Chapter 6
After introductions were made, they picked their way through bottles and dismantled shelves on a tour of the shop, deciding it would be a perfect afternoon to visit Montmartre. Annette watched with great interest as Andrew settled his large hat upon his head. She winked at Gabrielle. Clearly this man was a curiosity.
The métro ride was uneventful, for which Gabrielle was glad. There were no robberies, pickpocketing, or other signs of mayhem that might stir their companion to feats of heroism today. Soon they were stepping onto the street from having traversed the lower levels of the Anvers métro station.
Andrew looked around appreciatively as they began the climb to the église du Sacré-C?ur, or the Church of the Sacred Heart, as Annette told him. The cobblestone streets were dotted with colourful shops and cafes, all busy with locals and tourists. People sat at bistro tables along sidewalk cafes, enjoying the warmth of the afternoon and the sounds of spring.
Gabrielle admired the quaint shops with their eclectic offering of merchandise. There were antiques for sale, women’s hosiery, art, ice cream, modern footwear with 1800s style, and souvenir shops. Boulangeries, their windows bursting with sandwiches and the tantalizing aroma of freshly baked breads swirled out open doors. There was something to tempt everyone.
Eventually, they crossed another street and stopped at the gates. Andrew gazed up in awe. They had arrived at the foot of the stairs leading to the Sacré-C?ur and feasted their eyes on the brilliant white church perched at the top of the steep hill. A multitude of steps was the price to pay in order to reach it.
“That’s amazing,” he murmured.
Rather than taking a route straight up the center of the broad hill on which the basilica was situated, Gabrielle led them through the gates and to the side where flowers grew in a profusion of colour along an old curved path. Daffodils sprouted from grassy areas beside the crumbling stone steps, while tulips and gloxinias had been planted in beds beyond, sheltered beneath age-old trees whose trunks were covered in masses of ivy.
“What’s that thing?” Andrew asked, pointing at two small rail cars that had just passed one another on their journey up and down the hill.
“Un funiculaire. You ‘ave never seen one?” Annette was surprised.
Shaking his head, Andrew stared in fascination as people, standing stiffly inside the tiny railway car, rode blithely up the steep grade. “It’s a glorified elevator of sorts,” he said, half to himself. “Amazing.” He turned his attention back to the majestic basilica. “It looks old.”
“They started to build the church in 1875, but it wasn’t completed until 1914,” Gabrielle puffed, as they paused halfway up. “So, the building isn’t all that old.”
“It’s impressive,” Andrew breathed, taking off his hat to wipe his brow. The sleeves of his charcoal gray button-up shirt were rolled as high as they’d go. Gabrielle eyed his jeans wondering if he was the sort of man who would ever wear anything else. She couldn’t imagine him in a pair of shorts, or tan khakis, or sandals—forget it.
“I didn’t think it would take so much effort to get here.” He grinned, interrupting her thoughts. “Ready to continue?”
“I’m not.” Red-faced and sprawled on a park bench, Annette looked exhausted. “Go on ahead, save yourselves.” She lifted a weary hand, then let it drop to her lap. “I think I’ll just wither and die right ‘ere. The vultures will come clean my bones and you can shove me into the Catacombs later.”
“You didn’t tell me your sister was an actress?” Andrew said to Gabrielle with a lopsided grin. “That was quite a theatrical performance.”
She laughed. “Come.” She beckoned to Annette. “We’re almost there. You cannot stop now.” With a groan, Annette dragged herself upright and they continued to the top where there was a viewing deck. She plopped onto a stone bench to catch her breath and pulled out her phone. Gabrielle smiled indulgently and moved to the edge of the platform where Andrew had gone in order to gaze at the city.
Paris spread out at their feet. The air was still and muggy in the blazing sun, but the panoramic view was magnificent. They allowed the weight of the moment to settle on them in silence. Far in the distance, almost looking like a toy, the Eiffel Tower stood against the light blue of the sky.
“There’s so much to see and do in this place,” Andrew shook his head, marvelling at it. “It’s almost overwhelming.”
