The Mute

by Libby Sparks

  A Man That Could Show His Love,

  But Not Speak It

  By Libby Sparks and Dani Marie

  Copyright 2013 by Principis Publishing LLC

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any other means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without written permission from this publisher.

  www.principispublishing.com

  It’s 1887, and excitement buzzes through Paris. The construction of the Eiffel Tower has begun.

  Remy, a mime who works in the square at The Louvre Palace every day sees the most beautiful girl he’s ever laid eyes on. His heart jolts in his chest and he understand what they mean when they say, “you know when you know”.

  All is not as it may seem, however, as secrets and haunted pasts keep him from reaching out to her, and a weight of debt he can never repay pulls him down. When the tides turn, and she is on the run, Remy has to rely on a solely unpredictable source to lead him back to her.

  As a result of his pursuit, his past catches up with him. When he finally manages to conquer his demons, facing the fear of Claire knowing what he's done and rejecting the love he has to offer, there's only one obstacle left in his way. Remy is mute.

  The sun breaks through the thick blanket of clouds, touching the Louvre’s yellow-brown bricks with splashes of light, glorying in the fullness and freedom of summer. There’s a break in the pedestrians passing by, and Remy has a moment to stop his miming and revel in the simple beauty. Judging by the bell ringing in one of Notre Dame’s towers across the Seine, it’s just an hour until lunch. He’ll probably spend it in the same place he always does - on the grass of the Champ de Mars, looking at the construction of Monsieur Eiffel’s spectacular tower. In less than a year, it is supposed to be finished.

  The Exposition Universelle of 1889 will showcase the tower to represent how far France has come since the French Revolution, nearly 100 years ago. In its half-built state, the tower already reaches far above the roofs of the city, and even now, after nothing about it can be done, the tower is still the reason for one of the greatest controversies in Paris.

  Remy’s attention is drawn back to movement on the street. Passers-by mean potential customers and Remy needs to get his act together. But he freezes. It’s Claire. Her beauty renders him useless every time he sees her. He can only stand and stare. She’s huddled in a coat against the fresh morning air, but her cheeks are flush with exertion and her caramel-colored hair frames her delicate face and cascades in ringlets down her back. He’d know her anywhere. She’s in a hurry, but turns her head and waves at him.

  “Bonjour, Monsieur!” she chimes. Her voice is light and clear, like music to his ears. He’ll play it back and forth in his mind for the rest of the day. How he misses hearing her laugh.

  Remy can only smile back at her as he waves. He swallows with difficulty as he forms the words in his head. Bonjour, mademoiselle, how beautiful you look today!

  His grey eyes follow her until she turns a corner out of sight. She doesn’t recognize him. He’d shaved his beard to make his expressions clearer for miming, and he’ll never be able to tell her that it’s him. That he misses her.

  How he wishes he could call out to her, strike up a conversation, talk about the weather, or the tower. The tower. What would he say about the tower? It is because of the tower and all the animosity around its construction that he can’t speak anymore. It is because of the tower that he’s lost her.

  More pedestrians are passing by. Some head towards the square of the Louvre, and Remy gets ready for the next round. His only release is his miming, when he puts on a show for those walking past, telling them without words the story that haunts him; letting them laugh at a story that’s really sad, and acting out everything that only he will ever understand.

  ***

  Remy pushed through the wooden doors of the tavern to see most of his work mates already inside. It was a local hangout, a place where the men met up and took the time to unwind after the stress of hard times. Smoke hung in the air, thick as fog, and laughter rolled around the room. They talked loudly, bantering through the layer of smoke surrounding them, the cheap beers splashing from the jugs in their hands. It was clear that this beer was not their first of the evening.

  It was amazing how these peasants, the poor workers who fought against cold and hunger daily, could still find the money to drink when there was so little.

  In the far corner he could make out a scuffle that the burly bar man watched with a close eye in case it got out of hand. To his left he saw Francois sitting at a table. He was a scrawny man, not tall at all, and his lack of height was emphasized whenever he was next to Remy’s bulk. No one sat with him tonight.

  Remy shook the snow off his boots, took off his jacket and draped it over his arm. He walked to Francois, clapping him on the shoulder amicably as he sat down. He was a large man, taut and muscular from years of physical labor, and he claimed seats without being challenged.

  “No beer for you, Remy?”

  “Not tonight, I’ll celebrate after we get paid.”

  “Bah, it’s a joke! I can’t believe you agreed to take the job.” Francois pulled the large mug to his lips and drank eagerly. It was quite clear that it wasn’t his first beer either, and Remy didn’t necessarily enjoy seeing him under the influence. He tended to get very serious about his opinions on things, aggressive even. He made stupid mistakes with alcohol in his system.

  “Come now, Francois, money is money. We all need to get by and we can’t be picky about what we do.”

  “But the tower! You’ve lost your mind. Do you know how dangerous it will be working that far up into the air? You’re signing off on your death.”

  “We’ve done dangerous jobs before. Construction is never safe. We lost Jacques a couple of months ago and that was on the first floor. Sometimes people die. It’s part of life.”

