Rooftoppers

by Katherine Rundell

  “No, Sophie.”

  “But—”

  “No. I am not having you caught. You’re not going anywhere near the place. Don’t even think of it.”

  “But we’re not actually going to go back to England, are we.” It was not a question. “I won’t. I can’t. Not when we might be so close.”

  “Of course not. But, Sophie—and I do mean this—you will have to stay inside the hotel.”

  “But you can’t do it without me—”

  “I can. You will have to trust me to go on without you.”

  “But then how will I be able to help? You have to let me help! What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to get a lawyer, Sophie.”

  “What kind of lawyer?”

  “The best we can afford. Which isn’t terribly good, I’m afraid. And I’ll lurk in some of these bars, and see if I can pick up any gossip.”

  “About my mother? About Vivienne?”

  “About cellists of any kind, I think.”

  “Oh.” Sophie was skeptical about lawyers in general, but Charles looked so determined and his eyes were so kind that she couldn’t bear to tell him so. Instead she said, “But if I could just get into the archive—”

  “No. There’s a guard on every floor. You saw the one outside the commissioner’s office?”

  “Yes. But what if the archive—”

  “The guard was built like a rhinoceros. There are men like him on every floor.” Charles glared into the sun. “In fact, Sophie, I need you to keep away from the other hotel guests. Don’t even open the door to your room.”

  “Fine,” she said. She wasn’t lying, she told herself. “I won’t even open the door.”

  He looked at her, and she looked back, innocent-eyed.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I know it’s stuffy in there. I’ll bring you some good books.”

  Sophie said nothing, but the flickering in her chest did not go away. Never, she thought, ignore a possible.

  15

  THAT NIGHT, SOPHIE said good night to Charles early, and clambered onto the rooftops the moment the sun had begun to set.

  She sat against a chimney pot and waited for it to become properly dark. While she waited, she tucked her knees under her chin and tried to muster her options.

  She was surprised to find that giving up was not one of them. It was odd. She wasn’t, as far as she knew, brave. She was afraid of deep water and large crowds, and cockroaches. And when she thought of being caught and taken back to England, she felt physically sick with dread. And yet giving up felt as impossible as flying. Her mother felt so much more real here. She could almost smell her; she would smell, Sophie felt sure, of roses, and resin. She felt just around the corner.

  Sophie got to her feet. Sophie had not thought she had a plan, but she acted purposefully, as if she had planned it all along. She pulled off her shoes and held them in her teeth. Then she headed north, in the direction of the boy.

  After twenty minutes, she squatted on her heels and fished the lace from one of her shoes. She tied it round the chimney pot. She wanted him to know that she was not afraid to leave her own rooftop. At each new roof Sophie tied something to the chimney pot: first her other shoelace, and then her stockings and two hair ribbons, all of which were easy to tie; and then her handkerchief, which was not quite large enough, and kept coming undone at the top. At the eighth rooftop, she wound her dressing gown round the chimney. It was gray with much washing, and she was not sorry to part with it.

  At the ninth rooftop, Sophie came to a halt. She stood on one leg. There was a gap, as long as an ironing board, between her rooftop and the next. It’s not far, she told herself. She would almost certainly make it. But, somehow, she couldn’t persuade her feet to agree.

  Sophie hesitated. Then she tugged off her nightdress and threw it onto the rooftop. There was one second when she thought it was going to drop straight down the chimney. Instead it landed neatly on the edge and lay there, its arm waving in the breeze, as if it were saluting the dark.

  Then Sophie turned and ran, as swiftly as she dared, dressed only in her underpants and with her shoes in her mouth and her arms out for balance, back along the slate, back along the tip-tops of the city, over the heads of a hundred dreaming Frenchmen, and back to bed.

  Matteo appeared the next night, carrying her nightdress and stockings. He came at the stroke of midnight, under cover of the chiming clocks. Sophie didn’t wake until he was standing three inches from her face.

  “My God!” she said. “You startled me.”

  “I know.” He dumped the clothes onto her bed. “I kept the dressing gown,” he said. “I wanted it.” He sat on the edge of her bed. “You might as well explain,” he said.

