In the Shadows of Paris (7 page)

‘I've given Joseph a talking to, but he won't budge. I think he feels as if he's an ugly duckling. If Iris agreed to make the first move, it would restore his injured lover's pride.'

Sunday 9 July

‘Eat up, little ones, eat up! Gobble it all down and grow nice and plump then we can eat you!'

Mother Chickweed raised her voice above the cackle in the poultry yard.

‘Monsieur Frédéric, your coffee's ready. I'm leaving now.'

Frédéric Daglan woke with a start. For a split second he imagined that he was back in Batignolles at 108, Rue des Dames, where he rented a bedsitting room. The sight of his light-coloured suit hanging from a dismantled sideboard brought him back to reality. He threw off the coverlet, pulled on his trousers, shirt and shoes and left the shed. On a makeshift table beneath a shady arbour he found a pot of coffee, a bowl and a round loaf. He sat down and cut himself a slice of bread. He'd waited long enough, now it was time to act. First he'd call at Anchise's place and borrow his case of liquor samples. Then he'd be ready to find the witness.

‘I've been hoodwinked, but it's not too late – I can still fight back.'

He went to wash his face at the pump.

 

On Sundays, those who were able to leave the city streets would go up to the ramparts with their families. From there, they liked to think they could see green fields and misty forests. In the distance they could just make out the river Seine with its barges sailing towards the sea. There were merry-go-rounds, sweet sellers, and open-air cafés serving mussels and cheap wine. In springtime when the grass was still green there was even a sprinkling of daisies. Shop girls and maidservants enjoyed a few hours' rest from their drudgery. All they saw of the city was the backs of shops and stifling kitchens, but up here they could cherish their shallow dreams of marrying a butcher's boy or a grocer's assistant, of escaping from under the thumb of their employers, of being free at last!

Frédéric Daglan enjoyed roaming over that man-made hill and mingling with society's outcasts, whom he saw as his brothers in humanity. A little girl wearing a folded newspaper as a sun hat was leading a procession of goats. A donkey, its spine bent out of shape, its coat marked from the harness, basked in the sun. A man hurtled down the slope to the delight of a little boy on his back. Below, mounds of refuse spewed out by the city lay piled up in the ditches.

It was muggy. Frédéric took off his jacket. When he looked closely at what was going on around him, it seemed as unreal as the memory of a dream. And yet while you were still dreaming the most illogical situations seemed perfectly normal.

His jacket slung over his shoulder, he reached the outlying boulevards. The city's early-morning symphony had begun: horses yoked to dustcarts hammered on the cobbles with their hooves, the din of carts and lorries drowned out the harsh voices of the hawkers. A woman wearing an old coat and a grubby night cap came out of a tin-roofed hovel and emptied a slop pail into the gutter, the handle of her bucket falling back with a clang as a cockerel's shrill crows rang out.

‘Spare a coin for a miserable beggar, Monsieur. My insides are crying out for food. I'm on my uppers and supper's a stranger to me now. For the last two years one meal a day is all I get.'

Frédéric Daglan slipped a ragged man with a bright-red nose a coin. He skirted round the blackish puddles and reached Porte de Clignancourt. The streets were dirty and the breeze brought with it a dusty smell. He felt a sudden thud of panic. What would he do when he found the witness?

was written above the bar.

Frédéric Daglan stood in the doorway of Chez Kiki on the corner of Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Antoine and Rue Chevreul. Outside, a few spindle trees shielded a row of tables. Inside, a small area was separated from the main room by a glass partition. In the middle of the larger room stood a stove and, at the back, the bar. On weekday evenings, at about five o'clock, local shopkeepers would arrive and take over the tables, benches and chairs. They jealously saved places for their partners who would turn up like clockwork to play manille, black jack, dominoes and backgammon. The smaller room was reserved for casual customers. On the left of the main room sat the card players and on the right those wishing to talk or read the newspaper. Everybody had their appointed place on a bench or a chair and no one ever changed seats. The waiter was conversant with every customer's needs and it made his job easier.

