Revolution (21 page)

I wonder if Alex died there, in the catacombs. G said the worker, the man who found the old guitar, found it under a pile of skeletons. Was one of them hers? How did it end for her? Did it end in the dark tunnels of the catacombs? At the guillotine? Or did she escape?

A small, quick movement catches my eye. I look up. A sparrow has landed on the table next to mine. It cocks its head, staring at me with its bright black eyes, until the woman sitting there, yapping on her cell phone, notices it and swats at it with a menu. It flies off.

“Will there be anything else, miss?” the waiter asks. “A croissant? Tartine?”

“No thanks,” I say, getting my wallet out of my bag and standing up.

I need to make tracks. The entrance to the catacombs is on the other side of the river. I’ve got to get all the way over there, go through the tunnels, and still make it back to the library in time to talk Yves Bonnard into letting me back in. I put the diary in my bag, take two euros from my wallet, and hand them to the waiter. Then I grab my stuff and head. From somewhere high above me, I hear a bird singing.

37

T
hey’re not so easy to find, the catacombs. They feel like a secret.

I came up out of the Denfert-Rochereau station and walked around for ten minutes before I saw a small sign pointing the way. Then I had to sprint across a traffic circle and walk some more, around a park, until I found the entrance. The line to get in is pretty long. I don’t know why. I mean, it’s not like Jim Morrison is buried here. He’s over in the Père Lachaise.

I take my place behind a talky American family. There are five of them: mom and dad, two teenaged girls, and a boy of eleven or twelve. They’re scrubbed and shiny. Their sneakers are spotless. They have fanny packs, water bottles, maps, and Luna Bars. They look like they’re prepared for anything in their ripstop, water-repellant, windproof jackets—Mr. and Mrs. EverReady and their kids.

The son is reading from a guidebook. He tells his family that the city cemeteries became seriously overcrowded by the late eighteenth century and that the decomposing bodies posed a major health threat. Disease bred in the graveyards and so did rats. The stench was terrible. Churchyard walls sometimes gave way, spilling bodies into the streets. Complaints by citizens increased until city officials decided to dig up all the graves and transfer their occupants to the empty limestone quarries under Paris.

The dead were piled in carts and rolled through the city in the middle of the night. The carts were draped in black and attended by priests, who chanted burial masses along the way.

The kid keeps talking. The line moves slowly. I take out Alex’s diary.

7 May 1795

I felt eyes upon me.

But whose? When I turned to look, no one was there.

It was nearly midnight. Fog drifted through the empty courts of the Palais-Royal. I’d been playing Voltaire to a straggling drunk but he’d abandoned my dramas for a work of friction read him by a thin whore under the colonnade.

The clock struck the hour. I bent down to pick up my cap, and the coins in it, when I saw it—a shining gold Louis amongst the dull and dirty sous. I looked about. The man who’d thrown it would be nearby, leering and beckoning. It had happened before. Players and whores are oft confused. But again, no one was there.

I thought of all the things it would buy, that coin—a dish of roast duckling, coffee, wool stockings, an ounce of cloves to chew. These thoughts should’ve warmed me. Instead, I shivered. I pocketed my earnings and hurried off, out of the Palais, into the streets.

I walked down St-Honoré for a bit, then turned onto Ste-Anne. The fog curled its pale fingers around the streetlamps, muting their glow. I passed the Jacobin Club, shuttered for the night, then turned onto Mill, a narrow street, no wider than an ox cart.

And that’s when I heard them. Footsteps. Behind me in the dark.

It was him—the one who’d thrown the Louis—wanting value for his money. I was sure of it. I spun around, ready to fight him off.

Who’s there? Who are you? I shouted.

There was no answer.

It’s that tosspot Benôit, a kitchen boy at the Foy, playing tricks, I told myself.

Benno?

Again, no answer. Only the footsteps. Measured. Unhurried. Confident of their quarry.

If not tonight, they said, tomorrow. If not tomorrow, soon.

Even then, he was watching me.

Weighing me.

Waiting.

Even then.

I feel a hand on my shoulder. “Shit!” I yelp, nearly dropping the diary.

It’s the kid. EverReady Jr. Looking like he’s never heard that word before.

“Sorry,” I say. “What?”

“He wants you,” he says, pointing to the street. “He’s been honking and waving.”

I look to where he’s pointing and see a beat-up blue Renault stopped at a light. A guy’s hanging out the driver’s side window, motioning me to the curb. It’s Virgil. Virgil with his warm coffee eyes and his beautiful face and his velvet voice. Jules is with him. I tell myself to be cool, but it’s hard when your heart’s hammering in 6/8 time.

“I’ll save your place,” the kid says. He’s probably like an Eagle Scout or something.

I head for the curb, but I’m still a few feet from the Renault when Virgil yells “Catch!” and then a clear plastic square comes whizzing through the air. I dive for it.

“What is it?” I ask him.

“The best rhymes you’ve ever heard.”

