by Dan Rhodes
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I will give up. I promise.’ She had said that before, and had thought she had meant it, but for the first time she knew she really meant it, that she wasn’t just fooling herself.
—And are you littering?
‘No!’ When she was fifteen her dad had found out she was smoking, and she had told him, with all the petulance she had inside her, that she wasn’t going to stop. He had made her promise, though, that she wouldn’t ever throw litter on the ground. He told her that littering was the scummiest thing about smokers. What they did to their health was up to them, but he hated the mess they made. Since that day, Aurélie hadn’t dropped a single match or cigarette butt on the ground. She still let her ash fall, though. She didn’t count that as littering, and told herself it was good for plants.
She felt good to be able to tell him the truth about this. It was something he felt so strongly about that she would sooner tell him that she had been shooting babies than dropping her cigarette butts on to the pavement.
They said goodbye, and Aurélie picked up her sketchpad. She was going to be a good girl for the rest of the day. A model daughter. A minute later she put her sketchpad down, and reached for a cigarette. She lit it. Then, remembering her dad’s words, she stubbed it out in the ashtray, vowing never to smoke again. Then she picked it out of the ashtray, and lit it again. Today was not the day.
XXXV
Sylvie Dupont drove back into the city, with Toshiro Akiyama by her side. Neither of them spoke, but neither felt the need to speak. She had managed to convince her Wednesday boss that it would be a great idea for him to lend her a 2CV for the morning, so she could take Monsieur and Madame Akiyama to the airport. It had done a good job; it had started at the first try, there weren’t too many ominous rattles, and they had made it to their destination with time to spare before the flight. The only problem had been the lack of luggage space, which meant that her passengers had been buried under piles of bags. None of them seemed to mind, though. Even Monsieur Akiyama had been sanguine about the situation. Lucien had taught Sylvie the Japanese for senior position and large corporation, and he hadn’t used the words once. Instead he had just sat there quite serenely, a heavy case squashing him into the back seat.
Without its passengers and their baggage it looked as though the car was going to get the two of them back to the city without any drama, too. At red lights she and Toshiro looked at one another, and held hands, relying on the honking horns of other drivers to let them know when it was time for them to move on.
That morning, Madame Akiyama had been impatient to get back to Funabashi and tell Akiko all about Toshiro’s new romance, and she had used the journey and check-in queue as an opportunity to take as many photos of the couple as she could, for inclusion in her forthcoming illustrated lecture on the subject. She was determined to make the most of what little remained of her time in France, and she used all the phrases she had learned over the preceding week, no matter how irrelevant they were to the situation. Two tickets, please, she said to nobody in particular, or Please excuse my husband, he speaks no French. She planned to become fluent as quickly as possible, and she was going to start taking lessons as soon as they got back. Through Lucien, she had already explained that she and her husband planned to be regular visitors to the city, now that Toshiro was going to be settling there.
It was Madame Akiyama who had spotted the picture of Aurélie and Herbert on the front page of the newspaper. She had been so excited that she had bought a copy straight away, and when she opened it and saw the picture of Aurélie and Sylvie on the steps of Life, she was so ecstatic that she bought five more copies to distribute among friends and family. While Madame Akiyama was queuing, Sylvie had called Aurélie and left a message to let her know she had suddenly become a media star. And while she had her phone in her hand, she had sent a quick text to Lucien, saying hello and asking how he was doing.
She would never receive a reply.
When the time had come to say goodbye, she had embraced Monsieur and Madame Akiyama with all her strength, and she had vainly fought tears as she watched them vanish behind the security doors. She was really going to miss them, but she consoled herself with the thought that they would be meeting again before too long. In a couple of days she would be ringing around all her bosses, arranging time off for her visit to Japan. She already knew which bosses would be OK about it, and which would cause trouble, but the difficult ones could get stuffed. She would just leave. She wasn’t going to let anyone come between her and her trip to Toshiro’s homeland.
They drove up the steep and narrow west end of rue Norvins, and this time the clutch held out. She dropped the car off with her boss, and took Toshiro’s arm as they walked down the hill and through the streets to her apartment. He always glided quite naturally to the kerb side of the pavement, and she appreciated that. Quite a few of her suitors had been dropped after taking a lackadaisical approach to positioning as they walked along the street. One of the last things her mother had said to her was: Sylvie, never give yourself to a man who walks on the inside of the pavement. It’s a signifier: if he won’t even offer you this small act of consideration, how will he treat you in other aspects of your life? She hadn’t really known what she was talking about at the time, but she had remembered these words and come to regard this as important advice; she always looked with pity at women whose men wouldn’t follow this simple code. She didn’t feel a sense of relief with Toshiro, though; she had known from the moment she had seen his photograph that he was the kind of man who would walk on the outside.
On Tuesdays she normally worked a late shift on the door of a drag cabaret show, but she had arranged for one of her colleagues to take her place. This was to be her first full day off in months, and she was going to spend it in the best way imaginable.
