Dream Paris (21 page)

“Good…?” said Francis.

“Oh, yes. One must keep the bowels moving. Of course, I once had a bowel movement in Orleans that… something the matter, dear?”

“No, not at all.” I was gazing in horrified fascination at this clinical seduction.

“I see,” said Madame Pigalle, in a voice as naughty as a labelled illustration of the female reproductive system. “All very modern to speak about sex openly, of course. One is supposed to have a relaxed attitude to certain bodily functions in London, I hear. Well, I am proud to say that here in Dream Paris we extend that attitude to
all
bodily functions.”

“Were all the courtesans in Dream Paris like you?” asked Francis, genuinely interested.

“
Non
! I was the best!” And at that she popped the last piece of tripe in her mouth and chewed it slowly.

M Jarre pretended to begin to collect the plates, but again Gaston insisted that he be allowed to do it.

The next course arrived.

“Since when was lobster Thermidor the food of the revolution?” I asked.

“Well, the lobsters were dead anyway…” said M Jarre

“
Exactement
!” said Madame Lefevre. “And they practically Thermidor themselves. So what do you think of Dream Paris, Anna?”

“I don’t know. I’ve not really seen it yet.”

“Nor have I. It’s rare that I get to visit. There is so much work to do, back in
Champagne
.”

“So, you’re a farmer,” I said. “Do you employ anyone from Dream London on your farms?”

Madame Lefevre was eating with her hands. Pink lobster meat stuck to her dirty fingers. She wiped a hand across her shiny mouth.

“Ah! I can see that farms are very different where you come from, Citizen Anna.”

I waited for her to continue, but she said no more on the subject.

“So, how do you know M Jarre?” I asked.

“My
terroir
is hoping to extend itself. We are discussing a loan with the
Banca di Primavera
.”

“I see.”

“I wonder if you do,” said M Jarre, turning away from his conversation with the Count. “They do say that the
real
power around here is not located in Dream Paris but rather in the surrounding farmland. The reign of
terroir
, they call it. Would you say that was true, Madame Lefevre?”

“Of course it’s true, M Jarre. Dream Paris is nothing but a system designed to produce rich manure with which to feed the crops. The plumbing of Dream Paris leads to a huge reservoir downstream, where the waste is converted to fertiliser…”

“
Bravo, madame
!” said Madame Pigalle.

“Well, I suppose that’s one way of looking at it.”

“Oh, no, Anna. Even in your home, the most useful crops, the tastiest vegetables, these are the ones that survive. Wheat and corn and barley conquer the world where other crops fail. Here in Dream Paris, we take this further. Taste this wine, Anna.”

Madame Lefevre filled her glass with the black wine.

“A Burgundy,” she said, as I took a hesitant sip. “Can you feel what it’s like to wander the wooded hills?”

“I can.” I thought I should be getting used to the wine’s effect by now, but no, I still had to fight to keep hold of myself.

“The wine is a manifesto,” said Madame Lefevre. “It’s trying to turn your mind to its benefit. Remember, in Dream Paris, everything you eat and drink is a declaration of support. You drink this wine and you are pledging allegiance to Burgundy. You take a little brandy and you are pledging allegiance to Armagnac.”

She leaned in closer.

“That’s why it’s very important to always eat a little bit of everything. If you don’t, the
terroir
will take you over and march you away. The next thing you know you will be working on a farm in the Vendée…”

Could that have happened to my mother?
I wondered. I looked at Madame Lefevre’s dirty hands as she tore into her lobster.
Is that what happened to Madame Lefevre? Was she press-ganged by a vegetable seller?

Francis leaned closer and whispered in my ear.

“You lived in Dream London,” he said. “Is this normal?”

“Normal? Nothing was normal there. There are similarities between here and Dream London. But there are a lot of differences, too.”

“Like what?”

“I can’t describe it. This place seems a lot more… ordered, I suppose. Dream London was a lot more random.”

“This has all looked pretty random to me so far.”

“I don’t mean that. In Dream London, no one was really in charge. They thought they were, but they were just following events. Here, these people seem to be more in control…”

Around us people were politely finishing their meals, pretending they couldn’t hear us. Francis scratched his nose.

“Listen, Anna. I’m not sure we can trust these people.”

I felt the frustration, hot inside me. This was a man who considered steak and chips an exotic meal, a man who had to have his
Tripe à la mode de Caen
cut up by a courtesan before he’d consider eating it. He really thought
I
needed
his
advice on who to trust?

“You don’t think we can trust these people,” I said. “Really?”

“Yes. Just take care.”

“Take care? You’re the one who doesn’t know how to behave in polite company.”

For the first time, there was the briefest flash of anger in Francis’s eyes. “Hey, I’ve never been to France before. I never got to go abroad when I was a kid.”

“Sorry,” I said, feeling embarrassed for a moment. And then I reminded myself of his words back in England.
Old enough to bleed, old enough to breed.
The man was a pig.

“Please stop whispering. It’s rude.” The Count’s voice cut through the chatter.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “All this is a little confusing for my companion. He’s not used to polite company.”

“No, I’m not,” agreed Francis. “I’m just some stupid squaddie who doesn’t know which fork to use.”

“A
squaddie
?” The Count frowned.

“A soldier,” I explained. The Count perked up at that.

“You are a soldier, sir! Have you seen action?”

“Yes.”

“Good to meet someone who understands the meaning of service.”

Was the Count going out of his way to irritate me?

“Excuse me!” I said. “Am I not here? Or do you think that women can’t serve in any meaningful manner?”

“Of course,” said Count von Breisach, glancing at Francis. “
Kinder, Küche, Kirche
. I could do with a little more wine right now.”

Francis tried not to smile. Pig.

“Don’t patronise me,” I said, in my coldest tones. “I marched into the parks. I know about service.”

