Thomas, A Secret Life

by A. J. B. Johnston

  —

  The smell in these places is never pleasant. Sometimes a stall partitioned off with canvas from two others busy doing the same thing, sometimes a room with an actual door that closes and gives a semblance of privacy. It doesn’t really matter much. These places always reek of sweat and spills. And vinegary from the attempts to clean things up after the business is done. It doesn’t seem to matter to which place Thomas goes. His least preferred are in certain cabarets where it’s just a wooden partition between Thomas and his fifteen-minute friend and everyone else in the place. At first he used to wonder if everyone else was listening to his sounds, like he was to theirs, but he doesn’t give it a thought anymore. Now he doesn’t hear a thing while he waits his turn, so why should anyone else listen to him when he’s the one? Outdoors in the backyard gardens, in those establishments that have such a fenced-off zone, that can be exciting for a change. But the weather is not always the best. So it’s usually to a place in the Saint-Germain area that he goes. The women who work there, they’re good at what they do. They occasionally make a joke – “wow, that’s some weapon, quite the gun” – but usually they do not. Ultimately, it’s about the exchange. Money to the handler on the way in, then a rub and a poke and a spill once there. It’s pretty simple and doesn’t take too long. No gentle caresses when it’s over. It’s just a business. Each customer gets his time then makes room for whoever is next. It is, he sometimes thinks, really not so different from being in his old grenier with a strip of silk.

  Of late Thomas has been coming to the stalls at least once and sometimes twice a week. The position he has come to prefer is the bent-over way. It’s an anonymous position like a dog in a rut. Ass and chink are toward him. With hands on shoulders or her hips, away the soldier goes. The result’s the same, a fleeting excitation and spilling reward. Thomas sometimes wonders why he prefers it that way. He has decided it’s because it does not claim to be about more than what it is: a wetted friction and an inevitable release. It might be different if he ever got to know one of his confidantes in the stinking stalls, yet he never has and cannot imagine that he ever will. He figures that’s for the best because he doubts they want to know him anymore or any better than he does them. It’s a business: in and out and on one’s way. The satisfaction, such as it momentarily is, has but one merit. It clears Thomas’s head for what he next has to do.

  —

  The message, received two days ago, was to meet in the little church on the left bank, the one across from the abbey of Saint-Germain-des-Près. The particular name of the church escapes Thomas as he makes his way toward the rendezvous, but he knows the building well enough. He often notices it on his way to and from the prostitutes in the stalls. It is an uninspiring structure with a short steeple and a poor excuse for stained glass windows. For an instant, when he read where the meeting was to be, he wondered if Collier had selected that particular little church precisely because it’s close to the stalls of Saint-Germain. It would not surprise Thomas if Collier knows about the visits to the trollops. Does not Collier know every little thing that goes on in Paris? Is that not precisely why Thomas finds himself part-time in the man’s employ? To give his pale-faced friend the few remaining tidbits of information that had escaped him in his quest to know it all.

  Collier tells Thomas that he is a “tell-tale,” a term the young informant does not mind. It is better than “fly,” the word that Collier uses to describe the dozens if not hundreds of other informers in his pay. Compared with fly, tell-tale is not half bad. It has a harmless ring, and besides it tells the truth. Telling a few tales is exactly what he does.

  Every two weeks or so, usually a Thursday evening, Collier has Thomas come to one or another of Paris’s dark corners to talk awhile. The police agent prefers the back of a church. The hush and gloom of those buildings are a comfort to them both. Thomas never knows which church Collier will select, but of late they have met in Saint-Nicolas-du-Chardonnet, where in daylight hours there’s some sort of construction under way, and Saint-Julien-le-Pauvre. Before that they met at Saint-Séverin, which Thomas likes for the long, skinny gargoyles that extend out over the street, and Saint-Étienne-du-Mont, which has a magnificent pulpit and a fine set of stained glass windows. The church atmosphere, no matter which church Collier picks, encourages the passing on of information. Thomas regards his passing on of his writer friends’ stories as small confessions of a worldly sort. Collier says that Thomas is helping to keep king and country safe from dangerous thoughts and deeds. Thomas does not disagree. He’s content to play his part as long as something comes his way in return. That something – coins – is helping him get ahead. It will allow him to move into a new apartment next month on the rue Saint-Roch. Two rooms he’ll have, and he’ll no longer be up in the lofty heights of a grenier. Plus it’s a better address, better to impress. Though whom he’s going to impress, Thomas has not yet thought to ask.

  Thomas enters the little church. Its silence, lit candles and smell of cold stone are familiar and a comfort. Memories of his childhood in Vire and the church of Saint-Thomas come swirling back. There’s no sign of Collier yet, which is no surprise. Monsieur likes to arrive last and leave first. Thomas takes a seat in the second last row. That’s because Collier will, as always, take the row just behind.

  Thomas sees no one else anywhere in the nave, though he does hear someone stirring in the side chapel hidden by a pillar. Even when there are others around, Collier never seems to mind. The comings and goings of worshippers does not bother the man, as long as their own hushed exchanges are kept too low for anyone to hear. In fact, Thomas speculates, Collier likely figures that having a few people around gives a cover to their own murmurings in the back two rows.