Toshiro had not been to her apartment before, but she chose to leave the full guided tour of its three tiny rooms until later. When the door closed behind them, they stood and looked at one another. They were alone together for the first time. She unbuttoned his shirt, and he pulled the poppers on her dress, and everything was as wonderful as they had known it would be.
XXXVI
Aurélie spent a quiet evening in with the Papavoines. They took turns amusing Herbert, all of them trying hard not to think about how they would be saying goodbye to him forever the next day.
While Liliane was in the shower and Professor Papa-voine was busy sending the baby crawling after a ball with a bell in it that had been a favourite toy of a long-deceased cat of theirs, Aurélie sent a message to her boyfriend, via his doctor, in which she told him that she wouldn’t be going back to the venue until the very end of the run, and that she wasn’t going to be sending him regular texts or expecting messages from him. She told him she was going to be busy for the coming weeks, that she had a major project to absorb her. He, of all people, would understand this.
She didn’t want him to worry that she wouldn’t be there for him at the end, and she would be in touch from time to time, just to let him know she was thinking of him. She didn’t want to bother his doctor too much, either. She was sure she had better things to do with her time than secretly pass on romantic notes while pretending to attend to a very slightly sprained knee.
She insisted on making mashed potato for dinner, and was pleased with the rapturous reception it received. Even Herbert shovelled his down quite joyfully and banged his spoon for seconds. After dinner, as Herbert began to flag, so did she. She decided on an early night. She had to be up first thing in the morning, to go back to her apartment to collect some of Herbert’s clothes that she had left hanging up to dry, before returning to the scene of the crime. As long as she was in the square by nine twenty-two, everything would be fine.
She had already set her alarm for six. The Papavoines offered to get up with her and make her breakfast, but she insisted they had done enough and should stay in bed. She knew her way around the kitchen well enough. It was time t
o say goodbye.
She told them she didn’t know how to thank them, and the four of them came together in a group hug. Apart from Herbert, who blew a long, clear raspberry, nobody quite knew what to say.
As soon as Herbert was in his freshly laundered Eiffel Tower and Mona Lisa pyjamas (the blood had washed out, but she hadn’t patched the bullet hole in the shoulder) his eyes, which had been barely open, pinged wide awake. He gave Aurélie a big smile. He was ready for fun.
Aurélie read to him from the pile of picture books that Liliane had put by her bedside, and sang ‘Hier Encore’ a few times, and cuddled him and tried her best to soothe him. Whenever his eyes seemed to glaze over, she tried putting him to bed, but he thrashed and wailed and would not put up with it. It was past midnight by the time he finally flaked out. Aurélie gently picked him up and lowered him into his cot. The instant he touched the mattress he woke up, and was immediately furious.
She calmed him down by showing him his photograph on the front page of the newspaper. He was mesmerised. When his attention began to wander, she found the horoscopes. ‘This is how we’ll find out what you’ve done today, Herbert,’ she said. She read his out to him. ‘Aquarius: Money has been on your mind a lot lately. A big decision will soon be made, and you will feel a great sense of relief. A stranger in yellow brings good luck.’ Aurélie thought back through the day. She was fairly sure there had been no stranger in yellow. It was a shame. They could both have done with some good luck.
An hour later Herbert fell asleep on the bed again, and this time she left him there, and lay beside him. Her mind was busy turning over everything that had been going on, and for all her exhaustion it would not switch off. When it finally did, her sleep was fitful, and punctuated by unpleasant dreams. At one point she woke to feel her heart racing, and she was gripped with a fear that Herbert was no longer there. It was a while before her eyes adjusted to the dark and she could see him by her side, sleeping peacefully. The adrenaline kept her awake for a long time afterwards.
The next time she woke up she checked the clock on her phone. Her alarm was going to be going off in twenty minutes, and then she was going to have to go halfway across the city to give Herbert back.
She didn’t want to give him back.
She watched him in the dark, this beautiful, strange and innocent creature she had grown to love. She thought of his mother, who hadn’t even kissed him goodbye. What kind of life would he have with her?
MERCEDI
XXXVII
Aurélie Renard checked the time. She had got there twenty minutes early. She sat on the bench adjacent to The Russian’s. He was playing his Russian instrument in his usual spot, and the music they were making together was so melancholy that it cut right through her. It was the perfect soundtrack for her state of mind. Herbert had fallen asleep in his buggy, so she wasn’t even able to bond with him in these last precious moments they had together. All she could do was look at him as the music crashed over her. It was heartbreaking.
She was dreading the arrival of his mother. She hoped she would have calmed down over the preceding week, and would be pleased to see her son safe and well, and would scoop him up and kiss him and cuddle him. She needed to be reassured that she wasn’t handing him over to a horrible person, that he would be growing up with someone who would give him all the love he deserved.
She and Herbert had taken the Métro from the Papavoines’ to her apartment. The place was just as she had left it, only colder and with a bit of a musty smell. She found everything of his that she had left behind, and stuffed it all in his bag. Sitting on the bedside table was the copy of Your Baby & You. She hadn’t even opened it. She would read it when she got back, to find out what she should have been doing all this time.