“Wait for the crowds of summer before you talk about overwhelming,” Gabrielle said as they turned away. “You ‘ave no idea how busy it can be. That’s why it’s nice to come ‘ere now.” There were tourists wandering about, snapping pictures, and generally enjoying the lovely spring day. Though it was nothing like she’d seen during the warmest months of the year. She remembered reading somewhere that the Basilica saw ten million visitors each year. She believed it.
They crossed a cobblestone road in front of the church and took in the grandeur of the iconic monument. The stark, white edifice was almost blinding in the midday sun.
“The architecture is wonderful,” Andrew marvelled, lifting his phone to take a picture. “Let’s all get in the shot, okay?” Motioning to Annette, he put his arm around Gabrielle and drew her to his side as he positioned the phone, moving it back and forth in order to frame all three of them. When the younger woman joined them, he snapped three photos in quick succession.
Gabrielle felt a thrill at his touch. Her face reddened, but she schooled her features and bent down, pretending her strappy sandals needed tightening. She didn’t want either Andrew or Annette to guess how his proximity affected her. He’d made no attempt to hold her hand, for which she was also grateful. She didn’t need unnecessary questions from Annette later.
This morning she had decided it was important to her that she and Andrew keep their relationship as friends only. When he dropped his arm and turned to look up at the four massive domes of the church, she straightened, pushed her hair away from her face and took a deep breath.
“Shall we continue?” she asked. “The streets in this area are very pretty and I’m sure you would like to see Place du Tertre.”
“I might,” Andrew said, with a lift of his eyebrows. “If I knew what the heck it was.” His voice took on a fake friendliness and he reached out a massive hand as though to shake hers. “The name’s Andrew. Have we met? Guess I haven’t properly introduced myself, but I’m new around here and don’t speak French.”
Annette giggled. “He got you good, ma s?ur,” she teased, poking her sister in the ribs. “One point for the ‘andsome cowboy and zero for the pretty French girl who confuses easily.”
Gabrielle’s faced flushed again, but she joined in the laughter with good grace as they set off along the road running along one side of the basilica. “Désolé. I try to introduce a few French words into the conversation so that you get used to them. But I forget you ‘ave no idea what they mean unless I translate.”
She swept an arm in the general direction they were headed. “Place du Tertre, roughly translated into English, means square of the mound, or hill. A square, of course, is a public area where people meet. In this case it is one of the most famous of squares in all Paris, because of the artists that gather there.”
“I always enjoy strolling through it.” Annette jumped into the conversation, her tone warming to the subject of artistic expression. “During the Belle époque, which was the golden age of France, beginning in the 1880s, there were many significant artists living there. Montmartre was like a separate village back then. Of course…” she sidestepped a small child and his dripping ice cream cone, “the painters weren’t important then. They struggled to make a living with their art.”
“Would I know any of the names?” Andrew asked.
“Oui.” Annette lifted a hand and began to tick off fingers as she went through a list. “Vincent van Gogh, Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, and Pablo Picasso were a few.”
Andrew looked suitably impressed. Gabrielle watched his face while he listened attentively to what Annette was saying. For all his teasing and smiles, there were shadows under his eyes and his face looked drawn. The walk through his uncle’s life and memories was taking a toll on him. She resisted a sudden urge to link her arm through his.
“This area became popular. Well-known for its cabarets which I am sure you will also have ‘eard of…Moulin Rouge?”
Annette paused to glance at him as they navigated a group of tourists who stood in a milling throng outside a souvenir shop fingering scarves, keychains, and postcards from racks that spilled into the street.
“Yeah sure. Like the movie.”
She shrugged. “Oui, I suppose. With more real life situations and much less singing.”
Now it was Andrew’s turn to laugh. “Good point,” he said, still chuckling. “Please tell me more.”
Annette continued with her tale. Both she and Gabrielle were oblivious to the admiring stares they were receiving from men along the way.
“There isn’t much more to tell unless I were to get into the detailed stories of each artist who played a part in the formation of this area. ‘Owever, it is still quite an artistic place and always a favourite of mine to visit when I am in Paris. One ‘undred and forty spaces, of only one square metre, are allocated to artists each year, which they may use on alternate days. This way, many artists are allowed access. Although the competition for those spots is extreme. In the end, they set up their easels, each of them offering something unique for visitors. People can ‘ave their portraits drawn, caricatures created, or silhouettes prepared as they wait. It is quite entertaining to watch.”
