Before Ever After (7 page)

A large cement plaque was affixed to the wall. It was engraved with the words
AUX MORTS DE LA COMMUNE 21–28 MAI 1871
.

“The Wall of the Communards, the final resting place of the doomed Bohemian dream that was, for two months in 1871, the Paris Commune,” Max said. “It is also the approximate site of the execution and mass grave of one hundred forty-seven souls who were rounded up and shot against this wall. They were the lucky ones.”

“The lucky ones?” Dex asked.

“Living among the dead and scavenging for food like wild animals could not have been a pleasant experience for the survivors who were forced into hiding here after the slaughter,” Max said. “But I am getting ahead of myself. I could begin our story on the day an overindulged thirteen-year-old named Isabelle debated with her father, Julien, on the merits of having a cat, but I’m afraid I might lose you somewhere in the midst of their frequent puberty-fueled quarrels. I have therefore decided to begin our tale with the far less complicated subject of the Franco-Prussian War. Any objections?”

“Gee. Sounds like fun.” Brad groaned.

“Hardly,” Max said. “War never is—especially when you are on the losing end—which is exactly where the French dangled precariously from, on January 28, 1871. They had lost their long war with Prussia over the Spanish throne. Starving Parisians surrendered after months of being under siege and blockaded within their city’s walls. Among the terms of armistice was a ceremonial entry by the Prussian army into Paris.”

“I bet that the French weren’t too thrilled by that,” Simon said.

Max nodded. “The city’s working class was particularly upset. The war had brought countless deprivations and sacrifices—hunger, poverty, death—and now, adding the humiliation of defeat to the hardships they had already endured stirred up the proverbial hornet’s nest. But they were too busy hiding the cannons that they had used to defend the city from the Prussians to mope.

“Prussian troops paraded through the city. They were later withdrawn when France agreed to pay five billion gold francs in war indemnity. Following the Prussian withdrawal, the French government decided to relocate to the landscaped gardens of Versailles, believing that the farther away it was from the grumbling Parisians who had to shoulder the bulk of the reparation payments, the better,” Max said. “The government, however, had one of those did-I-leave-the-iron-on? moments when it occurred to them that four hundred cannons were probably not such a good thing to leave at the disposal of an angry mob. It decided to seize them. It was not one of its best ideas.”

“Why not?” Simon asked.

“Well, getting Paris back and winning over its residents wasn’t a simple matter of saying please,” Max said. “The soldiers from Versailles found themselves face-to-face with the citizens’ militia—the National Guard—as well as throngs of Parisians who were, quite understandably, not eager to part with their only real means of defense. When ordered to shoot at the crowd, the demoralized soldiers turned around, shot their commander, and joined the rebellion. The remaining loyal troops scampered out of Paris, leaving a city of two million people without a government.

“When the smoke cleared, a town council, or ‘Commune,’ was formed
by the citizens themselves. The Commune was comprised of ninety or so people, almost half of whom had barely gotten over their teen acne. Among them were clerks, journalists, teachers, and of particular significance to our story, one veterinarian.”

Max said this last word with such distaste that it reminded Shelley of the time she made the mistake of asking her grandmother for a sip of the cod liver oil she took every morning. Moments like those scarred you for life.

Max sighed. “This is the part where I always regret not talking about Isabelle’s cat earlier. We will now have to leave the birth of the Paris Commune for a moment to discuss the matter of a girl and her sickly cat. Isabelle had eventually won the debate with her father about getting a pet cat. She had unleashed the weapon against which all hapless fathers have no defense.”

“Let me guess,” Shelley said. “A hug, a kiss on the cheek, and a sugary ‘Please, Daddy, please?’ ”

Max smiled. “How did you know?”

“It’s listed on page ten of ‘A Daughter’s Guide to Manipulating Her Father.’ We’re issued that manual at birth,” Shelley said.

Brad smirked. “No wonder I’m still waiting for the pink pony I asked for for Christmas.”

