CH 23
It was after six when I dressed, kissed Guin passionately one last time, and saw myself to her apartment door. I glanced around the parlor, still somewhat amazed and disappointed that the walls had no decoration. Even the fireplace mantel had no paintings or figurines and the table had no flowers. The whole interior of her home was like living within a blank canvas.
"What are you doing tomorrow?" she asked.
"I have the opening of an art show," I answered.
Playfully she groaned and threw her head back. "How disappointing. I had completely forgotten you're an artist."
"How on earth is that disappointing?"
"Because," she said, placing her hand on my chest, "you're posing for other people, probably without clothing."
I raised a brow. "I've never posed nude for anyone, but if you decide to take up drawing, I'll pose for you."
Both of her eyebrows shot up. "You would do that for me?"
"Of course. You're not an artist and no one would be able to tell it was me."
She rolled her eyes at my words. "I have other ideas of what I could do with you." She bit her lip and began to unbutton my shirt, but I placed my hand over hers.
"Ideas that will have to wait for another time. Good night."
With Guin watching from her door, I walked down the hall and started my walk home, past the row of theaters and opera houses that stood like sentinels against a backdrop of the blazing pinks and purples of an evening sky.
The weather held all day, and the streets were busy with people enjoying the pleasant Friday night. Along the line of entertainment, The Opera Populaire remained strangely dark and alone, like a shadow amongst its lively counterparts brightly lit and prepared to entertain crowds.
Long lines of carriages gathered along the streets in front of restaurants and public houses bustling with patrons. The quiet of the cold, long winter gave way to the roar of laughter and chorus of voices in hundreds of lively conversations.
I paused as I walked by, hearing the voice of the young girl on the furthest corner, the one who had made it into one of my latest pieces of art.
I had no idea why she favored the empty theater when there were far more lucrative locations further down the street. Perhaps she took up residence in a doorway nearby or built her own little shack out of crates and boards in an alley. Whatever the reason, she stood where I had originally seen her, dressed in the same drab, muddied clothes, her mousy brown hair oily and stuck to her skull.
There were a handful of people listening to her sing; an older couple arm in arm, some younger couples swaying together as they looked deeply into each other's eyes, and one man who stood at the back with his arms crossed, watching the girl from a distance. The older couple dropped several coins into a tattered hat at the girl's feet and she dipped quickly into a curtsey before she took a breath and adjusted her hair.
The young performer noticed me pausing from my walk to listen. She quickly glanced at the other man, then back at me. From the corner of my eye, I saw him step closer, slinking through the shadows toward her.
"Keep singing, Hannah," the man insisted, gesturing toward her.
With her eyes staring straight ahead, she swallowed. Taking a deep breath, she started another folk song that seemed quite rushed, as if her nerves threatened to get the best of her.
I could feel the man staring at me and turned to glance in his direction. He looked at least several years older than me as his neatly trimmed beard was threaded with quite a bit of silver, his forehead lined and eyes creased at the edges. He was dressed well; his wool scarf dyed in different shades of blue hanging loosely over a finely tailored suit and boots that were probably worth a month's rent.
But the suit hardly detracted from the sneer on his face and the way he eyed the young girl with more than casual interest. He looked her over like a wolf stalking an unattended fawn in the woods, uncertain if he wanted to go for a leg or a throat first.
More people walked past, some stopping, some listening as they continued on their way. The girl closed her eyes and tapped her hand against her thigh in time with the music, her confidence increasing when she didn't see the people standing before her.
While she sang, I stared at the opera house behind her, surveying the roof that was quickly blending into the night. There were so many faces carved into the building that the facade played tricks with my mind. I swore I saw the white mask of the supposed ghost melding with the faces and figures. Briefly I closed my eyes and rid my mind of the thought of the ghost staring back at me.
When I opened them again, the man who had been standing at the rear of the crowd had moved to linger beside the girl. I eyed him briefly as he leaned toward her and played with a strand of her greasy hair. Visibly she recoiled, but didn't verbally ask him to stop. She merely stiffened, her arms straight and hands in fists of silent resistance.
He touched her cheek and she turned her head slightly, eyes briefly closing as if she wished to block him from her sight.
"That's a good girl," I heard him say. "You've done enough for one night. I see you trembling in this thin shawl."
I sincerely doubted she shook because of the cold. Everything about her posture indicated she recoiled from him out of repulsion.