“I’m anxious to see it,” said Andrew. “There’s some historical point of interest around every corner in this city.” He leaned into Gabrielle as they walked, nudging her with an arm. “You okay? Are you thinking of your studies and wishing you were home? We don’t have to stay, you know.”
Even that brief contact had sent her heart racing and she pointedly put more distance between them. “No, I’m fine. It’s good to get away from the books for a while.”
“She studied all morning,” Annette announced. She made the words sound distasteful, as though Gabrielle had been caught rifling through the neighbour’s garbage, or butchering hogs on Main Street. “If I do not visit ‘er, she would never come out of ‘er apartment.”
“Oh,” said Andrew with widening eyes. “That’s odd. She comes to see me.”
“Vraiment?” Annette squealed, forgetting to speak English. “I mean, really? That’s interesting.”
“You know I’m here, right? Listening to you two talk,” Gabrielle huffed. She passed them and took the lead, rounding the corner.
Place du Tertreopened before them. Trees, filling out with leaves and softly blowing in a slight breeze, thrust through small patches of soil in the cobblestone square. They arched over the tent-like awnings that housed the artists. Old-fashioned streetlamps, spaced at regular intervals, would later add a late-night ambiance.
Slowly, they paced through the maze of vendors and visitors that filled the square and passed along the narrow lane that surrounded it. On the far side, restaurants spilled into the center area and servers darted across the street carrying large trays of steaming food. They navigated the swarms of visitors much faster than she expected. She wondered how many collisions took place each day.
Remembering a story her father had once told her, Gabrielle slowed her pace and fell into step beside Andrew to share it. “There is a legend that the first Parisian Bistro was founded ‘ere. Early in the 19th century Russian forces occupied Paris. It was after Napoleon surrendered in a battle I cannot recall at the moment. Anyway, the soldiers who stayed ‘ere would call out, ‘Bistro!’ to the servers of that time, urging them to ‘urry up with their drinks. The word ‘bistro’ means ‘quickly’ in Russian. Soon, the name caught on and the word bistro, meaning a restaurant that serves quick, delicious meals, was born.”
“I ‘aven’t ‘eard ‘im tell that story,” Annette exclaimed, looking around at all the restaurants. “I’m sure they do good business in the summer. It’s busy now.”
After making one full circuit of the square, Gabrielle led them down Rue Norvins, a street narrower than the last. It was surprising the number of people that sauntered from side to side, eating pastries or spooning ice cream from cups. Gabrielle had always loved this street. It felt like a glimpse into what Paris might have looked like, centuries past. Wordlessly, she led them, dodging small children, prams, and people who would stop in their tracks without notice to point at something that caught their eye.
With a sigh of relief, she darted to the right down Rue des Saules. As a group they slowed their pace.
“You are taking us to La Maison Rose, n’est ce pas?” Annette asked, jogging a little to come alongside her sister. Without waiting for an answer, she turned to Andrew. “It is a pretty pink ‘ouse that became a restaurant on the corner of a winding cobblestone street.” She plucked at Gabrielle’s arm. “Am I right? That is where we are going?”
“Oui,” Gabrielle said shortly. “Do you know any other facts about it?”
“I know that people have bought coffee there for over one hundred years,” she said triumphantly. “And that it was a boarding ‘ouse a long time ago where writers and artists could eat cheaply.”
“Tres bien,” Gabrielle congratulated her. “But I am surprised you do not know the long ‘istory of La Maison Rose. It involves Picasso. The story is too long to tell now, but the famous artist spent much time there, along with others—”
“All this talk of artists has me wishing for a blank canvas and some paint,” Andrew broke in to say, “but the only thing I’ve ever painted was the side of a barn and the tailgate of my old pickup truck. I don’t think that counts.”
Both girls giggled with him until Annette sobered and asked, “What is a…tail gate? And what is it that your truck picks up, exactement?”
Then, they all laughed in earnest. Gabrielle found the situation funny, yet she had no idea what the man was talking about either. A tail gate? But she would not allow him to think she was ignorant of the knowledge, so she kept quiet.
