They announced a parade through the entire arrondissement, ending in soup and bread for all.
As the speeches droned on above her, Maura slowly chewed on the pieces of potato and gristle in her greasy soup. She remembered the musicians on the Boulevard Rochechouart selling copies of their songs to the crowd. Maybe there was a better way for her and Nico to make money. A way for them to tell the truth about Pyotr and Angela. Nico could play. She could sing. She’d use the money sewed into her dress to buy pencil and paper, and Nico, who knew about selling rags for paper, would get a printer to make hundreds of copies. If the Fiancé of the North was “strong and full of worth,” wasn’t Pyotr more, a Russian Prince? Maura’s dear sister, Angela, was not only young and beautiful, she was an Angel from the Goutte-d’Or. Everyone in Paris knew the Goutte-d’Or. Nico would help because he believed her, because he loved music, because he liked to talk to everyone about things like justice and dignity. They’d start right away, tomorrow, Bastille Day, near the parade. And maybe eventually they’d persuade the world to find the real killer.
11
T
HE MORNING AFTER
B
ASTILLE
D
AY
, Clarie sat down to write a letter. It was not an easy task. Even to begin “Dear Madame Séverine” seemed oddly intimate. Yet that is what Clarie decided to do. She wasn’t sure how else to address the famous writer, and she had to assume that someone so notorious enjoyed being referred to by her first name. Of course, it was only polite that Clarie go on to introduce herself, which she did, as “a teacher at the Lycée Lamartine, who has come to know Francesca Laurenzano, a charwoman at the school and the mother of the dead girl, Angela.” Clarie held her pen aloft. She had reached the very point of the letter, recruiting Séverine to search for Maura.
“I very much admired your defense of the Russian girls being held at the Saint-Lazare Prison.” That was true, honest. “I know that you have often defended those who are among the poorest and most despised.” True again. “And I also know that you are famous for your ability to carry out investigations.” Actually, that is what Bernard had told Clarie, in a rather dismissive way. “This makes me hopeful that once you learn about the plight of Francesca Laurenzano, you will widen your interest in this case to include the search for her younger daughter, Maura, who may be in danger.” There.
Clarie went on to describe Francesca’s poverty and the circumstances, as far as she knew them, of Maura’s disappearance. After closing with the usual respectful flourish required by gentility, she sealed the letter in an envelope, addressed it to the offices of
L’Echo de Paris
, and announced to Rose that she was going to the post office. If all went well, someone else would be taking up the case of the missing girl.
The next day Clarie made her way to the kiosk at the Square d’Anvers several times to peruse the headlines, even though she knew that there was little chance that anything new would be reported. She was about to try again on Saturday morning when the doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it, Rose,” she called, since she was near the foyer. When Clarie swung open the door, she saw a young boy with a mail bag strapped across his chest. A pneumatic letter carrier.
“Madame Martin?”
“Yes.” Clarie flushed as her heart contracted in her chest. The last time she had received a “little blue,” it had brought news of Angela’s death. Could something terrible have happened to Maura or Francesca? Or Bernard? The boy thrust a thin light blue letter toward her, and before she recovered enough to thank him, he turned and ran down the stairs. The return address was simple: Séverine.
Gazing at the envelope as she retreated into the parlor, Clarie almost ran into Rose, who had come out of the kitchen.
“Madame Clarie, a letter?” Rose asked, as she wiped her hands on her apron.
“Just something from the school,” Clarie murmured. This was not the time for confidences, not until she knew what was in the pneu.
“Then I’ll go back to Luca, while you read it,” Rose responded, before returning to the kitchen where Jean-Luc was taking his time finishing his breakfast. Clarie, for the hundredth time that year, whispered a prayer of gratitude for having someone as devoted and discreet as Rose in her home. Then she sank into an armchair and tore open the fragile envelope. The script, in purple ink, was bold, the contents brief.
“Dear Madame Martin, I am home from 11 to 2 today. 14 Boulevard Montmartre, 4th floor. I hope to see you. Séverine.”
