The Mute

by Libby Sparks

  Suddenly a pair of hands, no, more, grabbed him from behind, held his mouth so he couldn’t call for help, and dragged him into his own apartment. It was les frères. More of them this time. How many were there in this group? No one knew. There were four of them now and he recognized one of them from the night before. The others were strangers to him. Two held him firmly; there was nowhere to go.

  “You said you would pay us what Francois owed.”

  Remy looked at them, feeling dead inside.

  “Francois paid with his life. What more do you want?”

  “Yes, he paid, he was a weak one. But you promised us that you would pay too.”

  “Take the money then. Everyone knows you can.”

  They looked at each other, grinning wickedly.

  “We don’t want your money. We’ve had our fun. But we can’t have you running around talking to everyone about it. So we’ve decided to let you keep your promise. Isn’t that right boys? Aren’t we generous?”

  They sneered in agreement, drawing everything out. That empty feeling crept back into Remy’s chest.

  “Yes,” he carried on, his face close to Remy’s, “we’re going to let you pay. But the price is more than you can ever afford.”

  Remy felt a blow to the back of the head, and everything went black.

  When Remy woke up, the sun, fighting its way through the dirty windows, looked different, and he had that odd feeling that a lot of days had passed, although it was impossible to tell how many. His head was pounding, and his mouth was swollen. He tried to swallow but found it hard, and he couldn’t ignore the metallic taste of blood lining the back of his throat. He opened up his mouth slowly, trying to gauge what was wrong. His tongue felt dead and wouldn’t move when he tried to lick his lips. Carefully he stuck a finger into his mouth, trying to make sense of everything. Then the blood in his veins turned to ice. He dropped his hand back to his side, and closed his eyes, trying to block out reality as it hit him square in the face. Most of his tongue was gone. Gone forever.

  For days after that he just lay there, thinking about what it meant to be unable to speak. He started with the small things, like buying food at the market, passing on orders at work. He couldn’t read or write. Then the bigger things started flooding his mind: bantering in the tavern after work, and… Claire.

  He wanted to die. He needed to die. How could he possible go on like this?

  After days of listless existence with no nutrition to sustain him, he saw her. Her hands, her eyes, her hair. He heard her voice like wind chimes in a breeze, and her laugh that could shatter misery and despair. Somehow that seemed like something to hold on to, even though all his dreams of being with her were shattered. Still, the dread was enough to put the last bit of strength he had into pulling himself together. He waited for his mouth to heal up as much as possible, and started trying to learn how to eat again.

  Remy had many dreams during those isolated nights in his bed. He dreamed of the summer season that was around the corner and of days with his father when he was still a boy. He dreamed of warm bread and cheese, and some maple syrup when they had coins to spare, as a treat. He remembered getting a peak of a show that wasn’t for them, when the crowds parted and they saw Monsieur Deburau and his famous Pierrot, taking the rich for a ride with his wordless act.

  Remy sat up, the dark surrounding him as he snapped back to reality. Pierrot. The wordless act. Remy knew what he had to do.

  He shaved his beard. People would have to see his expressions clearly, acting out without it would mean nothing without words. His face looked strange without all the hair; he’d had a beard for so long. Remy was sure no one would ever recognize him now. He felt naked and exposed. His eyes were a lot more prominent. Striking even. If there wasn’t so much weighing on him, Remy would have thought himself to be a handsome man.

  He started working on some acts, watching his reflection in the dirty windows of his room, or looking at the flickering shadows caused by the candle light. He’d lost a lot of weight, and he was out of breath quickly. But he pushed on, holding onto this one thing as a lifeline, willing himself to get up every morning and work on something he decided upon the night before.

  When he was sure he’d perfected everything, he went into the street. He did his act, and people laughed and clapped. This could work. This could really work. He just needed to find a location. Somewhere people had the time to stop for entertainment, and had more money than they needed to merely survive.

  It took him a while of trying different locations, getting little to nothing for his acts. Some nights he didn’t have food, but he set out the next day, determined that his fate would change. Eventually he found the Louvre and its constant flow of upper-class visitors and passers-by, many on foot so they were able to stop and enjoy him for a while. He started, and after the first day he had enough for meal. Remy had a job again, and he hoped that soon, something resembling a life would follow.

  It wasn’t a week of miming in the square in front of the Louvre, before Remy saw Claire. Of course, she must have been passing through on the way to her mistress’ house. He assumed she still sewed there. It was the first time since the night at the murder scene that he saw her, and his heart jumped to his throat. He called out, but all he could produce was a guttural wail, and when she looked at him, confused, she didn’t recognize him. His heart ached, and his hands started trembling. He’d lost her. He’d lost her even before he really had her. And the thought of it, the immensity of it, hit him so hard, and so squarely between the eyes that he thought he was going to lose his balance. He had no outlet. He was trapped in his body, locked away with only his miserable own thoughts. Remy felt claustrophobic, even under the open skies with the sun smiling down at him. Everything seemed to be crushing in around him and he felt alone even with the surrounding strangers, urging him on and applauding his skill.

