Heartsong (48 page)

“Times up, monsieur!”

“Only one moment, if you please.” St-Cyr glanced down at his notes. There was hardly anything there. Just a description and a doodle. And a hesitant attempt to spell the strange word.
Siyoko
, he had called it. Evilness. He closed up the notebook. He had plenty of material from Bell and Marie Colet to write his first column. And he had a pretty good angle on how to portray the Peau-Rouge, one
that surprised even him. But he would need much more before the trial began.

“Can I bring you something next time—besides some more cigarettes?”

Charging Elk had been leaning forward, elbows on knees, studying the initials on the wall. “No thank you,” he said.

“Can I contact someone for you—perhaps where you work or where you live?” St-Cyr had been sincere in his offer, but when he saw the look of alarm come into the savage s eyes his journalist s instincts, which had abandoned him twenty minutes ago, suddenly returned. “Surely there is someone who cares about you, who would like to know that you are alive and well. If I could have a name, Charging Elk, perhaps I could reassure this person.”

The jailer entered the small room. “You must leave now, monsieur. It is my neck if you are found here.”

“You must let me help you. A name . . .”

“Come now, monsieur. I have three little mouths to feed.” The jailer grasped St-Cyr by the upper arm and lifted him from the stool.

“René Soulas.”

Both St-Cyr and the jailer froze for an instant, locked in their awkward pose. A smile flickered across Charging Elks face, a twitch of the thin lips, as though he found the moment amusing. But his eyes did not participate in the amusement.

“Where does he live?” St-Cyr had recovered but so had the jailer, who was propelling the journalist out the door.

“11 Rue d'Aubagne. He is my friend. You must tell him not to worry.”

But the door clanged shut, cutting this last sentence off. Charging Elk sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, looking at the initials without seeing them. He hadn't thought of the Soulas family at all in the past two sleeps. Even when he said René s name,
it sounded strange on his tongue. He shook another cigarette out of the packet and looked at it, running his finger over the smooth paper cylinder. He felt his heart falling down. What would Madeleine think? She had thought he had a real girlfriend, one he might bring to Sunday dinner. Now she would know the truth. He looked toward the door but there was nothing but silence behind it. It was too late to tell Yellow Breast that he had changed his mind, that he mustn't contact René Soulas. Charging Elk felt a familiar throbbing in his temples. Soon he would have a full-blown headache that would make him lie back on the bed and shut his eyes tight against the brightness of the high window.

He dreaded the inevitable pain just as he dreaded the last few sleeps of his life. He wondered if they would come for him this night, or tomorrow, or the day after that. He didn't mind dying—and yet he didn't seek it as he did four years before when he sang his death song for three sleeps straight—but he didn't like the waiting. If they did come this night he would welcome them. He put the cigarette between his lips and struck a match and a thought occurred to him—Wakan Tanka had sent Yellow Breast to him twice now. Perhaps there was a plan after all. But what could Yellow Breast do? He was no magician who could make Charging Elk invisible or put his head back on his body after the big iron knife fell. And yet he had said he would help. Charging Elk stared at the small yellow flame and dared to hope just a little.

As he sucked in the smoke, Marie entered his mind and he wondered, just before the first hot wire of pain coursed through his brain, why she was still alive, why the
élyoko
hadn't killed her. He had meant to ask Yellow Breast but now it was too late. Now he would never know. Somehow he knew that.

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

T
he morning of August 16 of 1894 was typical for late summer in
Marseille—hot, still, humid, cloudless—and relatively quiet at eleven o'clock after the early-morning markets as the citizens retreated into their homes or factories or stores. A few people sat in front of cafés under umbrellas, drinking small dark
cafés
or
citrons pressés
. Occasionally a hansom cab or delivery wagon rattled by, and even more occasionally a nearly empty omnibus made its slow way along La Canebière or Rue de la République, the dark-sweated horses stopping automatically at each corner.

This morning René Soulas and his wife, Madeleine, standing on the corner of La Canebière and Cours St-Louis, pulled themselves up on the rear platform and found a seat just inside the coach. René had put in his full shift in the fish stall but had left François to clean up by himself. He had hurried home, washed himself, and put on his best suit. Madeleine was already dressed in her dark blue Provençal dress with the lace collar and sleeves, and her black
straw hat with the artificial berries on the front of the crown. They had been quiet all morning, dreading this morning and the several mornings which would follow.

René had read the small article in
La Gazette du Midi
during a quiet time at the market. He had been so shocked he hadn't told Madeleine or François about it. Instead, he had gone through the motions of selling fish until the market ended. Then he removed his apron and washed his hands—thank God Madeleine had already left for home to prepare lunch—and half walked, half ran all the way down to the Préfecture, and when he arrived, he had to lean against a column in the foyer to catch his breath.

He had been doubly shocked: because Charging Elk had murdered a man, of course, but also because it had happened in Rue Sainte. And he had felt doubly betrayed: Charging Elk had wanted to leave the Soulas home almost three years ago, and after all of René s preaching about the evil temptations that Marseille offered, Charging Elk had ended up in a whorehouse in one of the most godforsaken parts of town.

René had leaned against the cool marble column, catching his breath, cooling down, and alternating between anger and fright. He was angry at Charging Elk for having gotten himself in such trouble, and he was angry at himself for having allowed it. He could have been more forceful about the evils of the waterfront. And he was frightened because the young Indian would surely face the guillotine. He had to do something. He had to see Charging Elk. He made up his mind to lay aside his anger, to concentrate on whatever comfort for the Indian he could muster.

