Dream Paris (20 page)

“
Je suis anglophone pour le bien de nos clients
,” explained M Jarre. “And now the introductions are over! Let us eat!”

A number of would be diners rose to their feet at that point. They were looking towards a serving hatch at the far side of the room, looking as if they were about to slowly make their way towards it. Very, very slowly.

“Where are the waiters?” asked Francis, looking around.

“There are no waiters in Dream Paris,” said M Jarre, wagging a disapproving finger.

“Really?” said Francis. “I’m sure I saw some in the restaurants opposite the station…”

Helène la Fée fixed her gaze upon him at this and gave a slow smile.

“I doubt it,” said M Jarre. “There are no restaurants in Dream Paris! There is nothing more divisive than a restaurant. The idea of separating people out to eat, of saying that some food belongs to some people and not others. It’s the basis of social control. That’s why everyone eats together in Dream Paris. Or they should do.”

Francis looked around.

“Then what’s this place, if not a restaurant?”

“This is a communal dining area,” said M Jarre. “We are all brothers and sisters here! We do not expect to be waited upon. We take it in turns to fetch the courses and clear the plates. So, shall I collect the first course?”

“That would be so kind,” said Madame Lefevre,
le Fermier
.

M Jarre took a couple of steps across the room when a man dressed like a waiter, if such a thing were possible in a city without waiters, tapped him on the shoulder.

“
Excusez-moi, (5)monsieur. Voulez-(5)vous que je(5) (5)vous rapporte quelque nourriture
?”

“Why! How thoughtful,” beamed M André, turning to explain. “This gentleman has offered to fetch the food for me! Isn’t that kind?”

The helpful gentleman who wasn’t a waiter looked as if he was about ninety years of age. His not-waiter’s outfit looked as if it had dust on it.

“You can’t expect him to get our food!” I said, rising to my feet. Instantly, every other gentleman in the room except Francis stood up. He followed suit a moment later, under the hard stare of the Count.

“Pardon me, Anna,” said M Jarre. “but this gentlemen will be insulted if he feels you think him too old to perform this one little favour for us.”

I looked at the old man, looked at M Jarre, and then slowly sat down, accompanied a moment later by the other gentlemen diners.

As our not-waiter went to collect our food I noticed that a number of other similarly attired gentlemen were doing the same. They all lined up by the serving hatch, and then returned to the tables with trays laden with food.

A bowl of soup was placed before me.

“Nice china,” I said, fingering the gold patterned rim. “Looks expensive.”

“Well,” said M Duruflé, Chief Accountant, “The crockery already existed before the Revolution. Shocking though it was that the underclass were left to go hungry whilst the rich dined off such exquisite pieces, nothing would be gained by destroying it now.” He raised a polished silver spoon and began to eat. The Count slurped his soup noisily. Madame Pigalle ate with a sour expression.

Kaolin had a bowl of porcelain fruit set before her.

“I do this out of politeness,” she explained.

I noticed Francis eyeing the soup suspiciously.

“
Aigo Builido
,” murmured Helène la Fée. “Boiled water. Eat it up, it will stiffen your resolve.” I saw one gloved hand on the table. Where was the other one?

Francis sipped at the soup and nodded. The soup tasted good, much better than boiled water. There were herbs and garlic in there, and thick pieces of bread with grilled gruyere floating on the top.

A dusty arm loomed over my shoulder, yellow wine was poured into my glass. I turned to see a man even older than the not-waiter, holding a dusty bottle in his knotted, arthritic hand.

“
Merci,
” I said.

“
Mon(5) plaisir, (5)mademoiselle.
” I sipped the wine. It tasted deliciously of butter.

“So Anna, I believe you are looking for your mother?”

Some of the wine went down the wrong way. Francis paused, spoon half way to his mouth.

“Yes…”

M Jarre nodded.

