Thomas sighs. “Not really. I’m sure I have heard every French joke there is since coming to London.” He sips the rum that Cleland has paid for. It’s good. He lets Cleland know with an appreciative nod. “All right, Monsieur, what two things are the French good for?”
Cleland smirks. “Lace and whores.” He hunches his shoulders as if to say he’s sorry, but it’s the truth. “The one complements the other, don’t you think?”
“Is that a joke?”
“I wonder, is it?”
But then Thomas sees the laughter in Cleland’s blue eyes. So Thomas forces a reluctant laugh for his new friend, a man who bought him a drink. “Funny,” Thomas adds.
“It seems not. Oh well. I tried.”
Thomas’s attention goes to Gallatin. Gallatin’s eyes are burning into him and he’s beckoning Thomas to come over to his side.
“Excuse me for a moment,” says Thomas to John Cleland. “My friend wants a word.”
“Of course he does. Tame old Earnest John. He wants to warn you away from me. That’s my bet.”
Thomas blinks at Cleland. “Why would he do that?”
“Any number of reasons, I suppose.”
“Alors, what’s your guess?”
“That I’m disreputable. That would be a word John Gallatin might choose.”
“Tiens, I’ll let you know.” Thomas walks around the end of the table over to Gallatin.
Gallatin grasps Thomas by the elbow and angles the two of them so that they are both facing the wall, their backs to the table. “Watch out, Thomas. That man is nothing but a rake. I don’t know who invited him here tonight. He spends all his time in bagnios and brothels, then writes it up.”
“He writes about whores and sex?”
Gallatin nods sternly. “No one publishes him, but I hear that’s what he does. Disreputable, he is.”
Thomas laughs.
“You think that’s funny?” Jean Gallatin squeezes his eyes half shut. He looks at Thomas like he thinks Thomas has lost his mind.
Thomas composes his expression, making it the sternest he can. “You warn me away from him, is that it?”
“I do. Don’t get too close.”
As he pads back around the table to his seat beside John Cleland, Thomas cannot rein in his broad smile.
“So,” says Cleland, “your friend made you laugh? But the question is: was I right? Am I someone to be shunned?”
“It seems you are. And, yes, disreputable was the very word.”
“There you have it.” Cleland leans back with a smile. “It must be so. Earnest John is not likely to be wrong.”
Thomas gives Cleland a long look. “Do you know that I have submitted pages to Edward Cave?”
“I do not. Well done.”
“No, nothing is done, not yet. On those pages I compare London to Paris, both ways.”
Cleland arches his eyebrows. “Which two ways are those?”
“One against the other, what else?”
Cleland drains the last bit of rum from his glass. “I don’t know. Front and back, up and down. You know, like making love. Or coupling, as I think of it.”
Thomas snorts a jet of air out his nose. He darts a glance at Gallatin, who happens to be looking back at him, shaking his head. Thomas nods at his friend and understands that the bookseller is now glancing at the stairs. Oh, he gets it. Gallatin is asking him if he’s ready to leave. Indeed. Thomas supposes he is. He stands up.
“I’m off, Cleland, but something tells me you could show me a different side of London than I’ve yet seen.”
“You’ve been to The Rose at Covent Garden?”
“Yes, Hogarth took me there. Did not like it much.”
“Not for me either. Better to play than watch, I say. How about the Shakespeare’s Head?”
Thomas shakes his head.
“Well, there you go. A quite different den of iniquity, that one is. The man in charge has quite a list. Perhaps you’d like an education there some evening soon?”
“An education?”
John Cleland makes a funny face, then alerts Thomas with his eyes that someone is approaching.
“Come on, let’s go.” It’s Gallatin. He’s come to collect Thomas from his conversation and get him up the stairs and out the door.
“Another time, Bookshop John,” Cleland sings out. “Must have a chat, I think.”
Thomas covers his mouth to hide his laugh as he grabs hold of the thick rope to mount the stairs.
