Dream Paris (18 page)

“Ah! English!” she said. “I lived in England as young woman! I studied to be a doctor, but of course, such things were frowned upon back then! It was not deemed to be a suitable occupation for a young lady! Still, I dare say I knew more than most of the men. Would you like a prune?”

She held out the bowl to me.

“No, thank you.”

“You speak English very well,” said Francis.

“You flatter me,” said Madam Calcutta. “Sadly, I have never achieved more than the most tenuous grasp on the intricacies of what remains a most perplexing language.”

“Shall we go to our room?” I suggested.

Madame Calcutta led us up a narrow flight of stairs, then another, then another, each set twisting at an angle to the last. Eventually we ended up in a narrow corridor in what seemed to be the roof.

“This is the toilet for your floor.” Madam Calcutta held open a door.

My heart sank. It was nothing more than a hole in the floor, two footprints set either side.

“Don’t you have a sit down one?”

Madame Calcutta laughed, good naturedly. “You English and your toilets! This is far more healthy!”

“It’s far more of a nuisance.”

“
Non
! Squatting ensures the correct anorectal angle! One of the most import contributions to anal continence!”

“What?” said Francis.

“
C’est vrai
! Squatting reduces the pressure required for defecation! It is the approved position to ease constipation and prevent haemorrhoids!”

“Okay,” said Francis.

“Indeed,” continued Madam Calcutta, “in persons with anismus, the anorectal angle during attempted defecation is typically abnormal. This is due to abnormal movement of the puborectalis muscle, a hallmark of anismus. The squat toilet ensures the correct angle and thus a satisfactory bowel movement can occur.”

“Well, if you say so…”

“I do say so. I had that James Joyce staying here, once. He used that very toilet!
‘Madam Calcutta!’
he said to me,
‘I have never been so at peace whilst at stool!’
”

“James Joyce…” I said weakly.

“Oh, yes! What a gentleman! We spent quite a delightful afternoon discussing the perfect bowel movement!”

“I’d still prefer a sit down toilet.”

“You may prefer it,” said Madame Calcutta, sternly, “but I warn you, young lady: the sitting position can cause the defecating human being to repeat the Valsalva manoeuvre many times and with great force, which may overload the cardiovascular system and cause defecation syncope.”

“Anna, just use the bloody toilet. I want to take this pack off.”

O
UR ROOM WAS
small, and made even smaller by the way the ceiling sloped so drastically to the floor. A tiny open window let in the sound of music playing. It sounded like accordions.

“I thought Alain said this room was massive,” I complained, closing the window.

“It is,” said Madame Calcutta. “Now, the shower is next to the toilet. There should be some hot water left.”

I showered first and changed into fresh underwear from my backpack. The dress I’d acquired in Dream Calais was looking grubby and creased. I hoped I’d be given something new soon.

I was just drying my hair when Francis entered the room, a towel barely wrapped around his waist. His stomach was flat and ridged with muscle, his wide shoulders beaded with droplets of water. He looked good and he knew it.

“Look that way while I finish changing,” I said.

“You do the same,” said Francis, grinning. “I’m not having you staring at my arse while I’m getting dried.”

I turned around and finished towelling myself off. A flash of blue in the corner of my eye…

“You were watching me in the mirror!”

“Sorry! You’ve got a lovely figure, you know.”

“Really? And what would ’Chelle think about you looking at it?”

“She’d understand. It’s not like I’ve done anything.”

“You promised not to look!”

“No, I didn’t. You told me to look away. That’s what I did.”

“A gentleman wouldn’t look.”

“A gentleman would have
said
he wouldn’t look, but he would have done so anyway. Trust me, Anna, any man would have done the same. If he said he wouldn’t, he’s either gay or a liar.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being gay.”

“I never said there was.”

“I’ll go and wait downstairs whilst you change.”

Typical. Just when he was getting bearable, he had to go and do something obnoxious again.

“S
HALL WE EAT
in there, then?” asked Francis, nodding across the square to the
Café Lebec.

I didn’t like the look of the place. I didn’t like the look of the unshaven men I could see through the windows, I didn’t fancy drinking anything from the unlabelled black bottles I could see standing on the tiny tables. I’d much rather have headed back to the bright lights around the station.

“We could always go somewhere else if it makes you nervous…”

“The café will be fine.”

Francis entered first. I sidestepped the wire and followed him in. No one seemed to notice it any more: Jean-Michel Ponge, Alain the tout, Madame Calcutta. None of them seemed to notice the grey silken thread that floated along behind us. I followed Francis inside and felt a tremendous sense of disappointment. Travelling here it had been at the back of my mind that we were heading to Dream Paris. I’d imagined grand restaurants, fabulous food paid for by Mr Twelvetrees and his wallet full of money. Here, the wooden panelling was a tired brown, the table cloths a feeble check. Two men sat at the counter drinking glasses of black wine, battered musical instrument cases at their feet. A violinist and a guitarist, I guessed. The barman looked as if he was having a competition with his bar cloth to see who could go the longest without being washed. After his gaze had travelled the length of my body, he nodded to Francis.

“
Bonsoir, (3)monsieur.
”

Francis looked at me for help. Pathetic.

“
Bonsoir
,” I said. “
Er, le menu, s’il vous plait
?”

The barman shook his head.

“
Nous ne servons plus de nourriture.
”

“What was that?” asked Francis.

“He says they’re no longer serving food.”

“What? But I’m starving! How about a sandwich or something?” He looked at the barman. “Sandwich?
Le
sandwich? Hamburger?
Un
pie?”

“
Un
pie?” I said, scornfully.

“Can you do any better?”

