CHAPTER 99: A PECULIAR DAY

Early the next morning

Thomas Barrow's Dressing Room
Maison de Bennett

Surely I'm too young for this, complained Bates to himself as the need to pee forced him awake in the early hours. Dr Clarkson had assured him a few months prior that it was a perfectly normal occurrence for a man his age, but that made it no less aggravating. Bates glanced out the window as he stretched himself awake. The sky was beginning to colour but had not yet committed to a new day. He sat up and reached about with his toe until he found his slippers, stepped into them, and shuffled through Thomas' room to the bathroom. By the time he finished, a faint sliver of light had found its way through the bedroom window. He could see that Thomas had fallen asleep reading Ulysses and silently eased the book from Thomas' loose grip. He marked the open page with a Charlie Chaplin bookmark that had been biding its time on the night table.

Thomas chuckled.

Bates glanced up to see that Thomas was sound asleep. Dreaming of Ivor, no doubt. He caught sight of Thomas' slippers on the floor exactly midway under the left side of the bed. Thomas never had to reach out a toe to find his slippers. Bates was amused by the difference in their personal habits. Everything that Thomas expected to carry in his pockets that day was arranged at right angles on top of the chest of drawers. Bates likewise kept precise order of Lord Grantham's clothing and accoutrements (it was his job, and he was well-compensated for his efforts), but he refused to be tyrannized by his own belongings. His darling Anna had not been pleased by his higgledy-piggledy habits when they married, nor by his philosophy that a perfectly kept house lacked the warmth of a home. Fortunately, Anna accepted his shortcomings in light of what she considered to be his better qualities, and they each made modest compromises to preserve their happy nest.

"John?"

Bates turned to see Thomas squinting at him. Bates picked up the clock. "I was checking the alarm. Don't forget Dr Sauvé is stopping by this morning."

"I know. I set the alarm for 9.00."

"Good." Bates set down the clock. "I'm sorry, Pooh. I didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't wake me. I was having a dream."

Bates grinned. "I know. You were laughing."

"Out loud?"

"Out loud."

"Huh." Thomas adjusted his injured arm. "I was dreaming about us."

"Us? I thought ... "

"We must have been farmers. We were wearing those smocks that farmers wore a hundred years ago, and we were tired and resting in a meadow after eating our lunch."

"That's because I told you about visiting my cousins' farm."

"Possibly."

"Why were you laughing?"

"We were lying in the grass, and you said, Thomas, I'm bored. Show me something I've never seen."

"I called you Thomas? Not Pooh?"

"You always call me Thomas in my dreams."

"I didn't know I made regular appearances."

"Not regular. But you always call me Thomas, and you always walk without a cane."

"Do I?" Bates sat on the edge of the bed. "So ... did you show me something I'd never seen?"

"I remembered that there was something I'd always been able to do but had never shown you. I pulled off my boots ... I don't know why. Then I lifted my arms and floated into the air. It came to me as easily as breathing."

"That is something I've never seen." He tugged his lower lip as he considered the story. "You had to pull off your boots because they kept you earthbound."

"That makes sense." Thomas sat up and leaned against the headboard. "You jumped up and tried to catch my foot, but I stayed just out of your reach."

"That sounds like you."

"I did somersaults and cartwheels in the air, and you ran after me. You were laughing so hard, you couldn't catch your breath, and I felt euphoric. And then everything was spoiled."

"Why? What happened?"

"You shouted that I should teach you to fly."

"What's wrong with that?"

"I shouted back that flying couldn't be taught ... either you could fly or you couldn't."

"Oh." Bates felt oddly disappointed. "Then what?"

"You flung yourself on the grass and refused to talk to me. You wouldn't even look at me. My feelings were hurt, and I started to fall. That's when I woke up."

"I was jealous. I'm sorry, Pooh."

"Don't be silly, John. It was only a dream." Thomas slid down and curled up under the sheet.

Bates pushed himself to his feet and walked to the dressing room door. He turned back and leaned against the wall. "Pooh ... were we brothers in your dream?"

"I don't know. We did eat lunch from the same basket."

