Mister Memory

by Marcus Sedgwick

  Morel takes a sudden involuntary breath, short and sharp, as if sucking life back into himself, and then he is so swept up by the revival of this long dormant emotion that he quite forgets himself, and he does something else he has not done in years.

  He puts out his hand, and takes Marcel’s in his own, and he shakes it.

  ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I will. I will try to help you.’

  But for the moment at least, it is too late. Marcel is no longer ‘awake’; he has returned to some prisoned corner of his mind, triggered by the recollection of Russian, of a particular Russian, or, rather, someone pretending to be Russian. He starts to replay an evening not so long ago, from the spring just gone and the fabulous ball held by the art students at the Moulin Rouge.

  THE BALL

  It had been a long time in the making, this ball. Friday 21 April was the date on the invitations, yet preparations had begun months before. Marcel and Ondine first heard about it from Fraser and Fossard, of course, for the event to be held was the Bal des Quat’z’ Arts – the annual celebration by students of the four disciplines practised in the art schools of Paris: painting, sculpture, architecture and engraving. The atelier of each art master would vie to outdo the rest, both with their costumes, and with the giant figures or tableaux in wood and paper that they would create. Fraser and Fossard, who belonged to the atelier of the great Gérome, explained to Marcel and Ondine about the vast female figure they and the other students of the workshop were making: Bellona, an imperiously naked Roman war goddess, fifteen feet high, brandishing a sword and shield.

  All sorts of materials were going into her construction: yards of cloth, broken and splintered wood from broken easels, old stools and picture frames, along with much wire and rope. As the weeks passed, they spent less and less time on their art studies and devoted their energies to the completion of the centrepiece of the Atelier Gérome, the final stages of which saw the armature covered in a thick layer of papier mâché to create the skin of the goddess, artfully painted so the final result appeared as solid as any sculpture in the Louvre.

  As for their own costumes, the mismatched pair of Fraser and Fossard kept their mouths shut.

  ‘It’s a big moment,’ Fraser explained, ‘when everyone arrives in costume at the Place Blanche. No one wants to reveal his secret ahead of time! But rest assured, my friend and I will not disappoint. You can find out on the day, when we leave the cour and take the bus to Pigalle!’

  Marcel said he would like to come to the ball, if it was to be so wonderful, but Fraser explained that the ball was strictly for art students only, with admission limited to those on the individually named invitations.

  ‘Never mind,’ Fraser said with a straight face. ‘You won’t miss so very much.’

  Then he punched Fossard on the shoulder and burst out laughing at some private joke that left Marcel mystified. It was Fraser who had told Ondine that there would be work for dancers, most likely unpaid but with the chance of large tips, for this was the one night in the year when art students forgot how penniless most of them were.

  So Ondine made a couple of trips to the Moulin Rouge in the weeks before the ball, and presented herself at the small office on the Boulevard de Clichy that dealt with the hiring of staff.

  As the days ticked away, and the ball approached, Marcel asked Ondine what her part was to be, but she, like Fraser and Fossard, refused to tell. At first Marcel just laughed at all the secrecy, but as the event drew nearer, and still she refused to say, he began to grow jealous.

  ‘What is your costume like, at least?’ he asked. ‘Is it very fine?’

  ‘The finest!’ said Ondine, laughing again at some private joke, which only provoked more jealousy in Marcel. ‘Perfect. It’s completely me.’

  ‘Tell me!’ he begged. ‘Or I’ll have to get a job there too.’

  ‘They only want dancers,’ Ondine said, pouting. ‘And girls at that. So stay at home and count your pennies like a good miser.’

  Marcel ignored the jibe. ‘I haven’t seen you making the costume,’ he said.

  ‘It’s not here,’ Ondine replied. ‘It’s being made there.’

  ‘But what is it?’

  ‘It’s magnificent!’ Ondine declared. ‘And if you’re good I’ll show it to you when I get home.’

