Good Hope Road: A Novel (10 page)

I look up at the family walkin’ towards us. The young mother, the father in uniform, each holdin’ a hand of the little girl skippin’ between them. The man say somethin’ to his wife, noddin’ at the child, and she smile. The little girl suddenly breaks free of her parents.

‘
Attrape-moi
,
Papa
,
attrape-moi
!’

She take off runnin’ down that street, the bows in her hair jigglin’. She right giddy with excitement over this little game, and her father chase after her, laughin’. The mother is comely, and I steal a look at her as we pass. The smile from a moment ago gone as she stare ahead. She don’t even notice us, eyes only for her husband as he run after their daughter; there’s so much sadness in that pretty face that I look away.

Gaillard march past her, ‘
Les salauds
,
les Boche
,’ he mutter under his breath.

Rue de Grenelle is a long row of iron shutters. The shops all closed; where there been hats and watches and all colours of candy, now there only notices posted by the drafted proprietors.

‘
Maison Française
,’ the notices say. ‘
Maison Ultrafrançaise
.’

Gaillard point at one of the shutters. ‘You could get the best croissants in there,’ he tell us. ‘Crisp. More delicate than you could ever imagine, crumblin’ in your palm if you held them too close. Melt to nothin’ in your mouth they would, leavin’ only the taste of warm butter.’ He pause, lost in the memory of those croissants that sound so good my stomach start to rumble. ‘Now there are no croissants to be had anywhere in Paris,’ he continue in disgust. ‘The bakers are all at the Front, and the Government has ordered that only the simplest of breads be baked.’

He spit noisily in the gutter. ‘Bastard Boche! Thanks to them, there’s nothin’ in the bakeries no more but dry
boulot
and
demi fendu
.’

Changed as the city is, it’s only at the Invalides that it truly sink into me that France now at war. I must have passed by them buildings dozens of times before, on my way to jazz bars and such, and not given them a second look. Now, though, the golden dome look to me like the crown of some old king, standin’ firm as he face the enemy. I run a hand along the sun-warmed chassis of a motor car, one of hundreds parked in the courtyard. Civilian vehicles, called up for the war effort, Gaillard tell us. Row after row of them, more than I ever seen in any place before, of all makes and sizes. I ’member the stories Pappy used to tell, of warhorses all suited up in armour and lined up for battle . . . Them cannons in front of the buildings ain’t been used in years, but somethin’ so charged ’bout the air that I bet none of us would be much surprised if those guns, they suddenly begin to buckle and fire. Legionnaires everywhere, on the stairs, walkin’ quick and purposeful-like through the corridors, and watchin’ them makes me want to hold myself taller.

‘Napoleon,’ Gaillard point out, jerkin’ his chin, and we look up at the statue of Msieu Bonaparte hisself, starin’ silently at us, a hand tucked into his coat. ‘He is buried here,’ Gaillard say casually.

When it is my turn to walk into the room, the officer ask only a couple of questions.

‘An American, I see. Do you wish to give up your citizenship?’

‘
Non
.’

‘Do you wish to change your name?’

‘
Pourquoi
?’ I ask, surprised.

‘Some men do,’ the officer shrug. ‘Once in the Legion, a man can leave his past behind, if he so wishes. A pregnant girlfriend, a broken heart, worse.’

‘
Non
.’

He show me where to sign the form, and easy as that, Obadaiah Nelson free of prison and become a legionnaire.

They tell me that my gear gonna be handed out in a few days – it still early days in the war, and supplies ain’t yet caught up with the number of recruits. I’m given three francs and a blanket, and shown a room to sleep in. Now that room, it already got six men in there, one of who is slowly pickin’ at his swollen, stink-filled feet. When he starts to work the cheese from under his toenails and flick it to the floor, I figure I can do better. I ask what time I need to report the next mornin’, and stayin’ just long enough to clean up some, head on out to the Latin Quarter.

