Chapter Three
"Everything seems pretty,
Seeing life from the top of the world"
'Top of the World', The Hunchback of Notre Dame
Sancha spent the rest of the day getting lost in Paris. She wasted the sunlight hours wandering the streets, listening to the citizen chat, barter, and argue. In the morning, she tried to commit the routes to memory, and in the afternoon, she sat to watch the action in the town square, just in front of Notre Dame.
As she watched the people, Sancha wondered briefly if she had any family nearby. Afterall, her mother had been born and raised just outside the city. Jeanne used to tell her daughter about her grandfather, who was a courtier of King Louis XI himself. While he was away, Jeanne often spent time with her mother in Paris.
"And that is where I met your papa," was the line Jeanne would always use to finish the story. And Sancha would always ask, "Will you take me to Paris someday, Mama?"
The reply from her mother was always the same, too: "One day, when you're older, ma chère."
Sancha's smile disappeared. The very square she was in was the same place her parents met – A Spanish med student, hiding his religion from the world, and a Catholic Frenchwoman of noble birth. She wondered from which corner of the square her father had first seen her mother. She imagined them stealing away out of the city centre and the town, away from the suspicions of the Church and Jeanne's family. Sancha wished her mother was around to answer her many questions.
It wasn't long before the anxiety over her parents' fate settled over her. Sancha closed her eyes and tried to block it out, only to see the livid face of Tomas de Tavera in the darkness.
Before she could let herself cry, the young woman rose and swiftly walked out of the square. Worrying would not help anything, she told herself. She was safe and far from Tavera and the Inquisition. All she had to do was stay put and wait for her parents.
When the day began to fade, Sancha chose to have her dinner outside, seated on the banks of the Seine River. She quietly munched on a bun and watched the dying sunlight dance off the water. The tranquility was interrupted by the sudden tolling of church bells. Sancha looked up to see the bell towers of Notre Dame downstream, and her thoughts immediately turned to the man therein, whom she had met – properly – today.
Quasimodo was something of a surprise to Sancha. She had ventured up to the bell tower that morning on shaky legs, equal parts guilt-ridden and terrified of facing the same creature that frightened her so badly the night before. She even expected an adverse reaction to her apology – She wasn't sure if she would be so forgiving if she had been in his shoes.
But, he had been cautious around her, careful in his movements and soft in his speech. He was even patient with her while she fumbled through her apology, more so than most people she had encountered since leaving Spain. His gentleness was completely unexpected, and by the time she left the bell tower, Sancha had forgotten her fear of his appearance – which, she decided, wasn't as monstrous as she first thought.
There was no denying that Quasimodo was deformed, and she knew he knew it; his shyness was telling enough. But, his eyes were kind, and his warm demeanour had put her at ease. It was only after visiting him that she realized it had been a long time since she had encountered a friendly face, unusual as it was.
When the ringing faded, Sancha shook herself out of her thoughts and eyed the towers, wondering why the bells had stopped. A moment of complete stillness passed before she leapt off the grass and took off towards the cathedral, her satchel slapping punishingly against her back.
Evening mass had just begun, and she was late.
XXX
The next day, a few hours before Nones, Sancha found herself on the landing of the bell tower, twisting her hands around the handle of her basket. Maybe this was a bad idea, she thought. Maybe she should have just gone back downstairs and waited for her parents in the square.
Still, the idea of spending another minute alone made her sick. She had been away from home for almost two weeks, and no matter where she went, fear and loneliness followed. At least here she had someone to talk to.
The tower had a solemn stillness about it that morning, as if the previously thunderous bells had left a respectful silence in their wake. Gargoyles and grotesques regarded her curiously from the shadows, as if they knew a stranger was in their midst. When she heard a footstep up on the mezzanine level, she hurried down the corridor without a second thought. Without a door to knock on, she decided to announce her presence in Spanish, just to let the bell ringer know who was sneaking around his domain again.
"Good morning!"
There was a crash somewhere up on the platform, as if a piece of furniture had fallen or been knocked over. Sancha winced at the sound, knowing she probably startled the poor man. Her father had always said she spoke too loud for a girl…
But, she couldn't dwell on that memory for long. Quasimodo's misshapen face appeared at the top of the stairs, and his eyes immediately softened when he realized it was her.