  Marcel’s curiosity grew worse, and the more he pressed, the more affronted Ondine became. As a result, she did in fact begin to drop small hints, but nothing concrete, just little snippets that only made Marcel more and more envious that he was not going. Ondine began to tease him then, and called him Cinderella for the rest of the week, until finally the night arrived.

  By this point, Marcel had determined to have nothing to do with the matter. For something to do, he had tried to see if he could get an extra night’s work at the Cabaret of Insults, but Chardon didn’t see the need. At six o’clock, he took himself off to get something to eat in the Rue Saint-André-des-Arts, and after that, he went to find himself a drink. He tried to put it all out of his mind, but he could not. After another beer, he suddenly rushed back home to demand that Ondine let him in on the secret, or not go at all.

  He was too late. He arrived to find the studio empty, no sign of Ondine, who must have left to go and make ready. In the hallway, he bumped into Fraser and Fossard. At least, he assumed it was them. Coming out of their studio were two men: one a Roman senator dressed in toga and sandals, a coronet of laurel leaves atop his head, the other an Apache Indian, half naked, covered only in burned red paint and a blanket to which a number of chicken feathers had been sewn.

  ‘Marcel!’ cried the Indian, and Marcel peered at him closely.

  ‘Fraser?’

  Fraser laughed loudly and slapped the senator on the back.

  ‘See?’ he said. ‘He does know who we are after all!’

  Fossard made a very grumpy-looking senator, which caused Fraser to laugh every time he looked at him.

  ‘Cinderella, are you looking for your prince? She’s already left, I’m afraid. Look, don’t be like that. Why don’t you come with us to Pigalle? You can see all the ateliers arriving in cavalcade. It’s a grand procession, and almost as much fun as the ball itself. Almost!’

  Marcel hesitated.

  ‘Come on!’ Fraser said. ‘Got anything better to be doing? No. So come along.’

  So Marcel went. All along the Boulevard Saint-Germain were small crowds of art students in costumes of all kinds. Within five minutes they passed Adams and Eves in pale body suits and fig leaves, a cross-dressing Queen Victoria, a gaggle of Norman knights, a Byzantine emperor, a posse of Tartar bandits, countless cavemen, gladiators and African warriors.

  As they passed each group a great cry went up as they made challenges to each rival atelier. They passed on to the Boulevard Saint-Michel to the Luxembourg Palace and the Théâtre de l’Odéon, to scramble on to the tops of the buses of the Montmartre line, which were quickly overloaded beyond legal nicety.

  Marcel remembered something. ‘Where’s your goddess?’ he shouted to Fraser as they clung to the top of the bus.

  ‘We brought her up this morning. She’s hidden in the Moulin Rouge, ready for her big moment.’

  They swung up towards the Place Blanche, where they found a near riot in full swing. Marcel had never seen the place so crowded, and it was a wonder. The front of the Moulin itself was a blaze of electric lights and coloured paper lanterns. The illuminated arms of the mill revolved, and sent a glow across the place, picking out the fantastic costumes of the students and the bemused faces of the locals, who were, after all, used to a thing or two.

  They climbed down from the bus and for a while it seemed as though they would be content to stay on the pavement, but gradually the numbers dwindled as the revellers headed inside.

  ‘Well, this is where we leave you,’ said Fraser, patting Marcel on the back.

  ‘Surely you can get me in somehow?’

  He felt more than ever that he wanted, that he needed, to join the fun,
not only to see what Ondine would be wearing, but just to enjoy himself, let himself go.

  ‘You don’t have one of these,’ said Fraser, and pulled out his invitation, a thick printed card with his name and the name of the atelier to which he belonged carefully added by hand. ‘And even if you did, all the masters’ assistants from each atelier are waiting inside the door to check us off a list. You just can’t get in. Sorry! You don’t even have a costume.’