"I want to keep singing," she said, her voice pleading like a child desiring a trinket.
"You don't have to when you're with me," I heard him tell her. "Remember?"
She forced an uneasy smile and he nodded as if her gesture indicated compliance.
"One more?" she asked.
The man gave his silent permission. He ran his hand down her spine and along her backside, pinching her. When she squirmed, he chuckled and stepped away, briskly returning to his place further back.
Once he moved, I walked forward, reached into my pocket, and pulled out my wallet. "Three more, little mademoiselle," I said before she began singing. I placed a ten franc banknote into her hat.
She blinked at me and smiled in a way that made me certain she remembered me from our previous encounter. "Thank you, Monsieur. You are very generous."
I saw the man stalk toward me, advancing swiftly as if he feared his conquest was purchased by another man.
Before he was fully upon me, I turned and hit him in the chest with my open hand, pushing him back. As I anticipated, he stumbled, nearly losing his footing with the unexpected strike.
"My, my, aren't you in a rush," I said, brushing my right hand off on my trouser leg.
"She's done for the night," he said through his teeth.
"I think that is at the discretion of the performer," I said without looking in his direction.
"Who in the hell do you think you are?" he seethed.
"A supporter of the arts and nothing more," I answered. "And who are you?"
"It doesn't matter who I am."
I shrugged and turned to face him. "I suppose it's beneficial that you're at least honest with yourself."
He gave me a quizzical look in return.
"You don't matter to anyone, do you? That must be why you're soliciting children for your private entertainment."
"She's not a child."
I scoffed. "Not a child? Are you mad? Look at her."
"She's sixteen. Old enough."
"Old enough for what, Monsieur?" I questioned.
As I expected, he didn't answer me verbally, but his face flushed.
I turned my head to the side, glancing between the man and the girl. She looked nothing like Elizabeth, but I still saw my niece in her place, naive and vulnerable. Unlike Elizabeth, who was unaware of the wickedness in the world, I was certain this girl had experienced an overwhelming amount of the worst humanity could offer.
And even if the girl was truly sixteen years of age, which I highly doubted, in my eyes she was still very much a child. Being surrounded by artists who were at the age of twenty and under, they were all children pretending to be adults.
"How old are you?" I asked the girl.
She lowered her gaze and mumbled, "I'm sixteen."
"How old are you really?"
The girl hesitated. I nodded for her to continue and she swallowed. "Thirteen and a half."
Almost the same age as my brother the last time I'd for certain known he was alive. For all intents and purposes, she was a child relying on adults to protect her, not use for their own perverse sexual gratification.
"Hannah, don't say another word to him," the man warned.
I shifted to my left, blocking her view of the man. "Is he related to you?" I asked the girl.
She shook her head.
"Then he does not speak on your behalf."
"Hannah," the man warned.
"Is Hannah your real name or one that he gave you?" I asked.
She gave no indication if it was or not, glancing from me to the man who stalked around to the other side in order to confront me.
"You will not question her," he warned.
"Given that you are of no relation and thus have no authority over this child, I trust you will not issue me orders, either," I firmly said.
"I'll make you listen one way or another," he said.
The man began to roll up his sleeves. He was angry, and in my experience, men who were angry didn't think. They made mistakes when they had no clarity, and I intended to fully capitalize on his anger as well as his frustration for being unsuccessful in getting the girl alone with him.
I took a deep breath and widened my stance, preparing for him to come at me swinging. Briefly I glanced around at my surroundings. The crowd had swiftly departed with the chance of an altercation taking place. I noticed a dip in the cobblestones where it looked like a street lamp had once been and hoped the stranger failed to see the potential hazard. Behind me, the short, long stairs leading to the entrance that I vehemently despised could be used to slow him down as they changed one's gait.
"You have one last chance to be on your way," he warned.
"Or what will you do?" I questioned. "And please, be as detailed as possible."
"You want to know what I'll do to you? I'll break your jaw and crush your skull."
"A bit dramatic for a song request, don't you think? Particularly for someone of your age? What are you? Fifty? Surely by now you should be able to control your temper." I shook my head and clicked my tongue against the roof of my mouth. "It isn't good for your blood pressure."
His nostrils flared. "I'll show you how I control my anger," he seethed as he stepped forward.
I smiled to myself. His eyes were fixed on me, his jaw clenched and hands in fists. "Let's have at it," I said, nodding.