The owner of the establishment, a stout woman of about thirty-five who wore her blonde hair in a bun with a fringe, was sitting by the till knitting. At that time of the morning, apart from a young soldier composing a letter, the café was empty.

‘Are you the owner?'

The plump woman stopped her knitting, calmly looked Frédéric Daglan up and down and, liking what she saw, replied with a half-smile, ‘Yes, I'm Madame Mathias. What can I do for you?'

Frédéric Daglan smiled back. She had a friendly, straightforward manner that boded well. Daglan was a smooth talker. He could put on a refined, even aristocratic air or pass himself off as a man of the people.

‘An amusing motto,' he commented, pointing to the sign.

‘That came from my grandfather. He fought in the Crimean War. It's a Russian proverb, which says what it means.'

‘I know, drink kills us slowly but who cares since we're not in a hurry.'

‘You don't say! Are you from around here?'

‘Not really, I'm just passing through. I'm a travelling salesman – I sell spirits. I can offer you very competitive prices.'

‘I'm all stocked up.'

‘That's a shame. I must have been born under an unlucky star. I always seem to arrive too late.'

‘Well, let's have a look. I may be able to help.'

Frédéric Daglan opened the lid of his case, which was lined with miniature bottles.

‘Top quality, Madame.'

‘I believe you, but my customers have tough insides – they go for the green fairy or cheap red wine. I won't sell any fine cognacs or armagnacs in here, my good fellow. You'd do better to try the bars on the Boulevards.'

‘Never mind. I'll have a coffee and then I'll take your advice.'

‘So you called in by chance, did you?' she asked, subtly pulling down the front of her blouse.

‘Yes, just trying my luck, I've been to the taverns in Faubourg Saint-Antoine
pedibus cum jambis,
but nothing doing. Tell me, am I mistaken or does the name of your café, Chez Kiki, sound familiar?'

‘Well, there was the incident.'

‘What incident?'

‘When that nice Monsieur Grandjean, the enamellist from Rue des Boulets, was murdered. It was in all the papers. He came here every morning for his coffee. He used to tease Fernand, he's our waiter: “A white coffee please, Fernand. In the cup not in the saucer!”'

‘Were you there?'

Madame Mathias cracked her knuckles and poured two glasses of white wine.

‘Yes, my good fellow, I was the first to arrive on the scene. There was blood everywhere, before they cleaned it up of course. Upon my word! I still get dreadfully upset when I talk about it. Feel,' she said, seizing his hand and placing it over her heart.

‘It is beating very fast,' agreed Frédéric Daglan, his hand lingering on her ample bosom, which heaved like a rolling sea at his touch.

Madame Mathias gave a sigh and Frédéric Daglan took his hand away.

‘Oh, you naughty man,' she simpered, ‘you've got me all flustered. I can't remember what I was saying.'

‘Do go on, you're an excellent storyteller,' he murmured, leaning closer to her.

‘Oh yes, I'll never forget those staring eyes. I screamed every bit as loud as Josette Fatou. She's the one who alerted the whole neighbourhood – she saw the whole thing. I went out and calmed her down; she was hysterical, and with good reason. I told Fernand: “Go and fetch the police.” Ah! We have so little – we should have some fun when we can, eh, my good fellow?'

‘Josette? Who's Josette?'

‘A little dark-skinned flower girl who lives in Rue des Boulets.'

‘Did she see the murderer?'

‘Who knows? She swears she didn't, but understandably she's scared. Just imagine if he came back to shut her up. Have another glass of Sancerre – on the house.'

‘It's very kind of you, Madame, but I really must be going,' he said wearily.

‘Let me twist your arm. There are no customers at this time of day. Stay to lunch. I'll make you a potato omelette. You'll never taste better.'

Seeing that he was wavering, she added, ‘My cooking is like music; it soothes the stomach. And who knows,' she said, lightly brushing his sample case with her fingers, ‘I may even change my mind.'

She chuckled and looked at him archly. ‘The sad truth is that I've been a widow a long time, and at my age a woman gets lonely…'

Wednesday 12 July

Micheline Ballu pulled on her cotton stockings.