“As it turned out, Isabelle had more luck than you, Brad. Or perhaps, I should say, less. She got her cat,” Max said, “and in the process met the veterinarian she would elope with four years later.”

“That doesn’t sound too bad,” Simon said. “Unless, of course, her husband turned out to be a total jerk.”

“He was worse,” Max said. “He was an idealist. In any other place and time that would have been forgivable, but not in Paris in 1871. Teenage infatuation and daring idealism were a volatile combination then. It was not a good time for a young girl to go behind her father’s back to elope with her cat’s veterinarian, Stephane, a man who would later be an elected member of the hastily formed Paris Commune. And so, as Isabelle’s wealthy friends and neighbors fled the city once armistice had been reached with Prussia, Isabelle faithfully made her bed with her new husband and his
reformist beliefs. Julien had no choice but to stay in the city and watch over his daughter as best he could while waiting for the end he knew was coming. The Versailles government would retake the city—at whatever cost. It was just a matter of time.”

Max led the group through one of the smaller lanes in the cemetery and stopped in front of a white marble building. The small mausoleum was noticeably well preserved compared to some of its disintegrating neighbors.

“Here we are. I hope you aren’t too disappointed that we aren’t visiting dear old Jim.” Max fished a key from his pocket and unlocked the mausoleum’s iron gates. They were well oiled and hardly made a sound when he pulled them open.

The group followed him inside.

Marble columns stood in each corner of the ivory room, effortlessly holding up the weight of the world. A woman with a child’s face slept in the center of the mausoleum. The marble folds of her dress flowed over her stone bed. Across her chest, her carved hands clasped a freshly cut bouquet of small purple flowers.

“French-Roman hyacinths,” Jonathan said. “An interesting choice.”

“Yes, very sad, indeed,” Rose said.

“Sad?” Shelley asked. “How so?”

“Every flower has a specific meaning, dear,” Rose explained. “Red roses say ‘I love you.’ Pink carnations say ‘I’ll never forget you.’ And purple hyacinths, well, they say ‘please forgive me.’ ”

“Oh.” Shelley wanted to ask Max who the dead girl was, but he was no longer by her side.

He stood in front of the wall on the far side of the mausoleum. The entire wall was covered with an intricate mosaic of an olive tree. He gazed up at its canopy as though studying each of its leaves.

The tour group shifted on their feet. Jonathan’s bunions began to throb. He cleared his throat. “So, Max, who exactly are we paying our respects to here?”

Max turned from the mosaic and walked over to the marble woman. “Well, campers, if you haven’t guessed by now, this is Isabelle’s tomb or,
to be more precise, this is where her memory has been laid to rest. Her body lies at the foot of the Wall of the Communards, the place where she was executed more than a century ago.”

“Executed?” Shelley gasped, glancing at Isabelle’s childlike face. “But she was only a girl …”

“She was seventeen,” Max said softly.

“What happened to her family?” Shelley asked. Isabelle, she thought, looked terribly alone in her marble tomb.

Max gestured to the mosaic. He stepped aside and let the group approach the wall.

Names, painted on glass tiles, sprouted from the olive tree’s limbs.
Adrien. Pavel. Ionus
. Shelley squinted at the topmost tier. The two names, from which the family branched, had faded beyond recognition. Her eyes drifted to a pale yellow flower forever falling to the ground. The name it bore was barely a whisper over the glass petal.
Isabelle
. Shelley reached out to touch it. Fingers closed tightly around her wrist and pulled her arm back from the wall. She looked up. Max was glaring at her.

“The mosaic is very fragile,” he said.

“I’m … I’m sorry.” Shelley could feel her face burning with embarrassment. Her throat tightened. She wondered if it was possible for shame to cause anaphylactic shock.

“You didn’t know, dear.” Rose patted Shelley’s arm. “Isn’t that right, Max?” A grandmotherly reprimand was hidden in her soft voice.

Max drew a deep breath. “Yes, yes, of course. No harm done.”

