Heartsong (22 page)

René watched the
indien
eat his baguette with apricot jam heaped upon it and he wished the children could be here now. But Madeleine had insisted that Mathias and Chloé spend this first night with her parents. She was convinced they would have nightmares or that they wouldn't be able to sleep for fear of being scalped. René had scoffed at her fears, but now he acknowledged that the scalping scenes in the show were very gruesome. And he had seen Chloé hide her face in her mother's skirts when the
indiens
danced around with the scalps on their spears. But it was all a trick. The “dead” soldiers still had their hair. Anybody could see that.

He glanced toward his wife, who was making a fish stock on the stove. René had insisted that they have a traditional bouillabaisse for dinner that night in honor of their guest. After all, he might be
with them just a short time. René had already traded a good-sized hogfish to Monsieur David, the spice trader, for a few strands of saffron and some pink pepper. Madeleine had insisted that the saffron was too dear, but how can one make a decent bouillabaisse without it?

Poor Madeleine. How she suffered—and so needlessly. “Think simply, dear one, and put your trust in God.” René didn't know how many times he had told her that over the course of their marriage. And didn't it always work out? Even when Chloé came down with the influenza and it was necessary to call the priest for extreme unction, René had simply prayed hard and long into the night—and the next morning she sat up and took some broth and a bit of biscuit. René didn't like to talk about it, but he sometimes had visitations from the Virgin Mary. This time she told him to tithe a little more, to sell more fish and put more francs into the collection plate, and Chloé would live a long life of blessedness, perhaps even become a nun. Of course, Madeleine was furious when he dropped the extra francs into the basket, but that was all right. She got over it and even seemed a little proud when he put the extra in the basket. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed her looking around at the other parishioners with a somewhat superior smile. Even René enjoyed the look on Monsieur Gaspard's face, a look of surprised disapproval. Gaspard was a very high official in the Mairie, very bourgeois.

René loved Madeleine now more than he ever had. She had given him two beautiful children and she was still beautiful herself. It always saddened him that his father could not be alive to see his family. If God had not found it necessary to take him, he would have approved of Madeleine. She could still fit into her wedding dress, and her dear face was as unlined and plump as it had been the day he picked her up off the ground when she fell from the cherry tree.

René Soulas was a lucky man. True, this winter the fishing was
off and they would all have to tighten their belts a notch, but his family had always been agreeable to whichever way the wind shifted. And soon it would shift again—the mistral did not blow forever—and there would be lamb and pork on the table. So what if they had to live on fish? Did not the fish provide them with a livelihood? What's wrong with eating a little of the profits? René sighed. Perhaps a hogfish for saffron was not a very good deal, but this was a very special occasion. And bouillabaisse without saffron was just fish stew.

René pulled his watch from his vest pocket: ten minutes after five. They had twenty minutes until the first boats came in with their catch. “Come, Charging Elk, we must be off. I will show you how I earn my living. Perhaps you can be of some help, my friend.” René still hadn't decided if Charging Elk was strictly a guest or a contributing member of the family. Would he want to work?

“He doesn't understand a word you're saying.” Madeleine still had her back to the table. “He doesn't understand anything. Don't you realize that? The American says he is ignorant of any common language. Besides, you speak French to him, then
langue d'oc
to me. How do you expect him to learn?”

“French, Provençal, perhaps not the words—but I believe he is a very intuitive fellow. They say the Peaux-Rouges have a sixth sense.” René stood, and Charging Elk followed suit. “See? He knows it is time to go.”

“You are a foolish man to believe that. But you were foolish to want him in our home. I just hope poor Chloé won't be scared out of her wits.”

René walked around the table and put his hands on her shoulders. He kissed her on the ear. “You are foolish to be worried, my dear wife. Our children will have an excitement to last them all their lives. They will tell their grandchildren that they slept under the same roof as a wild
indien
.”

“If they live that long.”

René laughed. Then he stopped, as abruptly as he began, and said, “Buffalo Bill says they are disappearing—like the bison. He says their culture is dying and soon they will be gone too. It is a tragedy that such things happen.”

Madeleine continued to chop an onion for the stock. For a moment it was the only sound in the kitchen. Then it too stopped and she turned away from the cutting board. She was only a few centimeters shorter than her husband, but she looked up to his hair and ran her damp fingers through it. “You mustn't think about such things, René. You are a simple fishseller. You have a loving family. That is enough for you to think about.” The words were calm and instructive, but there was a years-deep affection in the voice. They often argued, as Provençal people will, but it meant nothing to how they felt about each other. Madeleine smoothed his hair, then turned toward Charging Elk. “We will treat him well—for the short time he is with us. Now go. I will see you at eight-thirty. Perhaps we will bring home a hogfish for your bouillabaisse.”

René laughed for a second time, this time in real mirth. He knew she was chiding him for trading off a choice hogfish for the saffron. Now she was suggesting that they would lose two hogfish for this latest of his foolish enterprises. He smiled up at Charging Elk and took him by the elbow, steering him toward the door. “See you at the market, my dear one. And don't forget the cashbox.”

“Have I ever? Do you really think me irresponsible, or do you make yourself important in the eyes of a savage who can't even understand you? Now go. Leave me in peace to prepare your precious bouillabaisse.
Á bientôt
, foolish one.”