"I hope next time I won't spoil it."

Thomas closed his eyes. "I hope next time we can both fly."


Later that morning

The glaring sun woke Bates, who turned from the window and pulled the sheet over his head. He recalled Thomas' appointment with the doctor and reluctantly pried himself from the bed. He couldn't find his slippers, but he found a note on the night table under his glasses.


J.

Dr Sauvé has come and gone. He said that I am fit to travel but ordered me to hospital to have a cast made for my hand. He said a cast will make things easier for me.

I won't repay your kindnesses by robbing you of your last day in Paris. I can manage this little chore. I'll meet you back here in time for the dressing gong. We'll have to make do without proper dinner togs, but the ladies know our situation and won't expect otherwise.

T.


Late morning

Musée Rodin

Bates was shocked by the sculpture before him but was helpless to disengage himself. A figure of a man ... heavily muscled ... his posture impossible ... mocking gravity ... his head and chest forced towards the heavens ... a figure of a woman ... lifted to the gods in the man's outstretched arms ... an obscene offering ... her serene face belied her contorted and constrained body ... the parts and the whole confounded Bates' effort to resolve his response to the grotesque thing. He circled the piece slowly, trying to unlock its meaning.

"Watch it!"

Bates turned sharply to see a sketchpad and a face red with indignation.

"Vous avez heurté mon carnet de croquis, Monsieur!"

"I'm sorry, but I don't speak French."

The face relaxed, and its complexion faded to a friendlier hue. "I said, You bumped my sketchpad."

The face belonged to a young woman. Now it was Bates' turn to redden. Did she think he had been ogling the sculpture?

"You're British, aren't you?"

Bates nodded.

"But you're no tourist."

"What makes you say that?"

"Tourists are satisfied with The Thinker and The Kiss. They don't bother to struggle with Rodin's more demanding works."

"It is a struggle, isn't it?"

The young woman smiled. "Some of us like the struggle, don't we?"

"Some of us don't know yet."

The young woman pushed her unkempt hair from her eyes and offered her hand. "I'm Nora Lang."

Bates shook Nora's hand. "John Bates."

"Well, Mr Bates, this piece was inspired by Baudelaire's Fleurs du mal."

"Fleurs du mal?"

"Flowers of evil. It's a collection of poems."

Bates nodded. "I've heard of Baudelaire, but I've never read his work."

"Good! Don't! English translations fall short."

Bates smiled at Nora's confidence. "What poem inspired the sculpture?"

"La Beauté. Je suis belle, ô mortels! comme un rêve de pierre ... I am beautiful, oh mortals! as a dream of stone ..."

Baffled, Bates turned to the sculpture. "Do you mean ... she's seducing him?"

"You tell me."

"I can't decide." Bates returned his attention to Nora. "Are you an art student, Miss Lang?"

"What gave me away?" asked Nora wryly.

Bates smiled in spite of his embarrassment. "May I see your sketch?"

Nora shrugged and turned her sketchpad towards Bates. "I'm just beginning. We're expected to sketch the masters until cherubs and ruffled collars are coming out of our ears. Rodin, at least, is more exciting."

Bates studied the sketch at length. Again he was shocked, this time by how fearlessly a mere schoolgirl had captured the sensuality of Rodin's figures.

"No good?"

"I was thinking how brave you are, Miss Lang."

Nora burst out laughing. "Yes, I'm one of those horrid girls who can't live my life demurely."

"Indeed. And how old is this horrid girl?"

"Eighteen."

"Eighteen! Do you have family in Paris?"

"No, Chicago. But I've always known I would come here to study. I've been working and saving since I was fourteen."

Bates took a closer look at Nora. Her clothes were modest and utilitarian, and her face was thin. Too thin. He pointed to an errant pencil stroke. "You did this when I bumped you?"

"No need to worry. I have an eraser."

"No, I must compensate you for the damage I've caused. Won't you allow me to buy you lunch, Miss Lang?" Bates could see that Nora was assessing his character. He waited patiently for her decision.

"Well ... I wouldn't want to send you away feeling guilty."

