Chapter 4
My sister caught up to me at the fountain in Charlotte Square, where I had collapsed upon the stone seat, wiping tears from my eyes. I was trying to do so circumspectly, so as not to cause a scene, but nevertheless a couple seated a few feet away were eyeing me with concern.
“None of that,” élise said irritably, pulling me into her arms. I knew she was not irritated with me, of course, but with the general situation.
Despite being two years younger, élise had often acted as the older sister when we were children, likely because she had the advantage of height.
This had commonly taken the form of her holding my hand and marching me through the streets whenever we went out, bossily instructing me to stay close to her at all times, as if her additional inches came with a protective magic that I lacked.
“Listen,” she said, drawing back to look me in the eye. “After you stormed off, Mathieu told me about a place by the port that will be vacant next month. I’ll go and make enquiries.”
“You’ll only have to lie again,” I said, wiping at my eyes and willing myself to stop blubbering.
“Yes, and it will be easier without you standing there looking at me like I’ve insulted our mother,” she said. “If we strike out again, I’m going to ask Gabriel for help.”
“He doesn’t have time,” I argued, which wasn’t the real problem, and we both knew it.
Gabriel was up for reelection in the spring, and the race was far too close for comfort.
If any whiff of scandal made it into the papers—and arm-twisting landlords to help his sister-in-law’s charity would certainly qualify—it could be the end of his career.
élise didn’t bother to argue. “If only your Mme. Richard weren’t such an insufferable miser,” she said. “She could afford the repairs, but she’s happy for the excuse to sell the place for redevelopment.”
“You don’t know that,” I protested. My landlady was a cantankerous sort, but beneath it was a kind heart. “She’s allowing me to stay as long as I need, at half the rent.”
“Oh, Agnes,” élise said, gazing at me with fond exasperation. “Your shop has a wall missing! Of course she’s allowing you to stay—who else would want the place? She shouldn’t be charging any rent at all, the villain. Have you forgotten the leak in the roof, which she refuses to fix?”
“She’s getting on, élise,” I pointed out. “It can’t be easy, keeping up these old buildings.”
élise groaned. “If you say one more sympathetic word about that woman, I’ll push you into the fountain,” she said. “Look, I’ll stop by yours this evening. Will you promise to take the day off? You’ve been working flat out for weeks.”
“I can’t,” I said. There’s only me, I thought, but didn’t say. I didn’t want élise to feel guilty that she could not be of more help. We’d had this argument—about my overworking myself—too many times for anything productive to come of it.
She sighed, gave me another quick embrace, then bustled off. élise seemed to be always bustling off somewhere these days—as Gabriel’s campaign manager, she was needed at his side as often as I needed her at the shelter.
I wandered away from the fountain, thinking that I might take the tram to the library—I could check the rental listings yet again. But I was so lost in thought that I must have taken a wrong turn, which I didn’t notice until I found myself in Rue des Hirondelles.
“You again,” I muttered. Why on earth did I keep ending up here? Was some higher power determined to torment me?
A sort of reckless spite filled me—it had no particular object, unless it was myself—and I decided I might as well take a look at the place M. Levasseur had warned me against, though I’d be unable to afford it, no matter how disreputable the owner. What else did I have to do?
Nothing at all, apart from return to the shelter and stare at the hole in the wall, I thought. I let out a strangled chuckle, and a man walking in the other direction started and gave me a wider berth.
Rue des Hirondelles was a narrow street flanked by walls of greystone buildings with tall windows, each made up of several dozen small panes, the uppermost of which shone gently in the afternoon light.
Only a narrow strip of sky was visible between the French mansard roofs, but despite the cramped proportions, I’d always found the street’s character charming, on the rare occasions I chanced this way; there was something tucked-away about it, like a jewel box that unfolds to reveal layers of hidden pockets and drawers.
The cobblestones rambled up a small hill, at the top of which was an old stone church with glowering gargoyles and glittering stained glass.
The overhanging greenery from the window boxes seemed well tended.
Near the midway point was a little square, too small for an official name.
This had a pretty row of silver maples along one side with benches underneath, and a rather noisy café—La Fin, which kept late hours—whose tables took up half the square.