—
“Don’t be fooled,” says Jean Gallatin the moment he and Thomas push out into the cool air coming out of the Friend at Hand. “That Cleland is no one you want to know.”
Thomas keeps his lips sealed for a moment. It’s unlike Gallatin to be so visibly upset. And over someone who is as clever and amusing as the fellow Thomas sat beside tonight. Something must have happened between the two of them. “Perhaps you worry too much. He seems harmless enough.”
“He is not. Trust me on that.”
“In any case, my path and Cleland’s are unlikely to cross again.”
“I hope that’s true. He’s a rogue and a rake.”
Two for one, thinks Thomas, but keeps it to himself.
Gallatin picks up the pace. He appears not to want to say any more, which suits Thomas very well. He has lots to mull over and figure out. At the top, as usual, is Hélène. His relationship with her remains unfulfilling. In the literal sense. He really must bring things to a head. The choice of words makes him smile. He recalls some conversation long ago when one of the Paris writers made a joke to the effect that the big head cannot think straight if the little head is blocked. Well, that is certainly the case. Eros, his old ally, has practically deserted him. Thomas has bided his time for far too long, leading a monk’s life up in the attic of Gallatin’s house. He has to get them out of that place. The sand in the glass is running out.
—
The air is close, unseasonably warm and sticky for this early in the year. Of course Hélène knows it cannot last more than a day or two, but such knowledge is no relief. This day must be gone through to get to tomorrow. It’s the kind of weather one expects to find in London occasionally in summer, not this early in spring.
Nearly every face shows the effect. If they are not slick with perspiration, they have bedraggled hair or wigs. People are fanning their well-oiled faces with either hats or hands. The only dry brows are those where a mouchoir has just rubbed the sweat away. Many people, especially the older ones, are searching for a clearing breath, for London is blanketed beneath a hot and gritty shroud.
Hélène feels Thomas’s fingers tighten round her right hand. They are wending their way through the oncoming sea of unyielding shoulders and determined faces. He appears to find it reassuring to give her hand a tug and make her turn around. She thinks he must feel that he’s giving her safety and security in this bustling place. She doesn’t mind. She always gives him a tiny smile. Truth be told, she comes through the Covent Garden piazza twice most days, on her way to and from Gallatin’s shop.
She doesn’t really have anything in mind to buy. It’s just that if she and Thomas are going to go somewhere for a walk, it might as well be somewhere she likes. The piazza is one such place. The Spitalfields market close to where they live has all the same fruits and vegetables as does this place, but not on the same scale, nor with so many people on display. She is not vain, but she likes to think that with her blue parasol and blue dress she is the match of anyone on the market square.
—
Thomas takes a shallow breath. The air is so heavy with humidity that it weighs upon the inside of his chest.
Why, for the love of humanity, does Hélène want to go through the piazza and not around? Because of the unprecedented heat, the place stinks like nowhere else. Not as bad as Billingsgate, but f
or an inland square, it’s pretty bad today. And it’s coming off the crowd of bodies that carry the hundreds of sweating faces.
Thomas closes his eyes for a moment as he lets Hélène lead them through the human sea. Snippets of passing conversations come and go. He cannot yet distinguish among the different accents the way the English can. They can tell in an instant where a person is from and the class or occupation to which he or she belongs. He supposes he could do the same for France and will eventually be attuned to England should he continue to live in this land.
Thomas hears a woman complaining about some mean thing her absent husband said before he stormed off; how some man’s bowels are as loose as a cat’s; how a cock-fight bet won five guineas last night; how a merchant woman lost a bundle when a crate of Chinese porcelain was dropped coming off the ship. Half the dishes were cracked.
“What are you doing?”
Thomas feels the edge in Hélène’s voice and the squeeze of her hand. “Rien,” he says, eyes opened wide. He switches to English. “A bit of fun.”
“Well stop it, all right?”
