One day more. One night more, then the angel lying beside him would
be his wife. At the break of dawn, the nightmare would be over. They could
leave France together and forget the slums. Just one night more. Gavin
Bolevou was desperate in anticipation. Sleep was nowhere near his mind.
Only two things could keep his attention: Fantine and his enormous debt.
Fantine was perfect. The two were inseparable from the time they met, late in Spring. It really wasn't a question to him whether they would marry; the question was when. And now that the day was so close, everything that could possibly go wrong did.
Everyone in France had debt problems. It was miserable to see his people flounder in the golden reflection of the buttons on his navy uniform. But it never hit him what poverty was like until late June. Gavin gambled.extraordinarily. His name and rank kept him out of trouble until a couple choice people began to add things up. Flashbacks of earlier that week sprang into his mind with every whisper of the wind, with every shadow that stalked his window. Gavin was in danger.but all he had to do was survive the night. Then he would marry, and he and his wife would escape the country, and begin all over again. Everything. Would. Be. Alright.
He needed sleep. Every muscle in his body was surged with adrenaline, so basic needs were impossible. His eyelids glued to his brow. His chest would not regulate and he would have periods where he forgot to breathe. His hands shook, he was drowning in perspiration, and nothing could calm him down. It was like every sea storm he had ever survived came crashing back, again and again.
Gavin wanted to leave but he couldn't. He couldn't leave Fantine. He knew he could disappear by himself, but he didn't want to. As if to taunt him, not a single tree limb moved in the dark night. Every bit of movement was free and thundering without the cover of wind.
Like the moment the sky is calm before a tornado, Gavin finally began to feel tired. It was past two in the morning, and his adrenaline rush was giving out. Slowly, he crawled under the bedding and let his eyes sink slowly in the soft dark night.
Five burly men, all identical in strength slaughtered the peace. Before they even reached his room in the back of the small apartment, Gavin sat up straight. He heard them trashing everything to find him.it would only be a matter of time."Fantine!" Gavin whispered next to her ear. "Fantine, wake up!" But she didn't, and there wasn't enough time for them to escape, anyway. Thinking quickly, Gavin jumped out of bed, scrunched up the covers and arranged the pillows to make it look like there was no one in the bed. The fact that it was the middle of the night helped more than he could be thankful for.
"Bolevou." The one word echoed throughout the room. The men flooded the bedroom. Gavin immediately surrendered. He had no chance against the armed attackers. He also hoped that if he gave up easily, they would not search the room. Gavin put his head down quickly, making a pointed effort not to look at the bed and give his secret away.
Two of the men took out revolvers and thrust them at Gavin's chin. Together they dragged him out, surrounded by the other three. The six of them huddled out of the apartment into the street, where they began to take their debt back. Penny by penny, drop by drop, with his blood.
Not a single person tried to stop it or save him. Gavin felt utterly lost and already dead. The grimy streets mixed with the open wounds and caused more pain than he had ever thought possible to stay conscious for. For nearly half an hour, they continued to attack him, until they were sure he was dead.
*~*
He wasn't dead. He didn't know how-but by dawn he was still alive. A 'Good Samaritan' found him bleeding to death and took pity, rather uncharacteristic for the people of that part of town. Gavin woke up to a gaunt, nearly toothless man grinning at him. "The name's Maurice." The old man continued to flash a grotesque smile. He stuck out his hand, and Gavin shook it tentatively. "So what's yers?"
Gavin gulped and blinked a bit. "I-I can't remember." This was a complete lie, but Gavin also didn't want to stay anywhere near the life he was practically killed by. He absently fiddled with a button on his torn coat. Feeling the gauze on his head and bindings around his ribs, Gavin's code of a gentleman came to him and he stuttered, "Thank you so much, m'sieur, if I had anything to give you I would."
Maurice smiled and shrugged. "It's alright. I took your watch while you were sleeping." Gavin gapped and Maurice slapped his bulging gut in hysterics. "Naw, kid, nothing was left on ya when I found ya. Nothin'-a- worth." He grew serious and looked in Gavin's eyes. "But I can't be takin' care a you. And no one has enough money 'round here for free meals and board. You can work it off for me. I can sure getcha job with a shipping business, though. Can ya work?"
