by Rhys Bowen
As I walked over to examine the painting I spotted Gus’s favorite black fringed shawl thrown carelessly over the back of the sofa. A book lay open on a side table. Sid’s ebony-and-silver cigarette holder lay across an ashtray. There was a loaf of bread on the table, crumbs on plates, fruit in the fruit bowl, a cheese board with rind lying on it. Everything about the scene indicated that this was a room in which people had been living until very recently. More than that—as if people were in the process of living in it at this moment. I half expected them to come leaping out from that door on the left, laughing at my face. “Surprised you, didn’t we, Molly. How did you like our little trick?”
But then I reasoned that they were playful but not cruel. Surely they would not have put me through something as harrowing as this, knowing I had been ill. And anyway, the concierge had said they were not here. Presumably she had checked before she locked the door last night. And the messenger boy had been sent away with the telegram undelivered. Then I noticed that among the correspondence on the mantelpiece there was another telegram—the one I sent from the dock saying that I was unfit to travel on from Le Havre.
Could it be that they went to meet me there after all? And couldn’t find me for some reason? Perhaps they mistook the name of the pension in which I was staying, or … I broke off this train of thought as I tried to remember … did I actually say I was docking in Le Havre? Surely Daniel had done so in his cable to them. But what if neither of us had spelled it out and they had mistakenly gone to Cherbourg instead? I gave a sigh of relief at having come up with a plausible explanation and went to explore the rest of the apartment. There was a small kitchen to one side of the living room. On the other was a hallway with a large but rather primitive bathroom containing an enormous claw-footed tub, a lavatory, and a bidet. Beyond it was a bedroom with a ridiculously ornate bed and a chest that might have come from Versailles, and finally a small box room containing a narrow bed, made up with fresh linens, and beside it a baby’s crib. Seeing this brought tears to my eyes. They were expecting me. They did know I was coming. I’d have to show this to the hostile concierge woman to prove that I had a right to be here.
I went back to the main room, put Liam down on a bearskin rug by the fireplace, and wondered about lighting a fire. It felt awfully cold and damp. There were ashes in the grate, quite cold, but there was a half-full scuttle of coal beside it. I found newspaper and started a fire. The chimney was smoky but I began to feel better as the welcome warmth spread across the big room. I sat in the armchair by the fire and nursed Liam. Then as he fell asleep, I put him in the crib and decided that I felt hungry myself. The remains of the meal on the dining table looked inviting until I discovered that the bread was hard as a rock. I cut myself a slice of white soft cheese and then scooped some pâté out of a crock. Suddenly tiredness overcame me and I went to lie down next to Liam. When I wake up they’ll be here, I told myself.
I awoke to thunderous knocking and leaped up, my heart pounding. For a moment I couldn’t remember where I was but then I ran for the front door, hoping for a telegram. Have been detained. See you tomorrow, or something that might explain their disappearance. But it was only a thin and bony Frenchman with a drooping mustache bringing up my trunk. He lingered as if he expected a tip, then grunted when I gave him one that was obviously not as big as he expected. I hadn’t quite figured out French money yet, although there seemed to be about five francs to the dollar. I was glad to have the trunk; opened it and found a clean diaper for Liam. I would have to ask the procedure for doing laundry. I suspected that grouchy Madame Hetreau would not be pleased. I certainly couldn’t hear any other babies in the building. Maybe there was a laundry nearby to which I could send Liam’s clothes.
The question of money jumped into my head. If Sid and Gus were gone for a while, how long would the cross concierge let me stay? And I’d have to supply my own food.
“This is ridiculous,” I said out loud and my voice echoed from the high-molded ceiling. Something was seriously wrong. Sid and Gus cared about me like a sister. They would never let me worry about where they were and what had happened to them. As I carried Liam across to the bathroom to change him I tried to come up with plausible reasons for their absence. They had gone to the country for a day and been in a vehicle that had met with an accident. Or one of them had suddenly taken ill, as I had, resulting in their need to stay on.
