(Note: I've never tried my hand at 100-word drabbles before. I've also never written anything involving all of the barricade boys – at least, not that anyone has seen. So I wrote this as an exercise for myself, and ended up liking the result at least enough to post it, so here it is.)
Night, midwinter, in a café in Paris.
His greatest longing, in Paris: the sea. He was raised by the shore and it's in his blood, salt, blood, water, salt. He could taste it on his lips when he ran home in the afternoon to eat fruit fresh from the tree. But it was not right, so he left: he dreamed of northern shores, with cliffs, and gales. He let his hair grow long because he liked the way it danced in the wind, the way it curled in the rain, but Madeleine had seen it, after six months, and, "You look ridiculous, Jean." So he cut it.
He always smiles, and people like that about him. It doesn't matter if he owes you money, or he's just been in bed all night with your sister; he throws back a careless grin and you can't help smiling a little yourself. He asks for what he wants and no one ever refuses, but that's because he only asks for little things, nothing difficult. There are big things too, important things, but he never raises the issue; he sits by and waits and hopes someone will take notice. But alas. Three francs, no problem, but love, my friend? I'm broke.
Where did he get those scars on his face? He likes to say that he was trampled by a bull, like Danton. That's better than the sorry story he used to tell: that some bitch had nearly scratched his eyes out when he tried to take his leave of her. He'd thought it amusing at the time, but now he felt embarrassed for himself; he'd come to realise that a friend of men must also be, in certain respects, a friend of women. He's learned so much since then! Even so, no one seems to believe him about the bull.
He likes the noise. It keeps him from feeling alone. One night he fit six people into his bed; all innocent, asleep, like children, seeking warmth in the winter. There's a brilliant violinist down the hall who keeps the strangest hours. The woman upstairs is given to pacing; he hears the creaking boards above his head. She has come to him, more than once, for female hysteria. He is patient but nervous, inside, because the symptoms are so familiar: he has seen them in himself. It's just lucky that I'm not female, he muses brightly, or else I'd be hysteric!
When he gets away, he's going to see the world. He has a dream: a tour on foot, living on the charity of strangers and sleeping in barns along the way. A bit like when he came to Paris; but he had a purpose then and it robbed him of the pleasure. No, he would get to know every peasant family from Normandy to Naples, and he would be a friend to them all. That is his dream. Yet still his sleeping dreams are of capital cities: smoke and lights, roasting meat. There will always be peasants to see, later.
It's not surprising that he cries. He is an ardent soul, a true Rousseauist, who ventures out willingly among the oppressed. Yet they always seem so surprised, as if, somehow, he ought to be above tears. Oh, but he would have to be inhuman not to weep for the small child plodding off to work at daybreak, the smaller still for whom even that is not an option – or the waitress, idly chattering about her father, that squandered away her dowry. Discourses and forces of nature stir his heart, and he sheds his sweetest tears in the presence of God.
He has a reputation for carelessness. It's not all untrue; he spends very little time worrying about himself. He is entrusted to God. But he does care, very much, for the rest. He cares about his friends, more than they might realise. They tell him their troubles, because they know he's got a sympathetic ear; what they don't know is that he prays for them, too. He prays for all the people, that one day they may live free and equal. He wonders whether God minds him praying for the Republic during mass; in his heart, he thinks He approves.
His mother used to say his mind was like the deepest, deepest well, his memory was so good, there wasn't anything he couldn't learn. It still pleases him to think about – dear mother! – but he isn't so sure that it's true anymore. A proper well should yield clear, cool water, clean refreshing ideas. It isn't just built as a death trap, after all. Oh, he still reads, every morning when he first wakes up and the light is good, but it serves him little. He's something of a dry well, a Gallo-Roman ruin, all empty inside but for echoes.
There's something about candlelight on wood, that warm glow that softens the edge of everything and brings a healthy flush to peoples' cheeks. It's like that perpetually in the room without windows where they meet. He drifts off to the hum of conversation, the reassuring sounds of laughter and clinking glasses. He sits with his eyes closed and the goodwill seeps into his skin, like so many Christmases gone by. He swallows hard and looks up. The candlelight is too dim, he feels queasy from straining his eyes. He must get out, breathe, away from this parody of bourgeois comfort…
When the door clicks behind him it's like he's halted a vast churning machine. Quarter past ten: he was the last to leave the café tonight. He likes to wait until every last idea has been broken off; it gives him a sense of closure. He will write down his thoughts on the most recent meeting, important points he wants to keep in mind. Then he will sit up reading for another two hours before he goes to bed. A lavender sachet under the pillow – does that make him weak? The wind has quieted down, denouement settled into the air.