  Days of this crept by. Every morning Claire would pass by Remy on her way to work, and every evening she would pass on her way back home. The first few times killed him. He was pretty sure that this was what a slow death felt like. He’d heard of diseases that did that; that gnawed away at your insides until you were only a shell, and then when that shell couldn’t survive on its own anymore you died. Seeing her every day, not being able to talk to her, or help her, or hold her, suffocated him and chewed off corners of his sanity. He wished the brothers had killed him too, instead of leaving him with this shadow of a life.

  Things stayed the same until one morning she didn’t walk past. He couldn’t decide what was worse: Seeing her every day, but not being able to reach her, or not seeing her at all. It was enough to drive him completely mad.

  Just before lunch, she appeared in the crowds. She smiled. The shock of her presence almost stopped him from his act, but he pushed through. His sole purpose was to reach her, to make her laugh, and when he finally did, the chiming of her laughter filled every void in his broken soul. For the first time he could feel the sun again, and the cold fingers that clutched his heart loosened their grip just a little.

  When his act finished and the crowd dispersed, he started packing up his things, but she didn’t leave. It was clear she didn’t recognize him, he knew that he’d lost a lot of weight and muscle, making him appear a lot smaller and worn down than when she last saw him. He straightened up with his bag over his shoulder, and looked at her. She frowned slightly when she looked into his eyes. He was taken aback by the sorrow that framed her face. She had rings under her eyes showing sleepless nights, and it looked as if she’d aged years, despite the neat way her hair still fell in ringlets down her back and her appearance, tidy as ever.

  She held out her hand, holding a silver coin in her palm. Remy looked at it, and then shook his head, taking her hand and closing her fingers around the coin.

  “But Monsieur, you have performed and I have enjoyed myself. You deserve the money. I know you work hard.”

  I know you work hard. The same words as the night he met her mo
ther, so full of concern and sincerity. So certain that it deserved reward.

  He shook his head again and patted his pocket, making the handful of coins in it jingle. You need the money more, I have enough he told her in his mind.

  She looked down at his hands holding hers and then withdrew it. His skin tingled where it had been in contact with hers and he wished with all his might that he could touch her again.

  “Are you off to lunch, Monsieur?” she asked.

  He nodded and beckoned to her, trying to show a question on his face.

  “Why do you not speak?”

  He tapped his lips with his finger, and looked down, sighing. She studied his face for a second.

  “You cannot speak?”

  He shook his head and shrugged.

  “Well, I would like to join you for lunch, yes, if you don’t mind.”

  He smiled at her, and gestured to the back of the building.

  “I thought it was only part of your act. Being the wordless man, like Pierrot.” Pierrot, you know Pierrot! His inability to speak frustrated him. He could only nod as she talked on.

  “It must be hard, not being able to speak. I can’t imagine what it must be like. Have you always been this way?”

  He shook his head.

  “Well, I can’t pretend to know what it is like, but I feel for you. And I will keep you company. It is my off day, and I am tired of the house.”

  They walked along, he in silence, and she talking about small things like the weather looking up and the River when the rains start.

  When they reached the Champ de Mars they sat together on the grass, looking up at the Eiffel Tower now reaching up into the sky. The building had gone well; they were at the second floor of the tower, a good 380 feet up in the air.

  Claire was talking about her childhood, when she was a very young girl and they lived further outside Paris and her father worked on a farm. She told him how she wanted to go back to the country one day, although he already knew it. He loved just listening to her, talking about whatever came to mind. She asked him questions now and then; simple questions so that he could answer by only nodding or shaking his head. It was as if she understood what it was like in some way, and made it a bit easier on him. Somehow the surprise of being able to spend time with her again made his heart fill up with joy despite the misery of his situation. Surprised, he blinked away some moisture building up behind his eyes. This was the first time anything had moved him to tears.

  Her visits became somewhat of a habit. On her days off, Claire would come to watch the last act before lunch. She always offered him a coin for his show, which he always refused, and then they would walk to the Champ de Mars, quite a distance off, and she would tell him about her work as a seamstress, or her days in the country, or her dreams for the future.

  It was only on the clouded days, when rains threatened the skies, that she started on the darker side of her life.

  “It is strange,” she said once, “how easy it is to tell you everything. Perhaps it is because you can’t fill the silence with small talk of your own, and it pushes me to get to deeper things. Or perhaps it is because I know there is nothing you will ever tell anyone else. Secrecy is a bit of a novelty in this world.”

  They sat down and looked at the tower in silence, watching the small figures balance on the high beams, adding more metal to weave the simple but spectacular design.

  “This tower has always been something terrible to my brother,” she started. It was the first time she had spoken of her brother since they started lunching together and he turned his full attention to her.