Thomas makes his eyes go very wide, but Hélène does not laugh. She turns around and they continue their winding path across the crowded market space, no longer hand in hand.
It’s funny. Thomas knows Hélène better than anyone else. Yet sometimes he wonders if he knows her at all. There’s been a change in her since they arrived in London. What that change is precisely he’s not sure, but he is certain it stems from the minimal amount of time the two of them spend together and alone. Gallatin has become an influence that is not always for the best, in Thomas’s view. Lately he has noticed how Hélène raises her hand, pointer finger up, just like Gallatin, each time she wants to object to something Thomas says. What was humorous with his friend is less so when it’s his lover. It’s what comes from their working in the same shop.
“You’re far away,” Thomas hears Hélène say.
“Yes, I suppose.” He shrugs. “Another time, another place.”
“When are you not?” Hélène goes back to admiring the display of asparagus spears before her.
Thomas half expects her to buy a few and to ask him to put them in his pocket. But she does not. Instead, she goes on to the next stand and admires the carrots. Hélène seems able to appreciate the colours and the scents of nearly everything. This is how it continues as they slowly make their way across the market display. It makes him shake his head.
Since the outing to the bull-baiting at Hockley-in-the-Hole, Hélène generally says no to any suggestion Thomas makes when he proposes exploring unseen corners of the city. So he has given up suggesting any new adventure at all.
It was “no” to taking a long-nosed wherry over to the Southwark side of the Thames. “But why?” she asked. “Don’t we have enough dangerous quarters and tenter grounds on this side?”
“She’s right,” Gallatin had chipped in.
It was even “no” to Westminster. Hire an oarsman to row them there, saving them half of that long walk. Thomas had wanted to stroll through the royal parks. So far he’s seen only the tops of the trees in St. James’s and Green and Hyde from afar. He studied the latest London map for the manuscript he gave to Edward Cave, but that’s not the same as actually walking through the real places.
“Enough for you?” Hélène asks. “It’s enough for me.”
“You mean you’re ready to go?”
“I’ve been told I need a better education on London town. I was hoping you might be my guide.”
“Sérieusement? Who told you that?”
“Jean.”
Thomas instantly regrets it but he cannot hold back. He rolls his eyes. He can see that he has displeased Hélène.
“No? Not inclined?” she asks.
Thomas recomposes his face. He bows. “Well, yes, I am inclined. I will be your guide.” He makes a gentlemanly gesture at the north side of the piazza, toward which they have been slowly, though unintentionally, making their way. Though it annoys him that it was Gallatin’s suggestion that has done the trick, he has nonetheless been waiting for this for a long time.
“Thomas, I think I should apologize. You’re always suggesting places to go and I’m always putting you off. But not today. You choose and I’ll follow where you lead. Though some place with a little shade and some quiet might be a good idea.”
That sounds better. “I know such places. More than one.”
After they leave Covent Garden he’ll show her Soho Square, where, if she agrees, they’ll be moving soon. Thomas glances up to the clouds. There may not be anyone or anything up there, but he gives a smile of thanks just the same.
—
It pleases Hélène to see Thomas’s reaction to her suggestion. One good mood breeds another, does it not? She hopes it lasts.
She and Thomas weave in and around a maze of market tables and stalls. Her only stop is before a wild-haired woman with a tray overflowing with a bountiful display of sticky buns. “Don’t they look good?” she asks Thomas.
“Would you like one?” Thomas thrusts a hand into the pocket of his veston, searching for a coin.
“No, no,” she says, “I’ll be a mess. Maybe on our way back. We could take it to Church Street.”
“I’ll hold you to that. I want one too.”
“Thomas....” says Hélène. But then she looks around. No, it’s too crowded, too noisy where they are.
“Yes?” Thomas leans closer so she does not have to yell.
“Nothing. Why don’t you take me to find a wild goose?”
“What is that, a wild goose?”
