Radiant Days (17 page)

Outside Charleroi, Belgium

DAWN, OCTOBER 9, 1870

HE STOOD ON
tiptoe, teetering slightly as he gazed into the moonlit river. Behind him he could hear the girl’s warning—
No! You can’t do that!
—her voice shrill as his mother’s when she caught him working on poems and not his homework. Anger flickered through him, gave way to amazement as he saw a carp staring up at him from the rippling water, its round black eyes intent and curious as a child’s. Its mouth parted: a bubble escaped, iridescent as a green pearl, burst in a crystalline shimmer that released a scent of apple blossom and a breathless command.

Jump.

The sound shocked him. He lost his balance, at the last moment lifted his arms so that he seemed to lift into the air, as he did in dreams, suspended between sky and silvery current, sleep and waking.

Then water filled his nostrils; not water but something gelid,
icy-cold, racing through his mouth and veins until his mouth opened wide and wider still, until he felt as though his jaw would snap as a fish’s jaw is broken in the fisherman’s grasp. He tried to scream, struggling to free himself; but whatever clasped him would not let go until, abruptly, his arms thrashed and he sat up, gasping, on a narrow bunk.

There was no river, no girl; no wondrous city, no beckoning carp. He was inside the lockhouse he had entered after meeting the tramp fishing along the canal.

“Merle?” he called. There was no reply.

He rubbed his eyes and gazed at the wall beside him, a faded frieze of rust-colored stains and black splotches that, as he squinted, resolved into faint depictions of waves, a blurred eye. He pressed his hand against the stone, recalling the strange heat that had radiated from it right before he fell asleep.

But now the wall was cold, the room around him empty. His mouth tasted sour and his stomach roiled, like the sick aftermath of too much wine. He stood, light-headed, and all in a rush the long, strange night came back to him: the terrifying rapture of the northern lights, and then the girl with her bizarre clothes and manner, a city like an opium dream, poised between the
Arabian Nights
and Jules Verne; golden carp and a road made of moonlight; a tramp whose music sounded as though it were plucked from an instrument strung from his own sinew and bone.

“Merle.” He whispered her name again and stumbled to the door, flung it open to stare out at the canal, green-gold in the morning sun. Ravens clacked in the trees, a cricket sawed beneath
a drift of oak leaves. The air smelled of autumn and the year’s death. He held his hands before his face and stared through the latticework of fingers—blue sky and russet leaves, a flash of black wings.

Was it possible to dream into being a world beyond one’s own imaginings? Was he truly awake now?

He slipped a hand into his pocket and felt the sharp prongs of the fish-bone key. He rested his head against the doorframe, gazing at the crosshatch of grime on his knuckles and ink on his fingertips, squeezed his eyes shut, and saw a night sky that erupted into a rainbow of flame, horseless omnibuses roaring through a broad avenue, a girl who dressed and cursed like he did, and painted radiant suns on crumbling walls.

He held his breath and waited to see if the dream would recur, straining to hear the girl’s voice, a drunk old man playing guitar.

But he heard nothing but the wind in the trees, and the plaintive cry of geese high above him heading west toward the sea. Finally he went back inside. He sat on the bunk and for a long time stared at the wall, the shadowy afterimage of a rayed eye that was all that remained of Merle’s painting, and of Merle herself.

He would bring her back. She had summoned him once; now, he would summon her.

He lit the pipe Leo had given him, pulled the wad of pages from his overcoat, and smoothed them out on the bunk, sorting through them until he found one that was not yet covered with words. He found the nub of pencil at the bottom of his pocket,
sharpened the tip with a filthy thumbnail, and began to write, reworking a poem he’d begun months before.

He paused, felt a twinge as he recalled Merle’s desperate voice calling after him.

No! You can’t do that!

Not anger, as he had thought; not a command but genuine fear, as she saw him poised to leave her. He had broken their unspoken contract, abandoning Merle to whatever private grief had led her to summon him from his own world and time.

Hours passed. The sun crept high enough to ignite dust motes in the room around him. Arthur rubbed his eyes, his stomach rumbling. For the first time he realized how hungry he was. He’d
last eaten at the bistro with the girl; why, if he was going to eat a visionary meal, couldn’t it have been a better one?

Sighing, he read over what he’d written, then rolled up the pages and stuck them back in his pocket. He gathered his overcoat about him and stepped outside, chilled and famished and with a distinct hangover. Poets wrote of the wine of dreams, but he’d never heard that it gave you an aching head the next morning. He wandered back and forth along the towpath, hoping to meet the tramp again; unwilling to give rein to a more foolish hope, that the girl might miraculously reappear.

But he saw only a grebe paddling in the canal, its russet feathers mirrored in the tea-colored water, and a single carp, swimming lazily just beneath the surface.

H
E WALKED ON, STOPPING IN CHARLEROI FOR A FEW DAYS, THEN
continued to Brussels, where he stayed for a week or so with a friend of Izambard’s. He borrowed enough money to buy some new clothes, including a top hat that added eight inches to his height, and a one-way ticket to Douai. Georges was still living with the three aunts. Paris was under siege; schools remained closed because of the war, so there was no reason to return to Charleville.

“Does your mother know you’re here?” Georges eyed Arthur dubiously. “That hat looks ridiculous.”

“Of course she does.” Arthur walked past him into the drawing room, where the aunts erupted into warbles of delight. “Who do you think bought it for me?”

“You’re lying,” Georges said after the aunts bustled off to the kitchen for coffee and pastries. He grabbed Arthur’s top hat and threw it onto a divan. “I was in Charleville last week; I dropped by to see you and your mother said you’d taken off again. She accused me of kidnapping you! She’ll kill you when she finds out you’re here.”

