Heartsong (19 page)

M
adeleine Soulas felt a little foolish riding in the fancy carriage up La Canebiere and she hoped that none of her friends were on the boulevard that late morning. But somebody was bound to see them—and of course when they got to their neighborhood, they would be the talk of the market. Still, she felt very comfortable in the cool black leather seat. The slender white horse was a beautiful animal with its jingly black tack and the red pompom on its head. Its clipped gait rang out on the cobblestones, unlike the ponderous clop-clop-clop of the drayhorses that pulled the wagons and omnibuses.

Franklin Bell sat opposite her and René, facing backward, and beside him sat the savage, looking at nothing, seeing nothing. At first, Madame Soulas could not bring herself to look at him directly. When he had entered the room, she had glanced out of the corner of her eye and seen shiny black leather shoes, a gray suit with matching vest, a white shirt with cellophane collar, and a black tie. The clothes fit well, although the large hands seemed to hang helplessly from the cuffs.

When Madame Soulas allowed herself a quick glance at the face, she was quite surprised to see how calm and benign it looked. The savage's hair had been cut and parted in the middle. The eyes were more impassive than threatening. The thin lips were neither curved up or down, just set in an unreadable straight line. He didn't seem to respond to anything that went on in the room, and Madame Soulas wondered if perhaps he wasn't a little dumb. It wouldn't surprise her—after seeing the way the savages comported themselves in the arena, all that yipping and yowling, the fierce way they rode their horses. They did seem to be part beast.

But René had seemed to brighten at the sight of the Peau-Rouge. Perhaps because he was dressed as a normal man, even a little finer than normal, almost like a merchant or an official. It was only when one looked at the dark, almost black face with its high cheekbones and squinty, unseeing eyes that one realized he was far from being a normal man.

And now here he was, dressed in fine clothes, riding in a fine carriage, looking over the top of Madame Soulas's head toward the Old Port. What was he thinking?

Madame Soulas found herself getting more fidgety as they neared the neighborhood, and when they turned off La Canebière into the narrow Rue d'Aubagne, she was glancing nervously at the many pedestrians, hoping that she wouldn't see a face she recognized—and of course, she looked right into the eyes of Mademoiselle Laboussier, Chloé's piano teacher. Mademoiselle was
a large young woman who wore too much makeup and gaudy clothes and spoke with a rapid ferocity. Many times Madeleine was tempted to terminate her daughter's lessons when she heard the staccato voice raised in protest—
“Non, non
,
non, ma chérie!”
—but both she and René wanted their daughter to be accomplished enough to attract a smart young man when the time came—a lawyer, perhaps, or a merchant, someone bourgeois. They were quite content to be fishmongers but they wanted more for their son and daughter.

And now, Mademoiselle Laboussier was staring at the occupants of the carriage with an exaggerated look of astonishment. Strangely, that look not only did not disconcert Madeleine, it amused her almost to the point of laughter—the big red mouth pursed into an O, the large blue-rimmed eyes and the overly rouged cheeks. In the bright daylight of the street the large young woman looked like an escapee from the circus sideshow—the fat lady, perhaps.

Madeleine Soulas was tempted to wave, perhaps even to call out to Mademoiselle Laboussier, but she resisted, riding the rest of the way with her eyes to the front, studying the back of the driver's black beaver top hat. For the moment, at least, she didn't care what the neighborhood thought. In fact, she used the time to imagine herself as the kind of lady who would be driven in such a fine carriage. She stiffened her back and smiled kindly at the top hat.

F
ranklin Bell was surprised at the spaciousness of the fishmonger's flat. He had no idea of the kind of money a fishmonger might make, but the large flat was clean and gracious, with its soft velvet furnishings and trimmed and tasseled drapes, its polished wood tables and cabinets, the doilies and antimacassars draped in strategic spots. There were even a couple of electric lamps. This was a home.

While Madame Soulas occupied herself in the kitchen with the
teakettle, Monsieur Soulas took Bell and Charging Elk up the stairs to the next floor. Charging Elk carried a half-filled seaman's duffle, while Bell carried a small cloth valise. They walked down a wide hall, lighted by a bright window at the end. At the last door on the left, Monsieur Soulas stood aside.
“Voilà,”
he said, indicating with his outstretched arm that they should step inside.

Bell entered first. “This is very nice, monsieur. Quite adequate.”

The room wasn't large, but it was almost excessively clean and contained a single iron bed covered with a bright duvet, a small hemp rug beside it, a bureau, a washstand, and a small closet hidden behind muslin curtains.

Charging Elk entered more cautiously, glancing around at the furnishings, then walked over to the window. It looked down onto a small walled courtyard. He was surprised to see other, similar courtyards behind other buildings. The buildings seemed so solidly stone from the narrow street, and yet here was an open space, with trees and bushes, tables and chairs and umbrellas. There were even carriage sheds at the far end attached to a stable area. Charging Elk's heart lifted as he counted seven horses. The window contained a view quite unlike that of the high window in the stone room.

Bell had come over to join him at the window. “Lovely, isn't it?” he said in English. “I know you will be happy here, Charging Elk. These are good people—they'll take care of you for now. And soon you will be on a steamer for America. I promise you.”

Charging Elk looked into Bell's eyes for the first time. His face seemed to register some kind of emotion, but Bell couldn't tell if it was desperation or gratitude or just plain confusion. Bell patted him on the shoulder. He didn't know what else to do.

