When Nico was only six years old, a man had come to his Italian village, offering to teach the skills of a musician to young boys and girls. Nico’s father signed a contract with the man and told his son that he would be coming home in a few years, after he earned enough to pay for his training. Nico was sent to Marseilles where another padrone took over, teaching him to beg and to play the violin. If he didn’t make enough money by the end of the day, he was beaten and not given his dinner. Eventually the padrone taught him the concertina. As Nicoletto, he became somewhat famous in the streets and parks of the port city, and made a great deal of money for the padrone. But the beatings did not stop, so he ran away. “Like you,” Nico said to Maura, “I had to run. I was twelve.”
“Did you ever get to go home?”
“No, I never saw my mother or father again.”
“That’s what my father used to say,” she whispered. “He was abandoned in Paris because they said he was getting too old and too big to beg.” She stared at the rag-covered ceiling, wondering if her father had ever found his way back to his native village.
“A man who had often brought his children to see me play,” Nico continued, “found me wandering in the streets. When I told him that I was afraid of being caught, he took me with him on a trip to Paris and asked his brother, who ran a restaurant, to take me in. For years, I was afraid to show my face. I worked hard in the kitchen, washing and cleaning. It was the kindness of these two men that saved me.”
“Then what happened, how—”
The sigh was even heavier than before.
“Gradually I learned to cook, and one day when I was sent to buy meat, I met my sweet, dear Jeanne. I thought my loneliness was over. She owned a shop. We sold beautiful sausages hanging from the ceiling. She taught me to make them. She was so kind. She liked to laugh. But she got a cancer. Oh, how my dear one suffered! After she died, her relatives took back the shop and told me to leave. I called her my wife, because she was my love for many years, but we never married, never had children. And in the end, I was only an old Italian who no one wanted.”
Maura rolled over. She shouldn’t have asked him to tell his story. She already knew how unfair life was. Pyotr and Angela were dead, and everyone thought that they were violent criminals.
“Maura? Maurina?”
“Yes.”
“I do still have my concertina. I used to play it for my Jeanne. It made her happy. I can play it for you tomorrow.”
“All right,” she said, although she wasn’t sure what tomorrow meant in the world of night-time ragpicking. Was it when they woke at dusk or when they went to bed in the daytime? A piece of straw poked through a rag and tickled her nose. She brushed it aside as she tried not to think about Nico’s story. Part of him was happy, she told herself, the part that loved the patches of beauty that he wove into his tattered life: music, color, the vineyard, the well, a fresh egg or two every week. She could feel from the way he talked to her that, because she was a companion, because he thought of her as someone like the boy he had been, a young person in need, she, too, brought him some happiness. Comforted by that thought, she closed her eyes, determined to stay at least for a while.
The next day their collections were even sparser. Unable to bear seeing Nico humiliated again, Maura offered one of the treasures she had brought from home, her hair to sell to a wigmaker. At first he refused, but Maura insisted. Yet even this bounty provoked a reproof from the harridan. “At last,” Mme Florent said, as she held up the little string bag bursting with Maura’s black curls, “something worth buying. Too bad I can’t give the old limper a full price, since I’ve been giving him charity for months.” And with that, to laughs of derision from her helpers, she dismissed him with a ten sous, only half a franc.
Maura was fuming. She knew the hair must be worth much more, a good meal for the two of them at the very least. If she could, she would have snatched it back. Instead, she grabbed Nico’s basket, strapped it on her shoulders, and hurried through the crowded ragpickers’ neighborhood. She pushed her way through the street as men, women and children scurried over the mounds in front of their doors like a colony of ants, gathering scraps for their bedtime meal. By the time Nico caught up with her, she had pulled up the bucket of water from the vineyard’s well, and was washing her hands and face.
“I’m sorry about your beautiful hair,” he said, putting a gentle hand on her shoulder.
“I thought at least we could get something good to eat.” She had squandered part of herself. It was silly, but she was almost in tears because they had sold her hair for a pittance.
