by Lydia Syson
‘Work at an ambulance station? On the battlefields? You could be killed!’
‘I know,’ said Rose in a low voice, glancing at her aunt, who was locked in heated argument with the Ladle and not listening to them. ‘My mother won’t let me go to the front line so you don’t need to worry. It’s too dangerous, she says, and anyway, she needs my help with the little ones at night.’
‘You’re not going to run away?’ Zéphyrine put a hand on Rose’s arm. ‘You will be careful?’
Rose shook her off. ‘Oh, you’re as bad as my mother. Nobody changed the world by being careful.’
Zéphyrine supposed not.
‘Anyway, I don’t think they’d want me, with my gammy foot. But it’s all right. I don’t need to leave Paris to be an ambulancière,’ said Rose. ‘They’ve just opened a new ambulance station here in Montmartre. The Women’s Union keep calling for new nurses.’
‘I know.’
‘All those grand ladies who helped during the siege are nowhere to be seen now. And I’ll be good at looking after the laundry.’
‘You’re very good at looking after people,’ said Zéphyrine, trying not to think of blood-stained sheets and bandages. She had a horrible feeling she knew exactly what Rose was thinking. ‘Much better than me,’ she added firmly. She’d done all the nursing she could bear to while her grandmother was dying.
Rose narrowed her eyes. ‘‘‘From each according to her abilities, to each according to her needs,’’’ she quoted at Zéphyrine. ‘Louis Blanc. Sort of.’
How did Rose always remember the names of all the different politicians?
‘I’ll stick to soup and sandbags then.’
‘At least you’re taking care of one Guardsman, even if he’s only lovesick.’ She smirked, and then looked harder at Zéphyrine. ‘Anatole is in the National Guard, isn’t he?’
‘He was, during the siege of course. But you know what it’s like round where they live. His battalion’s just melted away. Or joined the party of order. And he can hardly walk into a Montmartre unit, can he? It just doesn’t work like that. You know that.’
‘Hmm.’ Rose went back to her sewing, tight-lipped.
Zéphyrine reached the café, windswept and breathless, hoping they would all still be there. She saw Jules and Marie right away, sitting at a table near the window. A fédéré sat between them, only his back visible, and Zéphyrine was tempted to retreat. But Marie had seen her, and was waving, and she supposed Jules would know where she could find Anatole. Then the stranger stood up and looked round, following Marie’s gaze, and of course it wasn’t a stranger at all.
Zéphyrine stood for a moment with a grin on her face.
‘Look at you!’ she said stupidly, since he could hardly look at himself. She adjusted his kepi, and fingered the button on a cuff. She had to run a finger and thumb down her nose to clear the tears unexpectedly gathering in the corners of her eyes.
Jules pulled a chair out for her, and summoned the waiter. ‘Another glass, please.’
The others had already eaten, and their plates been cleared away. Arriving hungry, Zéphyrine didn’t want to admit she hadn’t eaten. She’d find something later, in Montmartre, where suppers came cheaper.
‘You didn’t know?’ said Marie.
‘No!’ admitted Zéphyrine.
‘Anatole does like his surprises,’ Jules said, and Anatole shrugged.
‘I wanted to see your face.’ He reached out to stroke it.
‘Speaking of which …’ said Jules, tapping Anatole’s arm with a meaningful look.
‘Don’t worry, ‘ said Anatole. ‘I was coming to that. I hadn’t forgotten.’
He reached in his breast pocket and produced three plain-backed cards, two white and one red. He held them out to Zéphyrine, face down in a fan, like a gambler, and they all watched her hesitate.
He nodded. ‘Go on, take one.’
She took the middle one, and turned it over.
‘It’s me,’ she said, incredulous. You really could see everything. The little gap in her eyebrow. The buttonhole of her blouse. The title of the newspaper was perfectly clear – Journal Officiel – and Zéphyrine held it up with obvious pride. Every hair on her head was there, and you could even see two dots of light reflected from her fierce eyes, as well as the dark shadows beneath them. Zéphyrine put a finger to her face, almost expecting the girl in the photograph to do the same, like a girl in a mirror.