  “More people will die on this one, Remy. Did you hear how high it’s going to be? Something like 300 meters! That’s a very long way down, and you are a very heavy man. You will definitely hit the ground hard. And all metal! Where have you ever heard of something so outrageous. Your hands will freeze working with those beams. I’m not taking that job. I won’t die for that wretched tower.”

  Remy just leaned back, ran his hand over his beard and shook his head. Francois had always been dramatic about everything and the alcohol in the cheap beer wasn’t helping. He wasn’t sure what he had against the tower, but Francois had been against it from the very start. He was aware that it was dangerous but he needed the money, and it was going to be a big project. It was the beginning of January, 1887. They were supposed to finish it by the time the Exposition Universelle would take place, in two years’ time. He doubted they would be done in time though. A project that big could take years.

  Everyone thought Monsieur Eiffel was crazy, but the certainty of having work for so long was reassuring. That had been one of the reasons he had decided to take it. Work was hard to come by. There were so many people that needed to put food on the table and so few opportunities to make money. Remy was certain that whether or not Monsieur Eiffel failed to make the Exposition date, it would not affect his pay.

  The day before construction would start, Paris was buzzing with comments and opinions about the already infamous tower. Anticipation was static in the air, and tension built as arguments rose above the general sounds of a working city. A lot of people were upset about the prospect of something that modern defacing the historic beauty that made Paris what it was. A lot of work had been done, only a few years ago, to change Paris into something easier on the eye, removing the filth and waste and improving living conditions, and no one wa
nted it ruined now.

  Crowds of people were filling up the Champs de Mars, overlooking the site they were blocking off. They huddled in groups against the cold wind that was picking up from the direction of the river, murmuring profanities against the tower and the weather.

  Remy went, too. It was his last day without work and boredom drove him to see what the hype was about. He stood off to the side, glancing over the people, noting how their classes divided them naturally. The ground was frozen and dirty and melting snow made everything muddy, but Remy felt good. The weather upset his mood even less than the tower did. As much as he tried, he couldn’t find any hostility within him towards it. He just didn’t have a problem with it.

  A bit of commotion drew his attention and soon after, he could clearly hear Francois a short distance away, bellowing out his disgust. Remy chuckled and made his way over.

  “Remy!” Francois called when he saw him and wildly beckoned him closer,

  “Have you heard? Apparently they’re forming a group to protest against the tower; what wonderful news!”

  “Protest against the tower? Why?”

  “Because it’s an outrage, of course. Come on, surely you see it?”

  “I’ve told you before; I don’t really have a problem with the tower. It’s only for the exposition, isn’t it? They’ll tear it down afterwards anyway. And it represents a lot of good things about France. It doesn’t seem all that bad to me.”

  A hum of dissent travelled through the groups that overheard Remy, and Francois groaned in disgust, throwing his hands up in the air.

  “Why are you always so neutral, Remy? There is no fight in you. You’re not a patriot. This is our city, our home! And we are the people. No matter what they say, we are the faces that define France, and we should have a say in where we want the country to go. Where we want to go. We won’t get anywhere with that attitude!”

  “You’re a good speaker, Francois. Perhaps then you should lead us!”

  Francois turned his back on Remy. He hated being mocked, and Remy hardly ever humored him.

  Remy turned, and as he did he caught a glimpse of her. She was dazzling as ever. A delicate face nestled in soft caramel-colored curls that were spouting from a big bow on top of her head. She stood with a small group of ladies, excitedly pointing towards the location of the future tower. Her brown eyes were big and full of life, darting here and there, trying to take everything in at once. He’d only seen her once or twice before; they crossed paths sometimes when he came off work on the outskirts of town, but now with the dull afternoon sun illuminating her hair and the excitement breathing life into her already animated features, she was from another world. He walked up to them and cleared his throat.

  “Bonjour, mesdames,” he smiled, holding her gaze a little longer than the other ladies’ “Admiring the site? I hear that the tower will be quite spectacular.”

  “Oh yes, monsieur,” one of the older ladies breathed, “it’s so exciting! The tower will be the new face of France.”

  “That is a very optimistic view, madame, most people are very much against it.”

  “Oh no! How can we be against something that is meant to represent how far we’ve come since the Revolution?” The girl’s brown eyes held his gaze intensely, and he felt exposed, as if she was daring him to contradict her, before darting back to the site where they were putting up barriers to keep the public out.

  “How right you are, mademoiselle... euh...”

  “Claire, I am Claire.” She extended her hand gracefully and he shook it.

  “Remy. Enchanté.”

  And there it was. She flashed a smile, so sincere and so beautiful, that it made his world stop.

  “You are not against the tower either then, monsieur?”

  He looked down at her small figure as he got lost in the warmth that she radiated. Even if he had been against it before, he knew that for her, he could never be again.

  “Oh on the contrary, I am helping them build it! Yes, tomorrow we start.”

  The ladies all gasped.

