Thomas takes a deep breath and admires one more time the slate-roofed structure of the Hôtel de Ville. The building is tall and elegant. It looks light on its feet, if only it had feet. He smiles at his little joke. The structure is basking in the deepening light of late afternoon. He wonders if Hélène would like to hear what he has to say about the beauty of the building. But he sees that she’s wandered off. It appears that she’s admiring the square in her own way. She has her arms outstretched, face up to the sky, and is turning slowly around.
Thomas feels a firm hand on his shoulder. He is surprised to see Strombeau. The merchant’s wig could not be more tightly fitted. Now that he’s in Paris there’s not a hint of red hair sprouting anywhere. The cravat is in place, and nicely tied, and at the cuffs of the deep red coat are billowing spiffy trims of lace. Aha, observes Thomas, arrival in Paris has turned the previously unkempt merchant from Bordeaux into someone else. Thomas is impressed. So that’s how it’s done. He files the thought away. He has now learned from Strombeau something he can use. One must dress for the part one wants to play.
“I’m off, young friend. Jean or Thomas or whatever your name really is.” Strombeau chuckles and shows not a hint of ill will. “Business to attend and already a day late.” Strombeau holds out, between thumb and forefinger, a neatly folded-over sheet of paper. “Here. For you. My guess is that you might find it useful.”
Thomas’s eyes narrow as he takes the paper in hand. He unfolds it and reads what’s written inside. “But it’s a name and an address.”
“Ah, so young.” Strombeau glances skyward then back to Thomas. “Certain names and certain addresses are what this city is all about.”
Thomas flinches then nods that he can grasp that.
“This is one of those names, and he is found at that address.” Strombeau removes the smile from his face and adopts a serious look. “Not everything comes clear all at once. You’ll come to see that’s true if you don’t know it already. Trust me on this, though I know it goes against your grain.” Strombeau claps Thomas on the shoulder. He lowers his voice for what comes next. “Seriously. Go see this man once you’re settled. I’m doing you a favour here. That’s all. Let’s leave it at that.”
Strombeau swings away, clearly disappointed that the kindness he’s showing to a possible protégé is only being considered not embraced. Thomas reaches out to grab the merchant by the forearm. The young man’s expression has shifted from puzzled to apologetic.
“You have to admit. It’s not much to go on.”
“I don’t have to admit anything.” The smile is back on Strombeau’s face. He’s almost laughing. “Least of all to you, you sweet-faced lying bastard. If you want to light your fire with this piece of paper, you go right ahead.”
Thomas blinks at Strombeau. He is trying to understand how a sheet of paper can be as important as all that.
Strombeau exhales. He leans in close so no one else but Thomas can hear.
“Look, skepticism is a good quality. I offer my applause. But this name and that address,” Strombeau jabs at the paper with a finger, “they’re a gift. Believe me that. The world doesn’t owe us a thing. Either we earn it or we take it. That’s how it is. And if you don’t take it, someone else will in your place. The man whose name I’ve given you, he has a position, a certain role. I leave it at that. If you’re as quick-witted and capable as I think you are, you’ll do all right by him. And him by you, make no mistake.”
“But why me?”
Strombeau brings out his pocket watch before replying. “Why you? Because you remind me a bit of myself, back when I was … well, when I was young and half the size I am now. I didn’t have anything in the beginning but what I had stuffed in my shoes. Yes, I walked with a little limp back then, much like I see you do. But I was smart. And not afraid to be resourceful. And ambitious. I wanted to rise above the crowd, far beyond where I was born. Does that sound like anyone you know?”
Thomas tenders a cautious nod.
“Well then.” Strombeau whacks the paper in Thomas’s hand. “There it is. A start.”
“All right,” mumbles Thomas. “Thanks.”
“I should say some thanks are due.” Strombeau winks at the lad then turns and strides away.
“What’d he want, that fat coot?” Hélène sidles over to Thomas after Strombeau is ten feet gone.
“Not exactly sure.” Thomas turns to face Hélène. “He gave me a name and an address. Some kind of job, I guess.”
“Well, that’s good, isn’t it?” Hélène’s spirits rise. Thomas can see it on her face.
“Yeah. I’ll find out, I guess. C’mon, let’s find a place to live before it gets dark.”
—
The room is far from the best, but it’s the best Thomas and Hélène can find in two hours of looking. It’s also the best they can do with the amount of money Thomas has hidden in his shoes and socks and Hélène can contribute from the small pouch inside her sack.
“I didn’t know you had anything,” he said when she held open the pouch and he looked in.
“Well, I do, and this is it.”
Thomas was about to ask where she got it, but he remembered the story she had told him about her aunt and uncle and decided he’d better not. Hélène, however, saw the thought cross his face.
“That’s right, the fondle and fuck.”
“I didn’t say anything.” His hands go up. “My money comes from somewhere too. Maybe just as bad.”
“Oh, what’s that?”
“I… I… I borrowed it from an uncle. With a bit of a lie.”
Hélène’s eyebrows arch. “That’s it?”
“Well, I’m not paying him back.”
“No.” She shakes her head. “I win.”