It ain’t long before I meet a cher, fine as can be, with some English on her tongue and a friskiness in her bones. ‘Three francs’ all I got,’ I confess. ‘But I’m leavin’ for the Front soon and sure could do with a goin’ away party.’

She laugh and lean in for a kiss, and it ain’t long before we on her bed and I’m sinkin’ deep into her warmth. She hold my head in her hands. ‘
Vraiment
?’ she gasp. ‘You are really going to war?’

I manage to nod, tryin’ not to break that sweet rhythm, my hands full of soft, yieldin’ woman flesh.

She laugh again and wrap her legs ’bout my back. ‘Who would have thought it.
Les Am
é
ricains
, fighting our war. My American
poilu
!’ I ain’t up to pointin’ out right at that moment that I ain’t all that hairy. Only later that Gaillard tell me that ‘
poilu
’ – hairy one – is how the French fondly call their soldiers. Anyhow, she still talkin’, ‘So you’re one of the comers then, not the goers?’

‘What?’ I manage, confused.

‘So many of the foreigners, they couldn’t wait to run away at the first mention of the Germans.’ She squeezes tight and begins to rock beneath me. ‘The goers. You, my dark-skinned
poilu
,’ she gasps, ‘you are a comer, yes?’

Yes’m, I surely am!

Those francs, they go unspent. She tuck them back into my pocket when I try and hand them to her the next mornin’, and kiss me on the cheek. ‘
Bonne chance
,’ she say. ‘Good luck,
mon poilu
.’

When I foot it back to the Invalides, I’m instructed to report to the 2nd Division. To my surprise, I find there’s other American recruits here too.

Big Rene Phelizot, he been huntin’ elephants in Africa all this while. He book passage to France soon as he hear ’bout the war, the Boche gettin’ him all the more riled up by confiscatin’ all his ivory in Antwerp. Frank, he been chicken farmin’ in Virginia. He was sick of them egg runs, and the hens be slow-layin’ in the autumn anyhow. There’s Eugene, a butcher from Woonsocket with a carvin’ knife packed in his things. Nick the Greek been sellin’ bananas under the Sixth Avenue Elevated Station in Manhattan, and Bert been a cab driver in Paris.

Turns out there’s a bunch of us, from all parts of the States, though listenin’ to some of them talk, our paths ain’t crossed none too much back home. College graduates these are, many with a heap of family money, talkin’ of ponies and opera and such, of holidays in London, and their frou-frou college clubs, Delta Sigma Kappa Crappa Pi Pee.

I stay quiet at first, mindin’ my business as I listen to them jabber. Once the war was announced, each of them been of the same mind it seems: to get over to the Front and see for themselves what all the fuss ’bout, and if they could help out any.

There’s two brothers from Tennessee, with real fancy clothes, long reachin’ family tree and all. The very kind of folks who, if you saw them walkin’ down a street in the South, you’d do well to heed your mammy’s tellin’ and cross on over to the other side. I thought I known everythin’ there to know ’bout boys like them. Here, these two though, milky pale Southern skins and all, seemin’ like they don’t care one bit ’bout no colour line, jibin’ free as can be with Bob Scanlon, the boxer from Mobile.

They get to talkin’ ’bout boxin’, and Bob, he mention the reason he come to Paris in the first place was Jack Johnson.

‘You seen the match?’ I interrupt, clean forgettin’ my notion to stay silent.

‘’Course I did,’ he exclaim. ‘You go too?’

‘You bet I did!’

We stand there beamin’ at one another, two men of colour, sharin’ our pride in our very own champ, but not inclined to say too much more. Jack still a touchy topic with most, and we ain’t lookin’ for no trouble.

‘It was fixed,’ one of them college boys scoff, and I feel the heat rise in my face.

Before I can say anythin’ though, a voice cuts in.

‘I doubt that.’ The speaker is tall, not too broad of shoulder but his hands got real wide span. He been sittin’ in a corner all this while, readin’. ‘Johnson is just so good he makes it seem ridiculously simple.’ Settin’ down his book, he glance cool like ’bout the room. ‘I watched him fight in Reno. When a man’s that good at what he does, he makes every match seem fixed.’