It was not a wealthy neighbourhood, though the larger-than-average proportions of its shops and the rarity with which they went up for rent put it beyond what I could afford.
Most of La Fin’s customers, I noted, were sailors, factory workers, and other hardy folk; I saw only sensible hats and well-worn shoes among the passersby, and there were some—perhaps heading for the soup kitchen just past the square—who seemed to have fallen on hard times.
But the street and its inhabitants had the air of being well cared for, somehow, in a way that went beyond its basic tidiness, but which I could not fully articulate.
I walked up the street and then down again, pausing before another bakery selling—to my dismay—chocolate brioche.
A few of the shops were closed that day, but I noticed none that seemed vacant, nor any advertising a vacancy.
Either M. Levasseur had been mistaken or the place had been snapped up already.
I paused just above the square to squint through the window of a store that seemed devoted solely to scarves and had its sign turned to Fermé.
The curtains were drawn, so I could only peer through the square of greenish glass in the door.
Something about it piqued my curiosity—perhaps it was only that this end of the street was older, but the shadows seemed to have more weight, which gave the shop a haunted air.
Next door was an unkempt little bookshop. Despite the disorderly display window and teetering book-towers upon the table out front, there was something inviting about it.
I ducked inside, setting the bell jangling. The noise, however, did little to disturb the shop’s only occupant, an older woman napping in a chair behind the counter. The shop was narrow and stuffed with crowded shelves illuminated by warm lamplight.
“Madame?” I said.
The woman’s eyes twitched open, and she blinked at me for a moment. “I’m sorry, miss,” she said in English. She was a small person neatly encased in colourful homemade knitwear, from her sweater to her hat to the blanket over her knees. “I can barely pay my own salary here. You might try La Fin.”
It took me a moment to realize what she meant. Glancing down at my briefcase and the notebook tucked under my arm, which was neatly divided by cardboard tabs, I quickly added, “Oh, no—I’m not looking for work. I was wondering about the place next door.”
The kindness in her eyes was abruptly replaced by wariness. “Well, what are you doing here, then? They’re not closed. That place never closes. Do you not know the way?”
I could make no sense of this. “I heard there was a shop for rent in the neighbourhood,” I said slowly, noting that her knuckles had gone white against the arm of her chair.
“And where did you hear that?” she said. “From one of them?”
“Ah,” I said inarticulately. Though I am fluent in English, it is not my first language, and when a conversation does not follow the expected pattern, I tend to flounder. I was beginning to wonder if the woman was entirely well.
She leaned forward and fixed me with a sharp look.
“If you don’t know what I mean,” she said, each syllable clipped and precise, “then turn around, and look elsewhere. There are plenty of places for rent in this city. Wholesome places. If you do understand me, then I must kindly ask you to leave. I don’t want trouble—can’t afford it. ”
She lifted herself to her feet with the aid of a cane and carefully navigated her way through the shelves, then disappeared into what I assumed was a back room.
I gazed after her, sifting through what she had said. Only one thing was clear: the shop next door was indeed the one I sought. I wondered if she had some conflict with the landlord—disputes between neighbours could be bitter indeed.
It was a mundane explanation, and I wished I could believe it.
The truth was, though, that even if the woman had informed me that bloodcurdling screams could be heard emanating from the shop in the dead of night, I still would have made my enquiries.
This likely sounds absurd, akin to the follies of silly fairy-tale heroines who cannot stop themselves unlocking doors they have been expressly told not to open, but the fact those stories often leave out is that paying heed to vague warnings is the prerogative of those comfortably situated in life.
I went to the scarf shop and rapped upon the door.
Whatever the woman thought, the place was definitely closed.
I half expected the door to creak open and some ghostly hand to beckon me in, but there was only a little silence, followed by the sound of perfectly ordinary footsteps approaching, and then the door was pulled back to reveal a young man.
He was in his early twenties, perhaps, with longish dark hair, olive skin, and a rather worried expression. He smiled at me with a warmth that implied I was a much pleasanter alternative to whatever visitor he had been anticipating.