by John Boyne
‘Sir,’ I said quickly, stepping forward a little, anxious that he should not dismiss me from my position, which would have been one further blow during an already difficult time. ‘Sir, all I can do is apologize for how unreliable I have been of late, but I really do think that the worst is over now. Zoya is back on her feet, she’s returning to work herself on Monday. If you could see your way to giving me another chance, I promise that I will give you no cause to reprimand me again.’
He glared at me and looked away for a moment, nibbling at his lower lip with his front teeth, a habit he always indulged in when faced with a difficult decision. I could tell that his instinct was to fire me, that it had even been his intention to do so, but my words were winning him over and he was wavering in his final judgement.
‘You will agree, sir,’ I added, ‘that I have been entirely reliable to you over the last three years of my employment?’
‘You’ve been an excellent assistant, Jachmenev,’ he replied in frustration. ‘That’s why this whole matter has been so disappointing to me. I’ve spoken very highly of you to friends of mine, you know, other businessmen here in Paris. Men who have a very low opinion of Russian émigrés in general, I might add. Men who see the lot of you as revolutionaries and trouble-makers. I’ve told them that you have proved yourself to be one of the most reliable workers I have ever had the good fortune to employ. I don’t want to let you go, young man, but if I am to keep you on—’
‘Then you will have my absolute assurance, sir,’ I said, ‘that I will be here on time every morning and will remain at my post throughout the day. One more chance, Monsieur Ferré, that’s all I ask. I promise you will have no cause to regret your decision.’
He thought about it a little more, before wagging his fat little finger at me. ‘One more chance, Jachmenev, that is all. You understand me?’
‘I do, sir.’
‘I have every sympathy for you and your wife, it’s a terrible thing you’ve been through, but that’s neither here nor there. If you give me any reason to speak to you like this again, then that will be the end of things between us. In the meantime, you can work a few extra hours tonight to make up the time. Some of these shelves are a disgrace. I walked around earlier and noticed the alphabetical system has collapsed almost entirely. I could find nothing I was looking for.’
‘Yes, sir,’ I said, bowing my head slightly, an old habit which I had yet to lose when faced with a figure of authority. ‘I’ll be happy to sort things out. And thank you. For the second chance, I mean.’
He nodded and I turned back to my work in relief, for the job at the bookshop was an enjoyable one and I found it stimulating to be surrounded by so much scholarship and erudition. More importantly, however, I could not afford to lose the small income that it provided us with. What little savings we had built up since our arrival in Paris more than three years before had been reduced considerably by medical expenses over the previous five weeks, since Zoya’s miscarriage, not to mention the temporary loss of our second income, and I dreaded to think what might become of us if I was dismissed from my position. I resolved to give Monsieur Ferré no further cause to think badly of me.
The first I knew of Leo’s arrest was when Zoya appeared, ashen-faced, in the bookshop late one afternoon in November, when the weather had turned bracingly cold and the trees were already denuded of their leaves. I was standing behind the counter, examining a series of anatomical textbooks that Monsieur Ferré had inexplicably purchased at auction a few days before, when the small bell above the door rang and I instinctively shuddered, waiting for the icy breeze to blow through the shop and nip at my ears and nose. Looking up, I was surprised to see my wife stepping towards me, her coat wrapped tightly around her body, a scarf she had knitted herself hanging loosely around her neck.
‘Zoya,’ I said, relieved that my employer had gone home for the day, for he would not have been happy to see me receiving personal visitors. ‘What’s the matter? You’re as white as a ghost.’
She shook her head, hesitating for a moment as she recovered her breath, and my mind swam with the possibilities of what could be wrong. It was almost three months now since she had lost the baby and although her spirits were still low, she had started to find happiness in our daily lives once again. Only a few nights earlier, we had made love for the first time since our loss; it had been gentle and affectionate and I had held her in my arms afterwards, where she had remained perfectly still, looking up to kiss me tenderly from time to time, the tears finally coming to an end, replaced by the promise of hope. I dreaded to think that she had become ill once more, but seeing me staring at her in increasing panic she dismissed my worries quickly.
