By day the port town of Cherbourg was boisterous and excitable and awe-inspiring, but by night, once the ships had set sail and the vendors had packed up their goods, the streets were left quiet and seedy and ghostly, and that was just how Jack Dawson liked it.
With his sketchbook and charcoal tucked under one arm, he meandered over the slick cobblestones, passing gamblers in the allies and drunkards stumbling out of the bars. The oil lamps burned against the pressing darkness, and the salt settled heavy in the air. He had been in Cherbourg for a few days now, with full intentions to continue on to Paris, and from there he wasn't sure where he would go next. Italy, perhaps. But Cherbourg nightlife had a certain obscene charm that drew him in.
La Maison, a thin, teetering building that sat near the docks, seemed like just the place Jack was looking for. He entered, and was greeted with the sound of howling laughter and the smell of stale sweat. He grinned, finding himself amongst the vagabond and bohemian life he seemed to adapt to so well. The procurer made her way towards Jack, and short, plump woman with a long face. She looked up at him and said something in French.
Jack winced, trying to remember the French word for "speak"
"Je ne…" he started lamely, waving his hand in an attempt to make the woman understand.
"Ah," she said, switching to almost flawless English, "American?"
"Oui," Jack said, just about the only French he knew. He grinned at her, but she seemed to be impervious to his charms.
The woman sighed. "What will a be then? A drink? Or some company?"
"Company," Jack replied. "Someone who understands English. And the cheapest you have, if we're being honest."
"We are all honest here at La Maison," the madam said. "Wait here."
She disappeared into the crowd of people and Jack glanced around the brothel. It was dimly lit, but considerably nicer than some of the other places he had seen. Men sat hunched over the bar, women in stockinged feet and loose dresses meandered about, a few casting curious glances at him.
The woman returned, pulling along a girl that couldn't have been more than seventeen years old. She had tangled black hair and dark blue eyes and she walked with a limp. The madam pushed her forward and she stumbled, Jack catching her by the arm before she hit the floor.
"There you are," the madam said, "Cheapest we've got."
The girl smiled up at him, straightening. She adjusted the strap on her dress, pulling it up over her bony shoulder. It was a sleeveless, thin dress, with a tattered bottom that had once been white but had since turned grey. "Monsieur," she greeted.
Jack looked over the girls head towards the madam, giving her a nod. The woman scowled at the two, moving off towards the bar.
"Follow me," the girl said in broken English and turned, leading him towards the stairs. They ascended the rickety steps, Jack glancing over the wood banister as they climbed.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Sophie," the girl said, "Et toi?"
"Jack, pleased to meet you," he said, following her down a narrow corridor. She opened the door to one of the rooms and Jack slipped inside after her. She limped over to the bed, undoing her laces as she went. Jack glanced around the room, pulling a chair in the corner closer to the bed. He went to the lamps and turned them up, allowing more light in the room. When he turned back around, he saw Sophie standing at the foot of the bed, her dress puddled around her feet.
Jack's eyes wandered down to her left leg, where her thigh was secured in a prosthetic limb. It explained the limping and the fact that her price was so low. The top was leather, laced closed around her thigh similar to the way a corset was tied. The knee was a rusted, metal hinge joint, and the calf was made from barrel staves. The ankle had a similar joint, a screw replacing what would have been the bone, and the foot was carved wood.
She grinned when she saw him staring.
"Do you like it?" she asked with cheek. Jack's eyes flickered to hers and he matched her smile.
"Very much so," he replied, and indicated to the bed. "Lay down?"
She did, climbing onto the bed, pulling her wooden leg across the sheets. Jack took a seat in the chair, pulling out his sketch book and balancing it on his knee while he sharpened his charcoal.
"What are you doing?" Sophie asked, sitting up.
"Sketching," Jack said.
"We 'ave only an 'our."
"And I shall get at least two pictures out of it," Jack said, "Hold still."
She laid back down on the bed obediently, watching him.
"I 'ave never 'ad a customer pay to sketch me."
Jack looked over the top of his sketchbook, smirking at the girl. "One arm above your head, one hand on your chest. Yes, like that," he said gently and she obeyed. Jack turned back to his parchment, dragging the charcoal along the sheet of paper.
"It must be because I am very beautiful," Sophie teased and Jack grinned. She was pretty, but poverty and prostitution had taken its toll on her youth, and the few handsome features she had left struggled to show. There was a sadness in her forget-me-not eyes, her mouth was hard and her cheeks hallow, making her look older than seventeen. He purposefully didn't sketch the bruises on her breasts and hips, and carefully avoided thinking about where they had come from.
"You have very nice hands," Jack replied because he wasn't sure what else to say.
"My 'ands?" she asked with a frown, holding them up in front of her face to study them. Jack scowled at her and she hastily put them back in position with a sheepish grin. "You 'ave a strange accent," she said.