But they could still have sent a telegram, even from the French countryside—unless they were both seriously hurt and lying unconscious in a hospital … or dead. I felt a great lurch of fear in the pit of my stomach. I was alone in a strange country. How would I ever find out what had happened to them? What would I do if they had died?
Calm down, I told myself. So they have been away for one day. Maybe they are in a small village with no telegraph office. Maybe they are in an automobile that broke down miles from the nearest town. And at this very minute they are worrying about me arriving and finding nobody home. By tomorrow morning we’ll all be sitting around their fire, drinking Sid’s disgusting coffee, and laughing about this. Thus reassured I finished changing my son and went into the kitchen to look for something I could prepare for an evening meal. I was reluctant to go out just in case some message came from my friends, and I have to confess that I didn’t fancy going down all those stairs, out in the pouring rain, and then up again, with no buggy for Liam and no free hand to hold an umbrella.
There was plenty of butter and cheese in the larder, as well as potatoes, onions, and a few wilted carrots. I cooked the carrots and a potato and mashed them together with butter for Liam, then fried some potatoes and onions and drizzled melted cheese over them for me. After I had finished my meal I realized that I should write to Daniel. I had promised to write again as soon as I reached Paris. He would be worrying about us and want to know that I was safely with Sid and Gus. No need to tell him that I did not feel safe at this moment. I looked around and located Sid’s writing desk on a side table. As I opened it the first thing I saw was a postcard, showing a scene by the painter Monet, addressed to Miss Augusta Walcott, and on it were scribbled two words: Absolutely not! And it was signed, if I could read correctly, Reynold Bryce.
So they had made contact with Reynold Bryce although if this postcard was anything to judge by, it didn’t sound as if he had welcomed them in the way that they hoped. But it was posted three days ago, giving me proof that they had been here to receive it when it arrived. I turned it over in my hand, wondering what the “Absolutely not” referred to. Maybe they had been discussing a painting, maybe this was an academic debate they were carrying on by postcard and they were actually the best of friends. Still, one thing I knew now. Gus had met Reynold Bryce. If they didn’t turn up by tomorrow, at least I’d have one person I could go to.
Then I reminded myself that Gus had a cousin here too. He was a Walcott with money and influence. He’d know what to do if Sid and Gus were injured or in trouble. It shouldn’t be too difficult to locate him. I did have allies in the city after all. Thus comforted I decided to wait until tomorrow to write to Daniel. I got ready for bed, curled up into a ball between those cold sheets, and tried to sleep. But sleep did not come easily. Down below me the city was waking up. I heard singing, raucous laughter, shouts, a police whistle. This latter made my thoughts go to my husband. Was he safe? Would they make another attempt on his life? And how did you stop people who could throw a bomb into a carriage, or take a potshot at him as he walked down the street?
“I wish I were home,” I whispered to myself, but then I remembered. I had no home. The tears came then and I cried silently into my pillow.
Thirteen
I awoke to the loud cooing of pigeons, right outside my window. Bright stripes of sunlight were coming through the shutters onto my wall. As I opened the shutters pigeons flew off the balcony railing with the loud sound of flapping paper. I blinked in the strong sunlight, then put on my robe, went through to the living room, and opened the French doors ont
o the balcony. I saw that this was an attic of sorts with those French doors cut into the steep gray tile roof. Down below me the street was coming to life—a store owner unwinding the awning over his shop, a café proprietor putting out chairs on the narrow sidewalk, a boy going past on a bicycle carrying long sticks of bread, the greengrocer putting out a display of cabbages, small boys going off with schoolbags on their backs. The sounds echoed up from the narrow street—horses’ hoofs on cobbles as a dray made a delivery of wine barrels, a woman shouting in a harsh voice, the pigeons flapping again as they sought another place to land.
