Chapter 1 Hunger

She stood in the doorway watching sheets of rain fall, her wet hair hanging on her shoulders as she softly shivered. In front of her the water rushed through the street as forlorn horses labored with their loads against the tide. Drivers urged them on with shouting and whips.

She looked at the scene, half dumb from the damp cold. There was misery in her shoulders as if she were the one being whipped by the rain and the drivers. She would have turned away and gone to a drier place if she hadn't felt an extreme fatigue that had been mounting since she had arrived in Paris 10 days ago. It was the result of near starvation coupled with lack of sleep from dozing in dark alleys with one eye always open for a possible assault. The streets of Paris were dangerous for the homeless, especially so for women and children. She was without connections in this great city.

Her choices for survival were work or theft. She was too proud to steal or beg.

The last week had been spent looking for work, anything that would bring in a scant wage. She only needed a hovel and a little food. But there was nothing for her here.

The only job that she found was offered by an older man who wouldn't take his eyes off her breasts as he loudly explained what her work would be. Occasional spittle from his red lips hit her and the sly look he gave her as he raised his gaze to her face caused a churning in her gut and a tightening of her shoulders. Looking down the dark hallway towards the dimly lit room that was to be hers, she felt as if she was stepping into an iron cage in which he would surely be her jailer. He beckoned to her with a slight wave of his hand as he walked ahead. She watched his particularly peculiar gait, a kind of rolling motion that resembled a swagger crossed with the lumbering of his heavy frame. One glance at the room and she backed away. The strangling, near claustrophobic sensation was stronger here and she suppressed the urge to run back to the front door. Instead she slowly retreated with a wary eye on the man in front of her. His face had changed from a heavy complacent stare to something else that held a hint of danger. As she reached the entrance she turned quickly and with one swift motion of the door she was again on the street. Once there her shoulders began to relax and the wave of nausea in her stomach was gradually replaced by the sour, tight, empty feeling that had been her companion for the last three days.

Once the rain stopped and the streets partially cleared she'd be able to move on. But to where?

As she pressed her back to the doorway, she vaguely recalled a scrap of conversation overheard at the market place. While eyeing the fresh produce and baguettes of an outdoor stall, necessities that were beyond her reach, she heard someone state that a large establishment was reopening after being closed for over a year and that the hiring would start in a day or so. She turned to see who the voice belonged to but he was gone. That occurred yesterday, which in her current state of weakness and mental fog seemed like a month ago. If she returned to that market stall, maybe the owner would remember what had been said and by whom.

When the rain slowed to a drizzle, she took a deep breath to steady her legs, and moved away from the door.

Some of the stall owners had stayed through the day, waiting for the rain to clear. Regular clients that needed goods for their businesses would eventually come. The young woman threaded her way through the slick courtyard, looking from side to side in hope of recognizing a specific stall or face.

Under normal circumstances she possessed an extraordinary ability to retain detailed memories of events. She was blessed with a rudimentary type of photographic recall. But in her current weakened state she could barely keep her balance, much less remember details from yesterday. Stumbling, she caught herself and thought, Even if I am fortunate enough to find the right stall and get the information I need, how will that information serve me? Who would hire an unknown person that can barely stand? These thoughts weighed on her as she scanned the courtyard. She approached a stall that had a familiar air to it. There was something about the owner's face that gave her a slight hope.

The man was putting fruit and vegetables into empty boxes and stacking them at the back of the stall. He was finishing for the day and impatient to get home. What a miserable day it had been! Even those who normally came to purchase necessities for their businesses, the cafes and boarding houses that he normally catered to, had been loathe to come out in this god awful weather. He was angry at the meager profits in his cash box. He had brought in his best produce to please the discriminating tastes of his customers and the value would be decreased when it was offered again tomorrow.

The damp of the day crept into his bones. His left ankle was aching as he swung a basket full of fruit into an empty, waiting box. He was wishing now that he could afford a room in town, but where would he keep his goods? He paused a moment and looked at the smooth surface of a piece of fruit, and then after running a finger along a break in its skin he plucked it out of the basket. He turned suddenly towards the front of the stall with an urge to fling that sorry object across the gray washed sky in protest of his bad luck. His quick turn startled the young woman who stood against the stall a scant foot or so away from his upraised arm. Surprised and a little embarrassed, he inadvertently stepped back a foot as his arm went limp and the fruit fell to the ground.

"Excuse me Monsieur, but were you at this location yesterday selling your goods?"

The young woman who stood in front of him had a haggard look. Her clothes were old and worn, almost ragged. He noticed how she had firmly held onto the front of his stall even as she swung her head back to avoid a glancing blow from his arm. If she lets go, she will fall.

Beneath the bleak exterior of hunger and fatigue was a simple face, with regular features. She had a straight nose and an oval face that looked as if she'd been in the sun. He found her pale golden skin pleasing. It reminded him of the country girls of his province who laughed as they harvested fruit on sunny days. Her hair appeared black under the dull light of the rainy sky, but he guessed that on a sunny day it would be a rich deep brown with highlights dancing across it. Her eyes were the hardest part to describe—an unusual green not commonly seen in the landscape but more akin to the semiprecious stones seen on rich women's fingers.

"What is your name?" he blurted out.

Then he wished he'd held his tongue because of the way she looked back at him after his abrupt question. There was a fleeting look of something wild about her. He imagined that if she were to let go of the edge of the stall, she would quietly disappear. Like a mythical creature that one glimpses in a dream, he mused.

She lifted her chin up slightly, and looked steadily into his eyes. "My name is Jade".