Clarie’s mouth gaped open as the hand holding the letter dropped into her lap. This Séverine expected that she, a teacher and wife and mother, would, just like that, drop everything and come to visit a notorious, divorced woman. This was outrageous. Or was it? Clarie picked up the all-too-brief message again. Séverine was not refusing Clarie’s request to help find Maura. In fact, by her invitation, she seemed to be stating her willingness to get involved. Clarie got up and began to pace back and forth over the floral carpet in front of the armchairs. If she accepted, what terrible thing could happen? And if it meant that Maura would be safely returned to Francesca? Clarie stopped and folded her arms, fortifying herself. Yes. She’d take Luca to the park, read to him, put him down for his nap, and, if she still had the nerve, she’d do it.
Hours later, Clarie was examining a short, gray homespun jacket wondering whether she should put it on, despite the fact that the day was already beastly hot. Pressing her lips together, she decided against it. Her shirtwaist dress was teacherly and prim enough to express her utter respectability. She thrust the jacket back into the armoire and picked up her straw hat. She pinned it with more force and decisiveness than necessary in her hair, which was pulled back in a neat chignon. She took a look in the mirror. It was now or never. Another white lie delivered to the faithful Rose, and she would be on her way.
After rushing down the stairs and out of the entryway, Clarie turned and started her journey down the familiar rue Rodier. The Boulevard Montmartre was a short link in the chain of so-called “Grand Boulevards,” the new wide thoroughfares that formed a semicircle around the center of Paris. Threading her way through the crowded street, she reflected on how rarely she spent time in the fashionable districts of shops and arcades. She tried for a few minutes to think of what she was doing as an excursion. But as she waited for the traffic of cabs and omnibuses to slow on the rue de Maubeuge, she had to acknowledge that to consider this an “excursion” was to ignore the obvious.
Her chest fluttered so hard, she felt as if a wild bird inside her was throwing itself against a cage. She was visiting a woman, but it felt like an assignation. Aware of her growing anxiety, she entered the cross section with utmost care. She hardly looked from side to side as she wound her way down to the boulevards. She repeated in her mind, like a calming mantra, the question she had asked just hours ago: What terrible thing could happen?
So intent had she become that she was startled when she reached the boulevards. At first, she had trouble getting her bearings. It was as if she had walked onto a stage, the theatrical spectacle of Paris high life. Men in top hats and women in silk dresses strolled, peering into shop windows or scrutinizing each other. The inviting aroma of coffee and the murmur of conversation and tinkle of plates and silverware rose from the outdoor cafés dotting the boulevard in every direction. Tender green-leaved trees lined the broad sidewalks, lending a freshness to the summer’s air. Even the horse hooves sounded more genteel on the wooden cobbles, and the gas lamps rising in the middle of the broad avenue performed the act of dividing the chaotic traffic with balletic grace.
She had to search for addresses because they were obscured by the commercial establishments on the ground and the bannered names of newspapers, manufacturers and political associations inhabiting the floors above. Keeping careful track, she was suddenly inhibited by a ragged line of people of all ages and social classes chattering in English and French. The big signs and display told her that they were waiting to get into Paris’s famous wax museum. She shuddered. The Musée Grévin was as notorious for its lifelike dioramas of torture and infamous crimes as for its promise to offer a peek into the private lives of prominent Parisians. After noting the address, number 10, she hurried past the double-doored entrance emblazoned with the museum’s name. She was close. Taking the temporary respite provided by an empty wall, she stood and shaded her eyes to survey the balconies jutting from almost every building. She could not imagine what it was like to live amidst all this hubbub. It was so alien to her that she might have lost heart if she had not heard a female voice cutting through the cries of cabmen and the rumble of omnibuses. “Hallo down there!” Clarie craned her neck and saw an exceedingly blond woman waving at her. “Madame Martin, come up!” she shouted with no more self-consciousness than if she had been in a country village.
Clarie responded with a reluctant wave. There was no going back. At number 14, the door to the courtyard clicked open automatically, for, according to a sign near the main entrance, the building served a number of businesses, including the anti-Semitic newspaper,
La Libre Parole
. This gave Clarie another reason to shudder. She remembered the hatred that newspaper had fomented during the anti-Israelite riots in Nancy, and couldn’t believe it was still thriving, still beating the drums against Dreyfus, and against people like the Singers. She climbed past the thrumming of the printing presses on the second floor and muffled mahogany-enclosed residences on the third.
