by Felice Arena
About the Book
As the floodwaters rise, Paris needs a hero . . .
Frederic and his friends will have to battle an escaped zoo animal and fight off pickpockets and looters. But, as the danger escalates, can he find justice for his father and discover what courage really means?
A story of friendship and heart-racing adventure from the acclaimed author of The Boy and the Spy.
The Boy and the Spy is ‘sure to be a hit amongst those who love edge of the seat drama and junior heroes . . .’
Magpies
CONTENTS
salle de boxe THE BOXING HALL
crochet du gauche LEFT HOOK
bon anniversaire HAPPY BIRTHDAY
l’aigle THE EAGLE
le cheval THE HORSE
tel courage SUCH COURAGE
Musée du Louvre THE LOUVRE
voleurs THIEVES
la pluie RAIN
onze ELEVEN
une fouetté ROUNDHOUSE KICK
l’inondation FLOOD
un grand héros A BIG HERO
le secours THE RESCUE
le bateau THE BOAT
les souvenirs MEMORIES
les amis FRIENDS
l’énigme THE PUZZLE
la bataille THE FIGHT
l’hôtel THE HOTEL
se cacher HIDING
le loup THE WOLF
poursuivi FOLLOWED
perdu LOST
revers fouetté REVERSE ROUNDHOUSE KICK
encore ensemble TOGETHER AGAIN
pas d'enfants! NO CHILDREN!
La Joconde MONA LISA
une leçon A LESSON
fin THE END
From the Author
About the Author
This book is dedicated to Holly Smith-Dinbergs for her on-going support, encouragement and friendship over many years – and for her love of the French language
The boy lets loose with a high kick.
But his opponent easily blocks it with the palm of his hand.
‘Again!’ the man shouts.
The boy repeats the kick – a strong, high piston-action with his right leg.
But the man’s hand shoots out to stop his foot once more.
Then the man rushes forward, his fists high. The boy throws up his hands, but the man ducks and leads with a left-right combination punch.
The boy steps back, but he’s not fast enough . . .
And the fist stops, just before it hits his torso.
The man laughs and playfully jabs his fist into the boy’s stomach.
‘Let me catch my breath,’ the boy puffs, stepping back and shaking out his legs.
‘You won’t have time to rest in a real fight,’ the man says. ‘And that punch would have finished you.’
‘But, Papa!’
‘No buts, Frederic. Again! But this time lean back a little more.’
In a quiet corner of a salle de boxe, a boxing hall, Frederic does as he is told and charges at his father with a chasse frontal kick, followed by a direct bras avant jab.
The boxing hall is vast and spacious, bigger than any other room Frederic has ever been in and just as imposing as any grand hotel lobby in Paris.
Dusky light streams in from the ceiling-high windows onto the patterned wooden floors below. Tiny dust particles float in the shafts of light.
The hall is busy. Thirty big shirtless men are fighting one another in pairs.
The sounds of their grunting, heaving and puffing fill the space as they kick, lunge and punch. With each offensive strike, their broad shoulders and back muscles contract.
Frederic looks at them with envy. And then looks down at his skinny legs. Perhaps one day he will be as strong as they are.
At the back of the hall, some fighters are using canes, and the crack of the sticks making contact echoes loudly.
A booming voice cuts through the noise. ‘Ça va, Claude!’
It’s Monsieur Dupuis walking towards them. He is head coach at the boxing hall. He’s short and stocky, and his nose sits crookedly on his face, as if it’s been broken a few times in his lifetime.
It probably has, thinks Frederic.
Monsieur Dupuis twirls his bushy moustache. ‘Ça va, Frederic? Look how much you’ve grown. How old are you now?’
‘I’ll be thirteen tomorrow,’ says Frederic proudly.
‘Tomorrow?’ cries Monsieur Dupuis. ‘Then a bon anniversaire to you, young man. You’re almost old enough to start competing. I’m happy your papa has finally brought you along with him today. He’s told me all about your powerful left hook. Says he’s taught you everything he knows and that you’re a boxe-française champion in the making.