Gavin had grown up around ships. Always above decks with officers like his father, of course, but he knew how to get by below. If nothing else, he could shovel coal, an idiot's task. How hard could it be? "Thank you. I would begin work as soon as you can get me a job." He shut his eyes and brushed away a lock of hair in his eyes. It was matted with blood, and Gavin brushed the flakes from his hand onto his trousers. He smiled warily. "It can't be that bad."
* ~ *
"Lord, this is hard." Gavin wheezed amongst the smoke and ashes from coal. The muscles between his shoulder blades ached and burned from staying in the same position all week long. Even as he slept, he shoulders tensed back and were awful by the time he woke up. The good part about the job was that no one cared who he was. Maurice was good to his word and found him a job within the next two days, and for the past week he was working as a stoker shoveling coal into boilers. The air was so thick, and he could never get clean. He was told that in another day they would dock and unload. Gavin marveled at the idea of 'fresh' city air. He could never imagine being a stoker his whole life. As a temporary hiding spot, however, it did quite well.
When they docked, his fellow stokers were thrilled to get on land. Without even going up, Gavin knew what would be waiting for them-the slums of any town, where prostitutes and pathetic creatures of the sort would primp and beg. The thought did not thrill him. He would never buy a prostitute. They weren't real, never meant anything.
Instead of stopping on the dock like most, Gavin continued on to the local pub and bought a beer. In the restroom, he laughed at his own reflection. The muck all over his face and clothes was atrocious- his father would have turned him away at the sight. Grinning, Gavin admitted to himself that HE would have turned himself away, too. Mixed with the alcohol, this made him laugh and drink to the point near passing out, and forgetting his awful face. The last thing he remembered was stumbling to the docks.
Over the next months, the shoveling, lack of proper sleep and hygiene, and drinking destroyed his genteel charm and suave demeanor. They were replaced with stubble, a ring around his lips, drooping eyes and permanently dirty skin. He fell into a routine just like the rest of them. He could trash talk better than some, and began to consider "land-lubber" more of an insult than "fat, ugly cur."
Months turned to seasons, and although he was given opportunities to leave, the lifestyle grew like fungus on him. And he still stood by a code of morals.
He would never buy a blonde prostitute. It would have been practically adulatory against his Fantine. He reasoned, one morning, "Who else could compare? She's all I ever wanted, that blonde. It would be immoral to even think of buying someone that looks like her. I mean, I loved everything about her. Her spirit, her looks, her soul."
Months later, he continued to reason, "And after all, isn't it tha spirit an' soul that matters in the end? I wou' never buy a spirited prostitute. I could never."
"They begin to be like vegetables after awhile, don' they? Nearly all the same, and impossible to live without. It doesn't take any drinks to see that! What would you do in a port city? It's not bein' disloyal. It's survivin'."
"Fantine who? The girl has forgotten me by now- it's been years. She's probably happier and married to some rich gentleman at any rate."
Yes, Gavin still had his code of morals.
It was at that last logical discussion with the heat waves that he broke down and wept over what he had become. He could never, ever make things right. Gavin Bolevou was stuck in a miserable life and had passed up all his ways out. The ash got into his eyes and burned his tear ducts. The charcoal slum around him finally grabbed hold and sucked him down with it. The man was never Gavin again.
*~*
The man sighed and wiped his sooty hands on his pants. In a continuos motion, the man shoved his hands in his pockets and concentrated on the scenery before him.
"Bobat-" The man turned at the nickname he was given. His name was actually much longer, but 'Bobat' was easier to shout. "Keep moving!" Bobat was shoved off the plank and onto the cobblestone road ahead. Maurice paternally shoved the man's arm. "Don't tell me this old site still haunts you. And don't tell me that 'I don't remember'- I know you do."
"No, no.I'm alright." But even the man's response was leagues away. Years away. He was looking directly at his apartment. It was chilling. Every single time they docked, it was chilling. His bones ached and his pulse quickened just at the sight. Heaven forbid he should look at it with recognition - something in him still believed people were after him. And if he looked near the park, now over grown with garbage-can fires and prostitutes, Bobat could have sworn he could still see blood marks. And as for Fantine, every year he tried to find her; no matter what he told the others, he wanted to find her. But he knew he wouldn't. And this year- he didn't have the strength or callous heart to try again. He needed alcohol, but the nearest bar was too expensive and looked down on sailors like himself.