  “My father was always a very passionate man, very stubborn, very independent. He had set ideas of how things should be, and he intended on making it happen. He was upset about the living conditions we were forced to live in--we had it much better in the country--and how we Parisians were always treated differently than the rest of France. We are said to be an uncontrolled mob, and it infuriated him. His fight for it brought about his own death. My brother followed in his footsteps.”

  She paused, looking down at her hands.

  “He lacked the sense my father had, and he looked for trouble in places he shouldn’t have. My mother has always feared for his safety. He would always be a fool and combine his fury with alcohol and that made him aggressive. There were nights when I locked him out of the house, for fear of what he would destroy.

  “Then this tower was announced. He was livid, almost beside himself. He was convinced it was political, that the government was behind it in some way, and it was more than just art. I don’t know where he got the idea from, but it was there and he held on to it.”

  Remy sighed, and thought of Francois, similarly crazy, similarly delusional.

  “Maybe,” she continued, “maybe he thought that if he held on to the ideals of my father, he could hold on to him. He’d struggled with his death. It didn’t matter what we said to him, how much my mother pleaded, or how much I fought with him. He wouldn’t let it go. He got a group together that were all on his side, riled up about the ‘outrage’ and ready to take a stand. But one by one, as the men realized how serious he was, they let go of it, told him he was crazy, and withdrew. This, of course, infuriated him even more. So he decided to take the matter into his own hands.”

  She paused, and when she looked up, tears were welling up in her eyes. He reached out tentatively, and squeezed her hand, wishing he could give her some sort of comfort. The sight of her crying killed him and made him want to pull her into his arms.

  She took a while to compose herself.

  “He went to the wrong people. He hoped they would be able to help him. He was willing to pay them, he took all the money we’d put aside to make a better life.”

  Remy felt his throat constricting as his stomach knotted and his heart began pounded. This story sounded much too familiar. Claire was getting too close to something very painful, and he started squirming, willing her story to take a different turn, to end, to run onto other things. She was bringing him closer to everything he was running away from, and punishing himself for.

  “I followed him one night. He’d been away from home too many times, and I was worried. I found him there,” she pointed to the base of the tower, “and I saw... I saw...” she burst into tears, and Remy’s world went black.

  Francois was Claire’s brother.

  Everything around him started spinning. He couldn’t breathe. He was choking on the bitter truth that spilled out of her mouth, and his shoulders were breaking from the weight he already couldn’t carry. If he had only given Francois the money that night he asked for it; if only he had known what the stupid, stupid man had done, he would have been able to stop it all. If only he’d known who he was; how his world was hers. He would have been able to save Francois, to save Claire. The guilt he felt nearly swallowed him whole as it sank into him that he’d really killed them both. He owed her a debt he would never be able to repay.

  If his face showed the agony he felt, Claire didn’t see it. After pulling herself together, she wiped her cheeks with the hem of her dress and apologized for her silliness, as she called it.

  “I’m struggling to work through it. I don’t have anyone that I can turn to. You, Monsieur, are the only one I have told. I am keeping it from my mother. She thinks he died on one of the sites where he was working. The news of his death nearly killed her, she’s gotten so ill. If she knew how he really died, she would not make it. I fear that she won’t make it through another winter as it is, and I alone cannot make enough money to feed her enough.”

  Remy swallowed as hard as he could, trying to keep composure and stop his eyes from welling up. Claire needed him more than ever, and he could do nothing for her. Perhaps he could give her money, but Francois’ death has taken so much more from her that money could never bring back.

  “I will leave here as soon as I can,” she whispered, her brown eyes determined, “I am sure I can find work somewhere in the country. I am tir
ed of Paris and the misery it brings.”

  * * *

  Remy sits on the cobblestones, counting his coins. It hasn’t been a bad day. He got a sufficient amount of money, and its warm, but his mood is dark. It’s the third day in a row that Claire hasn’t shown up, and he’s starting to worry. Tomorrow should be her off day again, but he fears that something happened to her, or that she regretted sharing so much with him. It has been two weeks since they spoke on the grass. Since then, he’s been refusing to eat. Food only makes him nauseous when it collides with the depth of his despair. He’s lost more weight, and he’s out of breath quickly. All Remy has been doing is throwing himself into his work with vigor, spelling out all his pain with his body. His passionate acting draws crowds that give him enough money to have multiple meals a day. It’s ironic how well his misery takes care of him, when his heart trembles to catch only one glimpse of her before it will feel alive.

  Remy neatly packs up his things, slinging the bag over his shoulder and onto the carrier of his bicycle. He hesitates for a second, and then instead of pedaling down the road that leads home, he turns into a side street. He has to find her. His aching heart won’t allow him to go in any direction that doesn’t lead to her.

  It’s quicker to cycle there than to walk, but when he finally reaches her door he’s out of breath anyway, and it is dark already. He knocks on the door, and waits. He can hear movement inside but when no one answers the door, he knocks again. A middle-aged woman with hard features yanks the door open.

  “What do you want?” she demands.