The Confectioner's Tale Part 12

Chapter Twenty-Two.

February 1910 The hours flew past. Ebersole's team made two more religieuses, one for evening service and one to be delivered to a party. Maurice sweated and swore over multiple pans of coloured sugar icing that Ebersole deemed 'too gaudy', 'too insipid'.

Finally, the colours were correct. Gui peered down into the pan and realized they were just as Monsieur Carme described them: soft, tender lilac and rose pink. When the tower of eclairs was finished, Ebersole looked as though he was going to cry. The religieuse was a masterpiece of pastel shades, ornate swirls of vanilla cream and gold-leaf decoration; but one of the other apprentices joked that it resembled a matron swathed in tight satin.

Ebersole looked devastated. 'They are right,' he said, 'it looks like an old wh.o.r.e.'

'Clermont's is a business my friend, and we must cater to requests,' Maurice placated. 'The Comtesse wanted it to look just so. I'm sure she will be overjoyed.'

The kitchen began to empty out. Maurice beckoned to Gui and pointed up at the clock. It was almost eight. Gui felt lightheaded; he had eaten nothing that day but an end of bread. It seemed a thousand years since he had walked into the cafe, suitcase in hand.

'Are we finished?' he asked as their group plodded into the communal cloakroom. The younger chefs pulled hats from their hair, talking noisily. Maurice lounged in one corner with Ebersole.

'Not yet,' he mumbled around a cigarette. 'Got to clean the stations and prepare for the morning. Go and get the supper, will you?'

'Supper?' Once again, Gui was bewildered.

'The boys at the ovens keep a few loaves going for breaks. Go and ask them.'

'Be sure to ask for the best white loaf!' one of the younger apprentices called after him.

Gui dodged between bodies in the kitchen. The ovens took up one whole wall; thick, black doors in the tiled walls, secured by bra.s.s handles and bars. He approached the least hostile-looking of the workers there.

'Can I get the supper for break?' he asked hesitantly.

The boy ignored him. His pristine white uniform was soaked with sweat as he rearranged shelves in the hot oven.

'It's for Ebersole,' Gui pressed. 'They told me to ask for a white loaf.'

Now he had the boy's attention.

'A white loaf, was it?'

'That's what they said.'

'The best white loaf?'

'Yes.' Gui felt his face growing hot. 'The best white loaf. Can I have it, please?'

In a flash his arms were pinned behind him. The first chef grabbed his neck, forcing his head into the open oven. Sweat burst on his forehead, dripping away in an instant hiss. Then the heat was gone and he managed a gasp of air before his vision was filled with white. Powder clogged his nose and mouth and he choked before he was released. Spluttering, he stumbled back, swiping at the flour that clung to his damp skin and stung his eyes. A warm loaf was dumped into his arms.

The cloakroom erupted into laughter when he walked back in. His throat was sticky with flour and humiliation. Gui had heard horror stories about hazing from some of the men who worked the railways. He'd never experienced it himself, so, he decided, he was probably overdue.

'Here's your supper,' he wheezed.

Maurice caught the bread with a laugh and set about pulling off large chunks.

'Guillaume, we all had to endure it. Welcome to the kitchen.'

Ebersole was guffawing quietly as he chewed, cigarette on lip.

'There's a washroom through that door,' Maurice said. 'You might want to use it before you eat.' He caught Gui's glance towards the younger apprentices, who were still doubled up with laughter. 'Don't worry, I'll guard your share.'

'Thanks for supper, snowdrop!' they catcalled.

Gui grinned and curtsied primly to them as he pa.s.sed and they clapped him on the shoulder and wiped their streaming eyes.

The group had dispersed by the time he returned, dripping with cold water. Good to his word, Maurice handed him the end of the bread. It was smaller than the share the others had received, but he took it without complaint. He forced himself to eat slowly, but soon it was gone and his stomach remained hollow.

'Still hungry, eh?' Maurice asked, watching him chew.

'Not at all,' Gui lied, thinking of the unwanted pastries he had swiped earlier.

'I saw you sneaking about the refuse sack,' the older man said. 'Hand them over.'

'I don't know what you mean.' Gui looked away, his cheeks burning. Embarra.s.sment was one thing, yet he knew from experience that hunger would feel far worse.

'You have at least two burned pastry cases in your pocket,' Maurice was merciless, 'or did you think it wouldn't be noticed? Come now, or it'll be Josef you have to explain to.'