That was an hour ago. Now the two newcomers to Paris stand gazing at the floor of the third room they’ve looked at since descending from the diligence. The concierge, a woman who acts as the watchtower for the building, talks, is pointing out all there is to see in the room. It’s not much. By her accent, the concierge is not from France. The accent is not of any region Thomas or Hélène has ever heard. Their guess, whispered one to the other, is that she is from Poland. The woman waves her arms as she speaks in staccato.
“Fine room, yes. Fine. And dry. Clean too.”
In fact, the room is not at all fine and not particularly clean, but the couple does not contradict her. Their spirits are sinking fast. They are running out of time to find a place to call their own. A few minutes ago, when they entered the building, it looked fine and respectable on the ground floor. Also, it was in a fine part of the city, not far from the Louvre. The name of the street is what spurred Thomas on: rue Saint-Thomas-du-Louvre. He took it as a sign and said as much to Hélène as they entered. “Many a great one began in just such a spot,” he said. Hélène rolled her eyes.
With each set of stairs they climbed, getting narrower and steeper as they went up, to this attic space at the top on the sixth floor, the rent progressively went down, as did the quality of the rooms.
“It’s only until we get some money coming in,” Thomas said through clenched teeth on the stairwell as they climbed higher still. After that, Hélène kept any objections of her own completely to herself.
“Happy here. Know that. Know that for you. So happy.”
The concierge curls her upper lip and taps a foot. She is waiting for an answer.
“Normandy, from. Good. Normandy-ers like it here.” She takes a step closer and repeats the last words, only this time as a question. “Like it here, yes?”
Thomas and Hélène look at each other, exchanging shared disappointments. Each can smell the mildew that pervades the room. What they had imagined and wanted was something larger and in a better building on a lower floor. And there was to be more and finer furniture. Instead, they�
��re standing in a pitch-roofed attic whose floorboards have curled and lifted and whose plaster has dark spots that look like they come from dampness having its effect over time. There is but a single beat-up table, four damaged chairs, and a country cupboard. They both had just as good, or better, back in their earlier homes. As for a bed, there is none. Where they will sleep is on a rolled-up straw mattress on the floor. Beside it is what looks like an ancient chamber pot. It is cracked, with a wire repair job holding it together. Hélène looks at it with a long face. Thomas looks at the same pot and the wash basin in the corner and he thinks of the long hike it is going to be up and down the six flights of stairs whenever they need to get water to wash their hands, faces and other places, and to carry out the chamber pot with all its swirling and floating charms.
As they climbed the stairs up to see this attic space, Thomas like Hélène was dismayed by all the people they glimpsed on the upper floors. On the upper floors the building is a human anthill. This level and the next one down are filled with tradespeople and hawkers, people prone to yelling even when not out in the streets. Down below, where the fuller pocketbooks live, the people stay out of sight. The smell of laundry, damp and heavy, and who knows what else, is everywhere on the top two floors.
“What say? Take room or not? Must know.”
Thomas and Hélène take turns nodding inconclusively, she with closed eyes. Thomas sighs deeply. The hesitation draws a frown from the concierge.
“Window,” she says, pointing to make sure the two young people understand that the room has a window.
Thomas and Hélène do as they are bid. They drag their feet for a second time to the window. Its glass is covered with smudges of grime. Yet even through the grit the two young renters can see enough to know there will never be a view, unless the courtyard six stories below might be considered a view. Thomas goes up on tiptoes and makes out a tiny man gesticulating wildly at two miniscule boys. He strikes first one then the other. A master with apprentices, Thomas concludes. That’s the same everywhere, he knows, but he had hoped for better in the part of Paris where he is to live.
Thomas turns back to Hélène. He wants from her some sign of consent. Otherwise … well, he doesn’t know. It’s obvious that the decision as to where they live matters more to her than to him. His big worry is the money: how to make it last. There’s an unmistakeable disappointment on her face. For the first time since he saw her smiling face run across the yard of the inn, Thomas wonders if Hélène is now having second thoughts about having left Évreux.
“Are we close to anything here?” Thomas blurts out. He’s desperate to find something, anything to cling to. He has forgotten that they are near the Louvre, the Tuileries and Palais Royal and not far from the Seine. But then, nothing in Paris is far from the river, on one side or the other. As for the Louvre and Palais Royal, since he’s not staying at either the one or the other, what does it matter how close to them he might be? Yet it does matter, to be close. Proximity is important. It will allow him to forget from time to time that he’s going to be living in a sixth-floor grenier upon which the young king’s lackeys would look down.
“Is perfect,” smiles the concierge. “Close very close. Everything. Close.”
“All right, we’ll take it,” says Thomas, making a silent vow to find some place better as soon as he can.
He looks to Hélène, to see that she supports his decision. But she has swiftly turned away. It’s her back alone that greets him. He can see the rigidity of her muscles through her clothes.
“One month. Advance,” says the concierge. “Bring me now.”