“Yours?” I say. Stupidly. Virgil rolls his eyes. Jules cracks up.

“How about my iPod?” I say.

“I left it home. Sorry. I’ll bring it by your place. I swear. You taking a tour of the catacombs?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool,” Virgil says.

Jules starts making spooky noises. The light changes. The cars start to move forward. All except for Virgil’s. Horns start honking.

“You coming to Rémy’s?” Jules shouts over the noise.

I shake my head. “My flight’s on Sunday,” I shout back.

“So cancel it!” he yells.

“I … I can’t.” I’m trying to sound regretful, but the words come out sounding desperate and I’m looking at Virgil as I say them, not Jules.

The honking’s getting louder. The guy behind Virgil leans out of his window and curses at him. Virgil flips him off. So the guy starts swearing. At me. I don’t want to be standing on a curb in the middle of Paris, shouting over horns and getting cursed out. I want to be somewhere else. Somewhere quiet and safe. With Virgil. I want to close my eyes and hear his voice, soft and low.

He’s looking at me, too. And his eyes seem to say that he wants the same thing. Or maybe it’s just that I so much want them to.

“Call me,” he says. “Tonight, okay?” I nod. He makes a fist, holds it out. I bump it. Jules waves. And they’re gone.

“Thanks,” I say to the kid as I get back in line. It hasn’t moved much. I tuck the CD into my bag, try to slow my heart down, and start to read again.

38

8 May 1795

I stole. Food, mostly. Or things I could trade for food. I stole like a raven. It was the fall of 1790. My mother was sick again. We had no money.

I stole potatoes off a peddler’s cart. Sausages from a market stall. I filched fans and snuffboxes from the shop counters and café tables where unmindful owners had left them. I took gloves from hectic ladies, cut purses from drunks. I snatched small dogs and returned them for reward money. I cut off horses’ tails and sold them to wig makers.

I was half-dead with hunger one night, else I might have left it alone—a purse, small and brown, bulging like a dead rat.

I was on my way home from the Palais, props in my satchel, not a sou in my pocket, when I spotted it. Its owner was disputing with a waiter. He had set it upon his table and turned his back upon it. It would be nothing to sweep it off as I passed.

I looked about. The Palais guards were nowhere to be seen. I moved slowly, content for once to be only what I was—a poor street player, a ragamuffin at whom no one looks twice. As I passed the table, I slid the purse off it. It was in my palm, wondrous heavy, then down the front of my shirt.

A few seconds later, I was halfway down the colonnade. I was nearly on the street when they grabbed me. One tore my satchel from my arms. Another shoved me into a wall. My head smacked hard against the stones. Fireworks exploded inside it.

I tried to run but was caught and slammed back into the wall. One of the guards pinned me to it by my throat. Another ripped open my shirt and grabbed the purse. Not a boy at all, this one, he said, leering at me. I kicked at him, but he only laughed. I couldn’t breathe. My lungs were bursting. The fireworks inside my head were fading. All was turning black.

And then I heard a new voice. His voice.

Enough.

The guard let go. I fell to my knees, gasping for air.

Come with me, sparrow.

I looked up. There was a man standing in front of me. He wore his black hair bound. A gold ring hung from one ear. His eyes were the color of midnight.

And if I will not? I said, trying to keep the fear from my voice.

Then you can go with them—he nodded at the guards—to the Ste-Pélagie.

The Ste-Pélagie, the worst prison in Paris. I looked at the guard, the one who’d ripped my shirt. From the way he leered at me, I knew there would be a detour first. Four of them in some filthy alley.

I heard my grandmother’s voice then, in my head. I used to wander when I was a child. Down one street and up the next. To the river. Sometimes past the city gates. To the fields. The woods.

One day you’ll go walking with the devil, my girl, she told me, and you won’t come back at all.

Still on my knees, I reached for my satchel.

Leave it. You won’t need it anymore, Orléans said.

And I knew that day had come.

10 May 1795

He took me to his rooms.

Rooms? They were a palace made small. Like the inside of a djinn’s lamp. Everywhere there was gilt and mirror glass, crystal and silver, all of it reflecting the light of a hundred candles. Myrrh wafted in the air. Music played from far off.

He threw his cloak at one man, then barked at another for food and wine. He led me through a foyer as large as a market hall, past withdrawing rooms, three libraries, two gaming rooms, and a ballroom, into a dining room.

I stole a silver knife, palming it off the table and up my sleeve while his back was turned.

Fool. You won’t achieve much in this world if you content yourself with such low-hanging fruit, he said.

How had he seen? He was turned away from me, unstoppering a decanter.

It’s only plate, he said.

He picked up a salt dish and turned it over. I shivered. Spilled salt brings bad luck. His, I hoped. He tossed the dish at me. I caught it.

That is silver. The shine is more subtle. Can you learn to be?

