The Paris Hours

by Alex George

  At least he did not have a sister, thought Souren.

  Most evenings the soldiers roasted an animal over coals. Souren hungrily watched the meat turn on the iron spit, and dreamed of killing every man inside those tents.

  He was seventeen years old.

  * * *

  Days turned into weeks. Still they marched. His mother was growing weaker and weaker by the day. He urged her to eat her rations, but she shook her head and turned away, leaving the food for him. In the end he wolfed down her share, frightened that someone else would steal it if he did not.

  And then, one night, he was shaken awake. The camp was almost completely dark, save for the glowing embers of a few small fires that kept the guards warm during the night.

  “Souren! Wake up!” His mother.

  “What is it?”

  “Here,” said his mother. “Take this.” She thrust something at him. It was the dress that she had been wearing since they left the village.

  He looked at her and was horrified to realize that she was nearly naked. “What are you doing?”

  “Put the dress on,” she told him.

  “What? Why?”

  “Because you’re going to escape.”

  He shook his head. “I want to stay with you.”

  She held his chin in her hand and looked at him. “I’m not going to lose you to these monsters as well.”

  “But—”

  “I want you to put on the dress, Souren. Then I want you to leave. You have several hours until sunrise. That should give you time to put some distance between you and the camp.”

  “Where will I go?”

  “Head back the way we came. Follow the course of the river. The next time you see a bridge, cross it, and start heading west. Travel only by night. Sleep during the day, somewhere out of sight.” She paused. “You need to leave the country, do you understand? You must make your way to Europe.”

  “But there’s a war going on in Europe. Won’t that be dangerous?”

  “Nothing could be as dangerous for you as staying here. Just keep moving until you feel safe. You’ll know when.”

  “But I feel safe with you.”

  She smiled sadly at him. “Put on the dress, my love.”

  He struggled to his feet and did as he was told. His mother’s dress was a tent over his teenage bones. She handed him a scarf and showed him how to wrap it around his head.

  “Why do I have to wear this?” he asked.

  “It’s a disguise.”

  “Why do I need a disguise? Nobody knows who I am!”

  “It’s not who you are,” said his mother. “It’s what you are.”

  He frowned. “What am I?”

  She patted his cheek. “You’re almost a man, Souren. I’ve been watching the soldiers. They’ve started to look at you. They only want women and children on this march. You’re getting too big, too strong. They’re waiting for an excuse to put a bullet through your head.”

  He plucked miserably at the folds of the dress. “I don’t want to leave you.”

  “Souren, you must do as I say. Use your wits and be careful. Don’t take any risks, and everything will be fine.”

  “But I want to stay with you.” He began to cry.

  “Souren, my dearest, stop your tears and listen to me.” She gripped his arm. “You have to do this, do you understand?”

  He nodded, unable to speak.

  “Good. Now take this.” She stuffed some dirty banknotes into his hand.

  “Where did you get these?” he asked, astonished.

  “Never mind about that. Just spend them wisely. Buy food if you must, although it’s safer to steal it. Don’t let people see you unless it’s absolutely necessary.” She pointed into the night. “Go now,” she said. “Remember, head west once you cross the river. And when the sun comes up, take cover and get some sleep. You have a long journey ahead of you.” She kissed him on the cheek. “You’re a good boy and a brave boy. And, Souren?” She took his hand and squeezed it tightly. “Never forget who you are. Never forget that you are an Armenian.” She released her grip. “Now go.”

  Souren stumbled into the night.

  * * *

  He did exactly as his mother told him. A good boy and a brave boy. He walked by night and slept by day. He retraced the route of the death march. He scavenged for food in the moonlit shadows of silent farmhouses. He wrapped the scarf tightly around his head. For the first few days he could still smell his mother in the material. He inhaled her scent as he walked, and felt a little safer.