“We will eat well today,” Nico assured her. “Today is the day of the anarchists’ soup kitchen.”
“I don’t care.”
“It will make you feel better.” His cloudy, dark brown eyes grew large as he tried to convince her. “They sing and make good speeches. They say that everyone should eat well and be free, that we don’t need governments or churches to tell us what to do. They say all work has dignity, even this, as long as we help each other.”
“I know that!” Hadn’t she told him about Pyotr?
“Come,” he urged. “You know I like to wander a bit and think of different things.”
“Like a better world?” she asked sarcastically. When was that going to happen?
“Yes, Maurina, a better world. Come, my child. You’ll feel happier.”
If she hadn’t been so hungry, she would have never agreed. But, then, she would have never found a way to tell the truth about Pyotr and Angela.
The anarchists distributed soup in a dusty field which lay somewhere between the ragpickers’ quartier and Nico’s territory. As Maura and Nico, empty tin bowls in hand, lined up for their soup, a man accompanied by an organ grinder sang revolutionary songs. They were meant to inspire, but Maura tried to ignore the music until she heard the words “She was young and beautiful. He was strong and full of worth. Everyone remembers them. The Fiancés of the North.” She liked the words and the melody.
“Do you know that song?” she asked Nico.
“Oh, yes,” he said. “It really happened. Two young lovers killed by soldiers because they were marching for freedom.”
It had really happened. It was true. Two pure, young lovers, like Pyotr and Angela.
Maura settled down next to Nico under a scrawny tree. Listening to speeches was the price a few score bedraggled men, women and children paid for their “free” meal.
Today the speakers complained about tomorrow, Bastille Day, a holiday which should honor “the people” who rose up against the King, the Queen and the rich. Instead, they said, the so-called Republic was showing its true colors by parading its military power down the Champs-Elysées. “Down with the army! Down with the rich!” they cried. “Let us make our own celebration!”
They announced a parade through the entire arrondissement, ending in soup and bread for all.
As the speeches droned on above her, Maura slowly chewed on the pieces of potato and gristle in her greasy soup. She remembered the musicians on the Boulevard Rochechouart selling copies of their songs to the crowd. Maybe there was a better way for her and Nico to make money. A way for them to tell the truth about Pyotr and Angela. Nico could play. She could sing. She’d use the money sewed into her dress to buy pencil and paper, and Nico, who knew about selling rags for paper, would get a printer to make hundreds of copies. If the Fiancé of the North was “strong and full of worth,” wasn’t Pyotr more, a Russian Prince? Maura’s dear sister, Angela, was not only young and beautiful, she was an Angel from the Goutte-d’Or. Everyone in Paris knew the Goutte-d’Or. Nico would help because he believed her, because he loved music, because he liked to talk to everyone about things like justice and dignity. They’d start right away, tomorrow, Bastille Day, near the parade. And maybe eventually they’d persuade the world to find the real killer.
11
THE MORNING AFTER BASTILLE DAY, Clarie sat down to write a letter. It was not an easy t
ask. Even to begin “Dear Madame Séverine” seemed oddly intimate. Yet that is what Clarie decided to do. She wasn’t sure how else to address the famous writer, and she had to assume that someone so notorious enjoyed being referred to by her first name. Of course, it was only polite that Clarie go on to introduce herself, which she did, as “a teacher at the Lycée Lamartine, who has come to know Francesca Laurenzano, a charwoman at the school and the mother of the dead girl, Angela.” Clarie held her pen aloft. She had reached the very point of the letter, recruiting Séverine to search for Maura.
“I very much admired your defense of the Russian girls being held at the Saint-Lazare Prison.” That was true, honest. “I know that you have often defended those who are among the poorest and most despised.” True again. “And I also know that you are famous for your ability to carry out investigations.” Actually, that is what Bernard had told Clarie, in a rather dismissive way. “This makes me hopeful that once you learn about the plight of Francesca Laurenzano, you will widen your interest in this case to include the search for her younger daughter, Maura, who may be in danger.” There.