  The rendezvous is a game Collier and Thomas both enjoy. Collier’s the one on top, of that position there can be no mistake. The man of the police sometimes gets mildly annoyed – revealed by an edge to the voice – when Thomas hesitates to tell the required tales. Thomas does it on purpose from time to time, thinking it is more satisfying when he plays the mouse to Collier’s cat. Of late, that’s become the usual approach. Thomas starts off by saying there’s not much to report. His friends are lukewarm in their attachments to the regent, the child king and the Church, but that’s nothing new. Sometimes he yawns to show that everything is old hat. That’s when Collier gets to coax more information out of his man, wanting specifics and not idle chit and chat. That’s when Thomas gives the man a little more, bit by bit. Full true, half true or pure inventions, it doesn’t appear to greatly matter. It’s the plausibility of the stories that counts. In fact, the less truthful the story Thomas has found, the greater likelihood Collier will want to hear more. Like the one he spun about Caylus harbouring hatred for the wife of the Marquis d’Argenson because of something he’d heard she’d done. It was a complete lie, inspired by a satirical poem he’d heard about the woman on his way across the Pont Neuf en route to the rendezvous. It had nothing to do with poor Caylus at all. Yet Thomas had to hang it somewhere, and he picked Caylus. Collier was all ears. He wanted every little bit, down to the pathetic little rhyme. Sad, really. It strikes Thomas that reality is no longer good enough. Everything has to be enlarged.

  Thomas nods at a woman entering the church. She doesn’t nod back but looks away, a little offended. She goes directly to where she gets a small candle off a tabletop then pads out of sight to the side altar where Thomas expects she’ll light it and say a prayer for some departed soul. An instant after the woman disappears behind a pillar, a man Thomas decides is the sacristan comes out of the same area. He squints at Thomas, who takes it as an admonition to get down on his knees or at least have his hands clasped in prayer. Thomas flashes the man a little smile, and leans back and spreads his arms to rest them on the top of the adjacent bench. The sacristan shakes his head then strides off out of Thomas’s sight. The door to the sacristy closes with a bang.

  As his wait continu
es, Thomas has a fresh thought. What if Tinville or Gallatin or some other from Thomas’s group is also on Collier’s payroll? What if they are also telling a jumble of stories, tall or true, including ones about Thomas himself? How then would Collier figure fact from fiction?

  A sudden slide and slap of footsteps on the stone floor behind interrupts Thomas’s thought. He twists to see that it is Collier. As usual the expressionless man is dressed in drab, though with an addition for this cold Paris night. He has a cloak round his shoulders with the hood pulled up and over his head. He lowers the hood as he nears where Thomas is seated. As expected, Collier selects a bench in the last row, directly behind Thomas. He waits a moment, a prudent pause, before he leans forward. It is the usual delay before he begins the hushed back and forth of questions and replies.

  “Your evening so far?”

  It is not the usual beginning, so the question makes Thomas blanch. Does Collier really know that Thomas has just come from the stalls? He must. Why else would he ask such a question and in such a way? Thomas will have to find a new place to satisfy his urge, one that monsieur of the police cannot track.

  “Nothing special. How is yours?”

  “You didn’t show up last time.”

  “I am sorry.” Thomas turns all the way around to look the man in the face, to make amends with puppy eyes. He cannot tell Collier that he forgot about the rendezvous because he was upset and angry about a girl called Hélène and her being with the writer who calls himself Voltaire.

  “Will it happen again?”

  “No.”

  “Because if it does…”

  “It will not.”

  Thomas swings back around to face frontward. It occurs to him that he could mention Voltaire’s name and make up some story that will blacken the grinning bastard’s reputation. That might be fun, and serve him right besides.

  “Something came up,” says Thomas over his shoulder. “At the Procope. Do you know the Café Procope?”

  “Everyone knows the Procope. What was the something?”

  “It involved Voltaire.”

  “I’m listening.”

  Yes, you are, Thomas says to himself. This is a good idea. There’s a note in your voice, dear pasty Collier, that’s not usually there. It’s an eagerness you don’t show when I talk of ordinary me and my ordinary friends.

  “He says some surprising things, Voltaire that is.”

  “Don’t try and write a play, Thomas. I don’t have all night. Just give me what you have.”

  “Of course.” Thomas turns back to face the front of the church. He cannot speak fast because he doesn’t yet know what he will say. Also, it amuses him to make Collier stare at the back of his head, at the queue and its black ribbon tied in a bow. Thomas mulls the matter a little longer, wondering what might meet the police agent’s expectations. Ah yes. He swings his head just enough to speak over the other shoulder.

  “He’s partial to the English, Voltaire.”

  “Go on.”

  Thomas swivels his head the other way, and decides there is no one else in the church that matters so he can turn full round.

  “Says the English system of government, with their king more as a figurehead than ruler, is superior, superior to our own.”

  Collier hunches his shoulders. “That’s it?”

  Thomas blinks his surprise. The police agent thinks it’s nothing that Voltaire speaks of treason? Thomas does not know what to say.