The man stalked toward me and, just as I expected, failed to see the uneven cobblestones in front of him where the ground dipped. His right foot landed in the shallow part of the sidewalk, his body swaying in the opposite direction as he attempted to correct his misstep. While he teetered, his right foot hit a brick jutting upward and he fell forward, almost catching his face on the first stair as he flailed around.
I wasn't surprised to see him fall, but I was surprised at how swiftly he recovered. A growl escaped from the back of his throat as he climbed to his feet and limped forward, actions fueled by his unchecked anger. His ankle or knee–possibly both–had been injured in the fall and he lurched toward me, struggling to keep his full weight on it.
"Fight me," he said through his teeth. His face crumpled with the onset of pain from his fall, and I knew if he wrenched swiftly to one side, his right leg would give out completely. "You disgusting little bastard."
I started to roll up my sleeves. "I won't disagree on the bastard part," I said. "But disgusting? I'm not the one making advances on a child."
He practically threw himself at me, most likely intending to grab me around the waist and drive me into the ground, but with his twisted knee or ankle, he was slower than he hoped and knew his disadvantage. Still, he managed to grab my trouser leg and claw at my ankle, which earned him a swift kick to the face that sent him reeling back, howling like an animal.
He was no longer a mere stranger preying on a child; he was my father laid out by the back steps of the home where I had been born, writhing in the mud after he had attempted to fight me.
I had every intention of striking this man over and over as he attempted to roll to safety, leaving his eyes blackened and nose broken. If I had my way, he would have thought twice before he ever looked at another little girl–if he had sight left in his eyes when I was through with him.
I would do to him what I had not done to Bjorn, leaving him in such a state that he would wish for death.
My momentum and blood lust was stopped by my left arm being wrenched behind my back and a boot firmly kicking the inside of my right knee. Before I could react, I felt an iron band clamp around my wrist, and when I turned to see who was standing behind me, I froze.
"Hands behind your back, just like the homosexual, Kimmer."
There were at least a dozen gendarmes around me with Boucher being the one who had cuffed my left wrist. The pressure to the nerve damage was unexpectedly excruciating and my knees further weakened, vision blurring. I'd barely realized my right wrist was shackled as well, effectively leaving me incapacitated.
"Quit fighting me and hold still," Boucher ordered despite me standing motionless. He struck me with his club in the left kidney and the blow nearly drove me to my knees at last.
"I'm not moving and you know it," I said through gritted teeth.
He kicked me in the ankle with his boot, causing me to stumble so that he was justified in striking me a second time.
"I said quit fighting," he shouted in my ear. "Or I'll beat you worse than the sodomite."
Heat rose up the back of my neck, my knees finally giving out. As much as I despised being driven into submission, I remained still, giving Boucher no justifiable reason to strike me again. I stared straight ahead, noticing the other man writhing on the ground with two of the gendarmes kneeling beside him.
Boucher bent and breathed against the side of my neck. "How's it feel being back in irons? With your head at the level of my hips, no less, just like that boy you took home with you."
My jaw tightened, but I didn't give him the satisfaction of acknowledging him, preferring instead to avoid his gaze. My mind reeled at his admission, blood boiling over the fact that I could do nothing in retaliation.
The girl–Hannah or whatever her name happened to be–peered out from behind a lamp post across the street, the tattered hat used to collect money clutched to her chest. She stared at me in horror, and I wasn't sure if it was because of the fairly uneventful altercation or because I was cuffed and on my knees.
"Gerard!" someone shouted from behind me. "Boucher!"
Footsteps pounded the cobblestones and a moment later someone bent and stared me in the eye. "Phelan?"
"Jean?"
Jean looked from me to Boucher and sighed. "Gerard, please."
"It's too late, Jean."
"Nonsense. You aren't at the station. There's no report—"
"I can't," Boucher said. "Not this time."
"Gerard, you're being unreasonable," I heard Jean say.
"No," Boucher argued. "I'm not being unreasonable, Jean. Your friend is a disrespectful degenerate who belongs behind bars."
Jean sighed in frustration. "You owe me, Gerard," he said. "Remember what I did for your mother."
"A word," Boucher said through his teeth. He stormed away with Jean trailing at his heels, and I sat back, putting the pressure of my weight onto my shins rather than my kneecaps.
Jean stood with his hands on his hips while Boucher gestured passionately at him. From the corner of my eye, I noticed the girl inch toward the man, carefully remaining out of his line of vision.
