by Alex George
She finds it hard to decipher the American’s slurred delivery. She points toward the dance floor. “Is that man Ernest Hemingway?”
The man sighs. “Yes, that’s him.”
“My name is Camille Clermont,” she says.
“Camille–?”
“Clermont.” She points at the stage, then at her ear. “The music is very loud.”
The man grunts in agreement. The notebook is sitting by his right elbow, forgotten. The ash from his cigarette hangs in a precarious arc over the black leather. Camille wants to grab the notebook and make a run for it, but she is not going to act like a common thief.
“I suppose you want to talk to him, do you?” says the man. He glances toward the dancing couple. Josephine Baker has thrown her head back and is laughing at something Hemingway has said.
Camille shakes her head. “Actually, monsieur, I wanted to talk to you.”
He looks astonished. “To me?”
She points at the table. “It’s about that notebook.”
“What about it?”
“It belongs to me.”
The man shakes his head. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken. Ernest purchased it earlier today. He brought it along to show it to me. He’s very proud of it.”
Too late, Camille understands her mistake. There’s no reason for this man to believe a word she says. She has no way of proving her story. She should have asked Sylvia Beach to write a note, explaining what has happened. She turns and looks toward the dance floor. More people are dancing now. In the throng, Ernest Hemingway and Josephine Baker have disappeared.
* * *
Souren does not take his eyes off the intruder. “Who are you?” asks the man for a second time. Souren does not reply.
“You need to leave!” cries Thérèse.
The man shakes his head. “I’m not going anywhere without you, mon amour.”
Thérèse folds her arms across her chest. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“This isn’t the time to change your mind.”
“What do you mean, change my mind?”
“Guillaume told me everything, chérie. He said that you wanted me to come and rescue you from this awful place.” The man smiles. “And here I am.”
“But I told him that I never wanted to see you again,” says Thérèse.
“Is that so.” The man closes his eyes for a moment. When he opens them again, they are dark with fury. In two swift paces he crosses the room and punches Thérèse hard in the face. As she falls to the ground, Souren steps forward and swings his undamaged fist into the man’s jaw with all the strength he can muster. The man’s head flies sideways under the force of the blow and he crashes into the table next to the bed, sending the candles flying. Blinded by fury, Souren throws another punch, then another. Without thinking, he hits the man with his damaged hand. Stunned by the pain, he stops just long enough for his opponent to hurl himself at Souren’s legs. Caught off guard, Souren lands heavily on the floor, and then the man is on him, his fists flying. He lands a punch on Souren’s cheek, another on his chin. He drives a knee between Souren’s legs. The pain of the blows barely registers; all Souren feels is the agony of his burned hand.
Thérèse shrieks, and this causes his assailant to pause for just a second, and Souren smashes his forehead into the man’s nose. There is a terrible howl. Souren pushes the man off him and gets to his feet. He sees the reason for Thérèse’s cry of alarm: the drapes next to the overturned table are slick with flames, ignited by the candles that the men have knocked over during their fight. The fire is spreading quickly across the room, leaping from one piece of fabric to the next. Within moments all the walls are burning. Thérèse is standing in front of Souren. Her nose has been broken by the man’s punch. There is blood splattered across her face. She is screaming at him, but he cannot hear the words coming out of her ruby-red mouth. Smoke fills his nostrils, his mouth, his throat.
Just then the man stumbles into view. He is holding something in his hands, something large and heavy. It is the brass lamp that was sitting on the mantelpiece, realizes Souren, half a second before it smashes into the left side of his head.
* * *
Jean-Paul pours himself more of Josephine Baker’s champagne. It is first-rate. He takes a long swallow. If he’s going to sit here alone while she is dancing, he may as well enjoy himself. He watches the two Americans. Hemingway is an arrogant fool, he thinks. Then he looks down at the notebook on the table in front of him. Ah, Jean-Paul, he chides himself. Perhaps it’s you who is the arrogant one.
Just then there is a loud crash from somewhere overhead, and the band jitters to an uneasy stop in the middle of its song. Sidney Bechet stands with his saxophone in one hand, looking up at the ceiling. A low murmur spreads across the room. Without the music to cement their bodies together, Hemingway and Josephine Baker have pulled away from each other. He still has his arm around her, as if he cannot quite bear to let her go, and is whispering something in her ear. She puts a hand on his shoulder and says something in response. At once Hemingway drops his arm from her waist and storms back to his own table. Josephine watches him go, and then saunters back to where Jean-Paul is sitting. She sits down and picks up her glass of champagne.
“Is everything all right?” asks Jean-Paul.
“Oh yes,” she replies.
Jean-Paul looks at Ernest Hemingway’s empty champagne flute. “Your friend looked a little unhappy just now.”
“Oh, he often is. He may be a famous writer and everything, but he acts like a big baby sometimes.”
“He forgot my book,” says Jean-Paul.
“That’s very rude of him,” says Josephine.
“I think he was a little distracted.”
“You should take it over to him.”
Jean-Paul looks at her. “Do you really think I should?”
Slowly, that famous smile appears on her face.