‘How clever and quick you are!’ she said to Jules. ‘And how kind.’
‘Thank you. That one is for you to keep,’ he told her. ‘And I can print more, if you want. Anatole has one already of course.’
‘And I want you to sign it. He’s done a wonderful job, hasn’t he?’ said Anatole, turning the other two cards over to show her.
The photograph of Marie impressed Zéphyrine even more.
‘Beautiful, of course,’ she sighed, and Marie closed her eyes like a cat in acknowledgement. ‘So beautiful. And what’s this?’ Zéphyrine tilted the red card towards the light to read the words.
‘Oh that’s from my new battalion – the Fédération Artistique. It’s just for musicians and actors. That’s an exemption card.’ Anatole put it safely away again. ‘We’ve all got one to use when we have rehearsals, or performances, or something.’
‘Oh.’
‘I have my first rampart duty tomorrow evening.’
‘Oh,’ Zéphyrine said again, pleased and sorry at the same time.
‘I do hope you’ll be careful,’ said Marie. ‘The bombardment’s getting worse every day. You’ll be so exposed on the ramparts.’
‘You can’t change the world by being careful,’ said Zéphyrine. She gazed at Anatole, picturing his fine fingers curling round a trigger rather than a violin neck. She found she didn’t like the idea at all.
Marie and Jules exchanged glances.
‘The weather’s only going to get worse,’ said Marie, looking out at the flapping awning. ‘I’m going home before it pours. Goodnight, everyone.’
Jules rose too. He plucked his hat from the coat stand, buttoned his jacket and offered her his arm. ‘I’ll walk with you. I’ve got a good umbrella.’
As soon as they were gone, Anatole took Zéphyrine’s hands in his own. ‘I’ve missed you,’ he said. ‘I always miss you.’
‘I know. I can feel it. All the time.’
‘All I ever think about is when I’m going to see you again.’
‘I know,’ she said, putting her palms against his palms, measuring her fingers against his fingers.
The waiter returned to clear the table, white apron gleaming. ‘Anything else, sir? Mademoiselle?’
His expression was blank, completely professional. It made her as uncomfortable as the wink of a man in a wine shop, because she couldn’t tell what he was thinking, and she hated that. He’d have her down as a tart, she was sure. Why else would a man of Anatole’s class mix with a woman of hers? She shouldn’t care, but she did: it was hard to shake yourself free of ideas drummed into you since you could walk.
‘Are you sure?’ asked Anatole. ‘Something to warm you up? A bite to eat?’
The waiter hovered.
‘Nothing, thank you,’ she insisted.
‘I’ll have a coffee,’ said Anatole, and then they were alone again. Only the clink of porcelain on white marble and the smell of coffee took them out of their trance. Anatole stirred in a few sugar lumps.
‘Just a sip?’ she said, unable to resist.
‘Here.’
Nothing could have made Anatole happier than the thought of her lips touching the cup where his lips had just been. He drank in the sight of her drinking, the movement in her throat, a glimpse of her tidying-tongue on her lips as she set the cup down.
‘Do you know it’s nearly a month since I first met you?’ he said.
‘Already?’
‘I wanted to buy you a present …’ Anatole hesitated.
‘Another surprise?’ said Zéphyrine.
>
‘Of course … except … I didn’t want … that is to say … I couldn’t think …’
‘What?’ she said.
‘Well, I didn’t want you to take it in the wrong way.’
There could always be a wrong way. Every present could be taken as a transaction, and they both knew that. But how could you tell the difference between a love token and a payment for services? Anatole wanted to be clear, absolutely clear, to himself, to Jules, and most of all to Zéphyrine. He wasn’t like other men. He didn’t want a mistress to dress up and show off. He didn’t want to give her delightful trinkets with strings attached, to buy her love. Surely it was possible? Something for nothing, nothing for something.
‘I won’t. I’ll try not to. I’m sure I won’t.’
‘It’s not much.’
He put his hand in his pocket and opened it for her to see. A scrap of silk. She untied the thread that kept the tiny parcel together. Two little black daisies, made of glass. Without thinking, she pinched her empty earlobes.