"Sancha? T'es ici?*"
The girl nodded, and as she resolved to leave her mother tongue at the metaphorical door, she stepped up the first step.
"I'm sorry for scaring you," she said in French. "You are all right?"
Quasimodo nodded. "I-I'm fine, I just… I didn't expect to see you."
Sancha moved her heel back. "If you are busy, I can…"
"No, no, not at all!" Quasimodo cleared his throat and stepped aside, adding in a quieter voice, "I'm not busy right now."
He turned away in embarrassment, and for a moment, Sancha thought he was going to run off on her. Without delay, she climbed the stairs and held up her basket. A slice of bread peeked out from under the handkerchief that covered the top.
"You told me of the baker last morning," she said. "You were right about him. Very good bread, indeed."
Quasimodo glanced at the basket, then up at her, a shy grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Glad you liked it."
"Yes… But, too much," Sancha said with a little laugh. "And now I cannot eat all of it." She twisted the handle again, trying to find her confidence. "If you would help me finish, it would make me happy."
The bell ringer's eyes widened. "Really?"
"Of course." She smiled. "If it did not, then why would I say that?"
Her eyes drifted about the bell tower as she murmured half to herself, "I would say we could stay here, but…" Her eyes fell upon the worktable, and although the diorama of Paris had been righted, she couldn't stop herself from wincing. "I feel I should stay away from there" – She pointed – "I've caused enough trouble there already."
"Please, don't worry," Quasimodo told her. "Nothing got broken... It was an accident."
"Still…" Sancha gazed down at her hands, thinking for a moment. "Would you come with me outdoors? The day is lovely."
A beat passed before she looked up again. Quasimodo was silent, his demeanour pensive for some reason. Assuming he was too polite to refuse her suggestion, she was about to discard the idea. But, as she drew breath to say so, he spoke first.
"I'd love to." He turned on his heel and beckoned her. "Follow me."
XXX
Paris looked markedly different from up so high. As they worked their way through basket of bread, Sancha sat with her legs tucked underneath her and one hand on the railing. Though she was comfortable where they were, sitting on one of the flatter parts of the cathedral roof, she wouldn't dare look over the edge.
"You never fear to fall?" she asked her companion.
Quasimodo smiled and shook his head. "I've spent my whole life here; heights don't bother me."
Sancha stopped in mid-bite. "Whole life? In the bell towers?"
"Uh-huh."
"Since you were a child?"
Something flickered in the bell ringer's eyes, something that made Sancha regret asking. As quickly as the emotion came, though, it fled.
"Since I can remember, really." Quasimodo shrugged. "Notre Dame is my home. I can't imagine going anywhere else."
Sancha's heart twisted, wringing out a stream of pity for the poor creature. Briefly, she wondered what kind of life he had lived, what hardships he endured with an appearance like his. As the silence dragged on between them, she took a bite of her bread, only to discover she couldn't taste anything.
"If I lived here," she murmured after a while, "I would never leave. Not with that" – She pointed to the horizon, where the blue sky stretched out to infinity, and the rooftops had the appearance of a jagged mountain range. She could only imagine how beautiful the sky looked at dawn or sundown.
"Do you like it up here?" Quasimodo asked.
"I do." She sighed and put the empty basket aside. "Paris is beautiful; I only wish I could see Toledo from these heights. There are many hills in my city, but not so many towers."
A frown settled into the corners of her mouth. Images of the winding streets of the judería rolled through her mind. She wondered if the place was completely emptied by now. She could almost hear the clinking of manacles over the last words her mother spoke before facilitating her escape from the Inquisition.
I love you, Sancha…
"Sancha?"
"Hm?"
She blinked and turned to see Quasimodo watching her. He looked almost a little afraid, and her cheeks burned as she realized she had been staring off into space when he asked her a question.
"Perdón," she muttered. "What did you say?"
"Have you heard anything from your parents yet?"
Suppressing a sigh, she shook her head. "I do not believe I will until I meet them here. When we became separated, I…"
Sancha trailed off as a wall went up in her mind. How did she explain the situation without exposing herself as the half-caste daughter of a Jew? How did she translate a complicated and terrifying experience that was difficult enough to describe in her mother tongue? Helpless, she glanced over at Quasimodo, only to see him waiting patiently. His gaze was so soft and unassuming that, had he known Spanish, she might have told him everything right then and there.