  “I do read, Thomas,” says Collier. Unusually, his face is not a mask. For once it shows exasperation. “Did you not know that he spent nearly a year in prison, eleven months, if memory serves? Imprisoned in the Bastille for satirizing our government. That was only a few years back.”

  “Voltaire? Arouet by birth?”

  “The same.”

  “Oh.” Thomas is lost as to what to say next. His usefulness as a tell-tale is in serious doubt.

  “Move on. Since you don’t have anything new about Voltaire, is there nothing else?”

  Collier’s face and tone of voice tell Thomas that the man is about to stand and go.

  “Well, with my usual crowd, the ones I tell you about all the time, there continues to be lots of sour talk. It’s just who they are. Theirs is a complainers’ world after all.”

  “Yes it is.” Collier brightens. He appears to like the phrase Thomas has used. “And what is the latest in that complainers’ world?”

  It clicks for Thomas that the renowned writers of the Parisian world, Voltaire and a few more, are of relatively little interest to Collier precisely because their views are known. The man does not need Thomas to give him information he already has. It’s the opinions and actions of the unknown and unsuccessful, the scribblers living in garrets and hovels, that Collier seeks. They are the real threat. Unlike fashions, which descend from high on down, discontent and rebellion come from the bottom up. If the writers in Thomas’s world were all Voltaire, as good as they imagine and able to make a decent living, they’d be happier with their lot. It’s not the favoured and fortunate Collier worries about. It’s the malcontents and hacks who lurk below. The mediocre and the talentless are the greatest threat. There are not cells enough for Collier and the marquis to lock all aspirants away, so information is how the police play the game. As long as they keep track of the discontented via a tell-tale’s wagging tongue, why, that’s enough. They don’t necessarily need to imprison every one. Thomas brings his hand up to cup his chin while he seeks to prime his memory for some recollection he can use.

  “Let me help,” presses Collier. “Tell me, for instance, what is your circle is saying about John Law and the Mississippi Company.”

  “Ah. That it’s a bubble and cannot last?”

  “Yes, well everyone is saying that. But who are they blaming? That’s the important part.”

  Thomas turns halfway round, far enough to make eye contact once again. Collier’s impassive face and cold grey eyes give him a chill.

  “I’m not sure they blame anyone. In particular, I mean.”

  “Oh, of course they do.” Collier rolls his eyes. “Blame is the currency of the world. Do they mention the regent or is it only John Law?”

  Oh, that’s right. A candle lights the memory of that night a week ago. Thomas’s reply, his longest yet, names every writer in his crowd, and provides a detailed recollection about what he heard each say about the Mississippi craze and John Law. More than half of it is true, as accurate as he can recall. Thomas tells Collier about how worried sick Caylus is about the amount that he invested and now seems to have lost and then he moves on to what Jean Gallatin said and how much impact it had around the table.

  “And this Gallatin, he’s a bookseller you say?”

  “Yes. Left bank, Latin Quarter. His father was a lawyer apparently.”

  “A lawyer. Really? You’ve not mentioned a Gallatin before.”

  “Maybe not. He’s a sour one. Sarcastic mouth. Anyway, yes, I think he’s from some small town in the Pyrenees. I don’t recall the name.”

  “And this Jean Gallatin said the regent is a fool.” Collier’s voice and eyes are asking for precision. “And that the government’s inaction was a crime?”

  “Something like that.”

  “He did or he did not?”

  “He did. That was exactly what he said.”

  Thomas does not recall Collier ever having such an intense reaction to one of his tales. He wonders too late if perhaps he should not have said quite so much about poor Gallatin. He wasn’t trying to get the man in trouble, was he? Well, in fact, he admits to himself, that was exactly his intent. It’s sink or swim, and he wanted to swim. Who would not? Then again, how could he know how Collier would react? He never knows what will or will not intrigue his pale-faced friend. “Yes, that’s what the bookseller said. Bu
t, he did go on to say that maybe the regent was bewitched by the Scot. That it is the foreigner John Law who is the one really at fault.”

  Collier gives Thomas a wistful look. “Oh my, you do give your friend a praiseworthy defence. Good for you, but it’s too late. Are you worried I’m going to have this bookseller Gallatin rounded up and put away in the Bastille? For an idle remark one drunken evening made? I’m touched, Thomas.” For the first time, Collier gives Thomas a wink followed by a smile.

  “It was a passing comment, that’s all.” Thomas adds a shrug to reinforce the trivial nature of Gallatin’s remark.

  “We’ll have to see, won’t we?” Collier stands and straightens his outer clothes. “And that’s why I have you, is it not?”

  Collier leans forward to whisper what else he has to say close to Thomas’s ear. There is practically no one else in the church and no one anywhere nearby, but still he will take no chance.

  “Find out more for me about Gallatin.” Collier leans back so they are a normal distance apart. “Remember the apple? That Paris has its bruises and rotted spots?”

  Thomas nods that he does.

  “Well, that’s all. We want to know is if this is rot or just a little bruise. That clear?”

  Thomas scrambles to his feet. He has never seen Collier quite so pleased.