  And they went, Fraser and Fossard, leaving Marcel to watch the whirling mass of colour and potential debauchery in the place dwindle even further. He was about to leave when he saw that luck was on his side. Across the place, wandering down the Rue Lepic in a very unsteady manner, came a medieval knight in what appeared to be full plate armour. No one was with the knight, he appeared to be extremely drunk and, furthermore, his face was covered by a helmet and visor. The only question was how to get the student to part with his costume and invitation, and there was only one answer. Marcel did have money, after all, and Ondine was always telling him to spend it, so he did. And he was clever.

  First, he merely offered to buy the knight a drink to carry him forward into the evening, then, as they downed their drinks, it took very little to convince the young student that he would really be better off selling his costume and invitation. Of course, the knight refused at first, but then Marcel put a pile of francs on the table top large enough to change his mind.

  ‘You can even have my clothes into the bargain,’ Marcel added, and they went out to an alleyway along the Boulevard de Clichy to change.

  From the invitation, Marcel discovered his new name was Grasset. He pulled the helmet firmly on to his head and set off to join the back of the crowd trying to force their way inside. The student whose costume he’d borrowed was slightly shorter than him, so that the armour made him look a little foolish, with his ankles and wrists showing, but other than that, there was no reason for him not to gain admittance. Inside the door was a long line of the masters’ assistants, or massiers, and on the wall behind them, a card pinned with the name of each atelier.

  With great difficulty, Marcel peered out of the visor at his invitation as he edged forward and saw that he belonged to the atelier Cormon, and made his way to the massier of the Cormon studio, holding his card out in front of him.

  ‘Who’s this?’

  Marcel waved the card, and the massier snatched it from him.

  ‘Grasset? I might have known. Late as usual and drunk too I suppose.’

  Marcel pointed a gloved finger at the side of his helmet, to show that he couldn’t hear well. Then he pointed at the front to show he couldn’t see much, for that matter.

  The massier stared at him for a long second, and then cursed.

  ‘Idiot,’ he said. ‘Get inside. The procession’s about to begin.’

  Then Marcel was inside. Though he knew it was a risk, he dared to take his helmet off. With it on, his vision was abysmal. Besides, there must have been upward of a thousand people in the great hall of the famous cabaret, and they couldn’t possibly all know each other. On top of that, it was dim, apart from the gleaming lights from decorations and displays and the Chinese lanterns hanging from the ceiling. There was so much to see, and he wanted to see everything, so he set his helmet down behind a fake column at the side of the hall.

  Music played and yet over the top of it quite different songs were being sung, a great tumult of noise and colour. Marcel looked for Ondine, but she was nowhere in sight. He moved through the crowd, laughing as people jostled him good-naturedly and challenged him to duels more than once. Around him he saw splendid things: noble kings and elegant queens, courtiers following behind in silk robes. There were more gladiators, some of whom were naked, and a family of Egyptian mummies carrying a sarcophagus. A tombstone walked past with an inscription down his back of a suitably sombre nature.

  All around were women, too. Not students, of course, but girls brought in, some paid, some unpaid, to dress up in their finery and to entertain and to dance, yet still he could not see Ondine. He passed a group of three nymphs who wore nothing but swirls of green paint for clothes, and his attention was only taken away by a girl dressed in the Turkish style performing an impromptu belly dance for a crowd of cheering legionnaires. Marcel watched for a while spellbound, until a voice spoke at his shoulder.

  ‘Such clothing is worn as least obscures the view, eh?’

  He turned to find an Apache warrior grinning at him. Then the Apache swore.

  ‘Marcel! What the devil? How did you get in here? Are you mad?’

  Marcel stared at the Apache.

  ‘Where on earth did you find that get-up?’ said the Apache, and now Marcel shook himself.

  ‘Fraser?’ he said. ‘I—’

  ‘No need to explain yourself, but if they catch you . . . Be careful!’

  Marcel nodded, wishing he’d kept his helmet with him.

  ‘The procession’s about to start! We’re fifth. I have to join the others. See you. And be careful.’

  Fraser rushed away to find the rest of the atelier Gérome, and as he did, a gong sounded, the band changed their tune to a magnificent ceremonial march, and the procession of figures began.