“Un oie sauvage, j’imagine. But I’m not really sure. Jean said it the other day in the shop. It’s an exploration of some sort.”
“I do not know such an expression. Curious. But let’s pretend. Let’s wild goose St. James’s Square then Soho Square. I have been wanting to show them to you for quite a while.”
“Lead on.”
Hélène sees Thomas pick at his clothes as discreetly as he can. She can imagine that he’s probably wet in the armpits and in the small of his back, as is she. But she knows enough not to let on to anyone who might see. She’s surprised Thomas is not more careful about the image he presents.
“In my opinion,” Thomas says as he takes her by the elbow and begins to pick up the pace, “Soho Square is for people like us. Our level. I want to show you St. James’s Square first, though. It’s an address of the topmost ranks. Seven dukes and seven earls is what I hear.”
“At that one square?” Hélène cannot stop herself from leaning back.
“So I hear, seven of each, dukes and earls.”
Hélène feels the smile upon her face.
“I thought that might pique your interest.” Thomas is smirking as he stares at her. “Better than a Russian tailor, would it not?”
Hélène gives him a glare.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “Pierre was my friend as well.”
“I thought so. He was a good man and his memory deserves better than that.”
“Of course.” Thomas chooses to be silent for a while as they walk on.
—
“So here we are. Surprising is it not, how from the outside the houses are so alike? It must be on the inside where they excel, the earls and dukes. Which is as it should be, I think. An elevated position is something owners should enjoy privately. Not display to people like us walking by.” Thomas makes sure his shoulders are erect and his head held high.
“Is that how you would be, should fortune come your way? You’d keep your wealth hidden away?”
“I’d like to think I would.”
He watches Hélène shake her head.
“Well, you’d be a crowd of one. People wear their level for all to see. You know that as well as anyone. For a man it’s the cost of the fabric and its
cut, the buckles on his shoes. The type of coach. A pocket watch or fancy cane. For us it’s the dresses we wear. The jewellery and shoes. Display is how we live.”
Thomas glances around the crowded square. He doesn’t like being challenged by Hélène, but he acknowledges that she is correct. He spies three young women with wide, straw bonnets strolling side by side. It’s obvious they are not servants of any kind. Watching the young women pass are two men of obvious standing. They are wearing close-cropped periwigs, the tail ends tied and covered by black taffeta bags. Another man off to the left has a wig that rises up like an ocean wave. A fop, to be sure, but one with a stream of income that means he doesn’t have to think about finding work. Farther on an even younger man who clearly wants to be noticed as he struts by. His wig is powdered a brilliant white. “You’re right,” Thomas says at last.
He and Hélène wait for a water-carrier, a broad-shouldered young man, to pass by. Thomas catches Hélène’s whisper after the man has passed.
“It’s only monks and nuns who want to hide away. Those with wealth and leisure want everyone to know what they’ve achieved.”
“Or been born into,” Thomas adds.
Hélène gives Thomas a warm smile. “Not our lot, alas.”
Thomas returns her smile. They are silent for a while as they leave the square. They follow behind a man holding up half a dozen cages of wild birds. Thomas wonders if they are for amusement inside people’s homes or whether they are to have their necks wrung for food. Back on a street with shops, he and Hélène go past cutlers and silversmiths, linen-drapers and haberdashers, clockmakers and tailors, pewterers and perruquiers, bookbinders and wine merchants, leather breech makers and undertakers. Paris has lots of shops, but nowhere near as many as Thomas sees in London. He must remember to make that point in his book. If only he would hear from Cave. Does the man not see the value and interest that Thomas’s comparisons will generate? And that means sales, in other words.
Hélène comes to a stop in front of Thomas Berry’s shop. The display in the window of fine leather pattens and clogs halts her in her tracks. To see her study the different styles makes Thomas smile. Women and their shoes. Right up there with jewellery. He bides his time as long as he can.
The Maze Page 23