Clarie went on to describe Francesca’s poverty and the circumstances, as far as she knew them, of Maura’s disappearance. After closing with the usual respectful flourish required by gentility, she sealed the letter in an envelope, addressed it to the offices of L’Echo de Paris, and announced to Rose that she was going to the post office. If all went well, someone else would be taking up the case of the missing girl.
The next day Clarie made her way to the kiosk at the Square d’Anvers several times to peruse the headlines, even though she knew that there was little chance that anything new would be reported. She was about to try again on Saturday morning when the doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it, Rose,” she called, since she was near the foyer. When Clarie swung open the door, she saw a young boy with a mail bag strapped across his chest. A pneumatic letter carrier.
“Madame Martin?”
“Yes.” Clarie flushed as her heart contracted in her chest. The last time she had received a “little blue,” it had brought news of Angela’s death. Could something terrible have happened to Maura or Francesca? Or Bernard? The boy thrust a thin light blue letter toward her, and before she recovered enough to thank him, he turned and ran down the stairs. The return address was simple: Séverine.
Gazing at the envelope as she retreated into the parlor, Clarie almost ran into Rose, who had come out of the kitchen.
“Madame Clarie, a letter?” Rose asked, as she wiped her hands on her apron.
“Just something from the school,” Clarie murmured. This was not the time for confidences, not until she knew what was in the pneu.
“Then I’ll go back to Luca, while you read it,” Rose responded, before returning to the kitchen where Jean-Luc was taking his time finishing his breakfast. Clarie, for the hundredth time that year, whispered a prayer of gratitude for having someone as devoted and discreet as Rose in her home. Then she sank into an armchair and tore open the fragile envelope. The script, in purple ink, was bold, the contents brief.
“Dear Madame Martin, I am home from 11 to 2 today. 14 Boulevard Montmartre, 4th floor. I hope to see you. Séverine.”
Clarie’s mouth gaped open as the hand holding the letter dropped into her lap. This Séverine expected that she, a teacher and wife and mother, would, just like that, drop everything and come to visit a notorious, divorced woman. This was outrageous. Or was it? Clarie picked up the all-too-brief message again. Séverine was not refusing Clarie’s request to help find Maura. In fact, by her invitation, she seemed to be stating her willingness to get involved. Clarie got up and began to pace back and forth over the floral carpet in front of the armchairs. If she accepted, what terrible thing could happen? And if it meant that Maura would be safely returned to Francesca? Clarie stopped and folded her arms, fortifying herself. Yes. She’d take Luca to the park, read to him, put him down for his nap, and, if she still had the nerve, she’d do it.
Hours later, Clarie was examining a short, gray homespun jacket wondering whether she should put it on, despite the fact that the day was already beastly hot. Pressing her lips together, she decided against it. Her shirtwaist dress was teacherly and prim enough to express her utter respectability. She thrust the jacket back into the armoire and picked up her straw hat. She pinned it with more force and decisiveness than necessary in her hair, which was pulled back in a neat chignon. She took a look in the mirror. It was now or never. Another white lie delivered to the faithful Rose, and she would be on her way.
After rushing down the stairs and out of the entryway, Clarie turned and started her journey down the familiar rue Rodier. The Boulevard Montmartre was a short link in the chain of so-called “Grand Boulevards,” the new wide thoroughfares that formed a semicircle around the center of Paris. Threading her way through the crowded street, she reflected on how rarely she spent time in the fashionable districts of shops and arcades. She tried for a few minutes to think of what she was doing as an excursion. But as she waited for the traffic of cabs and omnibuses to slow on the rue de Maubeuge, she had to acknowledge that to consider this an “excursion” was to ignore the obvious.
Her chest fluttered so hard, she felt as if a wild bird inside her was throwing itself against a cage. She was visiting a woman, but it felt like an assignation. Aware of her growing anxiety, she entered the cross section with utmost care. She hardly looked from side to side as she wound her way down to the boulevards. She repeated in her mind, like a calming mantra, the question she had asked just hours ago: What terrible thing could happen?