* * *
The crash that interrupts the band feels as if it was immediately over their table. Guillaume looks up in alarm. Moments later there is a swish of the velvet curtain and Brataille appears, roughly pulling Thérèse along behind him. The art dealer is barely recognizable from the dapper suitor who vanished upstairs earlier. He has lost his jacket. His shirt is untucked and torn along one arm. His usually impeccable hair is an unruly riot. Thérèse does not look up. She is clutching her face. Her top is stained with blood. The band has not started playing again, and so every pair of eyes in the room stares at the couple. Brataille glares right back. Guillaume shrinks back into the shadows. All around him people are murmuring and pointing. Brataille yanks on Thérèse’s arm and starts to pull her toward the exit. Thérèse follows him in silence, casting a single glance up to the ceiling as she goes. Guillaume watches them, paralyzed.
What in God’s name has he done?
* * *
“Who are you?”
Ernest Hemingway is looking at Camille suspiciously. His breath is heavy after his exertions on the dance floor.
“My name is Camille Clermont, monsieur.” She points to the table. “I spoke with Sylvia Beach this afternoon. She told me that she sold you that notebook.”
“What of it?”
“I was Marcel Proust’s maid,” she says. The words make her feel stronger. “The notebook belongs to me. My husband took it without my permission and sold it to Mademoiselle Beach, but it wasn’t his to sell.”
Hemingway sits down and takes a drink. “I don’t see what any of that has to do with me,” he says.
“The notebook is mine, monsieur.”
The American shakes his head. “I bought that notebook fair and square, madame. I paid decent money for it. It’s not my problem if you can’t keep control of your husband.”
Camille thinks of Pauline Hemingway alone in her apartment.
“I have money,” she says.
“I don’t want your money,” says Hemingway.
Just then another man approaches the table. He appears to
be limping. Hemingway does not look happy to see him. “What do you want?” he demands.
The man is unperturbed by the American’s rudeness. He turns to Camille and gives her a polite nod.
“You forgot my novel,” replies the man. He puts a book down on the table. “I didn’t want you to leave without it.”
“I didn’t forget it,” says Hemingway. “I left it there on purpose.”
“But it was a gift,” says the man.
“Since Mademoiselle Baker is so keen to spend time with you,” says Hemingway icily, “perhaps you should give it to her.”
“Is everything all right over here?” The club owner has appeared.
“Everything’s fine, Lloyd,” answers Hemingway, leaning back and lighting a cigarette. He points at the man standing next to her. “This fellow is just about to leave.”
Just then Camille notices the unmistakable smell of something burning.
* * *
Souren opens his eyes to a wall of flame. With an immense effort he props himself up on one shoulder. His eyeballs are hot, stinging with smoke. Everything is burning now. The side of his head, where the brass lamp stunned him, throbs viciously. He begins to cough. Covering his mouth with his sleeve, he tries to get to his feet, but he cannot. Where is Thérèse? He calls her name, but his voice is swallowed by the roar of the flames. He looks around him. He is alone in the burning room. A blazing beam has fallen from the ceiling and is blocking his route to the door.
He goes back, one last time, to the dusty village square.
Hector is roped to the chair.
The glowing tip of Kamil Ömer’s cigarette falls into his brother’s lap.
The conflagration is instant. Flames spread quickly up and down the boy’s arms and legs, and within seconds he disappears beneath a blanket of fire. A woman screams. The crowd emits a disbelieving moan. Hector’s fuel-soaked clothes burn fiercely. Clouds of thick black smoke billow angrily into the air, obscuring his face.
He does not yell out. He does not struggle.
Souren watches his brother burn.
* * *
Ernest Hemingway is staring at Jean-Paul, his cheeks flushed with anger and whiskey. This is nothing to do with his book, Jean-Paul understands—the American is just angry that Josephine Baker ended their dance together so she could return to her table and speak with him.
The famous writer is jealous of him.
An involuntary grin cracks his face.
“What are you smiling about?” splutters Hemingway.
Before Jean-Paul can reply, there is a yell from the other side of the room.
“Fire!”
* * *
Mayhem and terror.
People are getting to their feet, staring around them in fear, and then they start to hurry toward the exit. The acrid tang of smoke hits Guillaume’s nostrils. Where is the fire? He looks toward the door. Already there is chaos as the crowd tries to push its way to the safety of the street. There are yells of alarm as guests shove the people in front of them, desperate to escape. The bottleneck at the door worsens. A woman screams. Staff are trying to calm the crowd, to usher them out in an orderly fashion, but there is no marshaling the people’s panic. They push and push; they cannot help themselves. On the stage the musicians are packing up their instruments. There must be a back exit, thinks Guillaume.
“What should we do?” asks Suzanne.
“Follow me,” he says. He leads her away from the yelling, surging crowd. A small procession of scantily clad prostitutes is emerging from behind the velvet curtain, each one accompanied by a sheepish client. Guillaume’s heart is hammering in his chest. If Thérèse was already upstairs with another man when Brataille arrived, where is that man now? He remembers Thérèse’s anxious glance at the ceiling as Brataille dragged her away. There is a loud crack from somewhere above them.
