Fearless Frederic

by Felice Arena

  ‘The entire city is flooded!’ Someone yells from a few doors down. ‘It’s coming up from the ground.’

  ‘How?’ asks Frederic. ‘How is that possible?’

  ‘I heard the water is flooding the sewer tunnels and subway lines,’ their neighbour cries. ‘It’s coming up from the basements, through sewer grates and manholes on the street.’

  A man appears on a makeshift raft. Standing in his nightshirt in the bitterly cold water that has now reached his knees, Frederic is momentarily stunned.

  ‘At least the river quay walls haven’t broken,’ says the man as he floats by. ‘If they do break, it will be a disaster!’

  ‘This is incredible,’ says Frederic. ‘It’s like a dream.’

  ‘Hey, boy!’

  Frederic looks up to the balcony grannies.

  ‘You’re going to catch yourself a deadly cold,’ says one of the grannies.

  ‘Or typhoid fever!’ says the other.

  ‘Are you both okay?’ asks Frederic. ‘Do you need help?’

  ‘We don’t need help, boy! Thank heavens we’re on the second floor. We’re toasty dry and we’re not going anywhere. And they’re not going to make us.’

  Frederic follows the balcony grannies’ gaze to see horse-drawn police wagons, firefighters and the French Society for Assistance to Wounded Soldiers, the SBBM for short, at the far end of his street.

  Some police are checking on residents and the others are positioning wooden gangplanks to create passerelles – makeshift footbridges and walkways – so people don’t have to wade through the rising water.

  Frederic steps back inside to find his mother desperately stuffing clothes into suitcases and moving valuables to the top of the cupboards, out of reach of the water.

  ‘Hurry up and get dressed,’ she says. ‘I have no idea what we’re going to do. Where are we going to sleep? Are we now homeless, like the vagabonds on the street? If I don’t look clean and presentable, I will lose my job.’

  ‘The SBBM are in our street,’ Frederic says, as he sits on his bed, dries his feet and changes into his clothes. ‘I can go and ask them . . .’

  ‘No!’ says his mother. ‘You stay right where you are, young man, where I know you’re safe. Oh, dear God, what are we going to do?’

  Frederic can see the stress and helplessness on his mother’s face. He understands why. There are no relatives nearby to help, and even though they can’t stay in their apartment, they will still need to pay the rent.

  ‘It’s okay, Maman. We’ll work something out,’ says Frederic, doing his best to comfort her. Just then there’s a rap at the door.

  Frederic opens the door to a SBBM officer.

  ‘Churches and schools in the elevated parts of the city have been turned into shelters,’ he says. ‘We’re here to take you to Saint Nicholas’s church hall in the third arrondissement, the third district. It’s a shelter just for women and children. So your husband would have to go to a shelter for men at the –’

  ‘There’s no husband to be concerned about,’ Frederic’s mother says bluntly. ‘And we’re ready to go now.’

  Several minutes later Frederic and his mother and two stuffed suitcases are being bundled onto the back of a large horse-drawn wagon. They squeeze in between other mothers and their children, all tightly packed in. Frederic recognises a few of the faces from other streets in his neighbourhood, but not well enough to talk to them.

  ‘Wait!’ he cries, as they are about to set off for the shelter. ‘I forgot something!’

  Frederic jumps off the wagon, wades back inside, and springs onto his bed. Hanging on a hook on the wall above his bed is the Eagle, the kite his parents bought him for his birthday. He unties it and runs back to the wagon. No one knows how much higher the river is expected to rise. And Frederic doesn’t want to risk losing his most treasured possession – the only thing he has left of his father.

  As the wagon slowly sloshes through the flooded streets, there’s an eerie silence as they watch the drama unfold in front of them. Frederic has never seen anything like it.

  There are people chasing after their belongings as they float away in the murky water. Restaurant and store-owners sob outside their businesses as they watch the rising water soak and ruin their stock and food supplies.

  In the lower streets, in the distance, they can see people hanging from second and third floor windows yelling for help – while others try to reach them with tall ladders.

  Ahead of them, a woman is clinging to a man’s back to stay dry and another man is wading through the water on stilts. Frederic almost smiles.

