The Paris Exposition Universelle, April 30, 1900
The Paris Exposition Universelle,
A ticket for the fair was the best investment Remy has ever made.
It’s midmorning, and already he’s pocketed five wallets, a watch, and a hatpin with a sparkly bit that’s probably glass but could be a gem. He can’t tell, which means the sap he sells it to later won’t be able to, either.
Though his eyes are mostly on the crowd looking for opportunities, even he can’t avoid taking in the various wonders.
Just a few years ago when he was a kid, this area around the Seine was mostly muddy banks.
Nothing here, no reason to come. Now it’s carefully cultivated gardens, wide roads, and more buildings crammed in than he’d have thought possible.
And people have come, from all over. He finds Americans in particular to be easy targets, their eyes constantly pointed up at the white limestone buildings with their rounded gray roofs.
Two of the wallets were from before he ever even got through the gate.
He’s glad they appreciate how impressive his city is. It makes his job that much easier.
Remy pauses in front of the international houses.
Other countries bought the right to show off in the middle of Paris’s fair.
They’ve all built miniature replicas of the best they have to offer, crowded along the riverbank like a row of girls in their finest at a dance.
Spain next to Monaco next to Sweden next to Greece.
Some look like churches, others like museums—both categories of buildings Remy has no interest in.
It doesn’t feel right stealing in a church, and museums usually have someone on guard.
He wants to see the Swiss village, though.
He heard it has a mountain and a waterfall and a lake right here in the heart of Paris, which seems impossible.
Leave it to the Swiss to see everyone else building houses and to build an entire landscape and village instead.
But it’s all the way at the end of the fair near Avenue de Suffren.
He needs to stay where foot traffic is the heaviest. Maybe he’ll hop on one of the countless boats and make someone else carry him there this evening as a reward for a hard day’s work.
Remy follows the flow of pockets and handbags, which lead him to a parade between the Grand Palace and the Petit Palace—a name that strikes him as ironic, since in the Thirteenth Arrondissement where he lives, that “petite” building would be enough space for dozens of families.
But the parade is just a bunch of old men in hats and suits walking and waving.
No clowns or dancers or animals. Boring.
Lucrative, though. Remy moves through the press of people as though trying to get a better vantage point, bumping and jostling while eyes are fixed on whoever these old men are.
When he at last gets to the edge of the crowd, two pocket watches, one wallet, and a pair of eyeglasses richer, he pauses.
Someone’s watching him.
Remy doesn’t look over his shoulder—he never looks—but he can sense it.
Bad luck. Jamming his hands into his jacket pockets, he lopes across the wide roads to the moving walkway.
A few years ago he could have sneaked on without paying, but growing made him harder to ignore.
He reluctantly parts with a few coins at the station and steps onto the slower track.
The whole thing creaks and groans like his grandmother climbing stairs, but it still seems like magic as he hops from the slower track to the faster one.
As he goes around a curve, he switches his hat with one shoved into a pocket and throws on a bright red silk scarf he took from the back of a bench where a man was resting.
The fair passes beneath as the walkway does its loop. The electric trolley, another impossible wonder, rushes past them and Remy waves to the people inside as though he has not a care in the world.
He doesn’t notice anyone watching him, but he can’t shake the sensation of being observed.
Keeping perfectly still until the last possible second, Remy leaps the slower track and jumps off at a station that puts him near the Palace of Illusions.
If anyone is following him, he’ll catch them in there.
Plus, he wants to see it, and one of the wallets already had a ticket inside.
Nothing had prepared Remy for actually walking in, though.
He’d heard about the mirrors, but no descriptions did them justice.
They’re everywhere. Reflections upon reflections.
Whatever isn’t mirror is gilt, every surface shining.
He feels dizzy. There’s too much to take in, too much to look at.
He thought he could use the mirrors to make sure no one was following him, but it has the opposite effect.
He feels like everyone in here is watching him.
He’s magnified himself an infinite number of times, and every reflection is screaming his guilt.
Remy likes distracted people, but he can’t afford to be distracted himself.
Feeling hunted, he rushes through the nearest open door, a plain one that doesn’t match the opulence of the rest of the room.
It leads to a dim, narrow hallway. Remy’s avoided honest work as much as he can, but he knows a service corridor when he sees one.