"I'm American."
"What are you doing in Cherbourg?"
"Making my way to Paris."
"Why?"
"To draw. Meet different people. Gain experiences."
"You can not do that in America?"
"We don't have the Eiffel Tower in American."
"Ah."
"Hold still."
She laid quietly, her head resting against her arm as she watched him draw.
"What happened to your leg?" Jack asked, after a few minutes.
She glanced down at the prosthetic, as if she had forgotten it was there. Her eyes widened. "Mon dieu! Where 'as it gone?" She looked back up at Jack, grinning at her own joke. She laid her head back down. "There was an accident when I was young. A pair of spooked 'orses. A runaway carriage. I do not remember much."
Jack nodded.
"'ave you a lover in Paris?" Sophie asked.
Jack laughed. "And what on earth would make you say that?" he asked.
"Because you will not lie with me."
"I told you, I'm here to draw."
She snorted in disbelief. "Every man wants to keep some company. If not mine, then there must be someone else for you. Perhaps a mistress in Paris? Or a girl back home in America? Or perhaps you prefer to keep the company of someone from the male persuasion? We 'ave those, you know."
Jack laughed again. "My one and only love thus far as been art," he said.
"Pity," she remarked.
"How long have you been at La Maison?"
"Since I was fourteen. Madam takes good care of us."
Jack found that hard to believe, seeing as the way the madam had treated Sophie downstairs, but if she had been at the brothel since she was a girl, she likely didn't know better. Like a starving dog receiving table scraps; grateful for a semblance of kindness.
Jack brushed the charcoal along the paper, shading in the lines on her hands, the shadows of her eyelashes, forming the bow of her lips. He flicked to a blank sheet.
"Are you wondering why I am 'ere?" Sophie asked.
"I suppose so," Jack replied. He was mostly interested in doing some drawings from life to expand his portfolio, but if the girl had a story to tell, he would happily hear it.
"Because I like it. Does that shock you?" she said, gauging his reaction, looking for surprise. He only smiled at her. She sighed. "I am smart, though I may not look it. I can read—"
"And you speak English very well," Jack interjected.
"Yes, that too," she said. "I can do many a things, if I wanted, but I do not because I like it 'ere. The girls are my sœurs, the madam is my gardien, La Maison is the toit au-dessus de ma tête." Jack wasn't sure what the last part meant, since he wasn't that fluent in French, but he understood the gist of what she was saying. Sophie went on, "Without them I have nothing, without this, I am nothing. I am safe 'ere, I belong 'ere."
Jack's hands paused over the paper. He glanced up at her. Her smile had vanished, but as soon as she noticed him looking at her, the corners of her mouth turned up.
Jack pursed his lips.
He had found peace with the life he had been given. It was nothing dazzling, at times it was more grueling than rewarding, but he was perfectly fine with that. It was one thing to find the good in a bad situation, it was another thing for Sophie to kid herself into thinking that what she had was happiness.
"Is that honest?" Jack asked.
She looked at him, brow furrowed. "Of course."
"The madam said 'We are all honest at La Maison' so I would have to put a black mark on your record if you are lying," Jack teased, but a hint of seriousness crept into the edges of his voice.
Sophie picked up on it. She sat up, her thin black hair falling over one shoulder. "What are you saying?"
"This isn't a life," Jack said sincerely. "And you can't trick yourself into believing it is one."
Sophie moved to the edge of the bed, using her hands to swing her prosthetic leg over the side. She stood up, wobbling slightly, them limped to her pile of clothes. "I do not want to 'ear you," she snapped, her good nature vanishing.
"I'm only repeating what you said," Jack replied evenly. "You're more than just a prostitute, so why limit yourself in this brothel?"
He had lost her. She wasn't listening as she snatched up her dress, covering herself protectively. He noticed angry tears in her eyes. Jack sighed, pulling out the completed drawing of her from his sketchbook. He stood up, dropping the sketch onto the chair, along with some coins. He knew when he was no longer welcome, and the last thing he wanted to do was upset her more.
"I do not want your money," she said quietly.
"Yes, well, neither do I," Jack muttered.
He brushed past her and left the room, shutting the door behind him. He trudged down the stairs, his drawings back underneath his arm again. He felt the madam's eyes on him as he left the muggy La Maison for the warm, summery night air of Cherbourg port.
Back in the room, Sophie moved slowly towards the drawing he had left. She picked it up gingerly, her fingers tracing the black lines Jack had sketched. It was beautiful, the amount of detail and care he had put into the picture. It was in impartial depiction of her; her hair was stringy, her eyes deep set, her cheeks slightly sunk with a ghost of a smile. No embellishments to make her, or the drawing, more appealing. Just raw art.
Authors Note
There's a little poll on my profile that I've set up, since I haven't decided who the love interest will be (if I decide to give Sophie one). Place a vote?