However, before Andrew could answer Annette’s question, they arrived. Stopping on the opposite street corner, they gazed at the pretty little house with its pale pink walls. The name had been written in large script across the front in green to match the wooden shutters and seating. Potted herbs and flowers perched precariously on the sills in front of the latticed windows. It was charming.
“Shall we ‘ave un café?” Annette asked.
“Oui,” said Andrew with obvious pride at using the lone French word.
Choosing one of the tiny, folding tables, Andrew borrowed an extra chair from an empty spot. He waited until the girls were seated on either end before sitting, half of him blocking the sidewalk. Almost immediately, a young girl appeared from inside. Her shoulder-length blonde hair was tied back with an elastic. She wore a simple green and yellow patterned skirt with a bright lemon-coloured t-shirt and carried a washcloth which she used to wipe down the table next to them. After straightening the one remaining chair, she asked them what they would like to drink.
“Bonjour mademoiselle.Troiscafé, s’il vous plait,” Gabrielle said quickly. “Do you want sugar or milk?” she asked Andrew. When he shook his head she turned back to the girl. “Avec du sucre pour moi.”
They sat in the sunshine, sipping their drinks in silence apart from the frantic yapping of a small dog. The creature sounded desperate and in trouble. Gabrielle looked around for the animal, but couldn’t see it anywhere.
Suddenly, Andrew lurched to his feet, the table went flying and coffee splashed across his pant legs. His cup fell, smashing into a thousand pieces. Without a word he flung off his hat and raced across the street, his cowboy boots slipping on the cobblestones. Gabrielle and Annette leaped up behind him. Whirling around, they gasped with horror at the sight they beheld.
The barking they’d heard was coming from the fourth floor of a nearby building. A small black dog dangled by a leash from a window high in the sky. It swung back and forth, short legs pedalling pitifully in the air. The dog’s terrified yelps slowed as the tightening collar around its neck began to asphyxiate him. He had moments to live if that.
Andrew lunged at a railing on the second level of the building, his fingers stretching to gain purchase. Miraculously, he caught hold and swung himself high, his knees and the toes of his boots scrabbling against the brick. He worked himself up with grasping fingers until he stood precariously on the thin ledge. A drainpipe ran down the center of the fa?ade and he slithered along the shelf until he could leap out, his hands and feet snaking around the pipe. Then he began to worm his way up to where the little dog had gone still. The poor creature’s head lopped over to one side. Its body dangled from the cord as great gagging sounds were ripped from its throat.
Andrew leaned sideways, almost perpendicular to the drainpipe he held in one powerful hand. He leaped again, his boots scratching against the red brick wall of the house as he clawed his way across some trailing vines and snagged the wrought iron railings of the third story window. Again he swung, hauling himself upright, his boots teetering on top of the barrier as he raised himself above the protruding lip of the fourth floor.
The dog sagged from the leash beside him, its swaying body banging against Andrew’s shoulder. The pitiful beast’s ragged gagging for air had ceased. Andrew’s hand reached into a back pocket and pulled something out, flicking it open. Gabrielle watched as he reached above his head, gripping the crumbling old ledge with one hand as he stretched skyward with the other and began to saw at the rope that held the dog.
Moments later the dog dropped, free from the leash, but now plummeting to certain death below. If it wasn’t dead already!
But Andrew’s hands changed places in the blink of an eye. He now gripped the wall with the other hand and his free arm snaked out and snatched the little dog in mid-air.
A cheer went up around her. Dazed and shocked, tears ran down Gabrielle’s face and a sob of joy broke from her lips. She looked around to see a crowd of people hugging one another—applauding, whistling, crying, and shouting praises for the brave man. A few people rushed forward to take the little dog from Andrew as he manoeuvred downward. He hung from the lowest window to hand the body of the dog to a tall man with bushy black hair and a handlebar moustache. Then, Andrew jumped to the ground, landing on all fours like a cat before hurrying to the people grouped around the dog.
Gabrielle grabbed Annette’s cold hand. They ran to where Andrew stood, surrounded by people patting him on the back and shouting words of praise in a variety of languages. It didn’t matter if he couldn’t understand their words. The language of joy was universally the same.