“We may be able to help you. The
Banca di Primavera
is very interested in the human assets that have become displaced in Dream Paris. M Duruflé has made a special study of such matters.”

On hearing his name, M Duruflé patted his elegantly shaped beard with a white linen napkin.

“I have indeed,” he said. He placed the napkin beside his plate and leaned forward, fingers tented before him.

“Anna, I think it’s becoming common knowledge around here that the Dream London venture was not at all well handled. Sudden acquisitions and speculative bubbles such as that always lead to trouble. A lot of people got their fingers burned when Dream London went – oh, what’s the expression –
teets up
?”

Francis snorted.

“My accent, I think?” M Duruflé smiled. He was a bit of a silver fox, a good looking man, for a chief accountant. And he knew it, judging by that twinkle in his eye. “But yes. The result has been a complete mess. There are a lot of people from your city left here in Dream Paris, a lot of people who have been carried off to other countries against their will…”

“
Entschuldigen
!” We all turned to see the Count staring at us red-faced, spoon gripped in his hand. “I hope you’re not implying something, M Duruflé? Dream Prussia employs no slave labour!”

M Duruflé gave a charming smile.

“Not at all, my dear Count. Dream Prussia is known to be a fair and honest trading partner that would never exploit the working man and woman. Dream Paris could not do business with it otherwise.”

The Count nodded curtly.

“… even if it had stationed part of its Zeppelin fleet over the city in a not-so-subtle demonstration of power…”

The Count stiffened. Everyone in our little circle paused, spoons raised half way to their mouths.

“First you suggest we wish to trade with you, and then you suggest that we threaten you? You imply that we are lying in some way? Sir, do you wish to duel with me?”

Helène la Fée placed a hand on his arm and spoke to him in rapid German. The Count turned and gave a stiff bow.

“Herr Duruflé, I apologise for speaking as I did. Please excuse my hastiness.”

“And I apologise for implying that Dream Prussia is threatening this city.”

Everyone resumed eating their soup.

M Duruflé turned back to me and smiled.

“Where were we, Anna?”

“You said that the
Banca di Primavera
wanted to help me. I’m sorry, M Duruflé, I don’t believe you. No bank ever wants to help anyone.”

He permitted himself a faint smile.

“That’s a little harsh, Anna.
Bancas
perform an essential service to any economy. Without loans, how would the poor ever set up in business?
Bancas
come to arrangements that benefit both parties.”

“If you say so. Why do you want to help me?”

He leaned closer towards me. I could feel him turning on the charm. The smile, the body language, the lowering of the voice. Dirty old pervert.

“There are railways in London,
non
?”

“
Oui
.”

“And the houses closest to the railway stations, are they more expensive or cheaper?”

“They cost more. People can have more of a lie in before they go to work.”

“
A lie in
. I’ve never heard that phrase. But yes, the houses closest to the railway station are usually worth more.
D’accord
! Now, suppose someone were suddenly to move the railway station to the other end of the road. What then?”

“The houses next to the station would lose their value.”

“
Exactement
! And that’s why the collapse of Dream London has caused so many problems. People borrowed money to buy land in Dream London. People expected to become rich. But when Dream London ended and all that land was returned to its original location people found that they weren’t making the money they had expected. And now our bank is owed money from debts that can’t be paid, debts that are secured on worthless land.”

“You’re breaking my heart. What’s that got to do with me?”

“Some of the money raised went on the purchase of workers. The
Banca di Primavera
now finds itself in possession of many people from Dream London, put up as security against worthless land.”

It took a moment for me to realise what he was saying.

“Is my mother one of those people?”

“She might be. We are dealing with records kept by a third party. I suspect that if we find your mother, we will find more of your countrymen.”

I was beginning to understand.

“We can help them to return home.
You
can help them return home.”

COUNT THOMAS VON BREISACH

W
E’D FINISHED OUR
soup.

“Who’s going to fetch the next course?” asked M Jarre, beaming around the table. The wizened old man who had brought us our soup just happened to be passing by.