‘Really?’ Frederic says, surprised. He knows he has improved in the martial-arts sport of savate, but looking around at all the masters in the room his efforts seem small. Besides, boxing is more his father’s dream than his.
‘I don’t know about that . . .’ Frederic says.
‘Of course he knows! He’s just being modest,’ his father boasts. ‘Frederic will be a fighting hero. We’ve just been running through some of his kicks. He has more flexibility and power than I had at his age.’
Frederic blushes. He looks up to see his father beaming proudly at him. He tries to mirror his smile, but only manages a half grin.
‘Magnificent,’ says Monsieur Dupuis. ‘Well, when Frederic is ready to take it to the next level, perhaps he could train with my newest champion.’
Monsieur Dupuis turns and calls out, ‘Joseph! Come and meet Monsieur Claude Lefosse and his son.’
A blond-haired young man leaves his opponent and brushes his way past the other men to join them. He looks every bit the fighter – solid and muscular.
‘Claude was my prodigy many years ago, until his knees gave in,’ says Monsieur Dupuis to Joseph. ‘He sometimes helps out here and coaches some of the youngsters.’
Joseph nods and wipes his palms on the back of his pants before shaking Frederic’s father’s hand.
‘Joseph is from Marseille,’ Monsieur Dupuis tells them. ‘Just moved to Paris. He is going to win us the championship this year – his legs are so strong he could kick you to the moon and beyond!’
Joseph crosses his giant arms and looks at Frederic. ‘How about you and I go for a round, boy?’
‘Huh? What?’ Frederic can’t believe it. Nerves shoot through his body like lightning. He can’t be serious! How can I go head to head with him? I haven’t fought anyone except for my father.
But Frederic’s father is smiling and nodding.
Joseph chuckles. ‘I just mean a friendly bout,’ he says. ‘What sort of man do you think I am? I just want to see your combat style. So, Frederic, are you up for a little sparring?’
‘Go for it,’ says Frederic’s father, gently pushing him forwards. ‘Show them what you’ve got.’
Frederic rolls up his sleeves and strikes a kickboxing pose: his fists raised and clenched. He tries to make his stance wide and strong.
‘I’ll referee,’ says Monsieur Dupuis. ‘Frederic, there are only four kinds of kicks and punches. No shin and knee strikes allowed. And as for the punches . . . straight blows, uppercuts and hooks are permitted.’
He turns to Joseph. ‘Strictly no contact from you,’ he says. ‘Got it?’
They both nod.
Frederic knows he needs to use the element of surprise to have any chance of staying in the fight.
Joseph towers over Frederic – he’s at least twenty centimetres taller and looks as if he weighs twice as much.
‘Fight!’ Monsieur Dupuis calls out, stepping back.
Frederic lets loose with a couple of bras avant front-arm jabs.
Joseph stumbles backwards, caught off guard.
> Frederic hears Monsieur Dupuis laugh. Some of the other fighters in the hall stop their training to watch.
Frederic keeps advancing towards Joseph and strikes out with a fouetté – a roundhouse kick, high to the face – and then another, low to the gut.
Again Joseph is forced to react quickly to avoid him.
Frederic hears a cheer from the fighters gathering around to watch and feels a thrill. This is what it must feel like to compete in the ring, he thinks. No wonder Papa loved boxing so much.
But immediately Joseph regains composure and blocks an incoming coup de pied bas, a low sweeping kick to the shin.
‘Frederic!’ cries Monsieur Dupuis. ‘I said no shins.’
Joseph shoots off a few lead jabs – left, right, left, left, right – and Frederic dodges each one, swaying and side-stepping each incoming strike.
There are benefits to being small – he’s agile and nimble on his feet. But Joseph reads his every move. He continues to charge forward with a coup de pied au corps, a kick directly into Frederic’s body. Frederic can’t avoid it. He feels Joseph’s toes tap against his stomach.