—
Thomas is the first to wake, or so he thinks. He stands and stretches, slipping on the clothes he wore yesterday. It is also what he wore the day before that. He has no choice. The few other garments he possessed were in the stolen satchel, and there were not many of those when he set out from Vire. So buying some clothes is the first thing Thomas has to do this day. There will undoubtedly be used clothing shops or stands somewhere nearby. He needs things that will present him in a suitable light. He must dress for the position, any position that matches his talent, his ambition. He knows now exactly how much money he has. He did a count after Hélène tumbled off to sleep. It’s enough to pay three months lodging and food as well as the purchase of some clothes. If Hélène throws in her money as well, they have an extra month, maybe two. But that’s not forever, so they both need to find work.
Thomas thinks there’s probably enough to buy a few books. He has nothing to read, no books to inspire his own muse and quill. Well, he has no quill either since the theft, but that’s a need that’s easy to fill. He trusts that his muse is still well. He’s never gone long without some lines running through his head. And this is Paris after all. He can’t wait to see what they have in their bookstalls. He expects to make an entry in the writers’ world sooner or later. The republic he’s heard it’s called. That entry will have to wait until after he’s found something that will give him a wage on a regular basis.
All dressed and with his shoes on, Thomas relieves himself in the chamber pot. The pot is halfway full after the two of them last night and now this contribution. Thomas puts the lid on the cracked ceramic container, making sure it’s on tight. He glances over at Hélène’s sleeping form. It comes to him that he should take the pot down the stairs and dump it in the stinky gutter in the middle of the street then bring it back up and put it in inside the door while Hélène sleeps on. She would appreciate him for doing that, no doubt. She’s not fond of the room they have chosen to live in nor of the building itself, and any little thing he could do to make her happy will count. However, he also knows that he needs to find some kind of paying work, and find it fast. The chamber pot is not full to the top. He’ll empty it later on, when he comes back in a few hours.
Hand on the door handle and ready to leave, Thomas looks Hélène’s way once more. She’s still coiled in a sleeping ball upon the pailleasse and breathing deeply. He recalls that last night was the first time they’d lain together and not touched each other’s tender parts. They were simply too tired, and Hélène seemed distant. So they just closed their eyes and went right to sleep. We’ll get back to it later on, he thinks.
As he descends the stairs, running his fingers along the railing all the way down like he’s exploring every contour and crack, Thomas has a worrying thought. Whatever is it that Hélène is going to do in Paris? This is not her uncle’s inn in Évreux. Well, thank god for that. But can she pay her own way? She’s really good at one thing – he smiles reaching the ground level and going out the door – but she can’t be doing that except with him. They are together now. Still, she does have to find something that brings in coins. It’s a troubling thought.
—
The used clothes Thomas has purchased feel both too large and too small. That’s because they are. The hat is so loose that it slides upon his head as he walks. The veston and the justaucorps, on the other hand, they are more than a little too tight. The breeches, only the breeches are just right. As for the chemise, it’ll do. It’s nothing fancy but at least it’s not stained anywhere that anyone will see, just faintly under the arms and down low on the back where it will be tucked away. Despite the poor fits, Thomas decided after an hour of trying on that it was better to purchase things suitable to a middling level than what was closer to his size and shape but made him look like he’s in the working poor. The prices were a bit of a shock, twice what he’d have paid if he bought them back in Vire. If things continue in this way, he’ll have to recalculate how long the money will hold out.
As the newly attired Thomas climbs the stairs heading back up to his and Hélène’s attic room – to drop off his old clothes and empty the chamber pot – he takes out and looks once again at what is written on the sheet of paper Strombeau gave him when they got off the diligence. That person and that address are next on his lis
t.
Odd, thinks Thomas as he unlocks and opens the door to the tiny room on the attic level, it looks like Hélène is not there. Nor has she left him any sign of a note. Nothing. Oh well, he concludes, she’s likely out getting something to eat, or better still maybe looking for work. He does not think to check to see if her sack is anywhere in the room. If he did, he would find that it too is gone. He misses that detail because he has his own immediate future on his mind. He says aloud three times what is written on Strombeau’s sheet, to commit it to memory. It’s the name of a marquis and the name of a street. He doesn’t want to take the paper with him and look like a stranger as he moves about in the city. Directions for the street he may have to ask as he goes along because Paris is for him still a maze, and a vast maze at that. Yet he does not want anything to give away that he’s someone new in town. He wants to blend in and be a part of this Paris, the city where he is determined to compose the as yet unwritten pages of his life.
Thomas puts down Strombeau’s paper. He stoops to pick up the chamber pot, carefully grasping it with both hands. He’ll empty it then come back up and get ready to go find the marquis at his address.
—
What Thomas missed while picking out his new used clothes was this: Hélène tosses off the cover as soon as he left. She squats over the only chamber pot there is, near stinking full, then freshens her face and hands as best she can. The water in the chipped blue basin is not just cold but has an oily skim from all the dips from Thomas’s and her hands the night before. She changes into the clean chemise she brought with her in her sack but the socks, skirt and jacket are the same she wore the day before. She’ll have to see if she can find something better in a used clothing shop. She’d like to look more like the ladies she sees in the streets, with their robes volantes and air of ease and grace. She is only sixteen and a country girl, but she knows already that it is with the right clothes that that attitude begins.
Thomas, A Secret Life Page 14
