. Instead, the bookseller leaves the table and goes across the room to pick up a piece of wood, which he tosses on the fire. There is a burst of sudden sparks. Gallatin returns to the table and retakes his seat.
Thomas does not look his way. He is going over what the bookseller just said: “Only you know that.” Is Gallatin saying that God and a king’s justice do not count? That everlasting hell and the punishments of the body it will bring are of no consequence? That Thomas should not be troubled by what he has done, the insignificant confidences he might have betrayed? Does that not mean that Thomas is his own judge, the one and only who mat
ters? His head is swirling. Why does he not just stand and run? He could make good an escape and never see the bookseller or any of the others ever again. Paris is a big city. Or he could leave Paris and start again somewhere else. There are other lands than France.
“Gone sour hasn’t it?” asks Gallatin. He holds up his cup.
Thomas makes eye contact. He nods that yes, the taste of the wine has gone bad.
“Want something different?”
“Sure,” says Thomas, astonished that Gallatin is still playing the host.
The bookseller is up and away, out of the room. This is the perfect time for Thomas to bolt. He sees that right away. Yet he stays where he is, nailed to his chair. A face comes back to him. The visage of a man running after the diligence leaving Vire. The face is red, cheeks huffing out and sucking in. The wheels make a grinding sound, churning crushed stones, as they roll away.
“You all right?” Gallatin has returned. He is startled by how pale Thomas looks.
“Yes.”
“This should be better. From the Rhône valley.” Gallatin is holding a bottle and two fresh cups.
A bit of colour comes back into Thomas’s cheeks. Gallatin pulls a small knife out of his pocket and cuts through the wax covering, then removes the cork. He pours two long splashes, the first for his guest and the other in his own cup. He picks up his and extends his arm forward. He waits for Thomas to clink cups with him, which Thomas does.
“To your health.”
“And to yours.” Thomas cannot remove the puzzled expression blanketing his face.
Gallatin smiles smugly.
Rolling a gulp of wine round his mouth and across his tongue, Thomas wonders if he’s just been duped. Did Gallatin make a show of opening the bottle in front of him because he had already put poison in it? Perhaps after they clinked their cups Gallatin only pretended to sip. Maybe he spit back in his cup the small amount that he took? No, Thomas thinks that’s unlikely. An overactive imagination. He swallows the wine he has held too long in his mouth.
Thomas, A Secret Life Page 22