Slowly, Gui took out the pastries. They were only a little singed at the edges, and still looked delicious to him. In one movement, Maurice swept them from his hand and kicked them under the bench. Gui's jaw clenched at the thought of the waste.

'There now,' the older chef continued, brus.h.i.+ng crumbs from his sleeves, 'why would you want those old things anyway?'

There was a napkin in his hand. Gently, he unwrapped the top folds. Within was an eclair, one of the many they had created that afternoon. This one was covered in chocolate, gleaming darkly. He set it on the bench.

'I thought you might be interested in this.' Maurice's voice was nonchalant, but a smile played around his mouth. 'How are you supposed to learn if you don't know what you are making? Now, I'm outside for a breath of air. We're due back in five minutes.'

For a full minute, Gui couldn't even bring himself to pick up the pastry. It looked so small, lying on the white napkin, yet in the cafe itself, one of these would cost him a whole day's wages.

Tentatively, he brought it to his mouth. He sniffed deeply, breathing in the mingled richness of baking: of b.u.t.ter and sugar. His teeth sank into one end and sweetness filled his mouth, the chocolate cream airy-light and smooth against his tongue. A shock of bitter cocoa came next, irresistible and bewitching. It was unlike anything he had ever eaten, a strike of joy to his senses. He tried very hard to save a piece, just one mouthful for later, to remind him, but in the end, that too disappeared.

He was checking the napkin for fallen crumbs when Maurice and the other apprentices reappeared. The cocoa and sugar had filled up his body; he could feel them shooting through his veins. Bewildering though the day had been, it was growing brighter, clearer, and he felt his curiosity flare once again.

'On your feet,' Maurice told him, stretching. 'It's back to the grind until ten.'

They set off for the kitchen, smoothing hair under caps, retying ap.r.o.ns.

'What's your story anyway?' the older chef questioned. 'Most apprentices start in the autumn. You are either late or incredibly early.'

'I'm not exactly an apprentice.'

'What then?' Maurice was checking his ap.r.o.n, but Gui could feel the man's attention on him.

'Do you know where I can find a place to stay?' he asked quickly, changing the subject. 'I had to move out of my previous lodgings and was hoping they might know of somewhere here.'

'You are a puzzle, aren't you? Late, out of nowhere, unprepared. Try to ask Josef, after s.h.i.+ft finishes. He might know of somewhere. Otherwise, there are boarding houses on the Boulevard Saint-Martin. I know some of the younger men room together there.'

Gui was put on was.h.i.+ng duty in the tiny scullery where he had once stood with Mademoiselle Clermont. He had not given a thought to the rack upon rack of pans at the time. All of them were covered in greasy remnants of b.u.t.ter, egg yolks, crusted with sugar, inches thick. There was a terrifying copper cylinder in the corner, all valves and pipes and spurts of steam. The hot water it provided would have scalded Gui's hands, were they not so toughened from the railway's furnaces. Because of this, he worked faster than the other two apprentices, a fact that earned their dislike.

The place was deserted by the time he completed his task. He knocked on the office door but it was dark and he received no answer. Thankfully, the cafe had yet to be locked up. An old man was pus.h.i.+ng a mop around behind the counter. Gui's suitcase was in the cloakroom where the waiter had left it so many hours before, shoved into a corner.

Back in the staff cloakroom, the two remaining workers were changing into street clothes, dropping their uniforms into the laundry hamper. They were the same pair from the sinks, and Gui tried to introduce himself, to ask them about lodgings, but they only shrugged and took their leave without a word.

He had no choice but to follow Maurice's suggestion and head for the Boulevard Saint-Martin. Outside, he asked the driver of a horse-drawn cab for directions.

'Follow your nose,' was the only answer he received.

He found it easily enough. Saint-Martin was busier than the surrounding streets, yet the evening was growing later by the minute. In a bar that remained open, he asked the proprietor for any recommendations. There was a pause in the man's voice as he surveyed Gui's ill-fitting clothes, the battered suitcase.

'Try 106. Madame Pelle. She may have rooms.'

Number 106 was a tall, narrow house sandwiched between two grander buildings. The doors and windows were covered with wrought-iron bars, tightly locked and bolted. Steeling himself, he rang the bell. After an age, light glimmered underneath the door.

'Who's there?'

The voice was shrill and plummy at once.

'I'm looking for Madame Pelle,' Gui called. 'Someone said I might find a room here.'