He poured two glasses of wine, handed me one. I reached for it warily, like a rabbit sniffing a trap. Finally I drank it and it tasted like rubies melting on my tongue.

Sit, he told me, kicking a chair out from the table. He took a seat on the side opposite me, near the fire, and loosened his neckcloth.

It was nearly midnight, with most of Paris abed, yet before five minutes passed, a servant—an old man—carried in a feast. I ate oysters, langoustines, a mousse of smoked trout. A plate of ortolans was brought. Orléans picked one up, cracked its tiny skull between his teeth. A dish of courgettes with mint came. Tender new potatoes, no bigger than my knuckle. And then lamb. An entire leg. Rubbed with rosemary and sprinkled with salt. The cook had slit the fat and nudged slices of garlic under it. The meat, oily and sweet, tasted so good tears leaked from my eyes as I chewed it.

You are hungry, Orléans said, watching me across the table. And yet, the hunger in your gut is nothing compared to that in your soul.

I stopped eating. I, who was starving, stopped eating and stared at him, astounded that he had seen inside of me. He, who was nothing to me.

You are the street actor. The dauphin’s companion. The sparrow in the grove. You flew high, little sparrow, but now you’ve fallen back to earth. Instead of playing for the prince of France, you now play puppets for Paris urchins.

My mouth was full of food. All I could do was nod.

And when you finish with the puppets, you come here to recite lines from plays. I’ve seen you many a night. You are a changeling—a girl who can make herself into anything—boy, monster, beggar, sprite. Why do you do it?

I swallowed my food. ’Tis far easier to get along in this world as a boy or a monster than a girl, I said.

True, Orléans said. But that is not why you do it.

I looked away. All right, then, I said. I do it for money. I must eat.

If it was merely money you wanted, you could earn ten times as much singing bawdy songs. Why Shakespeare? Why Molière? Answer me truthfully now. No more lies or I shall hand you back to the guards. He had risen from his chair and walked about the room as he spoke.

I can’t help it, I said. The words…

Ah, the words. You are in love with the beauty of the words.

Yes.

More lies! If you loved words so, you would write plays, not act them. Come now, the truth! It’s the playwright’s characters you are in love with, not his words.

Yes, I said, very softly.

Because … he prompted.

Because when I am them, I am not me.

Orléans nodded. Not a sparrow in the gutter, he said. Not desperate and hungry. Not dirty. Ignored. Dismissed. Passed over.

Again I could not speak. It was not food I had in my mouth then, but my heart.

More food was brought. I ate slices of sweet melon and a dish of roquette with slivers of Parma cheese and cakes soaked in rum and chocolates flavored with clove and marchpane and sugared plums and candied peel, and like a drowning man pulled from the sea, I was only glad to be saved and never once thought to ask why.

It was only when I was so full I could barely breathe that I stopped eating. It was only then I realized the servants were gone, the music had stopped, and the candles were guttering. And then it was too late, for suddenly he was near me. Behind me. So close, I could smell the lamb in his teeth.

Though I was terrified, I remembered the knife. The one I’d stolen. I pulled it from my sleeve, whirled round in my chair, and pressed it to his throat.

Slowly, carefully, he pushed my hand away and took the knife. Then he pulled me out of my chair and hit me. The blow was staggering. His white duke’s hands were as strong as a tanner’s. I stumbled backward and fell. He hauled me up and dragged me to a mirrored wall. He still had the knife. It glinted silver.

I closed my eyes, so afraid I could not even scream. The Palais whores all said he was a man of dark tastes, and I knew it would not go easy for me. I felt his hands in my hair, a sharp tug. Something had come loose. Fallen away. Something was lost. My life.

I opened my eyes. There was no blood. No wound. It was not my throat he’d cut, but my hair. My brown curls, once halfway down my back, now barely grazed my shoulders. He tore a piece of lace from his cuff and tied them back in a pony’s tail.

Next, his fingers worked what buttons remained on my waistcoat. He opened it and pushed it off my shoulders. Then he tore my shirt apart and pulled it off me. My patched and filthy britches were the last thing to go. He bade me step out of them and kicked them into a corner.

I stood naked in the mirror, helpless, waiting to feel his rough hands on me. Instead I felt the shock of cold water. I gasped, blinking it out of my eyes. More dripped from my hair, my chin, my shoulders. I saw him put a silver water jug back on the table. He picked up a napkin and rubbed my face and neck with it until the cloth was black with grime.

When he finished, he opened a cabinet, took a narrow length of linen from it, and bound it around my chest, flattening my small breasts. Next he handed me a shirt of white cambric. Wool stockings. Nankin britches. A blue waistcoat with silver buttons.

He poured himself more wine as I dressed, and when I finished, he walked round me, taking in the transformation.

He smiled, dipped his thumb in his wine, pressed it to my forehead, and made the sign of the cross. In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, he said mockingly.

And then I understood. And the understanding frightened me more than anything that had come before it.

I was not to die that night. That would have been a mercy.

I was to be reborn.