Then I leaned out and saw the view that Sid had been so proud of. In one direction the city sprawled out below us, its butter-yellow stone glowing in early morning sunlight, a morning mist hovering over the Seine River. I could see a large dome and maybe those twin towers were Notre-Dame? And when I looked up between the rooftops I could make out a large white building taking shape on the top of the hill. This was the new church Sid had written about. I must go and have a look for myself, I decided. The view would be spectacular.
I was already feeling better, sure that all would be explained and made right today. Sid and Gus would arrive, panting and laughing. “You’ll never guess Molly, Gus got a crazy idea to rent a motor and drive to Le Havre to surprise you only it was an awful old banger and it ran off the road in the middle of nowhere and we had to spend the night in a ditch.” Yes. That would be it. A perfectly reasonable explanation.
When I went back into my bedroom Liam was awake and playing happily with his own feet. He beamed when he saw me and tried to turn over and pull himself up, encumbered by his night-robes. I picked him up and took him to the window. The pigeons had resettled on the balcony and he clapped his hands in delight, causing them to flutter off again. I dressed us both then carried him cautiously down all those flights of stairs.
Madame Hetreau stepped out of her cubby immediately when she heard my footsteps. I wondered if she lurked there all day, waiting like a giant spider for her prey.
“They do not return, I think,” she said. Did I detect the hint of a gloat?
“No, they haven’t returned yet.” I gave her my most confident air. “I expect we’ll learn today what happened to them.”
“Perhaps they have found a wealthy benefactor and gone to live with him,” she said. “Many girls do in this city. It is hard to survive alone.”
“My friends have plenty of money and no interest in rich benefactors,” I said. “Now perhaps you can tell me where I can buy milk. I see a baker’s shop across the street but presumably the milk is delivered daily.”
“The American misses have a liter delivered,” she said. “You will find it in the wooden box beside the front door.”
“Thank you,” I said, thinking that she had probably been planning to use it herself if I hadn’t asked.
“And if I need to go out, it is difficult to take my baby with me. Do you know of a reliable woman who might watch my child from time to time?”
“Perhaps I could…” she began, her brain thinking how much she might charge me, now that she knew my friends were not without funds.
“Preferably a woman with a young child of her own,” I added quickly. I was certainly not going to confine Liam to a dark cubby with her.
“The baker’s wife has just had a child,’ she said. “Perhaps she might oblige.” She shrugged.
“Thank you,” I said. “I’ll speak to her when I go to buy bread. And you promised me a key. Five francs deposit, I believe you said.”
She disappeared into her dark cubby then returned holding up two keys. “The larger one for the front door, the other for the apartment,” she said as I paid her. I knew I had left the apartment unlocked but I certainly wasn’t going up all those stairs again.
I pushed open the heavy front door and stepped out into the street. Down here the world was still in deep shadow and it was chilly. I wrapped Liam’s blanket more tightly around him, then crossed to the shops on the other side. For now I’d just buy bread. Later I’d need to bring in supplies for lunch and dinner. The small bakery smelled heavenly and the baker made a big fuss over Liam. “My wife has just presented me with a fine son like yours. She is my second wife—a good girl from the country, like me, with no nonsense about her. My first wife died, alas, in childbirth and the child died with her. Such is the way of life, no?”
I took the baguette and a croissant which he wrapped in paper. “Your wife,” I said carefully. “I wonder if she might consider watching my child if I have to go out? I have just arrived in Paris and the friends I expected to see are not yet here. So I know nobody. I would pay her, naturally.”
“I don’t see why not,” he said. “I’ll ask her.”
“Thank you, I’m most grateful,” I said.
“You can’t be too careful around here,” he said. “There are plenty of girls with babies, but they are artists’ models or work in another profession at night. Not what you would want for your son, eh? My wife is a good girl. Pure. Simple. And a good cook too. With her you need have no worry.”
I went back across the street and had a good breakfast of fresh bread, creamy butter, and apricot jam while Liam chewed on a crust, clearly anxious to get back to his regime of solid food again. I played with him then put him down for a morning nap. I decided that I would send Daniel a cable simply saying, Arrived safely in Paris. Love Molly and Liam. That way he wouldn’t worry and I wouldn’t have to write to him until I knew what had happened to Gus and Sid.
