Fisher

by L. L. Muir

  “When do you leave?”

  “Tomorrow, midday. At least that is what I understand. But it is not my decision. I will go when I am called.”

  “You have a phone?”

  “Aye.” He patted his sporran. “Only for the call that will come.”

  It took about a half-hour to get from the Montmartre district to the Les Halles metro station. From there, they took a short walk to find the famous restaurant Le Pied du Cochon, The Pig’s Foot. The décor was fairly retro and Parisian all at once. Wrought iron chairs sat empty out in the cold, but inside, red velvet ones were placed across the tables from red leather benches. Martine laughed aloud when she noticed a doorknob was a pig’s foot.

  Not the type of place to recommend to a vegetarian.

  The waiter showed them to a table, then took her coat and hung it nearby. He asked for their drink order, then left them to look at the menus. Fisher stood again and moved to the seat beside her, instead of the one across. “I can hear ye better this way. I’ve done with shouting, aye?”

  He was lying through his teeth. He wanted to sit closer to her, just as she wanted to sit closer to him. If all they had left together was 24 hours, she wanted every second. It didn’t matter why he was there, whether or not he could talk to spirits, or if someone had hired him to sweep her off her feet. It only mattered that he’d been by her side when she’d needed him. And she wasn’t sure she was done needing him.

  Nothing on the menu sounded good, so she ordered what Julia would have. “French Onion soup. Er, I guess it would just be onion soup here, right?”

  The waiter just smiled, then turned to Fisher.

  “La même chose,” he said, then handed the waiter his menu.

  “What did you order?”

  “La même chose. The same thing.”

  They smiled at each other, but she was in no mood for joking. He took her hand again and held tight. They said nothing for long minutes before he broke the silence again.

  “Ye were verra brave today. Well done.”

  “Couldn’t have done it without you,” she said, seriously.

  “Without me, ye’d still be running from Frenchy.”

  She laughed then. “I see you need to be taught humility.”

  He scoffed. “Ye mean to race me?”

  “I mean to smoke your doors.”

  “I suppose that is another term for humiliation?”

  “On your part. Yes.”

  The soup was delicious. The smell of it was like nothing she’d ever eaten before and probably would never again. She sucked it in with every breath and tried to memorize the sweet, earthy, magical taste of it.

  Onions and broth in the center, cheese on top with a layer of the most amazing, half-soggy bread hiding underneath. Her appetite returned with a vengeance, and luckily, the soup came with more bread.

  Thankfully, the soup gave them more nonsense to talk about because, when they ran out of topics, the tension was unbearable. All she wanted to do was beg him to kiss her already. And if he didn’t stop sneaking peeks at her lips, between spoonfuls of soup, she was going to do just that, despite the fact that every table was occupied and there was barely a foot of space around them for the waiters to get through.

  “So. You said you lived here once?”

  “Aye. Not too far from yer hotel, as it happens. Near the Parc Marceau. I lived with my uncle for a pair of years, after my mum died, and before I was old enough to join my father on the boat.”

  “Is your uncle still alive? Have you been able to see him?”

  “Nay. He’s long gone. But I’d be happy to show ye the house. Eighteenth century stuff and dust. It is being restored to its historical state at the moment.”

  “I’d love to see it.”

  “We’d not be permitted to get too close. It looks like a demolition site, in fact.” He shrugged. “I suppose we could take a train out to Versailles instead.”

  She shook her head. “If I had to choose, I’d pick your old stomping grounds.”

  “Auch, aye. Old is puttin’ it mildly.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Fisher knew he’d made a mistake the moment he suggested showing her his former home. He’d come so close to giving himself away, already. If he forgot himself on familiar ground, he might have to explain just who he was and why he was there.

  Explaining to the police captain, Marchant, had almost been a relief. Secrets, he found, were heavy burdens to carry. But the officer’s easy acceptance of Fisher’s history had to come from experience. The man claimed to have seen many miracles working there on hallowed ground. And indeed, he must have, to take so lightly the news that Fisher was a spirit temporarily brought back from the dead.

  But Martine would be different. She hadn’t completely reconciled that her sister’s ghost had been with her the past 24 hours. He was certain she couldn’t assimilate a story even more unbelievable.

  Witches. Ghosts. The fact that he would be moving on to the next life just as surely as her sister had.

  Yes. He needed to step lightly for the rest of his time. To be a pleasant memory for Martine almost seemed...enough. Remembered by anyone at all was a grand improvement from where he’d been just a day ago.

  “We’re not far now,” he said as they headed down the Rue de Lisbonne.

  “It all looks so...massive. Like blocks and blocks of the same mansion. Does your uncle’s house look like this?”

  “Nay. Only three floors, not the four. And the neighboring houses were not all of a piece.”

  As they continued, he tried to see the buildings from her point of view. Much like the Arc de Triomphe, they were immense, hulking, square. There was very little that was delicate about the architecture except for the intricate wrought iron railings lining every balcony.

  To his own eyes, it all seemed so much smaller than in his youth, and he told her so.

  “I think everyone feels that way, going back to an old house. We grow, but the houses don’t.”

