Paris

by Edward Rutherfurd

  Structurally, Thomas well understood, it was this platform that bound the four great pillar stacks together and would provide the base for the soaring tower above. But even so, as the work progressed, he was astounded by the scale of the thing. The walk around the side galleries, from which there were fine views of Paris, was over three hundred yards long. There was space for numerous rooms, including a large restaurant.

  This huge band of hollow space was carefully locked into place. It was, as Eiffel had foreseen, a mighty task, and it took time. It was not until March that, having finally checked that the basic structure of his four-legged table was solid and perfectly level that Eiffel gave the order: “Proceed upward.”

  Yet as the creeper cranes began their journey up the pylons again, Thomas noticed something else.

  It seemed to him that the tower must be falling behind schedule. Eiffel’s assistant engineers would sometimes be fretful. Thomas would see them shaking their heads. He knew from the drawings he’d seen that the massive span between the ground and the platform was to be finished with an elegant semicircular arch across the outside edge. Yet as April wore on and the pylons climbed into the sky above the platform, the whole underside of the tower looked a mess. But whatever was passing in his mind, Eiffel himself was always calm, polite, serene.

  Only once did Thomas see Monsieur Eiffel angry. It was during the lunchtime break, one day in May. Eiffel was standing alone, near the northwestern foot of his tower, reading a newspaper. Suddenly Thomas saw the engineer crumple his paper and slap it furiously against his side. Then, seeing Thomas watching him, he beckoned him over.

  “Do you know why I am angry, young Gascon?” It was evident that he needed to get something off his mind.

  “Non, monsieur.”

  “They do not like my tower. Some of the greatest names in France hate it: Garnier, who built the Paris Opéra, Maupassant the writer, Dumas, whose father wrote The Three Musketeers. There have even been petitions against it. Do you know people who hate it?”

  “Oui, monsieur. Madame Govrit de la Tour told me I should not work on it.”

  “There you are. They even try to subvert my workmen. But this article in the newspaper today, young Gascon, surpasses everything. It says that my tower is indecent. That it will be nothing but a great phallus in the sky.”

  Thomas didn’t know what to say, so he shook his head.

  “What is the greatest threat to a tall structure, young Gascon? Do you know?”

  “Its weight, I suppose, monsieur.”

  “No. Not really. It’s the wind. The reason my tower has the shape it has, the reason it is constructed the way it is, all this is because of the wind, whose force would otherwise tear it down. That is the reason. Nothing else.”

  “Is that why it is just iron girders, so the wind can blow through?”

  “Excellent. It is an open lattice construction, so that the wind can blow clean through it. And despite the fact that it is made of iron, which is strong, it is actually very light. If you put the tower in a cylindrical box, as a bottle of wine is sometimes sold, the air contained in the box would be almost as heavy as the metal tower itself. Amazing, but true.”

  “I would never have imagined that,” Thomas confessed.

  “But even this is not the point. The shape of the structure, its slender curve, is purely mathematical. The stress of the structure exactly equalizes that of the wind, from any direction. That is the reason for its form.” He shook his head. “The arts and literature are the glories of the human spirit. But all too often, those who practice them have little understanding of mathematics, and none of engineering. They see a phallus, with their superficial eye, and think that they have understood something. But they have understood nothing at all. They have no idea of how things work, of the true structure of the world. They are not capable of perceiving that, in truth, this tower is an expression of mathematical equations and structural simplicity far more beautiful than they could even imagine.” He looked down at the crumpled newspaper in disgust.

  “Oui, monsieur,” said Thomas, feeling that, even if he did not understand the mathematics of the tower, at least he was building it.

  “You’d better go,” said Eiffel. “If you are late, tell Compagnon that it was my fault and that I send my apologies. It’s not as if,” he murmured to himself, “I want the building delayed any more than it already is.”

  By the time Thomas got back to his station, he was a minute late. Passing Jean Compagnon, he began to explain, but the foreman waved him on.