She looked from him to me and back again, then turned in a full circle, eyes darting in different directions as if she wished for an escape, but had no idea where to turn. At last she returned to the safety of the unlit lamp and hid behind it.
Unexpectedly Boucher grabbed my left arm and pulled me to my feet. The burning through the scar tissue blackened my vision and I clenched my jaw, swallowing to keep myself from crying out.
Pain radiated through my forearm as if flames licked their way through tendons and muscles, blazing beneath my flesh. My breaths came hard and ragged, and although I wasn't certain if he did it on purpose, it hurt like hell and felt intentional.
"Don't bring up my mother ever again," Boucher said to Jean. "Understood?"
"Yes, of course."
Boucher stood behind me, the jingle of his keys followed by the shackles loosening around my wrists.
It wasn't until my arms were free that I realized how much having them pulled behind me caused my shoulders to ache. I released a sigh of relief that was quickly extinguished by Boucher digging his fingers into my lower back, resulting in a sudden wave of spasms from my spine to my ribcage.
"Keep an eye on him, Jean," Boucher said, shoving me forward. "I will not show mercy again."
Once Boucher walked toward the other man, who was still on the ground, Jean shifted his weight and wiped his hand down his face. "What in the hell was that about?" he asked.
"Nothing that needed your intervention," I said without looking at him.
I kept my gaze trained on Jean's long-time friend. After years of our paths crossing, I was quite familiar with Gerard Boucher's quick temper and harsh treatment. He seemed to be under the impression that the more severe the punishment, the less likely a criminal was to engage in the same act. His philosophy had done nothing to discourage me from fighting over the years, although I did dread seeing his rodent face.
Jean snorted like a bull about to charge. "Without my intervention you'd be spending the night in a jail cell," he reminded me.
I waited for him to add yet again, which thankfully he did not.
"You kicked him in the head," Jean said quietly.
At last I met his eye. I wasn't sure if he expected me to be ashamed or to apologize, but I felt no sense of remorse and would not ask for anyone's forgiveness.
"I saw the incident from across the street," Jean explained.
"Did you alert Boucher?"
"Of course not. Why would think such a thing?" Jean sighed in disgust. "There was a bit of a brawl at Flannery's and the gendarmes were already there. Some woman frantically approached them and said she thought there was a murder about to take place, so of course I wanted to see what the commotion was all about."
"You wanted to witness a murder, then?" I asked tightly.
"No, I wanted to stop it. For Christ's sake, Phelan, I thought I spotted you and came to your aid. You have no reason to act like I am somehow at fault." He shifted his weight and for a moment I thought he would strike me or at least shove me in the chest out of frustration, but merely turned from me and waved his arms about.
In the distance, the girl continued to linger, her gaze pinned on the man who had decided to lay flat on his back, groaning as if he were moments from his last breath.
Another officer approached us, pencil and notebook in hand. He started to question me, but I excused myself and walked toward the girl. The moment she saw me advance toward her, she pressed herself to the unlit post. Once I stood in front of her, she squeezed her eyes shut and turned her head to the side as if she expected I would harm her.
I realized my swift approach had most likely come across as threatening. I took a small step back, allowing her space from a male that towered over her while hoping she would not dash away and disappear into the night.
She remained pinned to the pole, her eyes averted and breaths unsteady. Some people, when faced with danger, chose to run away. Others decided to stand their ground and fight. This girl, whomever she was, merely submitted, accepting whatever cruel fate awaited.
I thought of the letters from Alak, how he had described my brother and the injuries he sustained. Often I wondered if Erik had ever defended himself from Bjorn, biting and kicking as I had once done. Rarely did it save me from Bjorn's heavy hand and merciless temper, but when he struck me, I recalled striking him back.
Over the years I realized Bjorn wanted me to be like him not only in appearance, but in ill temperament. I glanced back at the man whom the gendarmes had forced to sit up and knew when it came to brutality, I was far more like Bjorn than I wished to admit.
I looked past her at the opera house and straightened my sleeves, allowing us both a bit of distraction from direct eye contact.
"Have you had a meal today?" I asked the girl.
She flinched when I spoke, and I took another step back, imagining the ways she had paid for meals when forced to fend for herself.
"There is still a position open at the university. Be there at eight forty-five Monday morning, second floor, room six, which is an art studio. It's the first door up a flight of steps on the left if you enter the building through the front."