  “Auch, aye. Though, perhaps these feel less imposing knowing that the Brimeu brothers no longer live here.” He chuckled, but it was true. “They used to taunt me, ye see, each time I would try to play nearby. They weren’t very accepting of a lad trying to learn the language. And I was unworthy to run in the same circles as such a noble family.”

  “I’m so sorry. Children can be such bullies, especially if their parents are.”

  “Oh, well, those apples fell straight from the tree, then. A Brimeu ancestor from the 15th century had been a member of the Order of the Golden Fleece, and if the words golden and fleece didn’t fall from their lips at least once a day, they weren’t living up to the name Brimeu.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I begged my uncle to hire a tutor, and I learned the language. My French was even better than my Gaelic by the time I was finished. And when next I walked down this street, this very street, I started talking and never shut my gob.” He chuckled. “I seem to recall the brothers going back inside their house with their ears covered. I was free to play here anytime I wished...for a few weeks. It was then my father called me home, ye see, to fish.”

  “You said you were here for two years. They bullied you the whole time?”

  “Nay. Only in the beginning. I simply stayed indoors much after that, studying.”

  “For two years? Never going outside?”

  “Auch, this wasnae the only street to play on, mind. Just the most prestigious. I saw the sun. I attended school. Luckily, they did not.”

  “Still.”

  “Dinnae fash, love. I found a use for the language at home. Scots and the French were allies for a long while. It especially came in handy when I went to war.”

  “War? Did you serve for a long time?”

  He nodded. “Just finished my duty...yesterday, as a matter of fact.”

  “You’re kidding me!”

  “Not at all. And tomorrow, I must return to Scottish soil, as it were.”

  “You’ll
go back to fishing?”

  “Well, I certainly won’t be going back to the wee plot of land I had. Hardly big enough to be buried in,” he said carefully.

  “Your reward for serving?”

  “Just so. A wee bit of glory, and wee plot of land. Neither of which will be remembered as mine.”

  She nodded. “You want to leave your mark on the world, then.”

  “Aye. I do. My father’s boat was lost along with him. Other than my uncle’s home, I’ve left not a fingerprint on this world.”

  “Well, you’ve got plenty of time, right? The whole world is yours for the taking.”

  He shook off the notion, knowing that his time was down to a matter of hours. But for some reason, with her hand clutching onto his arm, that marker he wanted for Culloden, to mark his grave, seemed overly greedy.

  Martine was genuinely enjoying the day. So much walking was new, however. She was used to running in the morning, then driving everywhere else she went. Her butt muscles were getting a little sore, but their slow stroll helped. She had no idea what they’d do after they saw the uncle’s home, but hopefully, it would involve sitting.

  Did he have plans? She didn’t want to ask.

  Did he have friends he wanted to meet up with? Who would pick him up in the morning? Was it a girlfriend? He hadn’t mentioned a wife, but if he’d been married, he’d have mentioned her by now, right?

  She didn’t want to ask any of it. And since they’d left Sacré-Cœur, the subject of his unnatural abilities hadn’t come up. He’d said Julia wasn’t his first and wouldn’t be his last, but she wasn’t ready to know more.

  If he had that ability, though, why did he want to go back to fishing? Was there no money in being a medium? In the states, he could probably get his own show...

  Oh, brother. She really had to stop thinking that everyone should be acting like an American. He probably didn’t do it for money—he hadn’t asked her for a cent. He’d just helped.

  She’d made him jump through rings, and he’d only wanted to help. And now that Julia was gone and her final request fulfilled, Mr. Fisher Rankine was still around, asking for nothing. Did they even make men like him anymore?

  “What are you thinkin’, lass, to be so quiet?”.

  She didn’t want to confess and bring up his “talents.” The last couple of hours had been pleasant while they’d pretended they were just an ordinary couple.

  “I was just appreciating the fact that I’m almost feeling normal again. It’s been a while.”

  “Glad I am that ye feel that way.” He patted her hand and smiled into her eyes. “Now.” He inhaled deeply and turned her. “I ken it seems a bit rough, but my uncle’s house is there.” The house he pointed at was enormous.

  “Oh, wow. Everyone wishes they had a rich uncle. It looks like you really did.”

  He shook his head. “Not so rich. Even in his day, he uh…rented most of his rooms.”

  She ran her hand along the chain link as she walked to the edge of the blocked off road, to see as much of the facade as possible. A lock hung open where a man-sized gate was shackled to a stone pillar.

  “Hey, look! It’s unlocked! It doesn’t look like anyone’s around. Let’s go in!”

  Fisher looked a little green around the gills.

  “Are you okay?” She stepped away from the gate. “We...we don’t have to go in if you don’t want to. I just thought you’d want to get one last peek. You told the police you didn’t expect to come back to Paris again...”

  He nodded and smiled half-heartedly. “Right ye are. Last chance and all that.” He slipped the lock off the chain, pushed the gate open, then glanced up and down the street to make sure no one was watching. Or was he hoping someone would stop them?

  The view from the side street had been deceiving. The uncle’s house was twice as big as she’d thought. The two tiers of steps that led to the front door were wide enough for four cars to park out front. The design, though, summoned the image of a couple of horse-drawn carriages, not cars.

