The Confectioner's Tale Part 27

He should send word to his mother, he realized. Using the cheap paper and pencil on Isabelle's desk, he scrawled a note.

Coming home. Have news. Am bringing a guest. Do not tell anyone of my arrival. Do not worry.

Love Gui It would have to do. He was loath to write anything of Jeanne in case the letter was intercepted, and he would not know where to start, anyway. The sky retreated another shade. He opened his case, counting out a few centimes. There, lying on top was his treasured book. Its words had bewitched him in the grimy dormitory, spun sketches of wonder in his mind. To be a ptissier an architect, like Monsieur Carme had seemed the purest, grandest vocation. Now Gui knew better. The creations were hollow, confections of money and power. He took up the book and fed it to the stove a page at a time.

After an eternity came a knock at the door.

'You look terrible,' Puce declared, puffing his cheeks at the sight of Gui's swollen eyebrow.

'Bourg b.a.s.t.a.r.d gave me a duffing,' he replied with as much of a smile as he could manage, imitating Puce's accent.

'Certainly did.' The boy dug his hands in his pockets. 'I am to spy for Mam'selle Isabelle and report back on you.'

'She's too suspicious, but I'll be glad of the company,' Gui told him. 'Will you post this letter for me, after I'm gone? There's no money inside, before you take a knife to the seam.'

The letter to his mother disappeared inside Puce's coat. Gui followed it up with a handful of coins.

'Anything for a friend.' The boy grinned. 'One for the road, before we leave?' He had spotted the bottle of gin that stood by the stove.

'I don't suppose she'd mind,' Gui agreed. 'A small one for you, though.'

He poured two measures into a couple of teacups. Puce dispatched his eagerly. Gui sipped, coughed, then followed suit. It was rough stuff and burned his chest, but it gave him the kick of warmth he needed.

Rue de Belleville was heaving, as was usual at this late hour. They wove through the crowds on the pavements, amongst women like Balourde and the sort of men who were her customers. It was the best place to hide, advised Puce, kicking hopefully at a discarded cigar. Only newcomers and gendarmes walked in the centre of the road. The way sloped downhill towards the ca.n.a.l, and they began to leave the brash noise behind them.

Fewer lights shone in these streets. Gui missed their comfort, the safety that came with a pack of eyes. Buildings grew taller, more respectable. Families here were in bed. Young men with the ink-stained cuffs and yellowed eyes of clerks edged past them from time to time like spiders, alone and ubiquitous in the vast city.

Gui ached to see fields, to feel the cool night air flowing past his skin, as he travelled by train with Jeanne at his side, south and further south.

'You can visit us, you know,' he told Puce. 'I have a friend who works for the railway, over at the depot near Austerlitz. Nicolas, he'd get you on a train, all right.'

Puce just smiled up at him in the darkness.

'Nearly there,' he said.

Place de la Republique was vast and empty. A light drizzle began to fall, wetting the pavement like fevered perspiration. Gaslights illuminated the base of the monument, jarring in the darkness. The noise of a motorcar door being shut drifted out from behind the stone edifice. Someone was waiting there.

'Puce,' he whispered, 'can you sneak around, see who it is?'

The boy gave a brief nod and melted away into the damp night as though he had never existed.

Gui expelled a long breath, trying to peer closer without wanting to move. Was it Jeanne waiting, or someone else? Fear rose too easily from the surface of his skin and spread into the night like an infection. Footsteps were circling the base of the statue, booted feet, too heavy to belong to a woman.

Tripping in haste, he backed into the shadows of an adjacent alleyway, where he could observe the square unnoticed.

Whoever it is, they will have to pa.s.s under those lights, he thought to himself, wis.h.i.+ng that Puce would return, and then we shall see. He did not hear the movement behind him until it was too late.

The first blow was the worst. It floored him from the darkness, slamming into his skull. It struck again and he felt his flesh split, blood running hot over his scalp. His suitcase was lost as pain burst a dam behind his eyes. He brought his arms up in time to deflect a third blow, tried to call out, but a rag was stuffed into his mouth. It was soiled with tar and he gagged.

All around him were men, four, five, impossible to tell how many. He managed one look upward. Metal flashed: the sinews of his nose crunched as a cane drove into his face and retreated, slick with blood.

His arms were wrenched back, bound behind him with something heavy and leather. He twisted violently and was kicked in the stomach. It made him retch and he fought the nausea, terrified of choking on vomit behind the rag. Another foot was swinging towards him. Instinctively, he kicked out with both legs. Someone crashed to the ground and he felt a spike of victory.

He should try to get up, he knew, try to spit out the rag and yell, but the cane swung again at his skull; this time he rolled away, slamming into the s.h.i.+ns of an attacker.

He expected a reprisal, for a boot to drive into his back, but there was nothing.

'What the h.e.l.l?' barked a man under his breath, from further up the alley. 'What are you doing?'