I paused, realizing how complicated it sounded with so many numbers that reminded me of looking through ledgers until I was cross-eyed.
"Just walk up the stairs to the second floor. The door will be open."
She gave no indication of whether she intended to come by the university Monday morning, and when she didn't meet my eye, I stuffed my hands into my pockets and bowed my head.
"Eat something, for pity's sake, and if that man approaches you again, kick him in the knee and run."
With that, I told her goodnight and turned, walking back toward Jean, who was speaking to the younger gendarme that had taken Boucher's place.
"Monsieur Kimmer, you can go directly home," the gendarme said without looking at me. "As long as Moreau keeps an eye on you."
I looked at Jean. "Do you need to hold my hand or is it enough to walk in close proximity to one another?"
Jean glared at me. "Go."
We were two streets away when Jean finally spoke again. "I'm going home. If you do something foolish between here and your doorstep, do not ask for my assistance, do you understand? I'm not bailing you out. In fact, I currently don't want to speak to you for at least a week."
I stood with my back to him. "I don't understand how you can possibly call Boucher a friend of yours."
Jean was silent for a long moment. "I suppose some would say the same about us."
I couldn't tell if his words were meant lightly, but I wasn't in a mood for humor.
"Your friend beat one of my students who was in his custody," I blurted out. "A damned good artist and a decent human being who nearly returned home without finishing the school year because he wasn't able to hold a pencil or open his eyes."
Jean crossed his arms and pursed his lips. "What did he do?" he asked quietly.
My jaw clenched. "Nothing."
"You're certain?"
"He fancies men."
Jean immediately looked away, clearly uncomfortable with the conversation. "I see," he said under his breath.
I rolled my eyes at his reaction. "Short of murder, I can assure you, Jean, the beating he received would not have been justified."
"Homosexuality isn't acceptable."
"Perhaps not to you."
"Is it to you?" Jean challenged.
"His preference of men has no bearing on my life. As his professor, whatever he does in his time outside of my classroom, including whom he spends his nights with, is none of my concern. And because homosexuality isn't illegal and therefor carries no punishment in France, he should not have been jailed in the first place," I pointed out, turning away from him.
"Perhaps there was another reason for his incarceration."
"Perhaps there was," I agreed. "And that still doesn't justify your friend having my student in custody and beating him while his hands were bound behind his back, does it?" I waited for Jean to reply, but he merely looked away. "You and Boucher apparently would like seeing him confined to a pillory for the day while strangers pelt him with rotten food and feces."
"That isn't what I said."
"No, you didn't, but you seem quite adamant about defending Boucher."
"Same as you seem quite insistent with defending your student. All I am saying is that there could be more to the story."
"I can assure you there is not, Jean."
Anger sizzled through me. For years I had hoped someone would come to my defense, to protect me from my own father's treatment and my uncle's neglect. No amount of praying on my hands and knees, crying myself to sleep, or wishing answered my pleas. I would be damned if I stood down and watched a girl fall prey to a man's solicitation or one of my students put into harm's way.
Jean shifted his weight. "You know, Phelan, I think sometimes you defend the wrong people," he said under his breath.
My breath hitched and I whipped around to fully face Jean. "Do you want to know why I kicked that man in the face? Because he was soliciting a twelve-year-old girl for intercourse. The very thought makes me want to wretch, but if that's defending the wrong people, Jean then–"
"What girl?"
"A street performer."
"Just some girl on the street?"
I scoffed. "Just some girl on the street," I said under my breath.
"Do you know who that man was?" Jean asked impatiently.
By the delivery of his question, I was certain Jean was familiar with him–which probably meant he was a man who held some sort of importance and a hell of a lot of financial success.
"I honestly don't care," I said.
Jean nodded. "Right. Of course not."
"You truly think I am at fault?"
He stared at me for a brief moment, tongue rolling along the inside of his cheek. At last he exhaled. "I have no desire to argue with you, Phelan, but I will say this; I think sometimes you go about doing the right things in the wrong way."
"The wrong...I beg your pardon?" My mouthed gaped open, but Jean waved me off.
"You could have killed him."
"You're correct. I could have."
"In a moment of rage, you would take someone's life? Without a bit of remorse?" This time he waited for me to answer, but when his words were met with my silence, he shook his head.
"Go home, Phelan," he said before he briskly walked away from me. "I will speak with you later."
He was far out of my earshot when I balled my right hand into a fist. "Wrong way or not, at least I did something," I muttered.