When she arrived out of breath on the fourth floor, she caused quite a stir. Behind the door marked “Madame Séverine,” barking, yipping, and shouting broke out. “Sit! Quiet!” Clarie heard, and finally, “dear Augustine, do take our rambunctious Rip into the kitchen.” Clarie was raising her arm to knock, when the door flew open and a woman stood before her, holding a puggish mutt in her arms.
Clarie knew at once that this was Séverine, for no servant would greet you in a florid silk gown and felt slippers.
“Madame Martin, please come in,” the woman said as she stood aside to let Clarie into the foyer.
“Thank you. I’m pleased you could see me,” Clarie murmured as she was led into a room that looked more like a greenhouse, or a menagerie, or even a museum, than a parlor. Palm trees and cacti filled every corner. Fresh flowers sprung from vases on the coffee table and desk. Besides what sounded like at least two dogs howling, as if imprisoned behind a door, and the pooch being held and petted in Séverine’s arms, there was a bird, a beady-eyed blue-and-green parrot giving out occasional squawks from a cage suspended on a tall stand. Newspapers lay in piles on the floor by the desk, which was laden with books and papers, and pens and pencils, gathered like soldiers ready for action, by the inkpot. In addition to all this, there was an embellished version of the usual: a few floral-patterned sitting chairs, a sofa bursting with pillows and covered with a chintz of bright gold, green and crimson stripes overlaid with a fleur de lis pattern. Finally, covering the walls and spreading onto almost every available surface, a myriad of photographs, lithographs and paintings. The most impressive of these was a gigantic portrait of a handsome, bearded man hanging above the sofa. Not only was the painting in a gilded frame, there was also a velvet curtain edging the top and sides, as if it were a memorial.
“That’s Jules Vallès, the great Communard and anarchist, the man who taught me everything I know about the newspaper business, and about life, real life,” Séverine said, seemingly aware of Clarie’s bewilderment.
“He was one of those who had been exiled after 1871?” Clarie asked, as she stared at the commanding face of the anarchist.
“Oh, yes. Exiled and persecuted, but never cowed nor defeated. I do so miss him.” After expelling a mournful sigh, she changed the mood by pointing, with a certain pride, to a small painting on the side wall. “That’s me. By Renoir, a few years ago. He made my hair darker than it was even then.” She smiled ruefully as if recognizing that she was not as pretty—or prettified—as the picture, although she certainly was striking. Of medium height, she had lively periwinkle eyes and a startling fringe of tight, almost white curls around her face. “As for all of this,” she spread out her free arm, “I like to be surrounded by living things, my greenery and my beasts. So necessary in the city, don’t you think?”
Clarie did not know what to answer. Her “living things” were neither animals nor plants, they were Jean-Luc, Bernard and Rose. And she certainly would have never dreamed of abandoning her children, even to the best of fathers.
“My roses, too, are necessary,” Séverine continued undaunted by Clarie’s silence. “When I was cutting them, I admit, I was hoping you would come.”
“Thank you. And I am hoping that you can help.” There, she had said it. That’s why she was here and for no other reason.
“Please sit,” Séverine said, gesturing toward one of the chairs.
Clarie settled on the edge of a seat, near the cage, which gave off a slightly gamey odor. She pressed her gloved hands together, wondering how to begin.
Séverine sat down on the sofa and gave her panting pet a kiss on his forehead before setting him down beside her. After a few strokes on his back, the mutt laid his head on her lap and sighed in peaceful surrender. “There now,” she smiled at Clarie. Before her guest could speak, she called out toward the closed door, “Dear Augustine, chocolate and biscuits, and no more dogs.”
“Oh no, I really can’t stay.” Clarie almost leaped out of her chair.
“But it’s to celebrate your coming. That’s why I’m allowing myself a second cup for the day.”
“I—”
The bird gave out a terrible shriek before Clarie could formulate another excuse.
“Monsieur de Coco Bleu, be quiet, so I can talk to our guest,” Séverine said in a sharp voice, although it was obvious she was not angry. “Go on,” she said to Clarie. “Tell me everything you know about Angela and Maura Laurenzano.” She picked up a small notebook and pencil that Clarie had not noticed on the coffee table, and waited.