Shelley looked away, undecided if she would ever speak to him again.

Dex caught Shelley’s eye and winked. He tapped Max on the shoulder. “Um, excuse me, Max. At the risk of sounding like the ignorant ugly American, I have to ask: Who is this Isabelle, anyway? I mean, are we supposed to know her? Is she famous or something?”

Max flashed a grin. “I’m appalled. Don’t they teach you anything in America? Well, not to worry. You didn’t miss class when Isabelle’s story was taken up. As I mentioned back in London, this tour will not take you down the well-trodden-tourist-trap path. Our characters do not make
any cameo appearances in history books, so don’t even bother looking them up later,” he said. “All right, Shelley?”

The sound of her name startled her. It sounded different. No one had ever said it so gently. She looked up at Max. His amber eyes smiled at her. Her injured pride wrestled with the sides of her mouth to keep them from smiling back. He hadn’t even said he was sorry, and she would not give in so easily. Max, she decided, was like a golden full-fat mozzarella stick fried in butter. Irresistible, unapologetic, and off-limits.

Shelley felt Max slip his hand over hers. He gave it a quick squeeze then let it go. Something soft and paper-thin was now in her palm. She drew her fingers open and saw the crumpled petals of Max’s purple apology. She tucked them in the pocket of her jeans and smiled. “All right, Max.”

Max smiled back. “Now where was I? Ah, yes, the characters in our story. You will find that they are no different from you except for the fact that they lived their lives before the invention of frappuccinos and when many more things were punishable by a horrible death. But, unlike the lot of you, who I’m certain still get a decent number of greetings on your birthday, our characters are now forgotten. This of course is not to say that, in due time, you will not be forgotten as well—because you will—unless of course you somehow earn a footnote in history by inventing something as brilliant as, shall we say, an egg incubator or as unspeakably evil as Facebook.”

Shelley smirked. “I won a gift voucher for suggesting we ban plastic swizzle sticks in the office. Does that count?”

“I am sure the planet will be eternally grateful to you, but I doubt that your valuable contribution will be immortalized anytime soon. But don’t fret. I, for one, do not think that makes you an inconsequential blip in time.”

“I’m glad you think so,” Shelley said. “I would hate to be forgotten so easily.”

“I didn’t say you wouldn’t be forgotten, luv.”

“Ouch.”

“I said you weren’t inconsequential. No one is. We change at least one person’s life just by being born. If you don’t believe me, go ask your mother. The fellows who write history books may not think that’s so special. I happen to disagree. Isabelle and her family may be long gone, but because they lived, regardless of how small their lives may have been, I believe they are worth remembering, even if only by strangers.”

“I can only hope that someone returns the favor when my time to be forgotten comes,” Jonathan said wistfully.

Rose leaned into her husband’s chest. “I don’t think that’s something you should be worrying yourself about, dear.”

“I agree. Fretting over how life ends, or anything else for that matter, is a complete waste of time,” Max said. “I don’t know about you, but when I got my hands on those Harry Potter books, I simply had to sneak a peek at their last pages.”

“Er, Harry Potter?” Jonathan arched a thick silver brow.

Max nodded. “I, for one, believe that in order to really enjoy any story, you need to get the ending out of the way as soon as possible—which is why I’ve brought all of you here. You are here to learn the conclusion of one family’s story so that you may better appreciate how it began and the cast of characters you will meet along our way.” Max gently stroked a lock of Isabelle’s marble hair. “You have just met the last descendant of this family.”

Shelley shivered, uncertain if it was Max’s tone or the air in the tomb that had turned icy.

“Isabelle is how our story ends.”

I
sabelle slipped from Julien’s arms. She was falling, but not as fast as one might expect a small girl to fall to the ground. But she was not four anymore. She was six, or perhaps seven. No, not seven. She was older now. Nine. Twelve. Seventeen. She fell, beyond his grasp, beyond saving, shattering his heart into pieces. A fragment flew up and slashed his face, waking him from his nightmare.