When the crowd parted to let them through, she saw that Andrew once again held the little dog, minus the collar and breathing. Its head lay across Andrew’s palms, heaving body supported by his arms and a tiny pink tongue weakly licking his hand as it gazed at him with liquid brown eyes.
A side door of the house burst open, slamming back on its hinges with a bang. An elderly man stepped onto the sidewalk with a cane wobbling in one hand. He tottered toward the crowd who respectfully moved to either side.
“Mon lapin!” he cried, tears streaming down his lined faced as he reached for the shaggy little dog. By now, the dog had recovered enough that it lifted its head and whined. Carefully Andrew shifted the weight of the little dog, so that it could be fondled by its master. The old man ruffled the fur on his dog’s head and stroked his silky ears.
The man looked at Andrew, tears flowing unchecked down his face. “Merci beaucoup Monsieur. Vous êtes un ange.” He said something more in French, then lowered his face to the dog and nuzzled him. His tears made the dog’s fur wet, and his gnarled hands held the dog’s body gently. The man looked at Andrew and spoke in a voice shredded with emotion. “Venez avec moi, s”il vous pla?t.”
There was no need for translation. Andrew appeared to know exactly what was being asked of him. With deliberation, the elderly man turned around and shuffled back to his door. Andrew followed closely behind carrying the small mound of fur.
Moments later he returned, grinning. The knees of his jeans had been torn, his shirt ripped and covered in red dust from the bricks. His hands were bleeding in several places, but Gabrielle had never seen him look so happy.
“Too bad I couldn’t understand what he said,” Andrew said, dusting off his clothes and smearing the blood from his cuts onto his jeans. “But I’m pretty sure the dog’s name is Lapine.” He shook his head. “Something like that anyway. Where’s my hat?”
“He said you were an angel,” Gabrielle said quietly. “And told you he had opened the top window for air, and leashed his dog for a walk before he became distracted with something else. The dog must have slipped through the window, and his leash caught hold.” She sighed deeply. “The old man wasn’t around to notice. He had gone down to his kitchen and only caught sight of the crowd toward the end when you climbed past a window.”
Most of the crowd had dispersed by now, but a few people still lingered. Hesitantly, they stepped forward again to tell Andrew how brave he was and to praise his ability to scale a building, particularly in leather boots. Some words were delivered in English, but Gabrielle and Annette translated the French for him to hear. He brushed it all aside with a broad grin and a wave.
“Mercy,” he said, to everyone who spoke to him. Gabrielle felt too shaken to correct his pronunciation. He was a hero—again. Did it matter that he couldn’t even say one word in French? No, it did not.
She linked arms with her sister who she could also feel trembling as they followed him back to La Maison Rose. They needed to collect his hat, and pay the bill for the smashed mug and discarded coffees.
But a man in a long white apron, who was sweeping up the broken china with an old straw broom, waved away their money. Instead, he grasped Andrew by the shoulders and kissed him on both cheeks.
“Non, non monsieur!Pas d”argent. Vous sauvez le chien de notre client préféré. Merci beaucoup.” He stooped, picked up Andrew’s hat and rubbed it across his ample belly to clean it, his face wreathed in smiles.
Andrew accepted it with a nod of thanks, but looked to Gabrielle for clarification, puzzled at the long tirade of French he couldn’t comprehend.
“He says, he won’t take your money, because you saved the life of their favorite customer’s dog. He is very grateful.” Gabrielle thanked the man, who with further smiles, went back to his cleaning.
Andrew pushed his hat onto his head and ran exploratory fingers around the brim. “My hat seems to be okay,” he said happily, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “Where shall we go now?”
“You really are Superman,” said Annette in a barely audible voice. “Gabby told me what you ‘ad done to help those people in the métro, but it was ‘ard to believe until now.” She shook her head. “The way you scaled that building was incredible.”
Gabrielle felt tears prick her eyes once more. Pride surged in her chest for this man. He was like no one she’d ever known. Stepping to his side she threaded her arm through his and pulled him close. On the other side, Annette did the same. In this way the three of them continued down the street.
“Where are we going?” Andrew asked.
“I don’t know where any of us are going,” Gabrielle said cryptically. Her legs were still a bit wobbly. “I’m feeling a little muddled right now. Let’s just walk and figure it out when we get there.”