‘It’s not me,’ she said. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Thank God,’ I replied. ‘But you look so distressed. What can have—?’
‘It’s Leo,’ she said. ‘He’s been arrested.’
I opened my eyes wide in surprise but couldn’t prevent a smile from passing across my face, wondering what fresh trouble our dear friend had managed to involve himself in now, for he was no stranger to drama or excitement. ‘Arrested?’ I asked. ‘But why? What on earth has he done?’
‘It’s beyond belief,’ she said, and I could tell by the look on her face that this was a much more serious matter than I had originally thought. ‘Georgy, he has killed a gendarme.’
My mouth fell open and I felt my head grow a little dizzy at the words. Leo and his girlfriend Sophie were our two closest friends in Paris, the first companions we had found there. We had shared countless dinners with them, got drunk on too many occasions, laughed and joked and, above all, argued about politics. Leo was a dreamer, an idealist, a romantic, a revolutionary; he could be witty and frustrating, passionate and irritable, flirtatious and generous. There was no end of adjectives to describe this extraordinary man, no shortage of occasions when Zoya and I had left his company half in love with him or swearing that we would never see him again. He was everything that youth was about: a man of poetry, art, ambition and determination. But he was not a murderer. He had not a single strain of violence in him whatsoever.
‘But it’s not possible,’ I said, staring at her in amazement. ‘There must be some mistake.’
‘There are witnesses,’ she said, sitting down now and burying her face in her hands. ‘Quite a few, it would seem. I don’t know exactly what happened. Only that he is being held in the gendarmerie and there is no possibility of his being released.’
I steadied myself against the counter and considered this quietly for a few moments. It was almost impossible to believe. The idea of such violence was repugnant to me and, I was sure, to him also. He preached a gospel of pacifism and understanding, even if his revolutionary ideas sometimes allowed him to get carried away with historical precedents of proletarian savagery. I was sure that I had left such things behind me in another place, another country.
‘Tell me what happened,’ I said. ‘Tell me everything you know.’
‘I know very little,’ she replied, the catch in her voice implying that she too had hoped that events like this would no longer be part of our lives. ‘It was only an hour ago. Sophie and I were at work as usual, we were completing two dresses that needed to be ready by the end of the day, stitching a lace trim to attach to the collars, when a man entered the shop, very tall, very serious. I didn’t know what to think when I saw him first. We can go a whole month sometimes, Georgy, and never see a man walk through our doors at all. I’m ashamed to admit it, but when I saw him, when I noticed the seriousness of his expression, the determination of his glance, I thought … I thought for a moment …’
‘That we had been discovered?’
She nodded, but said nothing more of this for now. ’I stared at him in surprise, and started to ask whether we could help him with something, but he simply pointed a finger at my face, so high that it reminded me of a gun, and I thought for a moment that I was going to faint.
’“Sophie Tambleau?” he a
sked, looking across at me, and I said nothing for a moment, so unnerved was I by the situation. “Are you Sophie Tambleau?” he repeated, and before I could say anything, Sophie herself came forward, a blend of curiosity and concern upon her face.
’“I’m Sophie Tambleau,” she said. “How can I help you?”
’“You can’t,” he replied. “I’ve been sent with a message for you, that’s all.”
’“A message?” she asked, laughing a little and looking at me. I started to smile too in relief, but the situation was extraordinary. Who ever sent messages to us?
’“You are the common-law wife of Leo Raymer?” Sophie shrugged. Of course the phrase was farcical, but she nodded and admitted that she was. “Monsieur Raymer is being held at the gendarmerie on the Rue de Clignancourt. He has been arrested.”
‘ “Arrested?” she cried and the man said yes, that he had killed a gendarme earlier that afternoon and that he had been taken into custody awaiting trial and had asked that someone get a message to Sophie to tell her of what had taken place.’