So the man decided to settle for a girl. Since the park was so nearby, and the women so cheap, it was a double bonus.
"Here's something new. I think I'll give it a try." Bobat elbowed Maurice, and smiled. He sauntered over to the girl on the corner. The closer he came, however, the further she hid herself in the shadows. "Come closer you! I like to see what I buy..."
"I don't want you." The little call girl put up her arms in disgust. When he pulled her in, she began to plead like a puppy. "No, no, m'sieur, let me go."
Bobat went a step too far and, like a dog trapped in a corner, the girl attacked.
*~*
"Would you believe it?" The man demanded to the police inspector. "I was crossing from the park, when this prostitute" Bobat spat the word out with an accusing finger at the sobbing girl. "attacked me!" The man showed off a wound, obviously made by clawing.
Without even asking the girl any questions, the inspector nodded and arrested her. Before leaving the scene entirely, the inspector noted "She will answer for her actions.you may rest assured, m'sure, that she will answer to the court." Knowing the critically hard punishment system of France, the girl would get out in ten years, if she didn't die of diseases before. Bobat left the scene happy, knowing that if his life was worthless, at least there was someone else in his misery.
Although a girl would have been nice.
Later that week, Bobat was to return to the ship. Just before he had to leave, he again passed the park. Remembering his missed opportunity earlier, the man quickly picked out an older woman who had obviously worked before and knew the trade. Before he could even ask, she girl backed away. "Not a chance, m'isure."
Bobat looked around in shock. "What is it with your crew? Do you turn down every man in France?"
The woman arched an eyebrow. "What is wrong with you- do you arrest every girl in France?"
Bobat was boiling at the disrespect. "She was just a prostitute!"
The woman rolled her eyes. "Yes, and it was obvious it was one of her first jobs." The woman shifted her weight and turned her hips. "The poor waif had a kid- they all do- and couldn't afford it on her own. She didn't want to join us-it'd set a bad example." The woman shrugged it off, but still kept her distance.
The rest of the men were boarding, and he knew he'd have to leave soon. It was pathetic how these women thought they owned the city. She had wasted his time. "Lord, you make her look like the Virgin Mother herself.let me guess, her name was Maria and she has a beautiful baby boy."
The woman scoffed. "For truth's sake, her brat was a girl."
Bobat had already turned to leave.
The prostitute called after, "And her name was Fantine."
Fantine was perfect. The two were inseparable from the time they met, late in Spring. It really wasn't a question to him whether they would marry; the question was when. And now that the day was so close, everything that could possibly go wrong did.
Everyone in France had debt problems. It was miserable to see his people flounder in the golden reflection of the buttons on his navy uniform. But it never hit him what poverty was like until late June. Gavin gambled.extraordinarily. His name and rank kept him out of trouble until a couple choice people began to add things up. Flashbacks of earlier that week sprang into his mind with every whisper of the wind, with every shadow that stalked his window. Gavin was in danger.but all he had to do was survive the night. Then he would marry, and he and his wife would escape the country, and begin all over again. Everything. Would. Be. Alright.
He needed sleep. Every muscle in his body was surged with adrenaline, so basic needs were impossible. His eyelids glued to his brow. His chest would not regulate and he would have periods where he forgot to breathe. His hands shook, he was drowning in perspiration, and nothing could calm him down. It was like every sea storm he had ever survived came crashing back, again and again.
Gavin wanted to leave but he couldn't. He couldn't leave Fantine. He knew he could disappear by himself, but he didn't want to. As if to taunt him, not a single tree limb moved in the dark night. Every bit of movement was free and thundering without the cover of wind.
Like the moment the sky is calm before a tornado, Gavin finally began to feel tired. It was past two in the morning, and his adrenaline rush was giving out. Slowly, he crawled under the bedding and let his eyes sink slowly in the soft dark night.
Five burly men, all identical in strength slaughtered the peace. Before they even reached his room in the back of the small apartment, Gavin sat up straight. He heard them trashing everything to find him.it would only be a matter of time."Fantine!" Gavin whispered next to her ear. "Fantine, wake up!" But she didn't, and there wasn't enough time for them to escape, anyway. Thinking quickly, Gavin jumped out of bed, scrunched up the covers and arranged the pillows to make it look like there was no one in the bed. The fact that it was the middle of the night helped more than he could be thankful for.