  But the flood is no joke. Thousands of people will be out of work, businesses will be ruined and thousands and thousands of people will be homeless.

  In a badly flooded street, Frederic spots Leon, splashing through the water.

  He calls out to him. ‘I’m going to a shelter, but then I’ll make my way to the stables!’

  ‘Don’t bother!’ Leon calls back. ‘The stables are flooded, and Gustave is trying to find another stable to house the horses. Find us once the flood subsides – if it subsides!’

  Frederic sighs. ‘Now what?’ he asks his mother.

  But she doesn’t know what lies ahead and nor does anyone else.

  When the wagon reaches Saint Nicholas’s Church, a nun in a grey tunic, with a white cowl and veil over her face, tells Frederic and his mother to join a long line of other flood victims. They slowly make their way into a large hall next door.

  It’s packed. Rows of thin mattresses cover the floor and people take up every square metre. SBBM workers are handing out blankets and pillows and packages of bread and cheese.

  A man directs Frederic and his mother to their small corner of the hall. Even though there are so many people crammed together in the hall, it’s strangely quiet.

  Frederic’s mother gets right to work making their beds and unpacking. She uses the empty suitcases to create a divide between them and other evacuees.

  ‘What’s the rush?’ asks Frederic miserably, standing his kite up beside his makeshift bed. ‘It’s not like we’re going anywhere.’

  ‘Speak for yourself,’ Frederic’s mother snaps. ‘I still need to work. I hope Madame will understand why I’m late. Are you going to be all right? I heard they’ll be giving out more food packages throughout the day.’

  Frederic nods, but he’s distracted by a girl who looks dishevelled and helpless at the other end of the hall. It looks as if she’s being bullied by a boy – they are fighting over a blanket.

  ‘Frederic?’ his mother snaps. ‘Did you hear me? Are you going to be all right?’

  ‘Yes, Maman. I’ll be all right,’ says Frederic, now wondering if he will be.

  Frederic’s mother kisses him on the forehead and leaves. Frederic immediately makes his way through the crowded hall over to the girl.

  ‘I’ve got this one!’ says the boy, tugging forcefully at the blanket.

  ‘It’s mine!’ cries the girl.

  ‘Give her the blanket!’ Frederic says, stepping up to the boy. ‘Or else you’ll have me to deal with.’

  Alarmed, the boy releases his grip on the blanket and the girl goes flying. She falls backwards onto her bottom.

  Frederic tries to help her back to her feet, but she slaps his hand away.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she snaps, brushing down her wrinkled coat and dress.

  ‘I was only trying to help,’ says Frederic. ‘You’re welcome by the way.’

  ‘You’re welcome?’ scoffs the girl. ‘Oh, thank you, Great Prince, for coming to my rescue. Ha!’

  Frederic is taken aback. ‘Are you mocking me?’ he asks. ‘You looked as if you were in trouble. And when someone’s in trouble, you either stand back or you show some courage and –’

  ‘Be a knight in shining armour? Un grand héros, a big hero?’ The girl grins and shakes her head. She has deep dimples and big green eyes. ‘Well, thank you, big hero. But I wasn’t in trouble.’


  The girl looks to the other boy. ‘What’s your name again?’

  The boy’s plump cheeks flush bright red. ‘Thierry,’ he says.

  ‘I challenged Thierry to a tug-of-war. To see who was stronger. I am, of course.’

  ‘Oh, ’ says Frederic, feeling a little foolish. ‘Then I’ll leave you alone.’

  ‘Hey!’ the girl says. ‘I bet I’m stronger than you too. I challenge you to a game. Come on!’

  ‘Non merci, pas pour moi – no, thanks, not for me,’ says Frederic, turning back to his corner of the shelter.

  ‘Is the big hero frightened of a girl beating him?’ says the girl.

  Frederic doesn’t answer. He’s baffled by her. How can she be so lighthearted when everyone else is miserable? he thinks. Isn’t she worried about her flooded home?

  ‘Ooh, so serious!’ she adds. ‘I’m Claire. And you are?’

  ‘Frederic.’

  ‘This is Thierry,’ she says, turning to the boy. ‘I just met him. Isn’t that right, Thierry?’