  It took him three days to find a bridge across the river. There were few clouds that night and the moon hung low in the sky. Souren hid in the shadows of a nearby wood, his heart beating loudly in his chest, and watched the bridge. It was a simple, functional structure, constructed from roughly hewn timber, unadorned by a single decorative flourish. He waited for an hour, terrified: there would be nowhere to hide once he was out in the open. Just as he was summoning the courage to make a run for it, he heard the rhythm of approaching horseshoes, and froze. A moment later, a solitary rider appeared from the south—from the direction of the march. Souren felt his heart begin to pound. Perhaps his absence had finally been noticed. Perhaps this man was an assassin, on a mission to track him down and kill him.

  But the horseman was not thundering ahead with murderous intent. He slouched lazily in the saddle, and was allowing his mount to amble along at its own pace. Whatever he was doing at this time of night, the man was not searching for an escaped prisoner.

  Still, Souren did not want to be heading in the same direction as the man and his horse. He held his breath as they neared the bridge. To his relief, they did not turn to cross the river, but continued their plodding course northwards. Once rider and horse disappeared from view, Souren counted to a hundred, then two hundred, and then three hundred. Then he stepped out from his hiding place, hitched up his skirt, and began to run. He scanned the darkness in all directions as he went, although by then it was too late to hide.

  He did not slow down as his feet hit the wooden planks of the bridge. The noise of his footsteps ricocheted through the still night air, gunshots beneath his shoes. He was sure he could be heard for miles. His eyes were fixed on the far bank of the river. There was a gravel road that began where the bridge ended. The road was hemmed in on both sides by thickly clustered pine trees—a forest, dark and inviting. His pace quickened.

  The bridge was longer than it looked. The Euphrates ran beneath his feet, quiet and strong. When Souren reached the far bank, he did not stop running, but headed for the shadows of the forest. He crashed through the undergrowth, heading farther into darkness. Finally, he stopped moving and gulped air into his lungs, his chest heaving.

  He was safe.

  * * *

  His journey became more difficult after that. The forest was thick with obstacles that slowed his progress—unyielding thickets of bramble that scratched his legs and ensnared his dress, invisible tree roots that caught his feet and tripped him up. When the moon was hidden by clouds, what little light remained did not penetrate the roof of trees above him, and he was scarcely able to see his hand when he held it in front of his face.

  Without the river to guide him, Souren no longer knew where he was going. He just kept moving forward. Sometimes he did not see a dwelling for days. Without scraps of stolen food to sustain him, he was ravenous.

  It was his hunger, in the end, that drove him into danger. He started to walk closer to the road, scavenging for food left by other travelers. Souren hurried out of the woods, took what he could, and retreated again to the safety of the trees. Pickings were paltry—he mostly found stale crusts of bread and apple cores—but there was just enough to survive.

  One evening, he hungrily watched from the shadows of the forest as two men devoured a feast by the side of the road. An endless procession of food emerged from the leather sacks that hung from the flanks of the men’s horses. Boiled eggs, thick slices of roast beef, tomatoes
the size of a man’s fist, an entire loaf of bread. The men uncorked a bottle of wine and passed it between them. As he watched, Souren had never felt so alone, or so hungry. After an hour, the men clambered back onto their horses, their bellies full. Souren forced himself to wait several minutes before emerging from the trees. He did not take his eyes off the spot where the men had been eating. A large chunk of crusty bread lay on the ground. Souren stuffed it into his mouth. He picked up the discarded bottle and raised it to his lips. A few drops of red wine fell onto his parched tongue.

  “You!”

  Souren froze. A man sat on a horse, not more than twenty yards away, the curved blade of a scimitar strapped to his back. He wore a fez so filthy that its original color was impossible to guess. A Turk. Slowly Souren turned to face him.

  A mouthful of rotten brown teeth spread into an ugly grin.

  “What’s a pretty girl like you doing out here all alone?” said the horseman.

  Souren had forgotten that he was wearing the dress. He quickly pulled the fabric of his mother’s scarf over his face.