  Fisher held her hand as they climbed the steps, but seemed more like affection than support. And though she loved it, it made her feel a little silly. And when she felt silly, she talked a lot.

  “This is great,” she said, staring at the front of the house. “Right out of a movie set. Do your cousins plan to rent it out for stuff like that?” She shook her head. “I guess millionaires don’t worry about that kind of thing.”

  “Millionaires? Cousins?”

  “Who owns the place now?”

  “Erm, that is, my uncle donated it...as an historical site. A museum of sorts.”

  “Oh. Well, then. Let’s go explore this museum.”

  Again, Fisher nodded unenthusiastically, then stepped up to the giant doors. He seemed relieved when they were locked.

  “Let’s try around back. There has to be a way in.”

  “Aye, but we must tread carefully. The rest of the area might come down on our heads if we but sneeze loudly.”

  Dangerous. Got it. He didn’t want to be here, but he didn’t complain or try to stop her. When they found a door unlocked in the rear, she hesitated, then turned to face him. “Look. I feel like there’s something bothering you, like you don’t really want to go in. We don’t have to. And you don’t have to explain. Just say you want to go, and we’ll leave.”

  His eyes looked sad while he thought about it. Then he smiled, reached up, and pushed her hair away from her face. “I am but nervous. This is much like bringing a lass home to meet the family, aye? What must ye think of me in the end?”

  She shook her head if only to brush her cheek against his fingers a second time. “No judging. I promise. Unless this was the red-light district, I don’t see why you should worry.”

  He choked, then coughed. “I shall remember ye said that.”

  “What?”

  “Open the door.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Martine pushed the door open and stepped inside. He hesitated only a moment, then followed. The air smelled of turpentine, paint, and very old dust. After nearly three hundred years, Fisher shouldn’t have expected to smell anything familiar, but he was disappointed when he did not.

  When the lass gasped, he knew it had been a much bigger mistake than he’d supposed.

  “Are you kidding me?” She climbed the short staircase and stepped into the kitchen that still looked much as it had the last time he’d seen it, at age nine. “This is so cool. Like stepping back in time. When did you live here? Around 1995? Tell me it didn’t look like this then. I mean, there isn’t even a kitchen sink!”

  The wooden floors were new. Besides one hoosier, there were no cabinets, only tables. The walls were freshly painted but made to look a bit aged. Without the bright afternoon sun coming through the open door, the room would appear as old as it was.

  His worry was this: if they hadn’t updated the kitchens for a century, had they not updated the rest of the house? Heaven help him if it had remained a house of ill-repute since the beginning!

  Martine disappeared through the serving doors before he had a chance to get ahead of her.

  “Holy cow.” Her voice was muffled by the swinging doors. By the time he stepped through them, she’d gone on to the hallway where gold leaf and red velvet wallpaper had been replicated right down to the eighteenth-century pattern. He had stared at those very walls so regularly over two years’ time, he still saw it now and then when he closed his eyes.

  Wyndham had often asked him how he was so qualified to judge a man’s worthiness, but Fisher would have been ashamed to explain—he’d seen the basest sides of supposedly noble men. How could any man have been worthy of his holy ground?

  “Fisher! Fisher, I’m in here! Did you know this was originally a house of ill repute?”

  He found Martine standing in the back parlor whose use had been restricted to his uncle and himself, and used by the house staff when it was free. Besides the child-sized bedroom where he’d slept, and the
private dining room, this was the room in which he’d spent most of his time.

  Martine stood before the fireplace with her back to him. She absently waved a small poster. “It says it was the nature of the house that kept it so well-maintained.” She laughed. “Plenty of money for repairs, I guess.” Her head tipped back, her attention on the mantel. “And look at this. It must be original. Hundreds of years old, I bet. Help me take it down, would you? I promise I’ll be careful.”

  He couldn’t make his feet move, so shocked was he to see his portrait again. His uncle had commissioned it just before he left for Scotland, so he’d seen it only briefly. To be honest, he’d nearly forgotten the painting, though the time he was forced to sit still was a clear memory.

  “Look at the background,” Martine said, still waiting for him to help her. “It was painted in this room. It’s probably how they were able to replicate the wallpaper, don’t you think? There’s no way these walls are original.” She gestured again. “This frame will be heavy. Help me. I want to see the back. There has to be some note of authenticity or something. Do you remember it, from when you lived here?”

  “Aye. It was here. I remember nothing on the back.”

  She scoffed. “You were a kid, right? You probably wouldn’t remember.”

  The lass was persistent, and Fisher was in no fit state to argue with her, so he lifted the portrait down and rested the bottom of the heavy frame upon a side table. Martine examined the painting closely, squinted at the painter’s signature, then helped him turn it.

  “Here! You see?” From a cloth pocket on the back of the frame, which was meant to keep insects from damaging the painting from behind, she removed a folded parchment. He couldn’t help hoping it would crumble in her hands before she might learn any more truths.

  Sadly, the paper held.

  “Do you know who sat for it? An ancestor? He’s all dressed up like you are now. Are these your family colors or something?”