  “How brave you are!”

  “The pinnacle of admiration, surely.”

  “So courageous for going against the current of those who disagree.”

  Remy knew it was shameless flattery but he beamed nonetheless. Claire’s eyes drank him in with renewed awe and interest.

  “Now now, mesdames, your compliments are beyond flattering, but I am not the only one.”

  “Oh please tell us; how we long to know. Information is not so readily available to our working class, as you know.”

  He had their full attention, huddling around him like hens, with small clouds of warm breath visible in the cold air as they gasped and exclaimed. He was determined to have her staring at him with those eyes for as long as he possibly could.

  “Well, to ensure safety, Monsieur Eiffel has ordered that no more than 300 workers are working on the tower at a time. For a project that large, that is not a lot of men, but as you see, I alone am not a hero.”

  “Oh but still so brave! Aren’t you afraid of falling to your death?”

  “Not at all, we will be working on a very new kind of construction. Eiffel is having the parts sent ready for assembly from the factory and we’ll be using very small cranes. Everything will be smaller and more manageable. Of course there is always danger, but it won’t be as bad as the world thinks.”

  Claire hung on his every word, taking him in as if he was a picture in one of the books she would never understand the words of, and he felt as if he was really talking just to her. The other ladies were charming to be sure, but Claire, with her cheeks a rosy pink, both from excitement and the cold, took his every breath away.

  The next couple of days were freezing cold. Construction on the tower started and already there were obstacles. Digging into the ground to create the foundation for the four feet of the tower proved to be a difficult task. If it wasn’t the weather making the ground especially hard for digging, it was the River Seine on one side of the tower that caused problems. The foundations of the two feet closer to the river had to be much bigger and dug far deeper than the other two, because of the soil so close to water and the risk that the weight of the tower could cause it to sink.

  It was strenuous work, but Remy enjoyed it. He’d never had an education, having only done physical work in his life, and he felt that he was making a difference. The structure was modern and unlike anything he’d helped build before. He was careful to admit to himself that it wasn’t just the prospect of money, and being busy for so long, but also Claire’s admiration that fuelled him.

  One afternoon, during a short break for lunch, Remy walked across the grass on the Champ the Mars. He was filthy with river mud and concrete powder, having struggled with the men to get it done all day and now that he wasn’t working, he wasn’t particularly warm. Deep in thought, he didn’t hear his name called until he almost ran into Francois.

  “Remy, I have news!”

  “Francois, good to see you,” he said tiredly, hoping it wouldn’t be anything intense. He wasn’t in the mood for Francois and his fantasies today. Still, he didn’t show his annoyance.

  “Why aren’t you at work; I thought you got that job on the far side of Paris?”

  “Yes, yes, but that is not important right now. I will go back once I’m done talking. They are creating a formal protest against the tower!”

  “A protest?” Remy frowned, “Don’t you think it is a bit late? We are almost done with the foundations.”

  “It is never too late. I have it on good authority, good authority, Remy, that some of the people who have more of a say in all of this are creating a movement against the tower. They are talking of a petition to stop its construction. Isn’t this wonderful news?”

  “They can’t stop construction, this is my job Francois. People who have a say? Like who?”

  “Like Charles Garnier, you know, that architect. He was part of the committee when they voted for the tower, and
he’s part of the protest now.”

  “Yes... I’ve heard of the man. They still can’t stop it. Besides, this is my only income right now.”

  “I’m sure there will be more jobs for you, Remy, you are a strong hard worker, eh?” He clapped him on the shoulder, “No, the tower will be like a blot of ink on the beauty of Paris. That is what they are saying.”

  Remy sighed.

  “You will be part of this movement, Francois?”

  “No, I can’t. I’m part of the working class. Our opinion doesn’t count. This protest is made up of artists and writers; people who say they are defenders of the culture in Paris.”

  “Hmm, we will see. If Monsieur Alphand has allowed the tower to be built, I don’t know if a few protesters will make a difference.”

  “Alphand is only the director of the Exposition, he has no say over the rest of Paris. Of course he is in favor of the tower. It will make his fair look good, which is the only thing he is worried about. It is Paris we are worried about.”

  “We will see,” Remy said again. He was worn thin from a very hard day of work, and he didn’t really care about the point of the tower. He had a job, and they paid him well for it, which meant he could keep the small apartment he lived in, and he could put food in his mouth every evening.

  * * *

  Remy stops his miming when the sun goes down and the Notre Dame bells call him home. When it is dark, nobody wants to stop and be amused by a silent man making faces. The bells have always kept him company, ringing from the high tower on the Ile de la cité, just across the water from his apartment. Now, though, the bells toll ominously, dictating his hours, keeping him in a routine like a slave driver and taking on the role of his master until Remy feels the motivation to keep going by himself.

  It has been a good day. Someone called him the new Deburau and that lightened his mood. He wasn’t nearly as talented or favored as Deburau of course, but the famous mime, the very first in Paris, had given him a means to an end, and he was glad when someone drew the link. Perhaps word will spread.