That was a strong kick, he thinks, grateful there’s no contact.
‘You have some fancy moves there, boy,’ Joseph says, shuffling from foot to foot. ‘But remember looking good and dodging my fists is one thing, but it takes an actual strike to win. So don’t hold back. I’m a big guy, I can take it.’
He advances again, stepping in with another right jab. Frederic ducks and immediately rockets upward. And as he is about to release a crochet du gauche – a left hook – to Joseph’s face, he pulls away his punch at the last second.
The hall erupts again. The other fighters all know that was a perfect opportunity to knock the champion off his feet.
Even Joseph appears to be impressed.
In a competition fight, Frederic would’ve won some major points had he followed through with such a well-executed blow.
Monsieur Dupuis rushes in between them, hands in the air.
‘That’s it!’ he shouts. ‘Give it up for Frederic!’
Frederic glances over to his father, looking for his proud smile. He is proud of himself.
This time I’ve earned it, he thinks.
But to his confusion his father looks disappointed.
Joseph steps up to Frederic, ruffles his hair and then shakes his father’s hand.
‘You’ve taught him well. Flawless skills,’ Joseph says to Claude. ‘But there’s more to be done. You’ll have to draw out his inner tiger . . . otherwise he’ll never be competitive in the ring and he might get seriously hurt.’
Despite the praise, Frederic feels now as though he has somehow let his father down. Inner tiger? What does that mean? he wonders.
‘Did you hear that?’ Frederic’s father tells him. ‘You did well, but you’ve got to attack more. A boxing champion needs to be relentless and unflinching.’
Frederic nods.
‘That’s what you want, isn’t it?’ his father says. ‘To be a boxing champion. That’s what we both want.’
But it’s not really a question, and Frederic doesn’t answer him.
The next morning Frederic wakes to the familiar sound of hooves on the cobblestones of his street. It’s a sound that has always comforted him. He smiles without opening his eyes.
The horses pass by his house. They’re from the stables just a few blocks away, and they’re on their way to be bathed in the Seine River. Frederic has always dreamt of working with horses and normally he would go to watch them, but not today – he has something else planned.
He hops out of bed and slips into his knee-length baggy trousers, puts on his collarless shirt and braces, and ties on his scuffed black shoes before tip-toeing out of his room. It’s just a nook in the corner of the living room of his family’s small ground-floor apartment, but he loves it.
Off the living room there’s a small kitchen, a bathroom and his parent’s bedroom – their door is open. He peeks in. It looks as though his mother is still fast asleep.
‘I can hear, you know,’ she says from under the bed sheet. ‘Your steps are as heavy as the hooves of those carriage horses.’
‘Sorry, Maman,’ says Frederic, running into the room and jumping to sit on the bed next to her.
‘Your father should be finished work soon,’ she says, sitting up. ‘Don’t forget that you’re meeting him at a different spot today – so don’t be late!’
Almost every day of the summer Frederic has woken up early to meet his father on his way back from his night shift.
Claude works as a guard at Paris’s most famous art museum – the Louvre. But Frederic has never before been inside. Tonight he will get a chance to go to work with his father for the first time.
‘Are you excited, mon cher?’ asks his mother, hugging him.
Frederic is buzzing with excitement but he tries to act calm.
‘I guess,’ he says, wriggling out of her arms. He slaps on his flat cap and pulls it down over his eyes. ‘Do you know what the surprise is? Why does Papa want me to meet him somewhere else this morning?’
‘My lips are sealed.’ His mother grins, then leans in and kisses him on the forehead. ‘Bon anniversaire, Frederic. Thirteen! I can’t believe it. It seems that only yesterday I was cradling my beautiful baby boy.’
‘Maman!’ Frederic winces.
‘What? I don’t care how grown up you get, you’ll always be my baby boy. Now, you’d better get going, you don’t want to keep your father waiting. And I better get moving too. Fashion waits for no one.’