“He’s not serving food. We should go somewhere else. Come on, let’s go back to the station. The restaurants there looked nice.”

The musicians had been exchanging looks throughout the conversation. Now the violinist, judging by the case at his feet, pointed at Francis.

“English?”

“That’s right,” said Francis, evenly. He recognised the threat in the man’s tone.

“Your papers, please.” The man held out a dirty hand and a rich scent of body odour wafted from his clothes.

“Under whose authority?” I asked, coolly.

“The authority of any citizen in Dream Paris,” replied the man.

The barman said something in French, too rapid for me to follow. The violinist murmured something in reply and the barman was quiet.

“Show him your papers, Francis,” I said.

Francis held the man’s gaze as he took his papers from his pocket. The violinist snatched them and ran a grubby finger down them.

“These are in order. What about her?”

“She’s not a
her
,” said Francis. “This young woman is with me.”

“A spy. Does the Committee for Public Safety know she’s here?”

“I’m under the supervision of Jean-Michel Ponge.”

The violinist spoke rapidly to the guitarist, who slammed his hands on the counter and swore. He seemed to collect himself and then growled a reply.

“My friend’s wife’s sister and her family were sold to the Germans only three weeks ago. Someone got word up to Montmartre Zeppelin Station where they’d hidden their indenture papers…”

Hidden their indenture papers? I glanced at Francis who shrugged.

“Listen,” I said, “I’m sorry about that, but it was nothing to do with me! I’m not a spy! I only want to find my Mother. She was taken from Dream London…”

“Dream London?” The violinist had a dangerous edge to his voice. The guitarist spat on the ground. Even the barman was looking angry now.

“Let’s just keep things calm,” said Francis, easily. His hands were by his side, he wore a gentle smile. He moved so that he was between me and the other men. “We’re just leaving to find some food…”

I was about to follow the wire back out of the door, but I stopped. Something had followed that wire. Something had followed us here…

Francis backed into me.

“Anna. What’s the matter?”

We were trapped, caught between the customers and the figure that had just entered the café.

It was a life-sized china doll. A woman, very beautiful, with a white face and cold blue eyes painted on her face. They seemed to be looking directly at me.

KAOLIN

“
M
ERDE
!”

I don’t know who swore, but I heard the sound of stools scraping, of footsteps, of a door closing.

“
Bonsoir, (14)madame.
” I heard the tremble in the barman’s voice.

I kept my gazed fixed on the china woman as she moved jerkily towards me. It reminded me of the precise movement of the second hand of a watch. Her blue eyes remained fixed on me, the silks and cottons of her clothes swished as she moved, their colours sparkling all the more in the dullness of the café. I smelled Eau de Toilette, and I wondered why a china doll would perfume herself. Her head twitched, moving from me to Francis.

“What’s the matter?” he murmured. “Why is she looking at me like that?”

She looked from Francis to a nearby table, and I suddenly understood.

“Look at the way she’s dressed. She’s clearly a lady. I think she’s waiting for you to offer her a seat. Like a gentleman should.”

Francis pulled back a seat.

“Would you like to sit down?” he asked.

“Thank you.” The doll’s voice was beautiful but cold, like wind blowing across pearls in the snow. With a series of jerks, the doll moved from a standing to a sitting position that ended with her hands neatly folded on the table before her.

Francis sat down opposite her. He looked up at me, still standing.

“What?” he said. Eventually he got the hint, stood up and pulled back a seat for me.

“Thank you.”

“Would you like a drink?” asked Francis.

“No, thank you,” said the doll in that eerie voice. “But please, feel free to drink in front of me.”

The barman was already at the table, a bottle of wine and three glasses on a tray. I got the impression that china dolls did not often visit this café. He set out the three glasses, then made to pour. The doll placed a perfect porcelain hand over the top of her glass and the barman shrugged and moved on to me. The wine was so dark as to be almost black. It looked as if he were filling my glass with oil. He moved onto Francis, and then the doll raised her empty glass.

“Your good ’ealth.”

“Good health,” I said.

“Cheers!” said Francis.

I took a drink of the dark wine and waited for the effects to overwhelm me. Where would I be transported to this time…

Nowhere.

I gazed at the doll. The café seemed so plain and empty in comparison. Her beautiful porcelain face, the shimmer of silver and gold, the rich redness of the painted-on lips, the depth of the blue of her eyes…

“Allow me to introduce myself. Pretty Anna, my name is Kaolin. I have come to you with a dinner invitation from the
Banca di Primavera
.”

“A dinner invitation? When?”

“Right now. The
Banca di Primavera
wishes to apologise for the suddenness of the invitation but unfortunately, it was let down by its staff. You will understand that in a city such as Dream Paris, things do not always function as they should.”

I looked at Francis. Would he remember the children in Dream London? How their parents had sold themselves into slavery for the price of a meal? Clearly he did…

“A dinner invitation?” he said. “How much?”

“There is no cost, ’andsome Francis. You are invited as guests.”

“… only I heard talk back in Dream London about people accepting favours and gifts from people like you…”

“There are no people like
me
in Dream London,” said Kaolin in a voice as cold as frost. “I’m sure that you don’t intend to be rude. No one could mistake me for a
Pierrot
, I’m sure…”

“Of course not,” said Francis. “Pardon me, we’re new here. But let’s be clear. You say there is no cost?”

“You are indeed new here, ’andsome Francis, in that you ask the cost of a dinner invitation. I don’t know the manners and fashions in London, but here in Dream Paris we don’t invite guests to dinner and then present them with a bill.”

“Hold on,” I interrupted. “How do you know our names?”

“You are well known here, pretty Anna. Your fortune is the talk of Dream Paris.”