The band is scuttling toward the back of the club, their instruments tucked under their arms. This is all his fault, Guillaume realizes. He is the one who sent Brataille here tonight.
Is there a man still in Thérèse’s room?
He points at the disappearing musicians. “Follow them,” he tells Suzanne.
“You’re not coming?”
“In a moment. There’s something I have to do first.”
“Where are you going?”
“Upstairs.”
She looks confused. “Why?”
“It’s a long story.” He tries a smile. “If you wait for me outside, I’ll explain everything, I promise.” The smoke is getting thicker. “You should go,” he says. Without another word, Suzanne turns and walks quickly away. Guillaume pulls the cloth off the closest table and wraps it around his face to cover his nose and mouth. Then he pulls back the velvet curtain and runs up the stairs.
* * *
The enormous hand of Lloyd Waters is at Camille’s back, pushing her forward. He is shouting instructions over his shoulder to his staff. He knows the game is up.
When the warning cry went up, Lloyd Waters pushed Hemingway and his companion toward the exit without ceremony. Then he took her arm. “Those two can fend for themselves,” he told Camille, “but you need to stay with me, madame.” Now he is guiding her through the anxious crowd, easing her passage through the throng of bodies, his bulk shielding her from the crush.
All around her people are panicking, but with every step Camille feels a sense of peace descend.
When the two Americans hurried away to save themselves, they forgot the notebook, and Lloyd Waters pulled her away before she could grab it herself.
It is sitting on the table behind them, waiting for the fire.
* * *
The heat is impossible now. Souren’s breath is ragged, choked.
The fire is hungry. It pulls everything into its vortex of brilliant destruction. It’s not just objects that warp and disappear in the flames’ embrace: the inferno devours everything. Short distances become infinite. Time vanishes. There are no more minutes or seconds, just an eternal present. Nothing is as it was.
Souren peers across the blazing room. The fallen beam lies across the door.
There is no way out.
He is so thirsty. He looks down at his injured hand, and remembers Thérèse’s careful touch as she changed the dressing. How kind she was! The smoke is thick and black now. It sits deep and malignant within his lungs. On the floor by the bed Souren sees his suitcase. He crawls toward it and tugs at the brass clasps. Familiar faces greet him when he opens the lid. The policeman, the cook, the princess. He smiles. His family. He puts his hand into the suitcase, pulling out the puppets. He is looking for one in particular. Hector. Where is Hector?
Then he remembers, and he begins to weep.
“Don’t cry, Souren.”
He looks up. There is his brother, walking toward him through the flames.
“Why are you crying?” asks Hector.
“I was looking for you,” answers Souren, “but you weren’t there.”
Hector gives him a small, sad smile. “Well, I’m here now.” He crouches down next to his brother and puts his hand on his shoulder. “I’ve been waiting for you,” he whispers. “Come on.”
* * *
The cries of panic are growing louder. Jean-Paul shuffles along with the rest of the crowd toward the exit, bumped and jostled at every step. He clutches his book tightly in front of him. The smell of smoke is becoming stronger. In the distance he can hear the wail of a fire truck’s klaxon. Behind him a woman is weeping while her husband nudges him constantly in the back, as if this could make him move any faster. In the scramble for the door he has lost sight of Hemingway and his friend, and the woman who was arguing with them. He turns and looks back toward the stage. Josephine Baker is speaking with Sidney Bechet. The saxophonist has his hand on her arm and is gesturing behind him. Neither of them seems especially alarmed. There must be another way out.
Another shove in the back. “Hurry up,” snarls a voice behind him.
For
people like Josephine, thinks Jean-Paul, there’s always another way out.
* * *
Behind the velvet curtain, the smoke is thicker, more toxic. It is hotter, too: by the time Guillaume is halfway up the stairs he has begun to sweat. He pulls the tablecloth more tightly over his nose and mouth.
The second floor corridor belches clouds of black smoke. The wooden doorframes along each wall are ablaze. Guillaume takes a cautious step forward, then another. He stops in front of the first door and squints inside. Everything is burning. The fire is all that there is. There can be no survivors here.
He makes his way down the corridor, looking into each room. Who was with Thérèse when Brataille appeared, and where is he now? Every room is an inferno. Halfway along he finds a closed door, a silver number 8 glinting in the light of the flames. The frame has been smashed where the lock is, but when Guillaume puts his shoulder against the door and shoves, it just opens a fraction, and then hits something heavy. He pushes as hard as he can, but it will not yield further. He peers through the crack. This room, too, is ablaze. All of the other doors have been left open, hastily abandoned by their occupants as they fled.
“Hello?” yells Guillaume into the smoke and flames. “Hello?”
There is no response.
He stumbles to the end of the corridor. The other rooms are all empty. By now the fire is all around him. He runs back toward the stairs, as quickly as his straining lungs will allow. As he pounds down the staircase, one of the steps disintegrates beneath his weight. His foot is swallowed by the wood, and he loses his balance. He tumbles the rest of the way down, falling through the velvet curtain and landing in a heap on the floor of the club. He can see figures moving on the far side of the room. The smoke is deep inside his body now, filling his lungs, acrid and poisonous. He heads toward the stage, looking for the exit.