‘You a Johnson fan?’ I ask surprised.

He shakes his head. ‘I was counting on Jeffries actually, in Reno.’ He’s silent some, then adds, ‘Still, after that match, any man who denies Johnson’s the best fighter out there is a jackass and a damn fool.’

That was the first time I laid eyes on James Arthur Stonebridge. I taken a likin’ to him at once.

Toulouse • October 1914

he more I see of James, the more I come to realise that he the least-speakin’ man I ever met. An East Coast Yankee he is, come from some place up in New England. Keeps mostly to hisself and somethin’ like my pappy he is, his nose always stuck inside some book. There plenty thoughts in his head, but not many that come to his tongue – and when they do, it a week with seven Wednesdays that he don’t call someone a jackass or a damn fool.

Three weeks we been in Toulouse now, drillin’ and marchin’ and wakin’ at the devil-spawn hour of five every mornin’. We sure luckier than the bugler standin’ out there in the still-dark grounds, but this fact ain’t made me no better disposed to havin’ to jump outta our beds soon as the reveille come tootlin’ through the windows. All the same, after that month in La Santé, this here camp in Toulouse feel like one long picnic, and I ain’t complainin’ none. The Front seem awful far away, but suit me just fine to just ease up some and catch my breath here for a bit.

Different for them college-boy recruits though – mighty restless they are, and itchin’ bad to get to the Front. The veteran legionnaires – the
anciens
, we call them – poke fun at their eagerness, but this only egg them on all the more. James ’bout the only one who stays quiet, listenin’ to the others yarn. The number of Boche they goin’ to take down! The parties once the war been won! They got it all planned, and truth be told, it don’t sound too bad to me at all. Thanksgivin’ on the Front, and Christmas in Paris. New Year’s back home or wherever takes their fancy, at victory parties that turn all sorts of crazy, with the liquor flowin’ free and chers steady swingin’ easy.

‘What about you, Stonebridge?’ someone calls.

James look up from the notebook he writin’ in. ‘It’s a damn fool of a man,’ he say slowly, ‘who thinks the war will be over by winter.’

He nods at the beat-up rifles we been issued. ‘I’d wager the Kaiser has outfitted his men rather better than this,’ he comment, and lift up his pen again.

He a real serious sort he is. When Gaillard come around, askin’ for ‘
Un homme de bonne volonté
,’ I hold back, fixin’ to learn more, but Yankee James, he the first to raise his hand. How straight he stands! So brave he look, rock-solid, set on doin’ whatever it is that needs to be done, this top secret mission, as Gaillard thumps him on the shoulder.

How crushed when the next moment, Gaillard hand him a mop and a bucket and point towards the ripe, overflowin’ latrines!

I near fall over laughin’ at the look on his face. Pappy, he always said it’d be my big mouth that’d get me into trouble, and he surely right. Gaillard rounds on me and in two shakes of a duck’s tail, there I am, standin’ right next to the Yankee, a mop and bucket in my hands too.

Gaillard claps us on our backs. ‘Get to it,
mes enfants
,’ he grin.

Turns out by the by that a talent for shovellin’ crap ain’t the only thing that Yankee James and I got in common. Even with all the different roads we taken, him with his low-speakin’ New England ways and me, a Louisiana gumbo ya-ya boy, we still got things we share.

First, of all the new recruits, it’s him and me who speak the best French. Sure, his be the highfalutin’ Paris-parlour version, while mine’s pure Southern Creole, strung through with swamp moss and the flow of the Mississippi, twistin’ and turnin’ like no proper French ever could. Even still, James and me, we’ve become translators for the rest. ’Specially when the other drill instructors start yellin’ at us
jeunes
to form all sorts of formations and most of the recruits be lookin’ blank like back at them, shiftin’ from foot to foot and not understandin’ one itty bitty word.