  “Oh, there’s no need to be shy,” said the Turk as he dismounted. He was a short man. His belly fell over the front of his belt. “I’m not going to hurt you. At least not if you’re a good girl and give me what I want.”

  Souren recognized the look in the man’s eye. It was the same hungry look that the soldiers wore when they trawled the camp for girls to take back to their tents.

  “What’s the matter?” said the man as he approached. “Cat got your tongue?”

  Souren took a step backward.

  “Stay where you are!” The man whipped the sword out of its sheath. The tip of the blade was less than twelve inches from Souren’s chest. “You and I are going to walk into the woods,” he said. “Not too far. Just so we’re out of sight of the road. Try and make a run for it and I’ll kill you before you can scream for help, do you understand?”

  Souren nodded.

  “Good girl,” said the man. “Now move.”

  Souren stumbled through the trees, the scimitar at his back. He knew what would happen when the Turk discovered that he was a boy. He contemplated running. He was younger and quicker than his captor, but the man would catch him easily on his horse.

  “That’s far enough.” The Turk held his sword in one hand, and with the other he pulled at his belt. His trousers fell to his ankles. “Quickly, now,” he grunted. “Off with the dress.”

  But Souren did not take the dress off. Instead he turned around and dropped to his knees. The Turk’s penis emerged stiffly from beneath the folds of his tunic. It was long, thick, and purple. Souren reached out and closed the fingers of his left hand around the shaft.

  “Well now,” murmured the man.

  Souren drove his right fist between the Turk’s legs with every ounce of strength that he could muster. The punch smashed through the man’s testicles and continued up into the softness of his abdomen. He collapsed, tripping over the trousers entangled around his feet. As he hit the ground he dropped his sword, and Souren lunged for it. The weapon was heavier than he expected, and he needed both hands to pick it up. The Turk didn’t notice. He was rolling on the ground in agony. Souren plunged the sword into the man’s neck. There was an immediate eruption of dark blood. Souren closed his eyes and pictured the scowling face of Kamil Ömer. He pushed the sword through the flesh and tendons of the Turk’s neck and held the weapon in place until the man’s body stopped thrashing, and was still.

  The Turk’s mouth was open in a silent scream. Souren put his foot on the man’s chest and pulled the scimitar free. He dragged the corpse farther into the woods, and stripped it naked. He put on the trousers, tunic, and coat, even the dirty fez. The clothes were too big for him, but he did not care. He wiped the blade of the sword clean on his mother’s dress, dropped the bloodied garment next to the dead man’s body, and returned to the road.

  The horse was still there.

  * * *

  Aleppo, Sis, Kayseri. These cities marked the start of Souren’s true journey. His progress was faster and safer than before. The horse was a fine beast, young and strong. Souren could outrun anyone who found him suspicious—although traveling on horseback seemed to render him invisible. People did not give him a second glance as he rode by.

  Now he traveled by day.

  He gave the horse a name: Hector, of course. He bent down low over the animal’s straining neck, talking into his ears as they galloped through the countryside toward Constantinople. Words poured out of him, an unceasing flow. He could not stop talking, as if the horse would pull up the moment he drew breath. He was simply grateful for the companionship of another living thing.

  There were supplies for both him and the horse in the dead Turk’s saddlebags, but they did not last long. He began to steal food again, but now he had to feed Hector as well as himself. Sometimes he spent a little of the money that his mother had given him—but only to buy food for the horse. The other purchase he made was a map. Souren studied this map for hours by the light of the small fire he set every night to keep himself warm. He dreamed of riding through the countries beneath his fingers. Bulgaria. Serbia. Albania. Montenegro. Bosnia and Herzegovina. He whispered the names into the cold night air, a hopeful incantation. His finger moved north across the paper.

  There was Italy.

  There was France.

  10

  The Deal

  GUILLAUME OPENS THE DOOR.