‘But Leo!’ I asked, amazed by what she was telling me. ‘Our Leo? How on earth could he have killed someone? Why would he do such a thing?’
‘I don’t know, Georgy,’ she said, standing up now and pacing the floor in frustration. ‘I don’t know anything other than what I’ve just told you. Sophie’s gone directly to see him. I said that I would come and find you and that we would follow her there. That was all right, wasn’t it?’
‘Of course,’ I said, reaching for the shop keys, ignoring the fact that I was not due to close the store for another hour at least. ‘Of course we must go, our friends are in trouble.’
We stepped out into the street and I locked the door behind me, cursing myself for forgetting my gloves that morning as the wind was so strong that I could feel my cheeks growing pink with the cold after only a few moments. As we made our way quickly down the street, my thoughts were almost entirely with my dear friend, locked in a cell somewhere for a horrible crime; but still, I could not help but feel as relieved as Zoya had been that it was Sophie whom the gentleman had come looking for, and not us.
It had only been four years since we had left Russia. I still believed that one day, they would catch up with us.
We were not allowed to visit Leo, nor would any of the gendarmes tell us anything about the circumstances which had led to his incarceration. The elderly desk sergeant looked at me with utter disdain when he heard my accent and seemed loath to answer any of my questions, simply grunting and shrugging his shoulders at every enquiry I made, as if it was beneath his dignity to answer me. It was rare for either Zoya or me to encounter any racially motivated hostility within the city – after all, the war had seen to it that Paris was filled with people of all nationalities – but from time to time a certain resentment was evident in those elderly French citizens who did not like the fact that their capital had been invaded by so many exiled Europeans and Russians.
‘You’re not family,’ the sergeant said, barely glancing up at me as he spoke, but continuing to fill in the letters of his crossword. ‘I can tell you nothing.’
‘But we are friends,’ I protested. ‘Monsieur Raymer was a witness at my wedding. Our wives work together. Surely you can—’ At that moment, a door opened to my left and Sophie emerged, white-faced, desperately trying to stem her tears, followed by another gendarme. She seemed surprised to see us waiting for her, but grateful, and attempted a brief smile before walking towards the door.
‘Sophie,’ said Zoya, following her as she stepped outside into the darkness; night had fallen and mercifully the wind had diminished. ‘Sophie, what’s going on? What’s happened? Where is Leo?’
She shook her head as if she could scarcely find the words to explain what had taken place, so we led her across the street to a nearby café, where we ordered three coffees and she finally summoned the strength to recount what she had been told.
‘It’s the most ridiculous thing,’ she said. ‘An accident, that’s all. A stupid accident. But they say that because it was a gendarme who was killed—’
‘Killed?’ I asked, struck by the brutality of the word, its sharp unpleasant sound. ‘By Leo? But it’s impossible! Tell me what happened exactly.’
‘He went out this morning as usual,’ she began with a sigh, as if she could not believe that a day that had begun in so banal a fashion could end so dramatically. ‘He left the flat early, hoping to get a good position for his easel. With this terrible weather, there have been fewer opportunities for portrait painters. Most people don’t want to sit on a chair in a windy street for thirty minutes while he captures their likeness. He went towards Sacré-Coeur, where there were sure to be many tourists. We have been struggling a little for money lately,’ she admitted. ‘Not enough to worry unnecessarily, you understand, but we couldn’t afford to lose a day’s pay. It’s been difficult.’
‘It’s difficult for everyone,’ I said quietly. ‘But you could have always come to us if you needed help, you know that, don’t you?’ It was wrong of me to say this. The truth was that if Leo or Sophie had asked Zoya or me for assistance, we would not have been in a position to offer any. Suggesting otherwise was an arrogance that was unworthy of me. Zoya knew as much and glanced in my direction, frowning a little, and I bowed my head, embarrassed by my bravado.