So intent had she become that she was startled when she reached the boulevards. At first, she had trouble getting her bearings. It was as if she had walked onto a stage, the theatrical spectacle of Paris high life. Men in top hats and women in silk dresses strolled, peering into shop windows or scrutinizing each other. The inviting aroma of coffee and the murmur of conversation and tinkle of plates and silverware rose from the outdoor cafés dotting the boulevard in every direction. Tender green-leaved trees lined the broad sidewalks, lending a freshness to the summer’s air. Even the horse hooves sounded more genteel on the wooden cobbles, and the gas lamps rising in the middle of the broad avenue performed the act of dividing the chaotic traffic with balletic grace.
She had to search for addresses because they were obscured by the commercial establishments on the ground and the bannered names of newspapers, manufacturers and political associations inhabiting the floors above. Keeping careful track, she was suddenly inhibited by a ragged line of people of all ages and social classes chattering in English and French. The big signs and display told her that they were waiting to get into Paris’s famous wax museum. She shuddered. The Musée Grévin was as notorious for its lifelike dioramas of torture and infamous crimes as for its promise to offer a peek into the private lives of prominent Parisians. After noting the address, number 10, she hurried past the double-doored entrance emblazoned with the museum’s name. She was close. Taking the temporary respite provided by an empty wall, she stood and shaded her eyes to survey the balconies jutting from almost every building. She could not imagine what it was like to live amidst all this hubbub. It was so alien to her that she might have lost heart if she had not heard a female voice cutting through the cries of cabmen and the rumble of omnibuses. “Hallo down there!” Clarie craned her neck and saw an exceedingly blond woman waving at her. “Madame Martin, come up!” she shouted with no more self-consciousness than if she had been in a country village.
Clarie responded with a reluctant wave. There was no going back. At number 14, the door to the courtyard clicked open automatically, for, according to a sign near the main entrance, the building served a number of businesses, including the anti-Semitic newspaper, La Libre Parole. This gave Clarie another reason to shudder. She remembered the hatred that newspaper had fomented during the anti-Israelite riots in Nancy, and couldn’t believe it was still thriving, still beating the
drums against Dreyfus, and against people like the Singers. She climbed past the thrumming of the printing presses on the second floor and muffled mahogany-enclosed residences on the third.
When she arrived out of breath on the fourth floor, she caused quite a stir. Behind the door marked “Madame Séverine,” barking, yipping, and shouting broke out. “Sit! Quiet!” Clarie heard, and finally, “dear Augustine, do take our rambunctious Rip into the kitchen.” Clarie was raising her arm to knock, when the door flew open and a woman stood before her, holding a puggish mutt in her arms.
Clarie knew at once that this was Séverine, for no servant would greet you in a florid silk gown and felt slippers.
“Madame Martin, please come in,” the woman said as she stood aside to let Clarie into the foyer.
“Thank you. I’m pleased you could see me,” Clarie murmured as she was led into a room that looked more like a greenhouse, or a menagerie, or even a museum, than a parlor. Palm trees and cacti filled every corner. Fresh flowers sprung from vases on the coffee table and desk. Besides what sounded like at least two dogs howling, as if imprisoned behind a door, and the pooch being held and petted in Séverine’s arms, there was a bird, a beady-eyed blue-and-green parrot giving out occasional squawks from a cage suspended on a tall stand. Newspapers lay in piles on the floor by the desk, which was laden with books and papers, and pens and pencils, gathered like soldiers ready for action, by the inkpot. In addition to all this, there was an embellished version of the usual: a few floral-patterned sitting chairs, a sofa bursting with pillows and covered with a chintz of bright gold, green and crimson stripes overlaid with a fleur de lis pattern. Finally, covering the walls and spreading onto almost every available surface, a myriad of photographs, lithographs and paintings. The most impressive of these was a gigantic portrait of a handsome, bearded man hanging above the sofa. Not only was the painting in a gilded frame, there was also a velvet curtain edging the top and sides, as if it were a memorial.
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