Dream Paris (17 page)

“There’s no point following silly laws.”

“Ah, but that’s what the real criminals say. They laugh at the law, or say the rules don’t apply to them. But they want
you
to follow the rules, of course. It wouldn’t do for everyone to break the law.”

“I don’t understand the point you’re making.”

“People like you are a problem, Mademoiselle Sinfield. The
rebelle
. The conventionally unconventional. You’re neither nothing nor something. You play into everyone’s hands. You’re doing it now.”

“No I’m not!”

Francis and Jean-Michel exchanged a look.

“What? What does that look mean?”

“I think Mr Ponge has made a good point, Anna,” said Francis. “I think that we should get our papers stamped and be on our way.”

Jean-Michel smiled.

“Ah! The voice of calm maturity. Perhaps you should listen to your carer,
mademoiselle
…”

He was trying to wind me up. I saw that now. I held out my hand and spoke in my politest voice.

“Can I have my papers, please?”

“
Bien sûr
! I think that I shall allow you in, Mademoiselle Sinfield, but with certain restrictions. You are to respect the rules and the laws laid down by the Committee for Public Safety for as long as you remain here. You will report to me each day at 10am in the offices of the Committee for Public Safety in the
Grande Tour
. And you will not be permitted to leave Dream Paris without my personal approval. Is that acceptable?”

“No…”

“Yes, that’s acceptable,” said Francis. He leant closer to me and hissed in my ear “
It could be much worse! Stop making a fuss!
”

Jean-Michel Ponge drew out a pen and wrote something on our papers, then stamped them in red ink.

“
Voila
! I hope you find your stay in Dream Paris
très intéressant
!”

“I’m sure I will.”

M Ponge raised an eyebrow.

“I know,” said Francis. “She always has to have the last word.”

W
E PUSHED OUR
way into the main station concourse, beneath a roof of glass. It was like a clear blanket thrown over the rose marble floor of the station, caught in the act of billowing out just before it started to fall, the glass panes glittering and flashing in diamond colours, the brilliance of the sparkles filling the station with the heady joy of the Dream World. Through the glass we could see the stars, much brighter than those of the Mundane World. But the starscape was punctuated by the regular wash of the searchlight, turning as it scanned the dark plains that surrounded the city.

“Where do we go?” asked Francis.

“There.
Sortie
: that means exit.”

A young man tumbled from the crowd. He had the regulation stubble of a young Dream Parisian, the brushed-back hair, the carelessly knotted scarf. He was dressed in a blue serge jacket and trousers that looked as if they had once belonged to someone much taller and thinner, and probably of a different species.

“English, right? (1)You English, yes? (1)You new to Dream Paris? Need somewhere to sleep? Need food? I(1) have lovely room just round the corner. Only 20 Dream francs a night to (1)you, lovely lady. Double bed, just right for jiggy-jiggy.”

I slapped him on the cheek.

The man looked at Francis in hurt supplication.

“Now come on,” said Francis. “You deserved that.” Good for him. The young man seemed amazed.

“No need to for that! I(1) did not mean to insult the lovely (1)lady! Listen, I(1) have a lovely room.
Une belle chambre
!
Tres belle
! Right above the Seine! Just out of jumping range of the Liopleurodons! Watch them feed in the morning!”

“The lady is fine,” said Francis, putting his arm around me and moving me on.

“Hey! I’m quite capable of looking after myself.”

“Exactly!” The words were spoken by a second tout who had seen an opening and dived in. “Listen to me, lovely lady! That man is a crook! Dream Paris is full of people like Luc, willing to take advantage of newcomers! The gendarmes, they should be keeping the station clear of such crooks, but no, they’re out there making things difficult for honest men trying to earn their
pain quotidian,
rather than rounding up the worthless scroungers who prey on the innocents here.”

“How much for a room?” interrupted Francis. He saw my look. “What? We need somewhere to sleep.”

“Only 20 Dream francs for the night!”

“Does it have hot water?”

“All you can drink!” replied the man, despite smelling like someone who had not stood under hot water for quite some time. “But better than, it has toilets! Proper, flushing toilets! I tell you, pretty lady, nowhere else in Dream Paris will you have a more satisfying bowel movement!”

“Never mind the toilets. I want a shower and a bed.”

“Of course you do. But what does one do before one takes a shower?”

He held his arms wide, waiting for my reply. He wore the expression of a man who had scored the killer point in a debate. “Well?” he prompted.

“Get undressed?” ventured Francis.

“Get undressed! Very wise! But of course, one also visits the toilet! In the
Pension du Palais
, the toilets are
magnifique
! Why, there has not been a toad climb up the toilet for at least two months!”

“Excellent,” I said, by now beyond caring. “Lead the way.”

“15 Dream francs,” interrupted Francis.

“Ah! Monsieur! For that amount you will be lucky to find yourself a place sleeping amongst the leeches and the scum of the gutters. The Committee for Public Safety would not allow an honest landlord’s children to be robbed of food. And to let a room for less than 20 Dream francs would be to rob an honest family of their croissants. But, listen, good
monsieur
, it is a good size room! Enormous! And the bed is so large…”

“I’d want two beds for twenty francs.”

“I’d want two rooms,” I said.

“After that doll got into your room last night, I want you where I can see you,” muttered Francis.

“One room, two beds, towels so soft you can roll in them, so much hot water you could swim in it, and the most comfortable toilet in all of Dream Paris! Twenty francs.”

“Fifteen.” Francis folded his arms.

“I think,
monsieur
, you expect to stay at the Hotel du Palais? For fifteen francs? I think not.”

“We’ll take the room,” I said.

Francis was glaring at me.