  ‘Yes, yes. I’m Thierry Bonneville. Can I just say that was incredibly gallant of you to come to try and rescue Claire, comme ça, like that. Like a dashing character from a novel.’

  Thierry scribbles something into a small notebook.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asks Frederic.

  ‘I’m writing. I like to record things. It might make for a good story one day,’ he says. ‘I’m going to be a famous novelist like Alexandre Dumas. I’ve read his novel The Three Musketeers twice and I’m going to read The Count of Monte Cristo next. I hope all my books are not ruined. I put them on the very top of the kitchen cupboard, so I hope the water won’t reach them.’

  ‘Are you here with your mother?’ asks Claire.

  Frederic nods and explains that his mother had to go to work.

  ‘Did your father have to go to another shelter?’ asks Claire.

  Frederic shakes his head. ‘My father, um . . .’ He stutters, unable to finish the sentence.

  ‘No longer around?’ says Claire.

  ‘Yeah.’ Frederic nods.

  ‘Me too!’ Thierry says. ‘He was a builder. He died in a construction accident when I was young, so I didn’t really know him. Maman also had to go to work today. She works as a chambermaid at the Hotel Christophe-Antoine. That’s a new fancy hotel in Saint-Germain-des-Prés.’

  ‘What about your mother?’ Frederic asks Claire.

  ‘She’s somewhere over there.’ Claire points to a group of women standing by the entrance to the shelter. ‘She’s helping the nuns hand out blankets.’

  Frederic looks, but there are about five women and none of them look much like Claire.

  He’s distracted by an elderly lady who is crying as she’s being helped into the shelter. He watches a nun trying to comfort her. But the woman sobs even more.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Frederic asks another nun, standing close by.

  ‘Her cat, Renoir, is still back at her flooded home,’ explains the nun. ‘It seems Renoir ran away when the SBBM came to pick up Madame – and she’s terribly concerned for him.’

  Claire smiles. ‘Frederic can go get her cat for her!’ she says.

  ‘Really?’ the nun says. ‘You would do that?’

  ‘Of course he would do that.’ Claire proclaims. ‘He’s a hero, ready to serve, and he’ll be more than happy to rescue the cat. Isn’t that right, Frederic?’

  ‘Really?’ Frederic says, glaring at Claire. ‘I don’t hear you offering to go back into the floodwaters.’

  He turns back to the nun. ‘I can do that,’ he says.

  ‘But every hero needs sidekicks, so these two are coming with me.’

  ‘Isn’t this exciting?’ says Thierry, running behind Claire and Frederic as they move in single file along the passerelles with the water lapping below.

  Frederic has to agree with Thierry – there’s something exciting about getting around the city this way. Although many of the pedestrians, mostly the elderly people, are finding it difficult as they shuffle carefully along the narrow gangplanks. Some people are holding onto each other for balance, slowing up those behind them. Up ahead they hear shrieks as four people slip and tumble into the cold water.

  He’s surprised to see that many people seem to be carrying on as if it’s a normal day – going to work and running their errands, making deposits at the banks that are still open and posting letters in the unflooded parts of the city.

  ‘Here it is! The old lady’s street,’ announces Claire. ‘Rue Moreau.’

  There are no passerelles in this street, and Frederic takes a deep breath before stepping down into the waist-deep water.

  ‘Ah!’ Thierry grimaces. ‘It’s freeeezing!’

  ‘Oh, come on!’ says Claire, wading ahead. ‘It won’t kill you.’

  ‘Um, it might!’ says Thierry. ‘I think I read somewhere that very cold water can have a negative effect on the body. Maybe it was in Jules Verne’s Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. Now that’s an adventure. If you haven’t read it you should because –’

  ‘Here’s the address!’ says Frederic, unlocking the front door and pushing it open. It was difficult against the floodwaters. ‘Let’s hope Renoir is back.’

  Frederic, Claire and Thierry wade through the apartment. In the front room every wall is covered by butterflies – a huge collection in boxed frames. More are hanging on the hallway walls and sitting on the mantle.

  ‘Look at all of them!’ says Frederic.

  ‘Beautiful,’ says Thierry.

  ‘Kind of creepy, if you ask me,’ says Claire. ‘Renoir!’