Frederic’s mother is a seamstress at one of Paris’s large fashion houses. She sews and mends clothes for wealthy ladies. She’s an expert in creating gowns for all occasions from morning to evening. The rich ladies even have special outfits for walking.
Frederic can’t understand why anyone would need more than one outfit. But his mother has told him that the rich ladies need to be beautiful – with shoulder and waist trimmings and delicate needlework on their skirts and dresses.
When he had asked her why she didn’t have trimmings too, she had said: ‘The poor wear linen, the middle-class wear cotton and the rich wear silks. So I will have to be content with linen, mon cher.’
‘D’accord! Time to go,’ she orders. ‘Allez! Allez! Go! Go!’
Frederic waves goodbye and steps out onto the street. The light seems more golden this morning. The narrow apartment buildings with their wrought-iron balconies filled with hanging plants and flowers seem even more beautiful than usual.
‘Bonjour! Good day!’ comes a cry from the balcony of a building opposite.
Frederic looks up to see les grands-mères du balcon, the balcony grannies. He doesn’t know their real names, but every day he can remember they have been seated on their second-floor balcony, keeping watch on the street and greeting him as he walks to meet his father.
‘Why are you looking so smug this morning?’ one of the sisters calls out to Frederic.
Frederic just grins.
‘Boys are always smug!’ declares the other sister.
‘But he has a spring in his step today!’
‘What’s he up to? What are you up to, boy?’
‘He doesn’t say much!’
‘He never says much!’
Frederic waves cheekily to them, turns right and keeps moving.
He picks up his pace, walking past the vendors opening their stores, café owners putting out sidewalk tables and chairs, and restaurateurs unloading food supplies from horse carts. The aroma of coffee and freshly baked bread wafts in the air and Frederic feels a pang of hunger.
Perhaps Papa and I will get something special to eat for my birthday, he thinks.
‘Vive la France! Vive la France! Vive Bleriot!’ A small boy with a big voice is standing outside a café yelling at the passers-by.
It’s Journal – or that’s the name Frederic knows him by. It’s been his nickname ever since he started selling newspapers.
He’s Frederic’s age but has been working for years. There’s nothing he doesn’t know.
Journal announces the day’s headlines to anyone willing to listen, anyone who might buy the paper from him.
Frederic is always ready to listen. He doesn’t have money to throw away on papers but wishes he did. The stories are always incredible – amazing new discoveries, thrilling wars and battles in far off countries and jaw-dropping inventions like a contraption called a vacuum cleaner and a motion-picture camera projector invented by two French brothers.
‘July 9th, 1909! Bleriot! Bleriot flies over the sea!’ Journal hollers, waving today’s edition of Le Matin.
Frederic runs over to look. On the front page is a photograph of a man standing proudly by a flying machine. The huge headline reads: The Great Frenchman Louis Bleriot – the First Man to Fly over the English Channel in an Aeroplane!
‘It’s incredible!’ Frederic says. ‘It’s mind-boggling. Men flying? What next?’
‘Just you wait! We’ll all be flying to the stars one day,’ says Journal.
‘No way! Do you really think so?’
‘Absolutely!’ says Journal.
Frederic tips his cap and breaks into a fast jog – he doesn’t want to keep his father waiting.
By the time he is bolting across the plaza in front of the Hôtel de Ville, Paris’s impressive town hall, he is puffed, but he wants to pass his favourite statue on the way so he runs harder and takes the long way round.
He darts past a group of people, poorly dressed and huddled together like pigeons. A few of them are sitting on old wooden fruit crates. One of them, a young woman, jumps out in front of Frederic and startles him.
‘Got some food?’ she says, putting out her hand. Her palms and face are covered in soot and grime.
There are so many homeless people in this neighbourhood, Frederic thinks. They’re always begging!
He shakes his head, sidesteps the girl and continues on running.
He needs to cross at a bridge to reach the Île de la Cité, a island in the Seine River, so he runs until he reaches the Pont d’Arcole.
Over the bridge is the enormous, ancient Notre Dame Cathedral but that’s not why he’s come.