The morning passed with no communication from my friends. I realized I’d have to go out to buy food and decided this would be a good time to make the acquaintanceship of the baker’s wife and see if I felt comfortable leaving Liam with her. Then, if there was still no word from Sid and Gus, I should go and find Reynold Bryce and see if he knew anything or could tell me where I’d find Willie Walcott.
I struggled down the stairs again with Liam and went across to the bakery. It was now shut but I banged on the narrow door beside the shop window and it was answered by a buxom young girl.
As soon as I explained who I was her face lit up. “My husband tells me that you need help,” she said. “I am Madeleine. Come upstairs, please.”
She led me up to a neat little room. A bassinet stood in the corner. The baby in it had a mass of dark hair and a little old man’s face. “He’s beautiful, is he not?” she said. I agreed that he was.
She poured me coffee. We chatted although I found it hard to keep up with her rapid French. “I would be happy to watch your child for you,” she said. “And if he gets hungry, do you give him the bottle?”
“No, I’m feeding him myself.”
“No problem. I have plenty of milk to spare.” And she emphasized this by hoisting two impressive breasts.
This was overly generous, I thought. I hadn’t anticipated hiring a wet nurse for him. “I will be back in time for when he needs to eat,” I said, “but thank you for the offer.”
We agreed on a very reasonable price. I kissed Liam and told him I’d be back very soon. I heard him crying as I went. I lingered at the bottom of the stairs, not sure about leaving him, but the crying soon stopped and I went about my errands. I asked where to send a cable and was directed to the telegraph office just beyond Pigalle. Then I returned to the Rue des Martyrs and bought vegetables, eggs, and some ham, returning with my string bag full to find Liam sleeping happily on the baker’s bed with pillows around him.
“He is so content. You can leave him longer if you wish,” Madeleine said.
“I should return to the apartment now to see if there is any news from my friends,” I said. I wouldn’t put it past the hostile concierge to turn away a telegram messenger if I wasn’t there. So I carried a now grouchy Liam up all the stairs again and made us a boiled egg for lunch. The afternoon dragged on. I tried not to worry but worry consumed me. There had to be something very wrong. Sid would not have gone away without her cigarette holder. If they had been going away for
any length of time they would have cleared up the remains of a meal first. And my overriding reason for concern—they knew I was coming. They were expecting me.
I took Liam back to Madeleine across the street. She was cooking, making dumplings to add to a delicious-smelling stewed chicken, but she wiped her hands on her apron and beamed at us. “Look what I have found, mon petit,” she said to him, going over to a box on the table. “See?” And she held up a Noah’s ark with carved wooden animals. “It was mine when I was a child. My grandfather carved it for me.” I left Liam happily playing with this and crept quietly away. I had no idea how I was going to locate Reynold Bryce but Paris was a city of artists and he was supposed to be the mentor of American artists here. Someone would know where to find him.
I walked down the street, back to Place Pigalle. There was a café at the intersection of two of the streets leading off Pigalle—a narrow building with glass windows and the sign Café de la Nouvelle Athènes painted above the door. There were tables outside but the day was fresh and they were unoccupied. However inside I could see a group of young men clustered around a table. I moved closer to the window. Their attire, ranging from workers’ overalls to shabby jackets to well-cut dark suits, and the way they gesticulated with their hands in animated discussion, indicated that they might well be artists of some kind. Then I spotted a sketchbook that one of them had open and charcoal in his hand. I was about to go in when I also noticed that there were no women among them. I couldn’t think that women were barred from a café, as they were from taverns in New York. The men were only drinking coffee, by the look of it. A perfectly respectable establishment. So I took a deep breath and went in.
Conversation stopped at the table. The man behind the marble counter looked up from the glass he was drying. “Are you looking for someone, mademoiselle?” he asked.
“Luckily he is not here, or there would be hell to pay, no doubt,” one of the young men said.