‘You noticed?’ she said. ‘You knew.’
He nodded, still uncertain of her response. With great concentration, she took first one, and then the other, and fixed them in each ear, then held back her hair so he could see them. He nodded again, and she put her arms round his neck and hugged him fiercely.
‘Thank you,’ she whispered into his skin. ‘I love them.’
‘I love you,’ he whispered back, so quietly that she might not have heard.
They left the café, and, as usual, Anatole began to walk up the hill with her, keeping his arm firmly round Zéphyrine. The wind was gathering strength, sending twigs skittering across the pavement and tearing posters loose from walls. It lifted skirts and tugged at shawls. A few hundred feet from the square where they always said goodbye, a violent gust snatched Zéphyrine’s cap from her head, blowing it out like a pig’s bladder ball, and bowling it across the street. At just the same moment there was a great crack of thunder, as loud as a cannon shot, and the rain started to fall down in sheets. Zéphyrine grabbed Anatole’s hand and they gave chase. The cap put up a good fight, zigzagging across the square, stopping and starting again as soon as they got close. They splashed through puddles, and crashed into lamp posts, dragging each other on. At last they caught up with it, all life lost. Anatole picked the cap dripping from the gutter, picked off a wet leaf and held it out to Zéphyrine.
‘I believe this is yours, citoyenne.’
She took it from him and began to wring out the sodden mass of cotton. Then she pulled him into a doorway, gently wiped the rain off his face with her cap, and kissed him goodnight. The wind and rain kept buffeting them, but neither very much cared. This was where they always parted, just here, before the road got steep.
MAY 1871
In May the pavements were polka-dotted with fallen blossom, and one song was on everyone’s lips: they sang of the cherry season, le temps des cerises, just round the corner now. Soon young men would be hanging the shining fruit on lovers’ ears like drops of blood. How merrily the blackbird would sing by day. How mournfully the nightingale by night.
On the boulevards, the carefully constructed ramparts continued to rise. Just as quickly, those ramshackle barricades thrown up in the poor quarters of Paris back in March began to bloom, greening over where urchins had planted tufts of grass. Determined flowers suddenly appeared, and passers-by caught their breath at the sight of them. Laughter came easily in the first weeks of May. Wild speeches, brilliant colours, cheerful bravado.
For Anatole and Zéphyrine, le temp des cerises had come early. The pair met whenever they could, sometimes late at night at the café with Jules and Marie, just occasionally alone. Their time together was snatched from practising and patrolling, from cooking at the canteen and stitching sandbags and recruiting for the ramparts and barricades. It was stolen from sleep itself. If she ever let him, Anatole would have happily watched over Zéphyrine’s breathing until dawn. Instead he spent sleepless nights imagining the possibility. Every day seemed more golden.
The sun shone, but the sky was no longer blue. Smoke from burning villages to the west of the city formed a haze that never quite lifted. There was always the faint smell of carbon in the air. It had become normal.
But the crisis was coming to a head. Elected representatives gave way to a Committee of Public Safety, a dictatorship, set up to defend the Commune by decree, in the name of ‘freedom’. There could be little debate now. One by one, hostile newspapers were suppressed. It had happened before, less than a hundred years earlier. Paris remembered the Reign of Terror, after the first revolution, and shuddered.
22.
4th May
A Thursday evening, still early in the month. A crash from the studio above made Zéphyrine jump and Anatole’s bow freeze. He dashed to the bottom of the staircase and called up. ‘Everything all right, Jules?’
The answer was reassuring.
‘Just dropped some glass plates, blast it. Damned waste, as I’m running low, but I know where I can get more. I didn’t mean to alarm you. Don’t stop practising on my account, for God’s sake – you’ve only got a few more days till the concert, haven’t you?’
Zéphyrine was curled up on the chaise longue with Minou. ‘He’s right,’ she said when Anatole returned. ‘Don’t stop.’
‘Aren’t you bored of hearing the same bit over and over again?’
‘Of course not. Anyway, it’s not exactly the same, is it? That’s the whole point. Or you wouldn’t have to keep at it.’
