CHAPTER 5: NEW NAMES AND PLACES
Next day Erik got up early in the morning, ate a quick breakfast and hurried down the stairs. It was the first day of his work. Fastening his flannel shirt, he didn't notice madame Badeau carrying a copper coal hod. She was standing at the bottom of stairs, looking at him attentively.
"Ah! Monsieur Erik!" she greeted him when he approached.
Erik raised his head and met her gaze. His heart stopped. His mask stayed on the desk in his flat. He went out only for a moment to check what the weather was like. He was sure that so early in the morning everyone was still sleeping. Madame Badeau's gaze was now studying his exposed pale face. His green, hollow eyes were glistening in the darkness of the staircase; blue veins were shining through his thin skin. His deep cheeks gave him the look of an extremely haggard man.
"Good morning, madame." said Erik eventually in resigned tone, cursing in thoughts his distraction. But on her face was no fear, no disgust or pity. She stayed indifferent as if it was an everyday view.
"So were you monsieur at Sacre-Coeur yesterday?" she asked, putting the hod on the floor. She wiped her hands on apron and rolled up her sleeves. Those simple actions surprised Erik; she really wasn't astonished by his appearance.
"Yes." he replied, still impressed by her reaction. "I signed up for today's shift and now I'm going to begin my work."
"So early? Oh, those people are cruel… " she said, shaking her head in disapproval. "Well monsieur, have a nice day at work."
"Thank you, madame." Erik turned on his heel to go back for his mask.
"But monsieur, aren't you going to work?" she stopped him.
"I forgot something."
She paused for a moment.
"Monsieur, I am never so impertinent, but…" she began hesitantly "But if this is the cause you wear a mask, you can throw it away."
She took her hod and disappeared behind the door of her drawing room, leaving Erik taken aback and sunken in thoughts. He didn't take his mask.
xxx
Erik rubbed his hands together to warm them up and then hid them deep in the pockets of his thick jacket. He was going to the building site of Basilique du Sacre-Coeur, the same road as a week ago when he went to sign up for a shift. It was five o'clock and it was still dark outside. Gloomy streets were enshrouded in cold morning fog. It was raining in the night so there were many puddles on the pavement. Montmartre was waking up lazily for another winter day. The air was filled with voices of tradesmen. Women wrapped in woolen shawls were bargaining for bread and fish; laundresses and seamstresses were rushing to work. Nobody looked at him as if he was a monster. Just like madame Badeau, they glanced at him with indifference, absorbed in their own lives. He trusted her age and long living on Montmartre experience and he did not regret. Parisians were accustomed to seeing all kinds of people. Erik never expected it; he'd never think that anyone could look at him and not scream or run away. It suddenly showed up that he didn't have to hide beneath the opera. He could have simply come to Montmartre.
Erik turned up his collar and hastened his pace. It was one week since he started working at the Sacre-Coeur construction. His work wasn't as easy as he thought at the beginning. The design of new basilica was very complex and there was a lot of to do every day. Workers were in the process of framing since two years already. Such a huge building needed a lot of time. Erik already passed Place du Tertre and massive scaffoldings of Sacre Coeur began to appear in gray fog. He heard first sounds of workers' voices; his eyes caught small silhouettes pushing barrows full of bricks. Bricklayers, stonemasons, roofers and dozens of other people were already beginning their work.
He passed the unsteady wooden barrier separating unwary Parisians from the building site. He was at once assigned to work by Gautier Ames, the grim construction inspector. Greeting by his way those workers he already knew by name with a quick hand wave, he hurried to get tools.
xxx
"How about going for a dinner with us, Erik?" asked Karl, one of bricklayers one day when they finished their work. "You're new on Montmartre, we can show you the best places. I'm not going for dinner home. I saw my wife cooking beans today. It's awful."