But the desk sergeant said that the prisoner was allowed no visitors. When René explained that the prisoner had lived with his family for two years, that he was like a father to the young man, that Charging Elk had nobody else, the desk sergeant simply said, “No visitors, monsieur—period.”

René didn't tell Madeleine about the article and he knew she wouldn't come across it herself. She didn't read the newspaper. None of it had to do with her, she always said, better to wrap fish or chestnuts in it than to read it. René was unusually hearty at dinner, but he didn't sleep that night, and the next morning, after market, he went back down to the Préfecture. This time he managed to get an interview with a captain, who seemed quite sympathetic, taking down names and notes, but in the end, he told him what the desk sergeant had. He did give René a reason, of sorts—that the examining magistrate had to conduct his interviews with the prisoner in a private and unsullied manner. Only in this way could he determine if a crime had been committed and a trial before the full tribunal was in order. This was the course of justice. Surely Monsieur Soulas could understand that.

But René couldn't understand that. What harm could come of comforting a poor wretch when he had fallen? Was it not God's will that we do all we can for one another? Didn't the Bible say “Do unto others as we would have them do unto us”? Surely the captain could understand that.

The captain could understand that, but God's law wasn't the only law, as unfortunate as it might be. But cheer up, monsieur, he said, perhaps the examining magistrate will find nothing to charge your Peau-Rouge with. Perhaps it is all an unfortunate mistake.

René had walked home, as downcast as he had ever been. And he felt an overwhelming guilt for having convinced the American—Monsieur Bell—that Charging Elk would be fine in his care. He passed the fortune-teller's window, with the red drapes, the candles burning at midday and the big eye painted on the glass, in La Canebière and thought for an instant of entering. He had never been to a fortune-teller, had never even considered it until then. But then he shuddered at the thought of what he might learn and hurried
home to the unsuspecting Madeleine and the nice lunch she would have set out.

But he had been surprised to find a stranger in his flat, and a very striking one at that. The stranger sat on the divan, one leg crossed over the other, a cup of coffee balanced on his knee. He wore a dark blue silk smock and a poet's tie made of the same material. His cream-colored trousers came to a knife-edge crease, echoing the pointed toes of the rich brown boots. René looked at Madeleine, as if to assure himself that he was in the right flat, and he saw a look on her face that was somewhere between pale horror and anxious pleasure.

“This is Monsieur St-Cyr. He is a famous journalist.” Then she turned toward the man. “And this is my husband, René.”

The man stood and offered his hand. “
Enchanté
Monsieur Soulas. This is indeed a pleasure.” As René took the hand and pumped it, the man said, “Of course, the circumstances are unfortunate.”

“Yes, of course.” René glanced quickly at Madeleine and he knew she knew. He had wanted to tell her in his own good time, but perhaps it was better that she know from the beginning. The next few weeks or months would be hard on her. But she deserved to know.

“I read your column faithfully, Monsieur St-Cyr. It is an honor to have such a famous journalist in our home.” Then he added, “But your picture doesn't do you justice,” and wished he hadn't.

But St-Cyr laughed. He was used to this kind of reaction. Even at the
Gazette
, his fellow reporters teased him about his flamboyant costumes, which seemed to get more outlandish as the years passed. But then so had his columns, and the people loved it.

“Please sit, monsieur. Would you like some more coffee? Madeleine—” But she had already gone into the kitchen. René watched St-Cyr settle his thin frame back in the cushions of the divan and
he marveled at the delicacy with which one leg swung over the other. The journalist slouched on the divan as though he owned it, as though he were at ease anywhere he was in the world. In spite of the “unfortunate circumstances.” René was thrilled to see such a celebrated journalist at ease in his home. “Wouldyou like a cigar?” he said.

“No, no, monsieur. Thank you. I have my own cigarettes.” St-Cyr tapped one out of the packet. René noticed that he had been using Madeleine's silver salver, which was full of potpourri, for an ashtray. There were two butts in it. The journalist lit his cigarette and dropped the match in the dish. Even though René was worried that the potpourri would catch on fire, it would be awkward to get him a proper ashtray.

St-Cyr leaned forward and said in a low voice, “I'm terribly sorry about your wife. I thought she knew. I'm afraid it was quite a shock to her.”

“She would have to know eventually. I was going to tell her myself, perhaps today.” But René wanted to see Charging Elk, to have some words with him, before he broke the sad news to Madeleine. He said as much to St-Cyr.

“Perhaps I can help. Perhaps I can arrange a visitation. Even tomorrow.”

T
hat had been two and a half months ago, and René had yet to see Charging Elk. He had read St-Cyr's column two days later and was more than impressed with the journalist's ability to make such a spellbinding story out of a bit of knowledge of Charging Elk. He still remembered snatches of the column, including the way it began: “M. Charging Elk, child of nature or born killer? That is the question that confronts us. ...” But he had been completely shocked to read the name of the dead man—Armand Breteuil.
According to the article they were unknown to each other until Breteuil and the whore, one Marie Colet, hatched their dastardly plot, but René remembered that dark morning on the Quai des Belges when he had introduced him to Charging Elk and Breteuil had later enlisted the
indien
to help him load his fish. René had been worried then, but he thought his warning to stay away from perverts like Breteuil had been forceful enough. So René had been shocked by the whole business, start to finish, but he also wondered if the incident in the whorehouse was really the only time the two men had come together since the introduction on the Quai des Belges. He had wanted to tell St-Cyr about the incident on the quai, but he thought it could only do more harm than good. In a far corner of his mind, one that he barely acknowledged for fear of what he would find out, he wondered about Charging Elk's sex life.