The Count raised an eyebrow.

“You marched into the parks?” He nodded approvingly. “Well done,
Fräulein
. Well done. What were you carrying?”

“A cornet?”

“A cornet? I’m not up on British weaponry. Is that one of the Armstrong hand pistols?”

“No, it’s a musical instrument. Like a trumpet.”

“I know what a cornet is. I thought I’d misheard. You mean you marched against enemy soldiers carrying a musical instrument?”

“Yes. Don’t you have military bands in Dream Prussia?”

“We do, but they carry military grade instruments. What were the other members of your troop carrying?”

“Horns, baritones, euphoniums.”

“But that’s just a brass band. I don’t understand the military advantage.”

“Not all service is undertaken to gain military advantage.” Have you ever had that sense of two different worlds coming together?

“And what does Dream Prussia want with Dream Paris?” asked Francis, keen to change the subject. The Count seized on the opportunity gratefully.

“Nothing more than the chance to trade,” he said.

“What do you trade?” I asked.

“Machinery. A little food and drink. Ideas.”

“Do you know anything about my mother?”

“
Nein
!”

He brought a hand down on a lobster claw, breaking it into fragments. He picked out bits of the flesh.

“However, Dream Prussia would like to offer to help you in your search for your mother. Should it prove successful, and even should it not, we also offer transport for you and any others you choose to accompany you back to your home.”

That floored me.

“That’s a very generous offer,” I said, after a pause. “There must be some cost.”

“No cost. Dream Prussia is always on the lookout for new trading partners. Consider this an expression of our good intentions.”

He popped a piece of lobster in his mouth.

“Perhaps we should listen to him,” murmured Francis. “At least he doesn’t represent a bank.”

“No, just a country that flies huge threatening Zeppelins over other people’s cities.”

“That’s part of trade,” said the Count. “If you want to discuss further, come to the Zeppelin station at Montmartre. Tell them you wish to speak to me.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Ah, Francis! I wanted to ask you something…” M Jarre turned and engaged Francis in conversation about distances: from here to Dream Calais, from London to Dream Dover. I was left with the Count. He was watching me, scarred face impassive.

“Your friend has left his lobster.” he said. “He doesn’t like the food?”

“My friend doesn’t get out much,” I said, waspishly.

“I notice that you’ve left half your lobster, too. Too delicate, that’s your trouble. There are girls working in Parisian factories who think themselves lucky to get half a slice of black bread.”

“Then they’re being exploited.”

“Maybe, but you’re turning your nose up at perfectly good food.”

“I’m not turning my nose up at it. I’ve just had enough for the moment.”

Helène placed her hand on her husband’s arm.

“Don’t be rude, dear. Not everyone is as blunt as you. Anna seems like such a
refined
young lady.”

I didn’t need her to stick up for me. I picked up my fork and began to eat.

“I hate to see food going to waste, too. There are people back in Mundane London who would be delighted to eat this.” I looked at the Count’s plate. “I see you’ve left your parsley.”

Without a word, he picked it up and ate it.

“There are places in this city, young lady,” he said, “where a meal such as this would be a treat, not something to be endured.”

“I eat what’s put in front of me.”

“Really? How about mouse pie?”

“If that’s what was being served.” I laughed. “When’s the last time you ate mouse pie, Count? When are you ever likely to be offered it?”

He assumed a superior air.

“Young lady, right now, throughout this city, there will be families who are skinning mice, pulling flesh from the bones and dropping them in pies. Knock on the door of nearly every apartment in this city and you would see people licking mouse gravy from plates. And what’s more,” – he leaned forward a little – “they will be serving it tomorrow night at 7:30pm in the Old Abattoir.”

Check
. He spoke the words like a chess grandmaster, making a move. I couldn’t back down now.

“Then why don’t we go and try it? Or are you all talk?”

The Count smiled.

“I should be happy to,
Fräulein
. I like mouse pie. I doubt that I would see you there, though.”

“Oh, I’ll be there,
Thomas
.”

I heard a groan and turned to see Francis holding his head in his hands.

“What?” I said. I suddenly realised everyone was looking at us. M Duruflé spoke up.

“Anna, are you aware that you are accepting a duel?”

“A duel? He’s dared me to eat a pie!”

“You’ve insulted his honour, and he’s insulted yours. In Dream Prussia, that’s considered a challenge.”

I looked at the Count’s scarred face and I remembered something I’d once read, how they used to duel at university in Germany. How they’d wear padding on their bodies but no face masks, how they’d fight until one person had drawn a scar on his opponents face.

“Do you wish to back down?” asked the Count.

I would have done so, if he hadn’t given the tiniest of smiles as he said it.

“Oh, no,” I said. “Tomorrow at 7:30, in the Old Abattoir. Mouse pies it is.”

All we were going to do was eat unpleasant food. What could possibly go wrong with that?

THE GRANDE TOUR

K
AOLIN DROVE US
away from the North Tower.

“What happened there?” asked Francis.

“Somebody has to stand up for us,” I muttered.

“Stand up to who? Against what? Anna, what exactly do you think you’re doing?”

“Looking for my mother.”

“And starting a fight with the Germans is going to help?”

“It’s not the Germans, it’s the Prussians. And it’s not a fight, it’s a duel.” And I wasn’t feeling proud of myself, I knew I’d let myself down. I knew that the Dream World changed people. I’d let it get a hold on me.

“Hey,” said Francis, looking out of the window. “This isn’t the right direction. The big tower was over there before.”

Kaolin had been listening to us argue, face as impassive as only a painted face can be. Now she raised a porcelain finger.

“The
Banca di Primavera
’as taken the liberty of moving your things to the
’Otel de la Révolution
. You shall stay there as our guests.”