It was how Erik's social life began. Since this memorable day, he was no longer eating breakfast alone in his flat. Every morning he was meeting with workers in a bistro where they ordered a cheap meal. None of them had a wife who'd be upset if they didn't eat at home. After breakfast they were going to Sacre-Coeur construction to work hard for five hours. Then there was a short dinner break when they could rest, smoke cigarettes and curse their construction inspector or cold weather. But the break was quickly over and they had to go back to work. At three o'clock they were getting their daily wage and signing up – or not – for the next day shift. Then some of them were going straight home, to the arms of their longing wives and the rest was choosing a bistro to go. Erik was always in the second group, which usually formed of four or five persons, depending on what dish was Karl's wife to serve at home.
"She's a wonderful cook, believe me." he was always repeating "But some of her dishes are simply disgusting."
Their dinners at bistros lasted usually a few hours; they were always accompanied by discussion, jokes and, of course, smoking cigarettes. Erik quickly grew to like those simple-hearted and cheerful people, as well as the atmosphere of Montmartre bistros. However, his favorite places he visited in the evenings and only occasionally. Cafes were full of all sorts of people; from poor Gypsies playing cards and drunk prostitutes to artists with ruffled hair discussing and arguing about art and women. When only Erik's small wage let him, he was spending evenings in such places. His, as well, as his new friends' first choice was Café de la Nouvelle Athenes, called shortly La Nouvelle. It was a famous and quite cheap café on Rue Pigalle. No matter what the time was, it was always noisy in there. Smoke was floating above the heads of visitors, glasses were knocking and people were discussing extremely loudly. Montmartre painters waving theirs hands, gesturing and shouting were trying to persuade their opinions. Or if they weren't in mood for arguing, they were simply cursing paintings sellers, critics and public. In the meantime musicians kept exchanging their views on Chopin or Berlioz, complaining about music publishers and writers were flirting with young girls, charming them with lyricism.
Erik and his friends always occupied the table in the corner where they had had good view to the whole café from. They liked Erik, though he didn't know why. Maybe because he never talked very much and always listened to their stories that the others found boring; surprisingly it was his reserve that broke the wall of distrust to stranger. For him everything was interesting and exciting; after so many years of loneliness he began to treasure company. He got to known a lot of people in La Nouvelle. When he told one day that he used to be a composer and an architect, they mentioned dozens of artists they knew and introduced them to him. It was how he met Pierre, Remy and Rene.
Pierre and Remy were young painters studying at Academie des Beaux Arts. They were full of hopes for their future artistic career and there was still some of boyish naivety in them. They could talk about women for hours and never get bored of it.
Rene was a painter, too, but he was one of those who didn't succeed. All of his works had been constantly refused by all critics and one day, when he lost patience and money, he decided to finish his artistic career. Now he was earning for life painting shutters.
When only he started to spend time in company of artists, he visited a lot of new places. In late evenings, when his friends from Sacre-Coeur construction had to come back home to get enough sleep to be able to work next day and earn for bread, the life on Montmartre was just beginning. He got used to spending half of nights in fuggy cabarets and dancehalls, drinking, smoking, watching dancing couples or listening to artists singing their romantic ballads. Moulin de la Galette was the dancehall that he visited most frequently. It was attracting careless laundresses, seamstresses, milliners, models, craftsmen and minor cutthroats. It was joyful, old and well known by local people, who were coming there to flirt and have fun on Sunday evenings for only two sous.
None of his new friends; neither workers nor artists, paid attention to his face, which was very important to Erik. They asked about it only once, during dinner. Bruno, the roofer, brought an immediate silence when he asked Erik if it was his remain of war. However, when Erik assured them that he was born with it and that he had never been at war, the question got quickly forgotten in discussion about politics.
Even though Erik got to known a lot of different people, he wouldn't be so happy on Montmartre if his old friend didn't visit him. Nadir didn't live on Montmartre, but he was dropping from time to time to Erik to listen to his stories about his new life. Sometimes even Erik managed to take him to some of his favorite places where over the glass of gin or cognac, they were remembering old times. Erik was always avoiding recalling memories connected to Christine so Nadir didn't mention her at all, knowing that it'd be painful for his friend. However, it was he who persuaded Erik giving his old music scores to the publisher.
"You'll loose nothing." he told him one day. "And you can always earn some extra money for all those nightlife amusements you like so much. And if you succeed, you can start composing again – don't forget you have a piano."