  Sophie said, “Do you swear not to tell anybody?”

  “No,” said the boy.

  Nobody ever said no. Sophie stared. “You don’t?”

  “I never swear anything. Tell me anyway.”

  Sophie bit her lip, but the boy looked fearless. Fearless people are not usually telltales.

  “If you tell on me,” she said, “I’ll come after you. Remember, I’m not frightened of rooftops.”

  She told him everything. She started with the Queen Mary, and worked through Miss Eliot and Charles, and her cello, and finished here, in Paris, amongst the chimney pots. “And the thing is, it feels like I’ve been here before,” she finished.

  “In Paris?”

  “In Paris, and on the rooftops. But it’s so difficult,” she said. “Charles tries, but he’s just one person. And nobody else will help me.”

  “Is that a request?”

  She looked at the boy. He seemed to be wearing two pairs of shorts, one on top of the other. The red pair on top was missing half the left leg, and the blue pair showed through. Together they just about made up one pair of shorts. His jersey was threadbare, but his face, she thought, was not. His face was sharp and clever.

  She said, “Yes. It is.”

  “Do you have a plan?”

  “Of course. I’m going to make posters. And, there’s the lawyers.”

  Matteo snorted. “They won’t help you.”

  “Yes, they will! Why would you say that?”

  “You might find one, I suppose. But I don’t think anyone will take on the commissioner of police. All the lawyers in Paris are corrupt, and most of the policemen.”

  “How do you know?” Sophie’s heart felt suddenly gray. “You can’t know that! Someone’s got to help! It’s wildly important.”

  “I listen to people all day. I live on top of the law courts, so I do know.”

  “But you can’t hear anything from a rooftop!”

  “I can. Where I live, I can hear half of the city. It’s like a wind tunnel; I can hear all the music in Paris, and all the horses, and all the crime.”

  Sophie froze. “You can hear all the music?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “What music do you hear?”

  “All sorts. Women singing, mostly. And men with guitars, and the soldiers’ band.”

  “Do you hear cello music? Do you hear Fauré’s Requiem?”

  “I wouldn’t recognize a requiem,” said Matteo. “What is it? It sounds like a skin infection.”

  “I can play it for you.” Sophie leapt up to fetch her cello. Then she hesitated. “If I play now, people will hear. They might come up and find you.”

  “Come outside, then. I’ll go first and you can pass up your . . . ‘Cello’ is the word, yes?”

  Outside, she sat on the chimney pot and set her cello between her legs. She knew the Requiem, but she had never played it double time.

  “It won’t be perfect, all right? But I think it was something like this. Listen carefully, all right? And tell me if you’ve ever heard it.” Sophie stumbled over the fingering, but she thought it sounded at least something like the magic Monsieur Esteoule had played. When she had finished, Matteo shrugged.

  “Possibly.”

  “
Possibly what?”

  “Possibly I’ve heard it. What did you say?”

  “Nothing.” In fact she had whispered, “Never ignore a possible.” But she hadn’t meant him to hear.

  He said, “I’m not good at music. Unless it’s birds. You’d have to come and listen yourself.”

  “Can I? Really? When?”

  He snorted again. “Whenever you like. I don’t have a busy diary.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “D’accord.”

  “I don’t speak French.” But his face had seemed to say, Yes.

  “I said, ‘Fine.’ I’ll come and fetch you.”

  “At midnight?” she asked. It had begun to rain. Matteo ignored it.

  “Non. It’s not dark enough at midnight. Two thirty. Don’t fall asleep. And wear something warm. It can be windy, up high.”

  “Yes, of course!” The rain grew heavier. “Wait a second. Rain isn’t good for the wood.” Sophie lowered her cello back into her bedroom. When she turned back, Matteo had vanished.

  Back inside, Sophie pulled the window shut, and huddled into the warm patch in her bed, but she did not fall asleep again until dawn. She lay listening to the rain blowing against the glass. Her heart was dancing double time.