  “I saw you with Eiffel. He likes to talk to you.” He shook his head. “God knows why.”

  Since their parting the previous November, Thomas had hardly seen Édith. Once in December, and again at the turn of the year, he had deliberately encountered her outside the lycée, but each time she’d made it clear that she didn’t want to see him anymore. After that, he’d avoided the lycée, and although he would occasionally catch sight of her in Passy, they hadn’t met.

  Since he spent every Sunday with them now, it was clear to his parents that he wasn’t seeing Édith. But nobody said anything. Once Luc asked him what had happened to her, and Thomas replied that it was over.

  “Are you sad?” Luc asked.

  “Oh,” Thomas replied with a shrug, “it just didn’t work out.”

  Luc said nothing.

  As spring began, he had thought about looking for another woman. But so far he hadn’t met anyone he especially liked. Nor did he have much time or energy.

  During May and June, the work on the tower picked up more speed. The men were now working twelve hours a day. The great arch under the first platform was accomplished, and the central scaffolding removed. Suddenly the tower began to put on a stately face. As the four great corner pylons swept up their narrowing curve into the sky, the next target was the second platform. At 380 feet above the ground, this would form a second four-legged table on top of the first. After that, the tower would soar in a single, narrowing fretwork shaft up to its dizzying height in the heavens. By the end of June, the second platform was already being built.

  And this was admirable timing. For it was almost the fourteenth of July. Le Quatorze Juillet.

  Bastille Day.

  How fortunate it was for succeeding generations that when the ragged sans-culottes had inaugurated the French Revolution by storming the old fortress of the Bastille in 1789, they should have done it on a summer’s day. A perfect choice for a public holiday of celebrations, parades and fireworks.

  “Monsieur Eiffel is having a party at the tower on the fourteenth,” Thomas announced to Luc. “Do you want to come?”

  It was a bright afternoon. As they crossed the Pont d’Iéna, Thomas glanced at his younger brother and felt rather proud of him.

  Luc was now fourteen. His face had continued to fill out, and a dark lock of hair fell elegantly down over his brow, so that at the Moulin where he often worked, the customers often thought he must be a young Italian waiter. Indeed, despite his youth, his years spent up there had given him a mixture of smooth worldliness and boyish charm that his older brother could only watch in wonderment.

  Today, he had put on a white shirt without a jacket, and a straw boater on his head.

  By the time they arrived, there were large crowds walking around the site. The lower parts of the tower were festooned with bunting, displaying the red, white and blue of the Tricolor flag. There was a refreshment tent and a band smartly dressed in uniform.

  Whatever the papers might have said about the ugliness of the tower, one could see already that its huge, two-tiered archway was going to provide a magnificent entrance to next year’s exhibition. At 380 feet, the just completed platform was almost three quarters as high again as the towers of Notre Dame, and on a level with the highest cathedral spires in Europe.

  All kinds of people were there, including the fashionable. Thomas and Luc stood near the refreshment tent. “I’ll introduce you to Monsieur Eiffel,” said Thomas proudly,
“if he comes by.”

  They’d been there about five minutes when Luc suddenly said, “Look who’s over there.” But when Thomas looked, he couldn’t see anyone particular in the crowd. “Over there.” Luc indicated a knot of well-dressed people. And then Thomas saw.

  It was Édith. She was wearing a white dress that must have been given to her, since she could never have bought such a thing herself, and a small bonnet. She looked very pretty. Beside her was Monsieur Ney, and a pale woman in her late twenties who must, Thomas guessed, be his daughter.

  “I’ll go and say bonjour to her,” said Luc.

  “You can’t do that. She’s with Monsieur Ney,” Thomas cried. But Luc was already on his way.

  Thomas watched, not knowing what to do, as Luc very politely took off his boater and bowed to Édith. He saw her say something to Ney, and then saw Luc bow to the lawyer and his daughter too. Then he saw Luc say something else, after which they all turned to look at him. Luc was smiling, indicating that he should advance.