Arthur shrugged, regarding Georges with icy blue-gray eyes. “She’ll kill me no matter what.”

“Yes,” said Izambard grimly. “And she’ll kill me, too. I don’t care how many times you run away—you’re still a minor. She could have me arrested if she wanted to.”

Arthur walked to the door and peered into the kitchen. “If you don’t write her, she won’t find out. Look, my birthday’s almost here—let me stay till then, at least.” He smoothed the cuffs of his new shirt, then gazed up at Georges pleadingly. “Please? I swear I’ll be good.”

“God save me from another promise from Arthur Rimbaud!” Georges smacked himself on the forehead. “Next time it will be
me
in Mazas Prison, for harboring a fugitive.”

“And I’ll visit you every week. Please, let me help with that!” Arthur hurried to take a plate filled with tarts from a beaming aunt. “God, I missed you all!” he said, and kissed her cheek.

“Not as much as we missed
you
,” she replied, as Georges groaned and sank back into his chair.

The rest of the month passed quickly. The aunts baked a cake
for his sixteenth birthday, and gave him a sheaf of expensive writing paper and a new pen.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he cried, hugging each in turn and hiding his face so they wouldn’t see how his eyes welled.

“For your poems,” one said, smiling.

“And to write to your mother,” added another.

“Here.” Georges handed him a neat bundle wrapped in butcher paper and tied with twine. “These cost a fortune, so be careful with them. Demeny got them for me; they were smuggled out of Paris.”

Arthur sank onto the divan. He undid the twine, unwrapping the brown paper to reveal a stack of newspapers, the front page of each a brightly colored, engraved caricature.

“L’Éclipse!”
Arthur stared rapturously at the broadsheets. “Really, Demeny smuggled these out for me?”

Georges nodded. “Yes, God knows why. He also said maybe he’d look at your poems again someday.”

“To publish them?”

“He didn’t say
that
. Don’t push your luck—he could’ve done prison time if he’d been caught with those.” Georges gestured at a caricature of a bedbug clad in royal raiment.

One of the aunts peered at the drawing and frowned. “Is that by André Gill?” she said. “I thought he was arrested.”

“He was censored,” said Arthur, grabbing back the newspapers. “I think he’s brilliant. That’s what I’m going to do—become a political cartoonist.”

“I thought you were going to be a poet,” said the aunt.

Arthur nodded absently. “That too.”

“Don’t you think you should develop some artistic talent first?” asked Georges.

“There’s seventy newspapers in Paris,” retorted Arthur. “One of them will buy my drawings. And Demeny said he knows André Gill, right? After I sell the first cartoon, the rest will be cake. All I need is a foot in the door.”

Georges sighed. “Try keeping it out of your mouth. That might help.”

Arthur spent the next few weeks writing and rewriting seven new poems. He also wrote a number of letters to the local newspaper, calling for the overthrow of the government and signing Georges’s name. One evening Demeny arrived for a visit, and he and Georges and Arthur walked to the café for drinks. After several bottles of wine and myriad glasses of beer, Demeny turned to Arthur.

“I gather you have spent these long autumn evenings consorting with the muse Euterpe?”

Arthur raised an eyebrow and glanced at Georges. “Do you understand what he just said?”

Georges poured himself another glass of wine. “He wants to know if you’re still writing poems.”

“Oh. Of course.” Arthur turned to Demeny. “Why? Are you ready to publish them?”

Demeny laughed. “What, with all the great poets begging to be published? Why should I waste paper on the laureate from Charleville?”

“Maybe because I’m better than they are,” said Arthur. “Better than all of you.”

Demeny leaned across the table. “What about Baudelaire? ‘Alas, my poor muse, what’s wrong with you this morning? Your cavernous eyes are filled with nightmare visions….’” Sounds like what you write.”

Arthur scowled. “I would never write that shit.”

Demeny tapped his chin. “Edgar Allan Poe?”

“More shit.”

“Banville?”

“
Incredible
shit.”

Georges pulled his chair closer to Arthur’s. “What about Paul Verlaine? You wrote me that you liked his book. Is he shit, too?”

“Verlaine’s a genius. You know why?” Arthur pounded the table, knocking over an empty bottle. “Because he’s not afraid of sounding like an idiot. He’s not ashamed of anything. Like me.”

He picked up Izambard’s glass of wine and emptied it in one long swallow, sank back into his chair, and gazed defiantly around the table.

Demeny snorted. “Verlaine. Can you quote one line of his?”

“No, but here’s one of yours.” Arthur belched, and Georges threw a napkin at him.

The next afternoon a letter arrived, addressed to Georges Izambard and with a postal stamp from Charleville. He read it, wincing, then handed it to Arthur.

“Well, that’s it. Your notice of execution has arrived.”

“Very funny.” Arthur stared at his mother’s handwriting, his
jaw clenched. “I’d rather go back to prison. I swear to God, I’d rather die in Mazas than spend another day in Charleville.”

“It won’t be that bad.” Georges put his hand on Arthur’s shoulder, turned him gently to face him. “Listen to me, Arthur. You can’t stay here. She’s contacted the Douai police chief and made arrangements for him to escort you to Charleville. I should have sent you home the day you arrived—she could press charges against me if she wanted to, and I really might spend time in prison.”

“I know.” Arthur balled up the letter and tossed it viciously across the room. “But I’m not staying in that shithole—I’m just telling you that right now. I’m going to Paris. I’ll get a job at Gill’s newspaper.”

“That would be wonderful.” Georges smiled sadly. “Maybe next time, I’ll see you there. After the war. When your book’s published. I’ll even let you pay for the drinks, how’s that?”