  16

  IF SHE HAD Obeyed Charles and stayed in her room all day and all night, Sophie would, she thought, have gone straightforwardly crazy. She tried to reassure herself that she was not breaking any rules. She was not opening the door to her bedroom. The thought of the rooftops kept her steady during the day. Sophie counted the hours until sunset.

  By nightfall it had grown cold, and Sophie put on her two pairs of stockings under her nightdress. She hadn’t packed enough warm clothes, so she pulled the pillowcases off the pillows and knotted them together to make a scarf. It felt limp and not entirely comfortable, but she thought it was preferable to nothing. Then she got into bed and wedged her hairbrush behind her neck so she wouldn’t fall asleep, and waited.

  Matteo arrived as the clocks struck the half hour. He knocked on the skylight, and then stood impatiently flicking pebbles down into her room until she climbed out.

  “Hello,” said Sophie. “Bonsoir.”

  “Oui, bonsoir.” He wore a pack on his back, and his shorts had been swapped for a pair of trousers. They looked like they had been in a fight, and lost. He said, “You’re learning French?”

  “A little.” Sophie flushed. “It’s not easy.”

  “Yes, it is. I know dogs that speak French. I know pigeons.”

  “That’s different.”

  “How? How is it different?”

  “Well, I’m not a pigeon.” A thought struck her. “How long did it take you to learn English? Do all French people speak it like you do?”

  “Je ne sais pas. I always knew it, a little. There’s a bar where the English diplomats go. It has a courtyard. I can hear them speaking from my rooftop. And I learned to read it while I was in—” He stopped.

  “While you were where?”

  “In an orphanage.” He shook his head, as if clearing water from his ears, and changed the subject. “Listen—I meant to ask—where I live is one of the tallest buildings in Paris. Are you afraid of heights?”

  “No, I don’t think so. I mean, I’m up here, aren’t I?”

  “This isn’t high! This is practically pavement. I mean, are you good with real heights?”

  “I’m not bad,” said Sophie. She cast her eyes down at the slate.

  “Oh.”

  “Quite good, I think.”

  “Then you can’t come. Quite good isn’t good enough. Sorry.” He turned to go.

  “Wait! I was being modest!”

  “But you just said—”

  “I’m very good,” said Sophie. “I’m brilliant at them.” Matteo was obviously not the sort of boy who understood modesty, and she could not risk being left behind. “Brilliant,” she said again.

  “You shouldn’t say what you don’t mean, then. Are you ready?”

  “Yes.” It seemed wise to change the subject. “Whereabouts do you live?” said Sophie. “Near here?”

  “Yes. But not on this street. This street is too poor.”

  “Is it? Oh.” It looked quite grand, to Sophie, with its tall lampposts and elegant thin streets. “Why does that matter, anyway?” She looked at his clothes, and at the mud clinging to the tips of his hair at the front. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d be a snob.”

  “Lots of reasons.” Matteo looked haughty.

  “Like what, though? Please? I’m curious.”

  “Poor buildings are usually pointed; rich buildings are usually flat. Pointed roofs are no good. Poor buildings are . . . unpredictable. You can’t be sure if you’re going to put your foot through the slate. And they’re too low. In the . . . ach, banlieue . . . the suburbs, I think you say? Where there are just houses—no offices, no churches? I never go there—the buildings are too low.”

  “Really? Always?”

  “Almost always. It’s like people: rich buildings are tall, poor buildings are stunted.”

  “Why does that matter?”

  “Why do you think?”

  Sophie stared out across the rooftops. “Because with small buildings they can see you from the street?”

  “Oui. Otherwise, I can go almost everywhere. At night. Never during the day.”

  “Do you go to the parks?” It’s what I would do, she thought, if I could.

  “Non. Of course not.”

  “Why not? It would be wonderful to have a park to yourself. And there’d probably be food.”

  “I never go on the ground. Not for years. You can’t get trapped on a rooftop.”

  Sophie blinked. “Never?” It sounded impossible. “But what if you need to cross a road? Between rooftops?”

  “I go by trees. Or on top of the lampposts.”