“What? I’m filthy, I’m exhausted and I’m hungry. I want a shower, something to eat and some sleep. If I get all that, I think I’ll be much more use looking for my mother.”

“Okay,” said Francis to the man in the badly fitting suit. “Lead us there. But the water better be hot.”

“It will be! That will be forty Dream francs, please.” He held out a grubby hand.

“You said twenty!” said Francis.

“That’s right. Twenty for you, twenty for her.”

“Just pay the man.”

Francis reluctantly took out his wallet.

“Good choice, sir!
Bon choix
!
Beau selector
!”

“You’re not very good at negotiating, are you?” grumbled Francis.

“It’s not my money.”

“It’s the principle,” said Francis, but he counted out the money anyway.

W
E FOLLOWED THE
man out into the Dream Parisian night. Stepping from the station was like stepping into the end of a 1930s Hollywood movie. You could imagine the curtains parting, lines of women receding into the distance, each pulling back a fan, gentlemen in top hats and tails beckoning you in…

We stepped into a wide cobbled street crammed full of taxis, tall polished black boxes shaped like fat coffins standing on their ends. In place of headlights, they were equipped with what appeared to be old fashioned gramophone horns. The driver sat on a little saddle behind the horns, while the passengers climbed into the upright coffin behind. I was so lost in the spectacle I didn’t notice the other odd thing.

“Look!” said Francis. “More clowns.”

I saw them now. Most of the taxis were driven by black and white Pierrots. They sat upright in the saddles whilst they lined up waiting for the next customers, or they guided their little upended coffins out through the snarl of traffic. None of them paid us any attention. No one did. The square was full of people, hurrying about their business, people dressed in Dream French fashions, from the smartest velvet suits to the littlest black dresses. We saw men with their faces full of stubble, women with plucked and painted eyebrows. So many people: men in suits with no ties, shirts open at the neck, relaxed in their crumpled clothing, revelling in that touch of arrogance that allowed them to get away with not dressing properly. Francis was smiling at an attractive black woman, hair piled in curls on her head. She smiled back at him, slim and elegant. I looked away. Across the square there was a line of restaurants, tables set out on the street, waiters in long white aprons hurrying back and forth, carrying plates, cups, glasses. They collected orders, they filled glasses, they ignored the unimportant.

“Have you seen?” said Francis. It took me a while to make out the pockets of stillness. Maybe this was what Francis meant by tuning in. Take the time to absorb the scene and then they were obvious. The homeless. The men and women tucked away in the shadows, the ones who shuffled by the restaurants, hands held out for money until they were shooed away by the waiters, the little huddles of ragged people smoking by the benches along the front of the station. You could see the poverty, the hopelessness. Sitting around waiting for something to do, lined up on the benches, leaning against the wall.

“Ignore them!” said our guide. “Come on! To the hotel!”

We’d only walked a few paces when it came into view, rearing up into the deep purple Dream Paris night: the tallest Eiffel Tower of them all. Spotlights played up and down its length, picking out the blue and white harlequin pattern of its wrappings.

A beam of light speared down from the top of the tower, illuminating the square, and for a moment I felt it was looking at us, but it quickly moved on. I saw the cone of light lancing down into distant streets, flicking up to illuminate the silver shape of an enormous yellow Zeppelin hanging lazily above.

Francis was looking at all this with wide-eyed wonder. He was drinking it all in.

Me? I felt as if I’d walked into a trap.

THE PENSION AND THE CAFÉ

“C
OME
! W
E ARE
nearly at your hotel.”

We’d left the bustle of the square, turning down sloping streets that drained away the busy life of the station terminus. We entered a silent street where a line of dark trees alternated with lampposts, the lamps sheltering beneath the branches and illuminating the underside of the canopy in yellow light. It looked so pretty, until you noticed the people sleeping rough beneath the trees, wrapped in blankets and cardboard. The night was hot, I could smell the familiar Dream scent of flowers and spices, but here there was a heavier musk beneath it all. The searchlight passed this way and that across the sky, occasionally highlighting the Zeppelin that turned in a slow circle high above.

“They’re threatening you,” said Francis. “That’s a great big yellow
Fuck You
hanging in the sky.”

“The Germans don’t worry us,” sneered the tout. “Let them send a hundred of their Zeppelins!”

Francis shook his head, ever so gently.

The tree-lined road came to an end in a five-road intersection, a stone column rising from the centre. Three scooters were parked around it, merry-go-round fashion.

“And here we are,” said our guide, coming to a halt by a narrow doorway squeezed between two shops. He pushed the door open to reveal a narrow set of stairs leading upwards. I could smell garlic socks. He pointed across the five-cornered square to a dimly lit place with a sign above the door announcing it to be the
Café Lebec
. “You could do worse than to eat there.”

“We could do better,” I muttered.

“You could,” agreed the man. “Now, go up the stairs and say that Alain sent you. Good night,
mes braves
!”

He turned and raised a hand, began to walk away, only to find that Francis had hold of his arm.

“Oh, no,” he said, evenly. “You have our money, you take us up there.”

“But
monsieur
! You doubt me?”

“Yes. That’s why I want you to take us up.”

Alain shrugged and led us up the stairs.

An old woman sat behind a desk at the top.

“Madame Calcutta, the concierge,” said Alain. “
J’ai(3) deux invités ici pour (3)vous, madame
.”

“
Vingt francs
,” replied Madame Calcutta.

“
Vingt
?” I said. “That’s twenty. We paid forty!” I should have kept quiet. Francis bunched his fists.

“Commission,” said Alain, and at that he was gone, hurrying downstairs.

“Leave him,” I said to Francis. Reluctantly, he obeyed.

Madame Calcutta was very thin. Her skin looked too big for her body. She was eating prunes from a large bowl.