  ‘Renoir! Renoir! Here, Renoir!’ they call out in unison.

  But there’s no cat in sight.

  ‘Well, so much for being a heroic trio,’ sighs Thierry.

  ‘I was even thinking of what we could call ourselves. Something like the Amazing Rain Gang.’

  Frederic laughs and Claire rolls her eyes.

  ‘No?’ says Thierry. ‘I’ll keep thinking then. He reaches for a large butterfly net on the top of a bookcase.

  ‘I love this,’ says Thierry, swishing it in the air. ‘I wish I had one.’

  ‘Well, I don’t think her cat is here,’ says Frederic, wading out from the bedroom. ‘She’ll be so disappointed that we couldn’t find him.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ says Claire. ‘I think I can hear him.’ Loud meowing is coming from the street.

  Through the window, Frederic notices something floating in the middle of the road.

  ‘I think it’s Renoir!’ he cries.

  Balanced unhappily on a piece of floating debris is a black-and-white cat, meowing at the top of its lungs. Renoir is bedraggled and soaking wet, his bottom half dangling in the murky water.

  The three rush outside and wade in the direction of the cat. But they are stopped by shouting coming from the other end of the street.

  Frederic, Claire and Thierry turn to see men in three rowboats paddling frantically towards them.

  ‘Attention! Attention! Crocodile! Crocodile!’

  ‘What are they shouting?’ asks Claire.

  ‘It sounds as if they’re saying crocodile,’ says Frederic. ‘But they can’t be, can they? Why would there be a crocodile?’

  ‘They are saying crocodile!’ Thierry hollers. ‘LOOK!’

  Frederic turns just in time to see what looks like a log breaking the surface of the water down the street. It’s moving in their direction. But it’s not a log. It has small beady eyes and a snout. A crocodile! In the middle of Paris!

  ‘It’s heading for Renoir!’ cries Thierry.

  ‘He’s dinner and we’ll be dessert if we don’t get out of here,’ Claire says, wading back in the direction of the shouting men. ‘Come on! What are you waiting for? Let’s go!’

  Thierry turns and splashes towards Claire, but Frederic wades back into the old lady’s house. The floodwater swirls about his waist, sucking the litter, debris and even floating pillows in his wake.
/>
  Frederic snatches the butterfly net where Thierry left it and heads back outside.

  He charges in the direction of Renoir – and the reptilian predator. He has no time to think whether he is scared or not. All he knows is he has to show the type of courage and bravery his father expected of him. There’s no way he’s letting any one else down. Not even Renoir.

  ‘Are you crazy?’ Claire shouts out to him.

  ‘Maybe!’ he yells back.

  Frederic splashes through the icy water, holding the end of the butterfly net out in front of him like a knight charging with a lance.

  The crocodile is only seconds away from making Renoir its lunch.

  With only a metre separating them, Frederic throws himself forward and smacks the pole across the surface of the water in front of the crocodile’s snout.

  It spooks the reptile, who flicks its tail and shoots off in the opposite direction.

  But only for a moment. In seconds, the crocodile has turned and is heading back towards them.

  Frederic scoops Renoir up in the butterfly net.

  But Renoir is not thrilled to be rescued. He thrashes about, hissing and yowling. The pole bends, and Frederic hopes it won’t break.

  Frederic may understand horses, but he knows nothing about cats, especially terrified ones that look like they want to scratch your eyeballs out. It’s difficult to wade quickly in waist-deep water with Renoir twisting and flipping himself into knots in the net. But somehow Frederic manages to charge back in the direction of Claire and Thierry, who have now joined the men in the boats.

  When he reaches them his heart feels as if it’s going to burst out of his chest.

  ‘Here, take him!’ says Frederic, swinging the net over the boat.

  ‘No way!’ Thierry says. ‘That thing looks more vicious than the crocodile!’

  Frederic panics. ‘Well, I don’t have all day!’

  One of the men hurriedly grabs a blanket and scoops Renoir up – and Frederic flings himself into the rowboat.

  ‘That was incredible!’ gasps Claire.

  ‘And seriously stupid,’ says one of the other men in the boat.

  Frederic notices the men are all wearing uniforms with the emblems of the Paris Zoo.