‘It’s kind of you to say that, Georgy,’ said Sophie, who most likely knew very well that our financial position mirrored their own almost exactly. ‘But we hadn’t quite got to the point where we needed to rely on the charity of our friends.’
‘Leo,’ said Zoya softly, reaching across and placing her hand flat on Sophie’s own hand, which had begun to tremble slightly even as we sat there. ‘Tell us about Leo.’
‘There were more people at Sacré-Coeur than he might have expected,’ she continued. ‘Quite a few of the artists had set up their easels and everyone was trying to persuade a tourist into sitting for them. There was an old lady sitting on the grass, feeding the birds—’
‘In this weather?’ I asked, surprised. ‘She would freeze to death.’
‘You know how resilient these old crones are,’ she replied with a shrug. ‘They sit there, summer and winter, rain or shine. They don’t care about the weather.’
It was true. I had observed on more than one occasion the number of elderly Parisians who spent their mornings and afternoons sitting along the grassy banks in front of the Basilica, scattering stale bread for the birds to eat. It was as if they believed that without their help, the avian world would face extinction. On one occasion not three weeks before, I had watched a man of perhaps eighty years of age, a wizened old creature whose face was a patchwork of lines and wrinkles and creases, sitting with his arms outstretched while a group of birds settled upon him. I sat there, staring at him for almost an hour, and during all that time he remained utterly motionless; had his arms not been extended as they were, I would have taken him for a corpse.
‘Another artist,’ continued Sophie, ‘somebody new to Paris, someone Leo had never met before, arrived and decided that he wanted to position himself exactly where this old woman was seated. He asked her to move; she said no. He told her he wanted to paint there; she told him to go and soak his head. There were harsh words, I think, and then this man reached down and attempted to lift the woman from her rightful place, dragging her to her feet, ignoring her cries of protest.’
‘Where was he from?’ asked Zoya, and I looked at her, surprised by the question. I suspect she was hoping that he did not hail from our own country.
‘Spain, Leo thinks,’ she replied. ‘Or Portugal, perhaps. Anyway, he saw this sacrilege taking place and you know what Leo is like, he cannot bear to witness such a lack of courtesy.’
It was true. Leo was notorious for tipping his cap at elderly women on the street, charming them with his wide smile and friendly airs. He held out seats for them at cafés and assisted them with their bags when they were walking in the same direction
as he was. He saw himself as a representative of the ancient order of chivalry, one of the last men in 1920s Paris who subscribed to that antique society.
’He went over and grabbed the Spaniard, twisting him around and remonstrating with him for his treatment of the woman. A fight broke out, of course. There was pushing and shoving and name-calling – who knows what level of childishness. And they were very loud. Leo was shouting at the top of his voice, calling his opponent every name that he could think of, and from what I am told, the Spaniard gave as good as he got. Things were about to turn even nastier when they were interrupted by a gendarme, who separated them, an action which caused Leo to grow even angrier.
He accused the young policeman of siding with a foreigner against one of his own countrymen and a dispute broke out over that remark. And you know what he’s like when he’s confronted by authority. I daresay he lashed out, started spouting his opinions about les gardiens de la paix, and before anyone could take control of the situation, Leo had punched both the Spaniard in the nose and the gendarme in the face, one after the other.’
‘Good God,’ I said, trying to imagine his clenched fist smashing into the snout of one man and then pulling back, preparing to strike the other. Leo was a strong fellow; I would not have wanted to be the recipient of either of those blows.
‘Of course, after he did that,’ said Sophie, ‘the gendarme had no choice but to arrest him, but Leo tried to get away from him, perhaps to make a run for it, by pushing him to one side. Unfortunately, the young policeman slipped as he was pushed and lost his footing on the steps. A moment later he had tumbled down fifteen, twenty steps to the next break in the staircase, and he landed heavily, cracking his skull against the stone. By the time Leo ran down to assist him, his eyes were already focussed on the heavens. He was dead.’