She was about to leave when she thought of something. The gun was still in a drawer, hiding under some clothes. She found it, and held it. It felt so much heavier than before, as if weighed down by its unhappy history. She found a tea towel and rubbed it, wiping off her fingerprints, as she had seen criminals do in films. Then she wrapped it up and put it in her bag. She would track Sylvie down later on and hand it back with thanks, and tell her she never wanted to see it again.
As she left her apartment, she came face-to-face with Madame Peypouquet.
‘Hello, Madame Peypouquet,’ she said.
She looked at Herbert. ‘That thing’s been quiet these last few days,’ she said.
‘I found a volume switch,’ said Aurélie. ‘I think I’ll lose points for turning it down, but it doesn’t matter. I know I’m not ready for a real one. Not yet, anyway. As a matter of fact I can’t stop because I’m off right now to get him plugged into the computer. They’ll take all the information from the microchip and give me a mark out of ten for my mothering skills.’
‘Let me know what you score. I’m not going to wish you luck, because you know my thoughts on the matter. Oh, and by the way, did you see yourself in the newspaper yesterday? Monsieur Simoneaux came up here in his pyjamas and slippers to show me. They thought the baby was real!’ Madame Peypouquet smiled, revealing more gums than teeth, and the few teeth there were stuck out at extraordinary angles, like abandoned gravestones. ‘If only they knew!’
Aurélie returned her smile, and backed away. ‘I must be going, Madame Peypouquet,’ she said.
‘And you’re doing it with that naked man behind the handsome boy’s back? Or is it the other way round? Either way, I like your style,’ she said. ‘I always thought you were too prim for your own good, but you’ve proved me wrong. And good for you – if you can’t have fun while you’re young, when can you?’
Still gliding backwards, Aurélie nodded. She would explain the situation, or at least some of the situation, to Madame Peypouquet when she had more time.
As she made her way downstairs, Madame Peypouquet’s voice reverberated around the building. ‘I can’t say I blame you – he’s got a good body. You know, you remind me of me when I was your age. I was just like you – there was no stopping me. I went with anyone I could get my hands on. When you get back I want you to tell me every detail – and I mean every detail.’
It was nine fifteen. The Russian at last steered his haunting melody to a heart-rending finale, and without the rattle and drone the square seemed almost silent. He didn’t start another tune; instead he gently packed his instrument back into its battered case, and clicked it shut. He stood up.
‘Well done,’ he said.
Aurélie looked up at him. ‘Pardon?’ she said.
‘Well done. You kept him alive.’
So he had witnessed the incident the week before. ‘Only just,’ she said.
‘I knew he would be OK,’ he said. ‘I could tell you weren’t the kind of person to mistreat a baby. Anyone could see you hadn’t meant to hit him with the stone. It was an incredibly stupid thing to do, but I’ve always had a very low tolerance for people who don’t do incredibly stupid things from time to time. She’s right, you know – you do have a kind face. She’s insane, but she was right about that.’
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘He and I had a good time together.’ She decided not to go into the darker details of Herbert’s time in her care. She changed the subject. ‘What’s your instrument called?’
He patted its case. ‘It’s a hurdy-gurdy,’ he said.
‘Is it . . . Russian?’ She’d noticed that The Russian didn’t sound particularly Russian.
‘Maybe a little bit. Nobody’s quite sure where it’s from; it seemed to evolve from all over the place. Maybe bits of it came from there . . .’ He realised why she had asked. ‘Ah, I see. No, I’m not Russian, but my hat is. I was once working on a boat that docked in Vladivostok, and I got it there. I’ve worn it ever since. I feel naked without it. As for the hurdy-gurdy, I won it in a dice game one night in Saint-Chartier three years ago. I’d never played a note of music on any instrument at that point in my life, but I thought I’d give it a go, and I haven’t stopped since. Apparently it’s eve
n older than I am, if you can imagine that.’
‘Are you busking?’
He shook his head. ‘I have a landlady whose nerves can’t stand the noise, so I come here every morning to play it. It’s as good a place as any.’
‘I really like the music.’
‘Thank you.’ He seemed genuinely gratified by the compliment. ‘Now I’d better get off to work.’
A part of her wanted to ask him where he worked, what he did when he wasn’t playing his hurdy-gurdy. But she stopped herself. She didn’t want to be like an old woman in a park, asking unwelcome personal questions. She would have found out all about him if the stone had hit him instead of Herbert. He would barely have felt it land, too; it would have just bounced softly off his Russian hat. He seemed friendly, and she was sure he would have let her follow him around.
She was glad it hadn’t hit him, though. There had been one or two bumps in the road, but the more she thought about it, the more confident she became that it had been a good week, that on balance she had done the right thing in taking Herbert, rather than just running away from the situation. She had spent time with an incredible baby, she had managed to get herself a boyfriend, she had got to know the Papavoines, and even though she wasn’t going to be doing the project she had set out to do, she had a good feeling that her new plan was going to go well. If the stone had hit The Russian, or anyone else, she would have ended up producing an unfocused mixed-media mishmash. Now, though, her week was coming to an end, and her life was going to return to something resembling normal.