  It was as if he entered a fairy-tale world. There was no other explanation for the extravagance, the richness, the strangeness of what passed before his eyes.

  The first atelier to come by had created a tableau of hefty men clothed in furs and skins, carrying a bier made of tree branches bound with leather thongs, upon which sat naked cavewomen and even a few prehistoric children. It was wonderful, the cheers were immense. Behind it came the mummies, now carrying an open sarcophagus, with a sinuous model dancing inside. She was draped merely in a few carefully placed shreds of bandages, nothing more.

  After that, a horde of Apaches staged a mock battle with gunslingers of the American west, and then came a scene of a Greek bacchanalia, with many young men wearing no more than a bunch of grapes in their hair and a vine leaf for modesty.

  Then, towering above the others, Marcel saw Bellona, the goddess, fifteen feet high and just as Fraser had described, apart from the fact that a weird green light shone from her hollow eyes. The onlookers were in an ecstasy of delight and a great shout went up, not at Bellona but at something hidden behind her, in the procession. Marcel could not see; he tried to move but was pushed back into place by a Russian, in fact, a Cossack, and then the procession moved on and he saw.

  Behind Bellona, eight Roman soldiers carried an immense shield, flat. Upon that, four of the finest artists’ models of all Paris lay on their backs, head to head, their legs upraised to meet and support another slightly smaller tablet, seemingly of gold, upon which stood a woman. She was naked, save for a sparkling crown of jewels in her auburn hair, and a belt of electric lights that encircled her waist, illuminating the whiteness of her skin, and the darkness of her hair and the crevices of her sensuous body.

  Marcel gazed in wonder at the woman, and felt desire.

  She looked like a goddess, and she knew it, and then someone learned her name, and a great roar and chant was thrown up.

  ‘Ondine!’ they shouted. ‘Ondine! Ondine!’

  Marcel heard the name in horror. Ondine? Ondine!

  His wife, naked for all to see, smiled down at the crowd as they admired her. Marcel saw that she was holding one gaze in particular, the gaze of one of the men carrying the vast shield, who looked back up at her with eyes that displayed his lust.

  Suddenly, Ondine broke that locked gaze, and turned, to see Marcel. She looked at him standing there pathetically, dressed stupidly as a cardboard knight.

  Marcel stared, and stared, but no one knew who he was, or cared.

  ‘Ondine!’ they chanted. ‘Ondine, Ondine!’

  She smiled, and looked away.

  COMMONPLACE

  The Monday morning after his visit to Baraduc, Petit arrives a little late for work. He is sleeping badly, and he knows why, though it is something he has
tried to repress or ignore for a long time. The episode with the photographer has brought things back to mind, even though there is no direct correlation between his activities and the inspector’s own wounds. Maybe it was just seeing her name twice like that. On the cigar, Maria; on the street name, Marie. Maybe it was that and nothing more. Whatever it was, she is back even more strongly than before, back in his waking thoughts and in his dreams, and at least now he knows why he wants that bastard Després to get what he deserves. He had a beautiful wife, and killed her, just out of anger. And there was Marie, his fiancée, waiting for him to return from Africa and leave the army for good. And he did leave, although the causality was somewhat different: he left the service after she died, and he knew now, because she’d died. If only he’d left when she first begged him to, he might have been in Paris when someone broke into her mother’s home and took the lives of them both.

  After Marie passed away, something had changed in Laurent Petit, and he knew that he was done with killing for France on foreign soil. The police had seemed an easy option and, until he joined, he had no idea that he would see almost as much death as an inspector with the judicial police as he had as a soldier. At times, he had to agree with Boissenot: there was something about the city, some kind of disease or mania, some anger with mere existence that drove people to insanity, drove them to kill. The key difference for Petit was that he wasn’t the one doing the killing. Not unless he can get Després out of his cell in the Salpêtrière and somehow dispatched to the guillotine. Then he’ll be very glad to be responsible for one more death; he, Petit, who had had no control over whether his wife-to-be lived or died, would see that Marcel, who had played God, had no control over his fate.