"Bolevou." The one word echoed throughout the room. The men flooded the bedroom. Gavin immediately surrendered. He had no chance against the armed attackers. He also hoped that if he gave up easily, they would not search the room. Gavin put his head down quickly, making a pointed effort not to look at the bed and give his secret away.
Two of the men took out revolvers and thrust them at Gavin's chin. Together they dragged him out, surrounded by the other three. The six of them huddled out of the apartment into the street, where they began to take their debt back. Penny by penny, drop by drop, with his blood.
Not a single person tried to stop it or save him. Gavin felt utterly lost and already dead. The grimy streets mixed with the open wounds and caused more pain than he had ever thought possible to stay conscious for. For nearly half an hour, they continued to attack him, until they were sure he was dead.
*~*
He wasn't dead. He didn't know how-but by dawn he was still alive. A 'Good Samaritan' found him bleeding to death and took pity, rather uncharacteristic for the people of that part of town. Gavin woke up to a gaunt, nearly toothless man grinning at him. "The name's Maurice." The old man continued to flash a grotesque smile. He stuck out his hand, and Gavin shook it tentatively. "So what's yers?"
Gavin gulped and blinked a bit. "I-I can't remember." This was a complete lie, but Gavin also didn't want to stay anywhere near the life he was practically killed by. He absently fiddled with a button on his torn coat. Feeling the gauze on his head and bindings around his ribs, Gavin's code of a gentleman came to him and he stuttered, "Thank you so much, m'sieur, if I had anything to give you I would."
Maurice smiled and shrugged. "It's alright. I took your watch while you were sleeping." Gavin gapped and Maurice slapped his bulging gut in hysterics. "Naw, kid, nothing was left on ya when I found ya. Nothin'-a- worth." He grew serious and looked in Gavin's eyes. "But I can't be takin' care a you. And no one has enough money 'round here for free meals and board. You can work it off for me. I can sure getcha job with a shipping business, though. Can ya work?"
Gavin had grown up around ships. Always above decks with officers like his father, of course, but he knew how to get by below. If nothing else, he could shovel coal, an idiot's task. How hard could it be? "Thank you. I would begin work as soon as you can get me a job." He shut his eyes and brushed away a lock of hair in his eyes. It was matted with blood, and Gavin brushed the flakes from his hand onto his trousers. He smiled warily. "It can't be that bad."
* ~ *
"Lord, this is hard." Gavin wheezed amongst the smoke and ashes from coal. The muscles between his shoulder blades ached and burned from staying in the same position all week long. Even as he slept, he shoulders tensed back and were awful by the time he woke up. The good part about the job was that no one cared who he was. Maurice was good to his word and found him a job within the next two days, and for the past week he was working as a stoker shoveling coal into boilers. The air was so thick, and he could never get clean. He was told that in another day they would dock and unload. Gavin marveled at the idea of 'fresh' city air. He could never imagine being a stoker his whole life. As a temporary hiding spot, however, it did quite well.
When they docked, his fellow stokers were thrilled to get on land. Without even going up, Gavin knew what would be waiting for them-the slums of any town, where prostitutes and pathetic creatures of the sort would primp and beg. The thought did not thrill him. He would never buy a prostitute. They weren't real, never meant anything.
Instead of stopping on the dock like most, Gavin continued on to the local pub and bought a beer. In the restroom, he laughed at his own reflection. The muck all over his face and clothes was atrocious- his father would have turned him away at the sight. Grinning, Gavin admitted to himself that HE would have turned himself away, too. Mixed with the alcohol, this made him laugh and drink to the point near passing out, and forgetting his awful face. The last thing he remembered was stumbling to the docks.
Over the next months, the shoveling, lack of proper sleep and hygiene, and drinking destroyed his genteel charm and suave demeanor. They were replaced with stubble, a ring around his lips, drooping eyes and permanently dirty skin. He fell into a routine just like the rest of them. He could trash talk better than some, and began to consider "land-lubber" more of an insult than "fat, ugly cur."
Months turned to seasons, and although he was given opportunities to leave, the lifestyle grew like fungus on him. And he still stood by a code of morals.
He would never buy a blonde prostitute. It would have been practically adulatory against his Fantine. He reasoned, one morning, "Who else could compare? She's all I ever wanted, that blonde. It would be immoral to even think of buying someone that looks like her. I mean, I loved everything about her. Her spirit, her looks, her soul."