“Has anyone heard from Cesar?” an irate voice yells. A man shoves past Remy, carrying a large parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. “There are three panels that need replacing, and we don’t have any extra mirrors like we should!”
Remy tries to shrink into the wall as another man peers out from behind a gap between two boards.
“No one’s heard from Cesar in a week,” the new man says.
“And there are enough missing panels to build an entire room. He’s the only one who understands how everything’s supposed to fit together, too.
I can’t make sense of these papers. We’re going to have to bring in the boss.
” He wipes his forehead. It’s sweltering back here.
All the men are in just their shirts, no jackets or vests, sleeves rolled up.
Remy panics. He’s wearing a jacket and a vest and a hat and this gaudy red scarf. There’s no way he can feign that he belongs here. He turns as though he’s suddenly remembered something and ducks back out into the main mirror hall before at last escaping into the open air.
He wanders, erratically switching direction, blending into groups wherever he can.
He finds himself in the Palace of Agriculture.
This palace, unlike the Grand and Petit Palaces, is meant to be temporary.
It’s mostly metal and glass, and reminds him of a greenhouse.
Appropriate for the theme. He hurries past various displays of new farming technology with salesmen desperately trying to recoup the costs of renting space here, and heads straight for the champagne room.
He doesn’t normally drink—he needs his wits and his dexterity—but that feeling of being observed just won’t leave him. It’s making him jittery and nervous. He’s going to get sloppy, and that leads to getting caught. He can’t afford to get caught.
Sitting at a table near the entrance is a pretty girl.
Remy always notices pretty girls, but he notices her especially because, unlike everyone else, she doesn’t have a crystal glass of bubbly liquid.
Her dress is almost matronly, too, like she wants to look older than she is.
She has a notebook out and is critically watching everyone around her.
Remy wants to slide into the free seat at her table and pretend like she’s who he was rushing toward. Flirt until she’s convinced to spend the rest of the day together, a better change of costume than a hat switch and a scarf addition.
But when her gaze falls on him, there’s something terribly clever and observant in her green eyes. He wouldn’t get away with anything. Not if she was with him. He can’t help but give her a rakish grin, though, tipping his hat in her direction.
Does she blush? He hopes she does. Feeling refreshed by the hint of smile on her full, soft lips, he forgoes the drink and slips back outside.
No one is following him. No one could possibly have followed him all this time.
And why would they? If someone saw him picking pockets, they would have alerted one of the many officers patrolling the grounds.
Remy’s fine. He’s safe. He needs to get back to work.
He strolls toward the giant globe, still closed as they clean up the debris from that walkway that fell and crushed nine poor souls.
The Eiffel Tower looms overhead, gaudily painted in yellow and orange for this fair as though to shout, “I still matter!”
Remy opts for the trolley over a boat, which feels too exposed.
He settles into his seat and watches as they circle the fair in the opposite direction as the moving walkway.
Just a little rest, and then he’ll finish up his day.
He reaches into a pocket to look at the hatpin—étienne has been raving about some new girl, he’s fool enough to buy it without checking quality—but freezes.
His secret deep pocket sewn in behind his regular pocket should contain three watches, several wallets, and the hatpin. But there’s nothing there. Remy frantically pats all his pockets. Gone. Everything is gone. There’s only one thing left behind: a folded piece of paper.
Fingers trembling, Remy pulls it out. It opens to reveal a woman painted in that new style, all bold, curving lines that make him think of pillows and soft bodies.
He’s seen a lot of this type of art in the posters for the fair, but instead of the usual image of a beautiful woman draped over a glowing moon looking down at the fair, this one has a haunting woman with long, black hair.
It curls and twists out around her until it looks like an oily, impenetrable void holding her in place.
Her eyes are so big and dark they seem to stare right out at him.
He can’t look away. He’s never been so entranced.
In scrolling letters beneath her hair is written “The House of Curiosity,” with an address below.
Remy’s mad. He’s furious. All his work, wasted. He spent his own money to buy a ticket to the fair, and he has nothing to show for it. He’s the best pickpocket in Paris, yet someone bested him. He has no idea who it was, or even when it was. How did they do it?
House of Curiosity, indeed. Remy shouldn’t go. He should count himself lucky that his stalker only wanted to show him up instead of turning him in. But he never could resist a challenge. And he won’t walk away empty-handed this time.