  “And you never just . . . cross a road?”

  “Non.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s dangerous,” he said.

  “Oh . . .” Matteo’s voice was sounding increasingly curt. But she couldn’t hold back. “You know, most people would say it’s the other way around.”

  “Most people are stupid. It’s easy to be caught on the ground. Everyone gets caught.”

  “Caught?” Sophie tried to decipher his face in the darkness. He looked serious. “Is somebody looking for you?”

  Matteo ignored that. “So, you want to see where I live, or no?”

  “Yes! Now?”

  “Now!” And without looking behind to see if she was following, Matteo took off.

  When Matteo was standing still, he was quite an unusual-looking person. When he moved, he was astonishing. He seemed made of India rubber. He ran low, and used his hands as though they were extra feet. She followed as quietly and quickly as she could, tripping over the rough slate. Quite a lot of the skin of her knees got left behind.

  Matteo ran for ten minutes, and Sophie followed, balancing along the tips of slanted rooftops, sprinting along the flat ones, and jumping the small gaps between them. Twice, as the buildings grew taller, Matteo showed her how to clamber up a length of drainpipe to reach the next roof.

  “The thing about drainpipes,” he said, hanging upside down from one of them, “is that you mustn’t put your foot through a window while you’re pulling yourself up. People tend to notice that.”

  Sophie tackled the drainpipes without talking. Her nails scraped against the metal horribly, but otherwise they were not so different from trees. When she thumped down onto the slate beside Matteo, he nodded. He almost smiled. “Not bad,” he said. “Next time, keep your knees in. It makes it easier to grip. But that was good. At least, good-ish.”

  Sophie flushed with pleasure. Matteo ran on. Below their feet, Paris slept.

  They were reaching an area full of flags and vast solemn-looking buildings. As the rooftops got wider and larger, Matteo went faster. Once, on the fiddly roof of some kind of chapel, Sophie stumbled
, and her stomach inverted. She clutched the cross for balance, and stopped to catch her breath.

  The wind was high, and across the road, a shadow was swinging by its knees from the top of the lamppost.

  Sophie saw it. She definitely saw it. But by the time she had untangled her hair from her face and could see again, the girl had gone.

  It took her a few minutes to catch up with Matteo. “Matteo! Did you see her? The girl? Who was it?”

  “I didn’t see it. It will have been just nothing. A paper bag.”

  “It was bigger than a paper bag. It was a girl!”

  “A broken kite, maybe. A pillowcase. Come on.” He cracked his knuckles, and ran on.

  It was ten minutes before Matteo again stopped. They were a jump across from a tall, curved rooftop. It gleamed greenish in the moonlight.

  “Stay there.” Matteo jumped, then bent and rapped lightly on the rooftop. It echoed. “Copper,” he said. “Take off your shoes before you come. Jump as softly as you can.”

  Sophie pulled off her shoes. “What shall I do with them?”

  “Here; throw your shoes to me. Ach, I hate copper.”

  Sophie did so. Thank goodness, she thought, that Charles had taught her to throw.

  “What’s the worst kind of rooftop?” she asked. “Is it copper?”

  “Non. Stone tiles—the old ones, from the old days. They’re quieter than copper, but too easy to . . . What’s the word? Topple?”

  “Dislodge?” Sophie held her breath and eyed the gap. It was no wider than the length of her arm, but even so it made her shiver. She jumped, and landed messily, but leapt straight to her feet.

  “Maybe. Yes, ‘dislodge.’ And flat rooftops are best.” He handed back her shoes. “Anything with big slabs is good. Stone, or slate, or metal.”

  “Right. Like on the Hotel Bost?”

  “Yes. And on most state buildings; you know, hospitals, prisons. Theatres are good. And cathedrals. But anything four floors or under is too low to sleep on. They can see you from the street if you roll too near the edge. Wait, don’t put your shoes back on. Tie them round your waist.”

  “All right.” Sophie wound her shoelaces round her waist. “Why, though?” She arranged the shoes carefully, so that one hung over each hip.