"Good! But I warn you, I'm an indulgent eater, and I'll expect you to keep up so that I won't feel a glutton."

"I'll do my best," promised Nora.


Later that afternoon

Ella's Studio at La Ruche

Ella stared at the canvas until she was cross-eyed. "I'll never work it out," she muttered. A knock at the door gave her permission to abandon the offensive canvas. She flung open the door and shouted, "I despise all art and artists!"

Bates stood hesitantly at the entryway. "Perhaps this isn't a good time."

"Nonsense. The course of true love and art never did run smooth. Come in, John. I need a break."

Bates quietly followed Ella into the studio.

"I'm about to fix some tea. Won't you join me?"

"No thank you, Ella. I'm only in need of ... well, a bit of advice."

"I'll do my best."

"I hope you won't be offended, but I visited the Rodin Museum."

"Why on earth would I be offended? I said only that I hadn't visited because of Camille. I would never suggest that you avoid Rodin's work. I had the privilege of seeing many of his sculptures when they were first unveiled ... well before Camille was confined." Ella noted Bates' uncharacteristic fidgeting. "Now tell me what has you so discombobulated."

While Ella prepared the tea, Bates conveyed his experience at the museum.

"It was kind of you to buy lunch for the girl."

"She sucked up the food like one of those Hoovers, poor thing. She allowed me to look through her sketchpad while she ate."

"... and?"

"Her work is so ... brazen!"

"Subtlety comes with experience. She'll get there."

"No, that's not what I meant. I meant shameless. Her work is shameless."

"Her generation does love to shock."

"No, that's not it either!"

Ella placed a cup of tea in front of Bates, knowing that if it were there, he would drink it. "Stop dancing about and come to the point, John. We're both artists. You can speak frankly to me."

"But that's just it!" exploded Bates. "I'm not an artist!"

"I see," responded Ella calmly as she poured her own tea. "And how did you draw that conclusion?"

"I believe I have talent, Ella, but I don't have the nerve!"

Ella nodded noncommittally. "And by nerve, you mean ...?"

"When I saw that sculpture, Rodin revealed his soul to me. It enveloped my senses. At once, I felt revulsion and rage and sorrow and, god help me, even lust."

Ella smiled.

"What? Why are you smiling? This isn't easy to say."

"Only an artist would have responded to Rodin that way."

"No, Ella, don't twist things. I could never put my innermost self on display that way."

"No, you couldn't, John. That was Rodin's way. You'll find your own way."

Bates sighed and took a sip of tea. "Ella?"

"Yes?"

"I hope I haven't overstepped."

"What do you mean?"

"I gave Nora your name and phone number and told her you have a studio here."

"Oh?"

Bates retrieved a scrap of paper from his breast pocket." She doesn't have a phone. Here's her address and the name of her teacher."

Ella laughed. "You won't have to worry about the girl's virtue with this fellow. He's my age!"

"But competent?"

"More than competent, I can assure you."

"The child's alone, Ella. She misses her family terribly, but she's determined to remain in Paris. You'll keep an eye on her, won't you? Not let her starve. Give her advice when she needs it ... woman-to-woman."

"So my protégé has his own protégé."

"It's not that, Ella. She made me think of my little girl. I would want someone to look out for Emilia under similar circumstances."

"Don't worry, John. An artist recognizes and nurtures talent no matter how great a jealousy must be scaled first."

"What reason could you possibly have to be jealous?"

"A true artist experiences a full range of emotions, but especially jealousy."

Bates set down his cup. "In that case, Ella, I most certainly am an artist."


Early that evening

Thomas Barrow's Bedroom
Maison de Bennett

Bates entered the dressing room directly from the corridor. The bedroom door was ajar. "I'm here," he called.

"So am I," came the response.

Bates tried to organize his thoughts as he stripped to his underclothes and pulled on his robe. He padded to the bedroom where he found Thomas, similarly attired, reading at the table. "Pooh, the fan's blowing straight at you. You'll catch your death."

"I see you brought Mama Bear with you," replied Thomas without looking up.

Bates stepped between Thomas and the fan.