Anatole raised the violin to start the section again, and stopped without playing a note, bow hand hanging at his side, his eyes once more on Zéphyrine.
‘What is it?’ she said, edging herself upright. The cat resettled herself, and increased the volume of her purring. ‘Are we putting you off? Shhh … Minou. You must be quiet.’
‘Don’t blame Minou.’
‘No, of course not.’ Zéphyrine nuzzled her face in the cat’s fur and squeaked through pursed lips: ‘You’re completely innocent, aren’t you?’
She found Anatole’s adoration of the animal endearing and shocking at the same time. It still made her head reel to think that while he’d been keeping Minou alive all through the siege, Gran’mère was starving to death, and Zéphyrine herself queuing in the hope of a portion of rat meat. But she supposed that wasn’t Anatole’s fault.
He was still looking at her. Nobody ever looked with more intensity. Most of the time she liked it. Sometimes it made her feel uncomfortable. What if this thing was like a storm, the kind that came on strong and suddenly and then blew itself out just as fast?
‘So what is it?’ she persisted. The force of his gaze made her tucked-under toes glow and tingle. Even her hair seemed to crackle. He sat down next to her, and immediately made everything worse. Zéphyrine felt out of control. She thought of her mother. Was this how it happened?
‘You know I’d do anything for you, don’t you?’ he said so earnestly she didn’t quite want to hear or see, so instead she pulled him towards her and kissed him, eyes shut. The cat slid away, unnoticed, and he sighed and moved closer. She untucked her legs and felt the weight of him, his bones and muscles, a button that dug into her. There was a shifting of furniture from the studio above, and footsteps.
‘Come on,’ she said, wriggling away. ‘Keep playing. I love listening.’
‘If I must.’ Anatole slowly stood up.
‘You haven’t got long.’
‘Wait until you hear it with the whole orchestra. I’m just a tiny part of the machine.’
‘Not a machine,’ she corrected. ‘You could never be anything like a machine. Anyway, I’ll always be able to hear your bits, won’t I?’
‘No, not really,’ he said. ‘You shouldn’t. Everything has to work together seamlessly. Maybe not like a machine … like a union, or a committee?’
She nodded. Zéphyrine liked that idea, except for the way it made her feel guilty. She wasn’t doing much wo
rk now.
The melody soared and danced. She lay back and listened, closing her eyes so that she was floating in pure sound, helpless in its current.
Later that evening Zéphyrine went to Marie’s room to borrow a dress for the concert. She could have worn Rose’s pink paisley again, but Rose was getting harder and harder to find. Anyway, Zéphyrine was about to go to a palace for the first time in her life – a people’s palace now – and it would have been rude to turn down such a generous offer.
‘You really don’t mind?’ Zéphyrine said when she arrived.
‘I’ve got clothes here I haven’t worn in months,’ Marie said. ‘Look at the size of that trunk! My insurance, it was meant to be. I was saving the best dresses to sell, in case things got tight, but the fashions have changed so much already. I think I’m too late.’
‘You might not get as much for them as before the war, but things can be altered. There’ll always be someone who’ll buy a good dress that’s going cheap.’
‘Of course. You’re right. Well, come and see what you think.’ Marie had already laid out three or four gowns on the bed for Zéphyrine to choose from. Other possibilities too: a muff, some gloves, a pair of delicate shoes. All presents the banker had bought her before he vanished from Paris and cancelled her lease without warning. All lovely things, beautifully made. ‘I know you are a little thinner than me, but we are about the same height, aren’t we?’ She slipped off her mules and they stood for a moment eye-to-eye, a horizontal hand to each forehead.
‘Doesn’t it make you scared, to sing in front of so many people?’ Zéphyrine suddenly asked.
Marie was about to laugh prettily. But faced with a gaze so serious, so curious, she found herself answering just as seriously.
‘Yes, nearly always. Terrified. But I don’t know if I could sing if I wasn’t frightened. It’s just part of the whole thing, part of what I do, and how I am.’
‘But even so, it’s what you want to do?’