  Standing in front of him is a middle-aged man in a brown corduroy suit. He is short and barrel-chested, with a handsome face that, Guillaume fancies, has seen a thing or two. The man’s eyes shine with amused intelligence from beneath the rim of a pristine fedora.

  “Monsieur Blanc?” says the man. “I hope you’re expecting us. We have an appointment.” He speaks excellent French, with just the faintest echo of an American accent. He gestures behind him, and there in the corridor stands Gertrude Stein. She is wearing a screamingly loud floral dress and a bright blue hat. She carries a large handbag in front of her, bearing it like a shield. In contrast to her companion, she is spectacularly unattractive. Her skin is sallow, her eyes dull, and her nose is shaped like a monstrous crow’s beak.

  “Of course,” says Guillaume. “Won’t you come in?” He takes a step back and ushers the couple inside. The man removes his hat as he walks into the room, and runs a hand through his short-cropped steel-gray hair. His eyes fall on a painting propped up against Guillaume’s still-unmade bed, a grittily beautiful scene from the streets of the Marais. He turns and says something to Gertrude Stein in English. She shrugs her shoulders but says nothing. The couple stares at the painting in silence for several moments. Then the man shakes his head.

  “I don’t like this at all,” he says.

  Who is this bossy, ignorant fellow? The demonic pounding of Guillaume’s hangover returns. “Miss Stein?” he asks, turning toward her. “What do you think?”

  Those big ugly eyes goggle at Guillaume in mute horror. He feels an anxious twist in his gut, a vague sense that everything is unraveling, but he doesn’t know why.

  “Excuse me,” says the man. “But I am Gertrude Stein.”

  Guillaume blinks. “Pardon?”

  “I am Gertrude Stein,” repeats the man. He points to the woman. “This is my companion, Alice Toklas. You’re welcome to ask her opinion, monsieur, but I can assure you it will be the same as mine.” He produces a small, embossed card from an inside pocket of the corduroy suit, and hands it to Guillaume. It reads:

  GERTRUDE STEIN

  27, RUE DE FLEURUS, PARIS

  écrivaine

  Guillaume feels the blood rushing to his cheeks and hopes that he doesn’t look as confounded as he feels. He looks at Gertrude Stein again, more closely this time, recalibrating everything he sees.

  Confoundment, still.

  “Emile Brataille said that you had some superior portraits,” says Gertrude Stein. “Perhaps you could show us those?”

 
The portraits are propped up against the wall by the window. Guillaume leads the pair over to inspect them. His subjects are a motley crew; whenever he can afford it, he pulls people off the streets with a promise of a franc or two for their time. A street cleaner, a grave digger, the trumpet player from the house band at Le Chat Blanc. There are two or three of Thérèse in various states of undress. The two Americans scrutinize each painting, then whisper to each other before moving on to the next one. Gertrude Stein is doing most of the talking. Guillaume has learned enough English while dashing off charcoal portraits in Place du Tertre to follow most of the conversation, but he pretends not to understand a word.

  Finally Gertrude Stein turns toward him. “What else do you have to show us?” she asks.

  Guillaume feels his world tilting precariously. “There’s nothing here of interest to you?” he croaks.

  She shakes her head. “I’m afraid it’s all quite derivative and second-rate.” Before Guillaume can respond, the American clomps across the studio and stands in front of the painting hanging on the wall opposite his bed.

  “Ah, now,” she murmurs. “This, on the other hand. Alice, come and see!”

  Alice scuttles across the room. They look at it together.

  “This one is all right,” says Gertrude Stein. She turns to him. “How much do you want for it?”

  Of all the paintings in the room, this is the one that she wants.

  Guillaume closes his eyes. He thinks of Le Miroir and his thugs.

  “Twelve hundred francs,” he says. The words are ashes in his mouth.

  Gertrude Stein considers this number, her head cocked at a thoughtful angle. “I’ll give you nine hundred for it,” she says.