  When Thomas reached them, after a polite smile to Édith, he was careful to make a deeply respectful bow to Monsieur Ney.

  “It is a great honor, monsieur, that you should visit the tower where I work.”

  “I told Monsieur Ney that you had promised to introduce me to Monsieur Eiffel if he comes by,” said Luc. “And Monsieur Ney said that he hoped you would introduce him too.”

  Thomas stared at his little brother, dumbfounded. He, a humble worker, was to introduce the rich lawyer to Eiffel? But he saw to his further amazement that Ney was smiling with amusement. Obviously this charming fifteen-year-old boy in a straw boater could get away with things that Thomas himself could not.

  “Of course, monsieur,” he said, wondering how on earth he was to do such a thing.

  “Do you know my daughter, Mademoiselle Hortense?” the lawyer asked.

  “Mademoiselle.” Thomas bowed again.

  One could see the likeness at once. The same long, pale face, narrow body, slightly fleshy lips. To his surprise, he found the combination strangely sensual, and though of course he gave no outward sign, he wondered whether she had sensed it. She was dressed in pale gray. It occurred to him that the dress Édith was wearing might be an old one of hers. She did not smile, but observed him coolly.

  Ney turned to Luc.

  “And what do you do, young man?”

  “I work mostly at the Moulin de la Galette on Montmartre, monsieur. But I run errands for people and perform services for them.”

  “What sort of services?”

  Luc smiled, and paused for just a split second.

  “It depends what they ask, monsieur,” he answered quietly.

  The lawyer looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, and Thomas had the sense that, in some way that lay outside his own experience, Monsieur Ney and his little brother understood each other perfectly.

  He still hadn’t said a word to Édith, and was just turning to do so, when Luc nudged his elbow.

  “There is Monsieur Eiffel,” he said.

  He was walking by, not ten yards away. Thomas took a deep breath, and went quickly over to him.

  “Ah, young Gascon. I hope you are enjoying yourself.” The tone was friendly, but indicated that he was busy. There wasn’t a moment to lose.

  “Monsieur, I have my brother here, but also an important lawyer we happen to know, who wishes to be introduced to you.” He looked pleadingly at Eiffel. “His name is Monsieur Ney. I am only a workman, monsieur, and I don’t know how to do such a thing.” He indicated the Neys to him.

  A glance at the lawyer told Eiffel that this was a man who might be useful. Besides, it was his day to work the crowd. Placing his hand on Thomas’s shoulder in the most pleasant way, he went over with him.

  “Monsieur Ney, I believe. Gustave Eiffel, at your service.”

  “Monsieur Eiffel, may I present my daughter, Hortense.”

  The great man bowed over the hand she offered him.

  “Monsieur Gascon here has worked for me since the days when we built the Statue of Liberty,” said Eiffel with a smile. “We are old friends.”

  “And this is Mademoiselle Fermier,” said Ney in return, “whose aunt is my most trusted assistant.”

  Eiffel bowed to Édith.

  “Are you by any chance connected to the great Marshal Ney, might I ask?” Eiffel inquired.

  “Another branch, but the same family,” said the lawyer.

  “You must be very proud of him,” suggested Eiffel.

  “I am, monsieur. His execution was a stain upon the honor of France. I visit his grave and lay a wreath each year.”

  After the fall of the great emperor Napoléon, the royalists had sentenced Marshal Ney to be executed. He had faced the firing squad bravely, pointing out that he failed to see that it was a crime to command French troops against the enemies of France. Most Frenchmen agreed, and he had since been interred with every honor in the cemetery of Père Lachaise.

  They spoke briefly about the progress of the tower. Eiffel said that he hoped to welcome both the lawyer and his daughter to the top of it after the completion. And he was about to depart when he glanced at Luc.

  “You are the brother of this hero, aren’t you? I remember the day when you were lost, and your brother went to look for you.” He put his hand on Thomas’s shoulder again. “This is a loyal fellow. I hope you are grateful.”

  “I am, monsieur.” Luc smiled charmingly.