Months later, he continued to reason, "And after all, isn't it tha spirit an' soul that matters in the end? I wou' never buy a spirited prostitute. I could never."
"They begin to be like vegetables after awhile, don' they? Nearly all the same, and impossible to live without. It doesn't take any drinks to see that! What would you do in a port city? It's not bein' disloyal. It's survivin'."
"Fantine who? The girl has forgotten me by now- it's been years. She's probably happier and married to some rich gentleman at any rate."
Yes, Gavin still had his code of morals.
It was at that last logical discussion with the heat waves that he broke down and wept over what he had become. He could never, ever make things right. Gavin Bolevou was stuck in a miserable life and had passed up all his ways out. The ash got into his eyes and burned his tear ducts. The charcoal slum around him finally grabbed hold and sucked him down with it. The man was never Gavin again.
*~*
The man sighed and wiped his sooty hands on his pants. In a continuos motion, the man shoved his hands in his pockets and concentrated on the scenery before him.
"Bobat-" The man turned at the nickname he was given. His name was actually much longer, but 'Bobat' was easier to shout. "Keep moving!" Bobat was shoved off the plank and onto the cobblestone road ahead. Maurice paternally shoved the man's arm. "Don't tell me this old site still haunts you. And don't tell me that 'I don't remember'- I know you do."
"No, no.I'm alright." But even the man's response was leagues away. Years away. He was looking directly at his apartment. It was chilling. Every single time they docked, it was chilling. His bones ached and his pulse quickened just at the sight. Heaven forbid he should look at it with recognition - something in him still believed people were after him. And if he looked near the park, now over grown with garbage-can fires and prostitutes, Bobat could have sworn he could still see blood marks. And as for Fantine, every year he tried to find her; no matter what he told the others, he wanted to find her. But he knew he wouldn't. And this year- he didn't have the strength or callous heart to try again. He needed alcohol, but the nearest bar was too expensive and looked down on sailors like himself.
So the man decided to settle for a girl. Since the park was so nearby, and the women so cheap, it was a double bonus.
"Here's something new. I think I'll give it a try." Bobat elbowed Maurice, and smiled. He sauntered over to the girl on the corner. The closer he came, however, the further she hid herself in the shadows. "Come closer you! I like to see what I buy..."
"I don't want you." The little call girl put up her arms in disgust. When he pulled her in, she began to plead like a puppy. "No, no, m'sieur, let me go."
Bobat went a step too far and, like a dog trapped in a corner, the girl attacked.
*~*
"Would you believe it?" The man demanded to the police inspector. "I was crossing from the park, when this prostitute" Bobat spat the word out with an accusing finger at the sobbing girl. "attacked me!" The man showed off a wound, obviously made by clawing.
Without even asking the girl any questions, the inspector nodded and arrested her. Before leaving the scene entirely, the inspector noted "She will answer for her actions.you may rest assured, m'sure, that she will answer to the court." Knowing the critically hard punishment system of France, the girl would get out in ten years, if she didn't die of diseases before. Bobat left the scene happy, knowing that if his life was worthless, at least there was someone else in his misery.
Although a girl would have been nice.
Later that week, Bobat was to return to the ship. Just before he had to leave, he again passed the park. Remembering his missed opportunity earlier, the man quickly picked out an older woman who had obviously worked before and knew the trade. Before he could even ask, she girl backed away. "Not a chance, m'isure."
Bobat looked around in shock. "What is it with your crew? Do you turn down every man in France?"
The woman arched an eyebrow. "What is wrong with you- do you arrest every girl in France?"
Bobat was boiling at the disrespect. "She was just a prostitute!"
The woman rolled her eyes. "Yes, and it was obvious it was one of her first jobs." The woman shifted her weight and turned her hips. "The poor waif had a kid- they all do- and couldn't afford it on her own. She didn't want to join us-it'd set a bad example." The woman shrugged it off, but still kept her distance.
The rest of the men were boarding, and he knew he'd have to leave soon. It was pathetic how these women thought they owned the city. She had wasted his time. "Lord, you make her look like the Virgin Mother herself.let me guess, her name was Maria and she has a beautiful baby boy."
The woman scoffed. "For truth's sake, her brat was a girl."
Bobat had already turned to leave.
The prostitute called after, "And her name was Fantine."