'Found this gutter-rat in the shadows,' another voice answered. 'He was watching.'

'So?' The first voice sounded impatient. 'We ain't been paid for no kid. Just smack him and he'll be off soon enough.'

Gui heard m.u.f.fled cries, small boots kicking at the pavement. Puce, the thought emerged through the pain. No, please.

'Jesus, he's strong for a starved rat,' someone mumbled. Then came the sound of a heavy backhand connecting with skin. Puce fell into view, crying, his hands clapped to his face. Stop, Gui tried to choke, but all that came out was a whimper. As if that was his signal, Puce looked up under his lashes and nodded. His eyes were dry and calculating.

'Help!' he bawled, with more volume than Gui knew a small body could hold. 'Over here, help-'

The cry was cut off abruptly as hands seized the boy's throat and began to squeeze. He saw Puce's legs kicking. Words gone, Gui yelled, rolling back and forth in an attempt to reach the attacker. There was a cry of pain; small feet hit the ground already running, vanis.h.i.+ng into the darkness in a blink.

'Little rat bit me on the face!' a man swore. 'Went for my eye, like an animal!'

'Quiet!' the leader snarled again.

'h.e.l.lo?' A woman's voice rang out across the square, clear and fearless. 'Gui? Are you there?'

Jeanne. He twisted his head to an impossible angle, despite the agony in his skull, until he could see. Far beyond the end of the alleyway, Gui saw her run out from behind the monument, Patrice beside her.

She was dressed in a pale green travelling coat, her hair loose. The streetlight caught upon her face and in that moment she was so beautiful that he forgot everything else.

Then all around him men were swearing. He was being dragged away, the square receding, Jeanne and her light being swallowed by the dark. He fought with everything he possessed, until pain exploded at the back of his neck and he sank into blackness.

Chapter Forty-Two.

May 1988 The streets pa.s.s in a blur as I run towards the Opera district. Twice I cause traffic to screech to a halt, but I don't care. The taxis flying past me could be horse-drawn carriages; the whirr of a moped could be a motor car, rattling its way towards Ptisserie Clermont.

These are the roads my grandfather walked, with du Frere and Mademoiselle Clermont. If I run fast enough, it feels as though I could push through time and emerge into the troubled splendour of those years, to find the young man who would become J. G. Stevenson.

Gasping for breath, I slow to a halt in the middle of the thoroughfare. Stores selling cheap handbags and pharmacies with green neon crosses stretch down the street. The painted advertis.e.m.e.nts and grand facades of the belle epoque have vanished. That world is long gone, and so is he.

Then, on a corner of the grand boulevard, I see it: familiar ornate stonework over arched windows that once held a world of luxury. All that remains of Ptisserie Clermont. Slowly, I approach. It is now a shop, selling stationery. My reflection hovers above the shelves of pens as I stare in. I imagine my grandfather's eyes staring back.

An alleyway runs next to the shop. I am drawn down it, despite the waft of rubbish. On the wall halfway along is what looks like a bra.s.s plaque, scratched and damaged by men and time. It says something about deliveries, the letters faded against the pitted metal. There are stone steps leading to a back door, the ground littered with cigarette b.u.t.ts. Without knowing why, I sit and stare out onto the busy street.

A flash of colour attracts my attention. Opposite, beyond the trees that line the boulevard, is an illuminated sign. It advertises a hotel, the one the woman on the phone told me about.

The stairs to the reception are steep. I climb them cautiously, a hundred possible introductions running through my head. A strange sorrow mingles with anxiety and antic.i.p.ation. The receptionist tells me that they do indeed have a Monsieur du Frere checked in for the night and rings up to his room, but gets no answer. There is nothing I can do but wait.

The hotel lounge is empty, a clock ticking into the carpet. Large windows overlook the boulevard. For a long while I stare at the building that was Ptisserie Clermont, my imagination turning the shadows of the alleyway into lurking figures, making the trees younger, the streets emptier. Shoppers and tourists come and go. I write in my journal to pa.s.s the time. Afternoon breaks free, sliding towards the early-evening wasteland.

Then a taxi pulls up to the kerb. Two suited men are climbing out, laughing. One of them has dark, curling hair. I press myself to the window to watch as they walk into the hotel. Their voices drift towards me from the stairs.

I can't look around. Instead, I fix my gaze upon the table, hands clenched in my lap to hide their shaking. Footsteps cross the carpet. I hear the whisper of fabric and catch a breath of aftershave. I look up, into ice-blue eyes.

'You are looking for me?' the man says in polite confusion, extending a hand. 'I'm Guillaume du Frere.'

Chapter Forty-Three.

May 1910 It was the cold that woke him. Not biting and instant, but a deep, aching chill. Something was wrong. The memory of panic lingered in his mind, but all he could think of was the cold. It was insidious, crept into his clothes and skin. He twitched. Water sloshed; he was submerged to the waist.