The door opened an inch. A plump, middle-aged woman in a sleeping cap and shawl blinked out at him, unable to see past her own gas lamp. She reminded Gui of a toy vole he had once seen in a shop window, dressed as a washerwoman in skirts and a headscarf. He suppressed a laugh.

'Have you any notion of what time it is, young man?' she spluttered.

'I am sorry. I only recently finished working and-'

'I regret to disappoint you, but you won't find the type of rooms you require here.'

'Pardon?'

'I cater for respectable clientele. Clerks and secretaries. Not manual labourers who come and go at all hours.'

'I'm not a labourer. I'm an apprentice chef,' Gui declared proudly.

'There are no rooms here, try up in Belleville. No doubt you know of it already.'

'Wait!'

The woman slammed the door on his outstretched foot. Yelling in pain and frustration, Gui staggered back.

On the pavement, a pa.s.sing man put a protective arm around his lady, hurrying her along. Fuming, Gui seized his suitcase and stalked up the road, quickening his steps as if he knew where he was going. As he walked, the streets became darker and quieter. He turned a corner and realized with a start that he was in Place de la Republique, where he used to meet Luc and Yves and the delivery carts every week.

Out of the darkness came the clacking of wood, the syncopated noise of hooves. An omnibus, all but empty, was making its way home for the night.

'Are you going near Belleville?' he called up to the driver as it drew near. Weak gas lanterns did nothing to illuminate the man's face, but the lit end of a cigarette dipped in a.s.sent. With relief, Gui hopped onto the back step and perched there, watching the streets sway into shadow.

They were climbing steadily. Lights began to pepper the buildings and Gui heard music, the hum of voices. A group of children streaked past, ragtag creatures in third-hand coats that flapped behind them like broken wings.

'Where's this?' he shouted to them.

'Belleville,' answered one, running alongside. He cannot have been more than nine years old, but he stared with a prospector's eye. 'Sir,' he added with a dip of his floppy cap. 'Looking for something, sir?'

'Somewhere to stay.' Gui leaped off the omnibus. It picked up pace, trundling away up the street. 'Clean and cheap enough. Do you know of anywhere?'

'But I do, sir, fine lodgings here, sir.'

The boy had a peculiar accent. He beckoned, so Gui began to follow him. Several bars were still vivid with light. A woman with curves that threatened to split her satin dress eyed him from a doorway and giggled throatily.

'Like what you see?' the boy asked. 'They call her La Balourde, the Turkey, sir, on account of that noise she makes.'

Visions of Ebersole's pink religieuse a.s.sailed Gui as he stared at the woman's quivering decolletage.

'I just want a room,' he said, blus.h.i.+ng.

'Of course, of course, we are nearly at a most respectable place.'

The boy stopped, indicating an alleyway about as wide as a coal pit. The stench told Gui that it was a popular place for dumping waste, human or otherwise. He raised an eyebrow, fis.h.i.+ng in his jacket for coins.

'Look,' he sighed, 'I shall give you a sou,' the boy's eyes widened, 'but only if you take me to a decent boarding house. I'll give you another if you and your friends promise not to rob me.'

The boy considered the proposition, then grinned, offering his hand.

'I shall treat you as an investment, then, sir. I'm Puce, homme du monde.'

'Guillaume du Frere. Puce? You're named after a flea?'

'For my acrobatic talents.' The boy sniffed.

They walked at a slower pace. Further up the road, it was quieter. There were fewer bars and cafes, but more lamps, burning in windows, doorways. Puce stopped at one of these and pointed up a steep wooden staircase.

'You promised not to rob me,' Gui reminded.

'I know for a fact that Madame has a room spare,' the boy said indignantly. 'It's a mouse hole but they're decent sorts, you won't be bothered by putains like Balourde.'

Keeping half an eye over his shoulder, Gui risked the stairs. Through a door and a worn curtain he emerged into a small sitting-room. Several women were reclining, reading books, sewing by the warm fireplace. It would be a genteel scene, were it not for the fact that the women wore very few clothes. Gui tried not to blush but he couldn't stop his eyes from settling where they should not. Eventually, he addressed the coal scuttle.

'Excuse me,' he mumbled as loudly as he could, 'I heard you had a room available but I see I must be mistaken.'

'Where did you find this one, Puce?' one of the women laughed. She smiled at Gui, half-mocking and tired.

'Fresh off the omnibus. Madame, you still got Avril's old room?'