"I think you influence me too much during last weeks, daroga." replied Erik at first, but next afternoon, instead of going to Moulin de la Galette with Remy and Pierre, he went to his flat and started sorting his music scores.
But when only he glanced at first notes, his head started to fill with Christine's voice, drawing memories, but he shut them out, humming with stubbornness the refrain of a popular cabaret song Ballad of the black cat. He skimmed through his music scores as quickly as he could and chose a few of them. Taking his coat, he went down the stairs of tenement house and hurried towards the publisher on Rue Lepic.
There was a short queue before the entrance. Erik was standing behind two men, waiting impatiently. The one who was just talking with the published was infuriated; he shouted and swore until the publisher intimidated him with the police. He left him and, still cursing under his mouth, began to walk away.
"Police…" he was muttering angrily "Police should see to people who want the others die of hunger instead of hunting a poor artist. Don't go there, mon ami." he said to Erik "Don't waste your life. He just refused to publish my music. It's the sixteenth time! Sixteenth! I've been counting since I came here a few years ago. "
He muttered another bunch of curses and pulled out cigarettes, offering Erik one.
"I'm Frances." he said. He didn't seem older than Erik; he had to be around forty. He was wearing old, ragged clothes. He was unshaven and had slight wrinkles around his face.
Erik introduced himself to him, accepting a cigarette.
"Next, please!" called out the publisher suddenly. Erik passed him his bundle of music scores signed simply "Erik".
"We'll let you know by mail." said the publisher and noted his name. "Your address, monsieur."
"Rue Durantin 17. Flat number six."
"We'll see what can be done."
"We'll see what can be done." mocked him Frances. "As if you ever checked those scores, you damn dandy!"
He cast him last hateful glance.
"I'll never come here again." he said to Erik "But maybe you'll have more luck. Let's hope so, mon ami. Well, I'm off to Chat Noir now. I play accordion. Drop in there sometimes, they serve awful beer but they have very good comedians."
Erik nodded, smiling. Another talkative artist of Montmartre.
"Then see you tomorrow at Chat Noir!" Frances waved to him and disappeared in the crowd.
Erik sighed and threw away the cigarette stub. He went into the first bistro he stumbled upon and ordered a vegetable soup. As he was waiting for his meal, he noticed that the local was full of prostitutes. He didn't have a watch, but it meant it was late. The waiter brought the soup. If that publisher won't publish any of his scores, he'll have to admit he lost half of day sorting tons of paper. He swallowed the soup and left money on the table.
He left the bistro and felt cold air on his cheeks. Though March had already begun, nights were still very chilly. He started heading towards Rue Durantin. The streets were empty now, everyone was either at home or in some café.
Suddenly he heard a hurried, frantic sound of heels clicking on the pavement. A graceful shape appeared from behind the corner of some house. A girl, most probably a streetwalker, run up to him.
"Please, monsieur…" she said breathlessly, squeezing his sleeve and added something feverishly in dialect he didn't understand. Then she let him go and disappeared in darkness. She had to be somewhere close; he heard her breathing. Suddenly another person run to him. Erik heard the girl hold her breath.
"Where is she?" panted the policeman. "Have you seen that strumpet, monsieur?"
"Yes. Somebody has just passed me. She run that way, down Rue Lepic."
"Thank you, monsieur." said the policeman and hurried in the direction Erik pointed him.
The girl came out of her hide. She was wearing poor clothing; she had to be cold. Her eyes sparkled in the gaslight of a lantern.
"Thank you. That stupid arse almost had me." Erik heard once again an accent typical for local people. "I'd slice his cock in small pieces!" she added more vulgar epithets to the policeman and with one swift move she pulled her hair back into a loose bun.
"What did he want from you?" asked Erik with mild concern.
"What they always want. He saw me talking with a man on the street and he wanted my book. You know, to see if I'm registered. I had to run away. I lost a good client because of him. Now I must look for another."
She blinked at him seductively, smiling.
"You saved me, monsieur." she whispered. "So you can have me for half of normal price. I promise I'll be nice."
Erik dug in his right pocket; his fingers found some coins.
"Let's go for a drink."