Thomas marked his page. "How brave you are to protect me from yon contraption, good sir."

"I'm Don Quixote," countered Bates as he turned to face the fan. "See! A windmill!"

"Pray tell me, kind knight, how is it that I'm likely to catch cold and you're not?"

Bates slapped his chest. "I have more fur."

"Can't argue there."

Bates laughed and opened his robe, letting it flutter in the fan's breeze. "If only we had electricity at the cottage."

"If only," agreed Thomas.

Refreshed, Bates turned the fan towards the centre of the room. "All right, little brother. Let's see what they've done to you."

"You mean this?" Thomas held out his cast.

Bates cradled Thomas' encased hand in his own. "That's not so bad. They left your fingers free."

"Dr Sauvé was right. It's less painful."

"I'm glad to hear it, Pooh." Bates returned the hand to its owner. He poured himself a glass of water and carried it to the window.

"Aren't you going to tell me about your final day in Paris?"

"There's not much to tell." Bates took a long sip from the glass and settled his eyes on the gardener.

Thomas joined Bates at the window. "He's German. He deserted the German army during the war."

"Mmhmm."

"You know, John, I forget that I'm wearing this thing." Thomas playfully raised his cast to Bates' chin. "I've walloped myself twice already."

"Right."

Thomas tapped Bates' bare foot with his slipper. "Where are you slippers?"

"Hmm?"

"Your slippers."

"They're lost."

"How can you lose your slippers in such a small room?"

"They're lost."

"So you said." Thomas tapped Bates' foot again. "John, is something bothering you?"

"What? No."

"Liar."

"Be careful, little brother," warned Bates.

"Sorry. I forgot your delicate sensibilities."

"You forgot my bad temper." Bates drained the glass and set it down. He stood quietly and allowed his thoughts to settle. "I'm sorry, Pooh," he began as he turned about. The room was empty. "Pooh, where are you?"

Thomas appeared from the dressing room carrying Bates' slippers. "They were on the floor of your wardrobe, right where they should have been."

"But I never keep them in the wardrobe. I like them to breathe."

"Here." Thomas slapped the slippers into Bates' hand. "They have a few gasps left in them."

"Don't be angry, Pooh."

"Why should I be angry?"

"Because I've been rude."

"Have you?" Thomas planted himself on the edge of the bed. "I hadn't noticed."

Bates dropped his slippers to the floor and stepped into them. He sat on the bed and hooked his arm about Thomas' neck.

Bates was aware that Thomas rarely initiated physical contact between them, and he knew why. He thought it was a damn shame, but at the same time, he thought it was for the best. The responsibility for introducing shows of innocent affection between Thomas and himself had fallen to his own shoulders. Typically, he employed horseplay with varying degrees of roughness. He was particularly fond of a headlock, a manly form of embrace.

"You're not the only one of us who can be moody, Pooh. Forgive me this instant," Bates demanded, tightening his loose grip.

"Not 'til you tell me what made you morose!"

"Judge not, that ye be not judged, Pooh." Bates gave Thomas' cheek a good tweak with his free hand.

"Ow!" Thomas covered his face with his hand. "My eye! My black eye!"

"Oh god!" Bates released his hold. "I forgot! What can I do?"

Thomas flung his uninjured arm across Bates' chest and pinned him to the bed. "It was my other eye, you old goat! Now tell me!"

"I give! I give!" laughed Bates. "Shouldn't we be picking out our clothes for dinner?"

"Tell me!"

"I had a peculiar day, that's all. It had nothing to do with you."

"Tell me!" Thomas tickled Bates under his arm.

Bates thought it a grave flaw in his character that he was ticklish. It was Timothy who had discovered his Achilles' heel and would use it on occasion to elicit a giggle from his serious daddy. Never before had Thomas dared.

"Stop!" Bates begged, trying to wriggle free. "Stop! We'll talk about it tonight!"

"You mean a pyjama party?"

"Yes! Stop! Fine! A pyjama party!"

"Good." Thomas sat up, leaving Bates to collect his shredded dignity. "Let's dress for dinner."