‘It's going to rain,' she muttered. ‘My corns are giving me gyp – that's a sure sign.'

She went over to the window, flopped into her armchair and surveyed the coming dawn.

‘Well, a spot of rain would save me having to wash the courtyard. Cleaning really takes it out of you in this heat! Anyway, it rains every other Bastille Day without fail.'

She would begin by emptying the dustbins then wait for the postman. After that she'd heat up some coffee and finish reading her serial. The years had flown by since her poor husband Onésime had died, and her rheumatism was so bad now that she dreaded the day she'd no longer be able to carry out the tasks required of her. The landlord had already made it plain that he was doing her an enormous favour by allowing her to manage his building all on her own. With only one living relative – her cousin Alphonse, who was in the army and always on the move – what would become of her if her services were no longer needed? Thank heavens for that nice Monsieur Legris – such a kind and considerate gentleman. He'd promised her the free use of a maid's room he owned on the top floor of the building so that she wouldn't be forced to leave her beloved neighbourhood.

She put on her old slippers. Since poor Onésime had died, she'd grown stout and her face, once graceful, had become bloated and jowly. She drew some consolation from the knowledge that her friend Euphrosine was on the same slippery slope. It created a bond between them, like an old couple, sharing confidences, falling out with each other, making up, each alert to the slightest hint of a reproach from the other.

Micheline Ballu hauled herself up out of her chair.

‘There are no two ways about it, life's a rotten joke and the last laugh is on us! Our bodies grow dilapidated but inside we still feel fifteen.'

 

Rue Visconti ran along between Rue de Seine and Rue Bonaparte. The house where Madame Pignot and her son lived was located in the narrowest part of the street. A studded door led into a cobbled courtyard where stables once used as coach houses had since been transformed into sheds.

One of these, adjoining the old lodge of a seventeenth-century nobleman's house, was Joseph's study, his refuge, crammed with books, magazines, newspapers and military paraphernalia from the Franco-Prussian War. This ivory tower gave on to the two-bedroomed ground-floor apartment and kitchen he shared with his mother, Euphrosine, former costermonger now housekeeper to her son's bosses, Monsieur Mori and Monsieur Legris.

Just inside the entrance to the apartment stood a small stone privy, which Euphrosine called either her house of ease or her
buen retiro –
an expression in vogue among the upper classes. This relic from the Age of Enlightenment was her pride and joy, despite not having a flushing mechanism. The wooden seat with its acanthus-leaf design and the chipped pink marble bowl offered a degree of comfort that was only found in middle-class homes. The biggest drawbacks were the smell and the flies, which in stormy weather would spill over into the bedrooms. Euphrosine tackled these twin pests with copious amounts of water and ammonia, a product that irritated the mucous membranes. For Joseph this chamber, which even the king entered on foot, was a godsend: he could lock himself in there for ages and dream up new plots for his serialised novels away from his mother's prying eyes.

‘Run along, pet! I'm going to give your father's museum a good scrubbing before it gets too hot. It's the early bird who catches the worm.'

‘And why not the owl?' protested Joseph, packing up his things and leaving the room.

Armed with a duster, shovel and broom, Euphrosine began her relentless assault on his sanctuary.

‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Ah! The cross I have to bear! I am the most unfortunate of souls!'

She glanced up at the crucifix wedged between two piles of journals, and rubbed her back before kneeling awkwardly.

‘Lord, have mercy on me for I have sinned. I know very well that a fault confessed is half redressed, but however will I explain to my boy that me and his dad lived outside the sacraments of marriage? I'm afraid it might drive him to despair if he finds out that in the eyes of the law I'm still Mademoiselle Courlac. He's such a sensitive soul!'

She rose to her feet and half-heartedly dusted a sideboard then appealed despondently to the crucifix.

‘And while I think of it, try to make him a bit more tolerant, and force him to be less harsh on Mademoiselle Iris. Let them get married and give me some grandchildren, even if they do look Chinese.
Amen,
thy will be done.'

Feeling more cheerful, she began whistling the first few bars of
Les Cuirassiers de Reichshoffen
²⁶
as she set about cleaning with gusto.