Instead, she settled on her backup plan: Give up.
"I don't have the words," she said, her voice hollow. "It is difficult to explain."
"That's okay." He shifted to get a better look at her downcast face. "You're really not half as bad at French as you think you are."
"Even with my terrible accent?"
"I've been able to understand everything you've said so far." She was rewarded with an encouraging smile. "Accent and all."
His good humour was contagious. The dark memories of the too recent past were starting to clear as Sancha broke out into a genuine smile. "Would you believe my mother is French? She was born and raised outside of the city."
Quasimodo raised his eyebrows. "She was? And you never picked up the language?"
"She rarely speaks it. There is no use for French in Toledo," Sancha explained. "We only speak Castilian and Ladino in the city. My mother learned when she married my father, and so that is how we talk to each other."
"What's Ladino?"
"It is a language easier than French," Sancha teased, laughing. "It is a mix of Castilian Spanish and He…."
She trailed off as she realized what she was saying. She clamped her lips shut and cursed herself for letting her guard down. Despite her earlier wish that he knew her mother tongue, she had to remember that no matter what language he spoke, Quasimodo was still a Catholic. One careless admission could easily turn him against her. Though he seemed nice enough, Sancha had previously witnessed seemingly good people twist into something truly ugly when faced with a challenge to their worldview. It was just too risky.
She covered her blunder by furrowing her brow in mock concentration. Her backup plan never failed.
"Ah – I do not know the word," she said. "It is a local language we sometimes speak in Toledo."
It wasn't a complete lie, and Quasimodo seemed willing enough to believe her, but Sancha rushed to change the subject anyway.
"But, Paris has no use for my Spanish." She grabbed the empty basket and held it up. "I do not even have a word for this."
"That's easy," Quasimodo told her, not unkindly. "You call that a basket."
Sancha repeated the word – "panier" – and stared at the item.
"Thank you. I hope I can remember it."
"I could write it down for you, if you want," Quasimodo offered.
Sancha set the basket aside and shook her head. "It would be no use. I can't read." She paused for a moment, considering his words. "But, you can?"
"Well, no – I mean, yes, I-I can but, uh…" The young man looked down at his hands and paused, as if gathering his thoughts. "N-Not very well… I'm okay at it."
Despite his modesty, Sancha murmured a mild oath in amazement. The only literate people she knew were her local priest, the rabbi, and her father. Literacy wasn't a skill she would've thought a secluded bell ringer would possess.
"How did you learn?" she asked, almost blushing at the reverence in her voice.
Quasimodo didn't answer right away. He watched the horizon for a moment, and Sancha waited for an answer with bated breath.
"My old master taught me," he said finally.
"Old?" Sancha repeated, remembering the word he used – "ancien" – meant "former" and not "elderly". "What happened to your old master?"
"He… He died."
The sun disappeared behind the clouds momentarily, casting shadows over Quasimodo's troubled eyes. Sancha's stomach sank, and she quietly scolded herself for being so nosy.
"Forgive me for asking," she murmured. "That is very sad."
Quasimodo drew a knee up to his chest and kept his eyes on the skyline. "There's nothing to forgive, Sancha. I'm… better off now, I think... All of Paris is..."
Questions rushed through Sancha's mind like a river in springtime, but she dared not give them a voice. Instead, she merely watched her companion as he looked off into the distance, waiting as a host of ill-concealed emotions receded from the surface of his face. The sight of the poor man struggling in silence was distressing, despite Sancha not knowing anything about what past traumas were attached to his old master.
Hesitantly, she reached over and laid a hand on his forearm, which seemed to bring him out of his memories. Quasimodo glanced down at her hand, and then up at her, mouth parted slightly in surprise.
"I am happy you are better off," she said softly. "You deserve that much, at least."
The wind picked up, lightly pushing Quasimodo's bangs out of his face. Sancha held his gaze, determined not to shy away from the twisted flesh and bone that she knew hid a kind soul. When she didn't look away, he returned her smile and placed his hand over hers. His skin was warm and comforting, despite the chill of the early autumn air.
"Thank you, Sancha."
*T'es ici? : You're here?
Thank you once again for reading, my dear reader. Your support means a lot to this humble author and her baby (ie. the story). Until next weekend...