I
t was still dark when the two men turned the corner from Rue d'Aubagne onto La Canebière on their way to the Old Port. They
passed the wide Cours Belsunce and Cours St-Louis, where the cafés would be bustling in a couple of hours. It was the time of day, or night, this dusky hour, that René enjoyed more than any other. He had been walking this route now for twenty-five years, since he was a child accompanying his father. Even when he was a student at lycée, he had helped his father and his helper cart the fish to the stall before he went off to school. They did it by hand, his father pulling the big-wheeled cart, René and the helper pushing. Some people never realized how steep the grade was up La Canebière, but René did. When the catch was good and the citizens had plenty of francs, the cart would be loaded to the top with fish. It took all three of them to deliver the slippery, wet cargo to their stall in the open-air market.

Now, René had a horse-drawn cart that his own helper, François, kept in his field on the northern edge of Marseille, not far behind the Gare St-Charles. The big dun mare wasn't much to look at, just an old dray animal, but she was strong enough to carry Mathias, when he was a small child, and pull a full cart at the same time.

François had been with René now for some ten years and had eased the fishmonger's life considerably. He knew what to do, he was prompt, and he took orders easily. Even now, he would be waiting with the cart. The baskets would be clean, the block of ice would be waiting for them back at the stall, and the selling boxes would be set up at a slight angle, so the customers could see the bounty of the sea easily. René was assiduous in arranging his fish and crustaceans in the most attractive way. He even arranged lemon halves artfully in the beds of chipped ice, although this time of year they came from Africa and the southern portion of the Levant and were too expensive. Madeleine scolded him for buying the lemons, which were only thrown away at the end of market, but René knew it was these little touches—like laying the hogfish on its ice bed with its mouth propped open to show its cavernous maw, or
arranging the shrimps so that they seemed to be spilling from a wicker cornucopia—that attracted customers to his stall. René did not stand in the dust when it came to new methods to tempt the browsers. The women, who were the lifeblood of his trade, especially appreciated his artistry.

By the time René and Charging Elk reached the sloping stone ramp of the Quai des Belges, a dozen boats had slid up to the edge and the fishermen were unloading their catches. The men were bundled up in wool jackets and caps, oilskin pants, and long boots. For the most part, they were silent as they carried the deep wooden boxes up the ramp. René sighed and pursed his lips. In the twenty-five years he had been coming down to the quai, he had learned to immediately read the mood of the fishermen. Sometimes they were loud and bantering. That meant that the boats were loaded with fish. Other times, they were thoughtful and the conversation was subdued. And that meant the catch was so-so, disappointing but not cause for grave concern. Now, the almost complete silence of the fishermen meant that the catch was not good at all and they were worried about their families, their boats, their livelihood.

René, with Charging Elk in tow, spent the next few minutes examining each catch. He looked out into the black open water between the rows of moored skiffs and yachts and saw three more fishing boats drifting toward the quai, their sails already down, powered only by their momentum. He was looking for one in particular, a larger boat named
La Martine
, which went out farther and caught the bigger fish, as well as the most
hareng
. But it was nowhere to be seen. Not surprising. Sometimes it stayed out for two or three days at a time.

“It is nothing,” said a slender younger man. He had his coat collar buttoned to the neck and his arms wrapped around his torso. His wire-rimmed glasses glinted beneath the light of an electric lamp. “It is worse than nothing. Can it get any worse?”

René recognized him. He bought fish for half a dozen of the best restaurants around the port, including his own. None of the fishermen or the other fishmongers liked him because of his disdain for the quantity or quality of the fish. If there were plenty, he would remark on the poor quality; if the catch was meager, he would imply that the quality of the fishermen was poor. Nonetheless, the fishermen saved their best fish for him. To have their fish chosen for the finest restaurants in Marseille was truly a mark of honor, not to mention good advertising. On the other hand, the fishmongers resented the fact that he didn't buy from them, as did the other restaurateurs.

“It will get better, Monsieur Breteuil,” René said, wondering if he really meant it. “January is always the poorest month, especially for the shellfish. You'll see. Things will pick up when the mistral dies and the water warms.”

But Breteuil was looking beyond René. “What's this?” he said, his voice suddenly soft and wary.

René looked behind him, past Charging Elk. He saw only other fishmongers and the marketmaster. Several carts stood in the street behind them, the horses' muzzles buried in their feed bags. François was coming toward them with the baskets balanced on his shoulder. René saw nothing out of the ordinary, but when he turned back to Breteuil he saw the chef staring at Charging Elk.

“Only my new helper,” he said with a taut grin that seemed to start at the lower edge of his mouth, revealing the dark space where the two bottom teeth were missing. He glanced around and saw a group of three fishmongers staring at his helper, and his smile widened. “Monsieur Charging Elk, messieurs, late of Buffalo Bill's Wild West show.”

“But how is he here?” said Breteuil.

The three fishmongers had moved closer and were staring up at the big-boned stranger with the dark face. Although Charging Elk
had lost a great deal of weight, he was still an imposing figure, with his wide shoulders and long arms and legs.

“Introduce us, René,” said one.

“Does he speak French?” said another.

The third one simply stared.

René introduced them, and each stepped forward to shake hands.

“Doesn't have much of a grip,” said the first one, a stout man who sold fish at the base of Le Panier. “He could use some honest work.”

“But the Peaux-Rouges are not used to shaking hands, Jean-Claude. I believe they clap each other on the back. I have seen them do this at the Wild West show.” To demonstrate, René reached up and recklessly slapped Charging Elk on the back. “See?” he said, the smile broadening even more, so that he looked like a happy gargoyle under the pale light.