After a tour of the rest of the flat, they had tea in the parlor. Madame Soulas served honey-soaked cakes on small china plates. She was not quite sure what the
indien
would do with his, but he ate
it with a fork. She didn't know that Broncho Billy and the reservation Indians had taught him how to eat his food from a plate with a knife and fork. They had laughed at him when he speared his piece of roasted meat with his own knife and bit a large hunk from it. Finally it was Sees Twice who told him to put the meat back on the plate, then showed him how to cut it with the many-pronged fork and the dull knife which lay beside the plate. That was in the train station in Omaha, and it was the first of many times that Charging Elk had wished that he had never left the Stronghold.

Franklin Bell watched Charging Elk eat the sweetcake and he was surprised at how deliberately, how delicately, the Indian ate. He made the sweetcake last a long time. And he didn't touch his tea until the cake was gone. Then he sipped it down, carefully replacing the cup and saucer on the table.

Bell wondered if all the Indians in the Wild West show had such good table manners. They had performed in Paris for seven months. They must have picked up the niceties of civilization. But what did they think of the white man's civilization? Did they consider it an improvement over their own primitive ways? They must have liked the money and the food—and of course, the attention—but what about the rest of it?

Bell suddenly remembered the money issue. He would have to wire the officials of the Wild West show to see if Charging Elk had any pay coming. The consul general's secretary had insisted that they needed that money to defray the cost of clothing the Indian. Thank God the Soulas did not want any money from the consulate—Monsieur Soulas would put him to work at his stall in the open-air market. But had Charging Elk ever done any real work? Hauling fish at five in the morning and cleaning up after market was a little different from riding horses every day pretending to do harm to civilized people.

Bell pulled out his pocket watch and made a show of looking at
the time. He had told his driver to return in one hour and now he had ten minutes.

“So, I must be off presently. I believe we've covered everything.” He looked at Madame Soulas. “Is there something else, something I've not told you? It has been quite a few days—you must be weary of bureaucrats. Madame?”

Madeleine glanced at Charging Elk, as though she were just now realizing the fact that they would soon be alone with him. Strangely, his impassive face and calm demeanor almost tricked her into believing that he would be no trouble.

“I think everything is covered, monsieur,” said René. “I believe Monsieur Charging Elk will be of no trouble to us.
N'est-ce pas
, Madeleine?”

Madeleine shrugged as she acknowledged René. His beaming face at first surprised her—it was so genuine—then it annoyed her. All she could think of was the trouble, the disruption in their daily lives, the strangeness with which they would be viewed by their neighbors, and he was absolutely radiant with anticipation. She had learned to be wary of that look. She was annoyed, but at the same time determined to put the best face on the situation. She didn't want to begin this strange relationship as the sour fishwife. Still, there were so many questions that couldn't be answered just now. Time would tell if they could ever be answered. But the savage—she made herself think of his name, Charging Elk—would be with them for only a short time. Then they could resume a normal life.

Madeleine realized that both men were looking at her, and she suddenly wondered if the
indien
—Charging Elk—could tell time. Would he know when to wake up in the morning? Did he know who they were, what they did, what was expected of him? But she said, “We will do all we can to ensure that Monsieur Charging Elk is comfortable, Monsieur Bell. We are Christians.” Then she added: “That is all we can do.”

“Superbe!”
Bell slapped his knee and stood up. He pulled a small card from his vest pocket. “Here is my calling card, Monsieur Soulas. You can see the address of the consulate. If anything should come up, please call on me.” He tugged down the front of his vest and adjusted his tie. “And I will call back in a couple of days to see how things are working out. It's a fine thing you are doing, Soulases.
A bientôt
,
mes amis”

In his haste to leave, Bell forgot to say goodbye to Charging Elk. It was only when he was stepping into the carriage that he realized this omission. But it was too late—he did have to get back to the office for a meeting with a trade group from the Vaucluse. They wanted to expand the American market for their special essence of lavender. There was no real problem—lavender was very popular with the ladies—but the perfume makers in America needed to be assured that the consulate was looking out for them.

Bell had learned more about the art of diplomacy and facilitation in his two years in France than he had in the previous ten in such hellholes as Panama City and Lima and Marrakech, haggling over coffee, bananas, and spices. He felt that he was ready to become consul general somewhere, but he feared he would be sent to one of the second-rate countries he had just fled. Marseille wasn't the finest place in the world—there was very little in the way of art, or ancient, or even old, architecture—but it was one of the great seaports. He was getting a real education in the area of trade agreements.

As the carriage turned onto La Canebière, Bell tugged on his mustache and watched a couple of boulevardiers entertain a small gaggle of young ladies in uniform long dresses and coats and hats. Probably shopgirls or office workers. One was particularly attractive, small but shapely, standing aloof from her giggling friends. Aplomb, he thought, such aplomb—and dignity. Why couldn't he meet a young woman like her?

Bell knew he was still fairly attractive. He had always been athletic—he had played squash and boxed at Yale. He had even been a member of the first-ever lacrosse club. Now he smiled and sat back in his seat. He almost laughed as he remembered the lacrosse coach, a Seneca Indian who worked as a groundskeeper at his college and whose main instructions were “Run, boys, run” and “This is war, young men!”