“
Permettez-moi(5)
!
Il me(5) fera plaisir
!”

“
Non, non, Gaston
!” M Jarre, head of the
Banca di Primavera
, Parisian Branch, was bubbling over with a desire to help his fellow man. “
C’est mon tour
!
Laissez-moi faire
!”

“
Non, (5)monsieur
!
J’y(5) tiens
!
(5)Vous avez l’air tellement à l’aise là-bas
!”

“Well, if that’s what you really want.” M Jarre spoke in English now, I noticed. He looked around regretfully. “I would hate for anyone to think we weren’t following the precepts of the Revolution.”

“Perish the thought!” said M Duruflé, cheerfully. “No one would ever accuse you of that, M Jarre!”

The old man collected the next courses from the counter and began to stagger back to our table. Francis got to his feet to help.

“Sit down,” said the Count. “You’ll embarrass him!”

“But he looks as if he’s going to fall over!”

“It’s his job!”

“Actually,” said M Duruflé, smoothly, “it’s not his job. Being a waiter wouldn’t be very revolutionary. He just enjoys doing it.”

The dishes were placed before us. Francis gazed unhappily at the contents of his bowl.

“
Tripe à la mode de Caen
,” said M Jarre, noticing his expression. “Cow stomach cooked in Calvados. That’s apple brandy.”

Francis poked at his meal with his fork.

“It is brought fresh from Caen itself! Haven’t you heard? Dream Breizh is connected to us once more! There may well be oysters later on!”

“Oysters?” said Francis, even more unhappily.

“Don’t be such a
steak frites
!” I said. “That’s what the French call the English, you know. They always ask for steak and chips.”

“Well, I like steak and chips.”

“I bet you have it cooked well done, too.”

Madame Pigalle, ex-courtesan, had been watching this with a sour expression. She leaned forward and took Francis’s fork.

“Here,” she said, entirely failing to bubble over with sexual attraction whilst exploiting the seductive possibilities inherent in the consumption of food. “Let me help you.”

She picked up a fork in one dry bony hand, speared a peace of tripe and pushed it into his mouth.

“There.
Très bon
.”

“Actually, that’s not bad,” said Francis, chewing.

“Eat it all up. I like my men to keep their strength up.”

I’ve never heard a line delivered in a drier, more pedestrian way.

“What, really?” said Francis, quite genuinely surprised.

“Oh yes.” She looked down to his lap.

“Is that a gun in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?”

“It’s a gun,” said Francis, with great finality.

I looked back to M Duruflé, who was carefully wiping a piece of
Tripe à la mode de Caen
from his shirt.

“Careless of me!” he said. “From Jermyn Street, you know. Only the English know how to properly make a shirt.”

“Never mind that. How are you going to help me find my mother?”

“Kaolin has that sorted.”

Kaolin looked up from her plate of decorative food. Now she was pretending to eat a china plaice and china potatoes.

“Yes, pretty Anna. Tomorrow, after your 10am meeting with Jean-Michel Ponge, I ’ave made an appointment for you at the Public Records Office. They ’old details of all the citizens and non-citizens currently inhabiting Dream Paris. They will ’elp you locate your mother.”

“See?” beamed M Jarre. “It has all been taken care of!”

I ate my tripe. It tasted good, but I was worried. I was thinking about how easy all of this was. If it was just a matter of asking at the Public Records Office, why hadn’t the
Banca di Primavera
done this themselves? I looked at Francis, eating his tripe with gusto. We needed to talk, but not now.

“Not bad, this,” he said, noting my gaze.

“And good for the digestion,” said Madame Pigalle, in tones as sexy as a gynaecology text book. “I always ensured my clients were in the best of health. In my day, a client was sure not only of a good time, but also of a healthy, balanced and purgative diet. They were secure in the knowledge that they would return to their day with a spring in their step and a reconstituted liver.”