  After Eiffel had departed, Ney indicated that they also would be leaving. But it was clear that he was well satisfied with the service that Thomas had performed for him.

  “Perhaps we shall see you again,” he remarked to Thomas. “And you too, my young friend,” he added to Luc.

  During all this time, Édith had not said a word.

  “You are looking very well, Édith,” Thomas said to her. “I hope your mother and your aunt are also well.” Receiving a nod from her he added, “Please give them my respects.” And it seemed to him that, perhaps, she gave him a smile.

  He and Luc hung around the place for most of the afternoon. He introduced his brother to some of the men he worked with, and listened to the band. That night, Eiffel had promised a splendid fireworks display from the top of the tower’s platform. But before that, Thomas and Luc crossed over the river and went into a bar to eat. As they finished eating, Luc remarked: “I think that if you asked, Édith would go out with you again.”

  Thomas looked at him thoughtfully.

  “Why are you encouraging me to do that,” he asked Luc, “when you think she doesn’t like you?”

  “Because I think you are unhappy without her.”

  Thomas gazed at his brother fondly. Then he gently punched his arm.

  “You’re a good fellow, you know,” he said.

  “Me?” Luc considered, then shook his head. “Not really.”

  “I think you are.”

  “No, I’m not a good man, Thomas. In fact,” he paused for a moment, “I don’t even want to be.”

  Thomas held up his glass of wine and looked over it.

  “I don’t understand you, little brother.”

  “I know,” said Luc. “Will you see Édith?”

  It was late July when people started to notice that something was wrong at the Eiffel Tower. All Paris knew that it must be completed in another eight months. And it still had to grow another six hundred feet. Yet day by day, as people looked out toward the huge stump from all over the city, it hardly seemed to be growing at all. Rumors began that the great engineer had hit a technical problem. After so much work—and so much publicity—would the great exhibition begin next spring with a huge unfinished stump at the entrance? Was France going to be the laughingstock of the world?

  Certainly young Thomas Gascon was worried.

  And yet, despite his reverence for the tower and its designer, there were moments when he scarcely cared. He had other things on his mind.

  It was the first Sunday in August when he and
Édith went out for the afternoon together. She was coming from her aunt’s, so they’d agreed to meet on the corner of the avenue de la Grande-Armée. As the huge continuation of the Champs-Élysées swept down from the Arc de Triomphe toward the west, it reached the sprawling old village of Neuilly before ending at the huge wooded park of the Bois de Boulogne.

  It was a hot summer’s day. A perfect afternoon to enjoy the delights of the Bois.

  For when Napoléon III and Haussmann had come to the old hunting forest at the western edge of the city, they had known exactly what to do.

  “I want something like Hyde Park in London,” Napoléon III had said, “but bigger and better.” Of course.

  The Bois de Boulogne was considerably bigger than the English park. At its southern end they laid out the great racecourse of Longchamps, which was reached by a long and magnificent avenue. Together with Chantilly to the north of Paris, and Deauville up on the Normandy coast, it was to offer some of the most fashionable race meetings in the world.

  If Hyde Park had the Serpentine water, the Bois had two artificial lakes, joined by a waterfall. There were scores of delightful alleys of trees. In the northeastern corner a children’s zoo had developed into an anthropological theme park where one could admire some of the picturesque cultures of distant lands.

  This was where they started.

  There were plenty of people there as they went through the turnstile. Some were families from the professional classes, with children in sailor suits and muslin dresses; others were small clerks and shopkeepers, others manual working folk like himself and Édith.

  Édith was dressed in a blue-and-white dress which she had enhanced with a small hat with a ribbon around the crown. She carried a parasol. Thomas guessed that the hat and parasol might be discards from Mademoiselle Hortense. The effect was to suggest that Édith might belong to the class above her own. But he had often noticed that women tended to dress up more finely than their men. His own short jacket was clean enough, but his boots had never been shiny even before they became caked with dust. It suddenly occurred to him to wonder how his little brother would have dressed for a day like this.