Must get out. The thought surfaced and he clung to it. Must get out of the water. He tried to open his eyes. One obeyed, dried stuff cracking on his lashes. The other didn't. Light entered, grey and damp, but light all the same. Earth rose above his head on either side. He was in a ditch.

Must get out. The first turn of his head was like a split-second bellow and nearly sent him under again. Fraction by fraction he s.h.i.+fted himself onto his side. He paused for breath. Embedded in the mud was what looked like a tooth. He felt around his mouth with his tongue. There were gaps and the taste of blood.

Must get out. A handful of earth crumbled under his fingers. The second was firmer and held his weight. Another handful, another inch.

He worked his way up onto flat ground, his wet trousers clinging like huge, dead eels. Dry earth was a blessing. It was morning, he realized. Somewhere, the sun was rising on the fortunate. He must have blacked out then, for when he woke again there were noises, scurryings in the dirt.

He saw children, menacing beings in ragged clothes. They bared gap teeth when they saw him looking and gathered at his feet, making fast work of his laces. He tried to shout as they pulled the sodden boots from his feet, but all that came out was a strangled noise. The ratchets of pain came again and he rolled on his side to vomit, thin bile running free. The monstrous children ran off, jabbering like crows.

Hands were resting on his head, cool and steady. A woman's face, a scarf wrapped tight to her forehead. Her eyes were pale blue, like much-washed cotton. Jeanne, he thought and tried to speak, but the words were buried in pain. More hands lifted him; carried him to a wooden box lined with rags. It looked like a coffin. He struggled, to show them that he was alive. A marriage, not a funeral, he tried to tell the people surrounding him, but they clacked in strange voices that he didn't understand.

'What do they want?' he eventually heard someone ask from nearby.

'Blown if I know, they're speaking in slum talk,' a second voice answered.

'Don't you know any?'

'I am from Belleville, thank you very much.' It sounded like Puce. 'We'll have to use signs.'

He was trundling next, the broken ground like an anvil to his skull. He groaned.

'Sorry, Gui, only way,' Puce's voice told him. 'You'll have to hold on.'

A pinp.r.i.c.k on his arm, a wave of relief.

'Shouldn't move for at least a week,' a stranger was saying. 'The head must heal itself. I can see to the rest easy enough, but not that. Give him food when he wakes, whatever he'll take, and dose him up on this, morning and night.'

His nose came to life again before his eyes did. He smelled familiar perfume, felt a touch on his forehead.

'Isabelle?'

A hand was holding a cup to his lips; water mixed with something else, bitter and cloying. He coughed into it, like a horse at a trough, but it went down his throat. Nothingness arrived in the form of a leaden pillow.

Sometimes a hand covered his own. If he remembered, or could tear himself away from sleep, he squeezed it. He did not know to whom it belonged, for the skin was rough and callused.

The moment his bad eye opened along with the other took him by surprise. For a long minute, he concentrated on blinking it clear, looking at a beam of sunlight that painted the wall.

He was in bed, in his room in Belleville. It was hot. He kicked at the blankets, but all his leg did was jerk. He tried again and managed to flip a corner back. The effort exhausted him. Nearby, someone was sitting on a stool, thumbing through a newspaper.

'Nicolas?' he croaked incredulously.

His friend looked up sharply, almost fell over in his haste to kneel beside the bed.

'Gui! You're awake, how do you feel?'

Gui made to sit up, but his friend pressed him down. The face from the previous winter was broader than he remembered, crisped and browned by the sun. Not a boy any more.

'You mustn't move yet,' Nicolas told him, settling on the edge of the bed. 'Doctor's orders.'

The words took a while to process in Gui's brain. He was weak and trembling, head in a fog.

'Where's Jeanne?'

'She's fine,' Nicolas soothed. 'Here, you have to drink this, the doctor said it would help you get better.'

'I have to tell Jeanne about-' Gui frowned. He could recall walking to the square with Puce, but not what came after. 'I have to see her.'

'I know. Now drink this and stop grousing.'

His friend's southern accent was so comforting he could cry. The bitter liquid stuck in his throat again, but he swallowed, and slept.

The next time he woke up, Puce was there. Gui was propped up in bed, given a bowl of broth. As he ate shakily, Puce helped to fill in the missing pieces of his memory.

'That attack was arranged,' the boy said, accepting a biscuit from Isabelle. 'Those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds were hired thugs, and they had their orders, clear 'nough.'

'But who from?' Gui laid down the spoon. He had barely managed two mouthfuls. 'No one else knew about it, save for you and Jeanne and Patrice.'

Abruptly, a memory returned, of trying to explain, of hopelessness and hurt and the taste of brandy.

'Jim,' he whispered, resting his head against the wall. 'I told Jim.'