The Mute Read online

  He thinks again of Claire, her gorgeous hair a beacon of light, reflecting the sun itself in the early mornings as she hurries past. He wishes he could talk to her. He wonders how she’s coping, how her mother is doing, and if her brother is still making things difficult for them. He yearns to be a part of her life, sharing in her joys and helping her carry her burdens. The despair of never being able to do that for her is almost unbearable. If he had known what was to come, he would have seen her more, made his feelings for her clear, pushed for time with her so that he could sleep easy with the knowledge that he followed his heart and spent every possible minute with her. There were so many things he could have left for later, and spent that time with her instead. Regret throbs through him as the sun slowly starts sinking below the horizon, dragging his hope down with it. The darkening sky is the perfect symbol of his sinking heart.

  He walks around the back of the Louvre where he’s left his bicycle. It’s old and rusted but it does the job. Even though Remy doesn’t mind walking, the bicycle gets him to and from work quicker, and he doesn’t have to exert himself so much. He’s eating now, but he’s still very weak, not taking in nearly as much as he should.

  Carefully he balances his bag on the back of the carrier, with the strap still around his neck and shoulder as he pushes the squeaking wheels into motion. Remy turns down the beige cobbled avenue and pedals along the Seine. He’s just in time to catch the last rays of sunset playing across the water in a symphony of yellows, oranges, and reds, dancing almost like flames on the ripple of the tide. He thinks of Claire. Some days he sees her in everything. It was just another ringing reminder that she could never be his, and he would always be alone with his silent thoughts.

  Even in summer the night takes on an empty chill once the sun disappears. With one hand Remy pulls his coat tighter around him, trying to tuck his bare chin into the collar. He pants from the exertion but it feels good to be active and the summer air is fresh. He also likes the soft glow the street lights cast in the dusk that’s settling in. Electricity has only recently been used for lights in public places, and Remy still feels in awe when he sees a light that doesn’t flicker in the breeze.

  It’s still and unwavering now, interrupted only by the first signs of morning light, or by a power cut that happens now and then. He finds it strange that the roads are so well lighted now. It feels safer because he can see most of the road, but he feels strangely exposed, too.

  The color of his hands on the handles also seems a little alien in the foreign light as he cycles across the Pont Louis Philippe to L’Ile Saint-Louis.

  The Island is the smaller of the two, and located in the middle of the Seine. The stone buildings are narrow and high. This used to be a neighborhood for the wealthier inhabitants of Paris, once dedicated by King Louis VIII himself as a place of prayer and then later a residential area, but they have abandoned it and now the working class has taken it over. Most of Remy’s friends live on the far side of the Rive Droit, all of Paris that stretches along the right bank of the Seine, and because of his living so far away from them all he has always been lonely and isolated. But his apartment is affordable and he keeps it neat and clean. He has also grown dependent on the constant tolling of the bells in Notre Dame, situated further down the river. In his silence, the notation of the hour has become a sort of company in the hours when it isn’t willing him on to live.

  When he’s inside his apartment he carefully unpacks his bag. The bag of francs he earned that day goes into a wooden box he keeps under the cot he sleeps on. He carefully hangs the hat next to his coat. His boots are arranged next to each other on the floor by the door. On the table next to the hearth, where he makes his fires, he places a little black bag of thick material, and sighs. Remy lights a candle--gas and electricity are still only in public places--and takes a half-eaten loaf of bread from a cupboard in the corner, along with a piece of cheese. The small flame dances a little pattern in the dark as Remy slowly takes bite after bite, reflecting on who he has become, swallowing each small mouthful with difficulty.

  * * *

  With his hands in his coat pockets, Remy wandered through the streets of Paris. His work day was done, and he was tired, but he didn’t feel like going home just yet. The evening air was cool and fresh, and the wide avenues of Paris were dimly lit. The glow of electricity hung around every lamp post like a halo, softly reaching out into the darkness.

  He whistled softly, and in his pocket the money he’d been paid for his hard labor jingled along harmoniously. Remy wasn’t a man who lived under illusions. He knew what his life was like, and what it would probably be like forever. The facts were that he had no education, and that meant that the only way forward was the same way he’d come. Before, it had been all right. He had been able to take care of himself without much difficulty if he saved carefully. He’d also found that it was easier when he didn’t drink away all his money in the tavern the way the others did. But what of a family? The life he had was not the life he would want to offer to a woman. If he found a woman he loved, someone like Claire, perhaps, and wanted to have a family, the life he had now just wouldn’t do. Women were delicate things, and they needed to be treated right. They needed to be given the right things. He wanted to be able to give someone a better life. He just didn’t know how.

  Lost in his thoughts, Remy didn’t see her until she was right in front of him. The chill in the evening air had flushed her cheeks and her curls were disheveled from the wind. She was breathtakingly beautiful.

  “Something has happened!” she was out of breath, “There is something in the news, Le Temps printed something important but I don’t know what it is.”

  “Where did you hear?”

  “One of the servants heard mention of it but she couldn’t read to find out more. Word travels fast. It’s about the tower.”

  “I’ll try find out what it is. Would you like to come with me?” he looked at her expectantly, hoping she would join him.

  “It’s all so exciting! But I’m sorry, I can’t. I have to get home to my mother, she is not well and I don’t want to leave her alone. Will you find me later, and tell me when you know? I can’t bare the suspense!” Her eyes were shiny with curiosity and excitement.

  Remy smiled at her. She reached out and squeezed both his hands in hers before turning around and disappearing into one of the narrower streets.

  He made his way to the tavern. He was sure he would find Francois there. If anyone knew what was going on, it would be him. As he pushed through the tavern door he already heard the chorus of murmurs and cheers coming from inside. Remy stopped to stamp the dirt from his feet and moved forward while taking off his coat. It was hot and stuffy inside with more people and more smoke. It was hard to make out anything with them talking over each other. One of the workers stood on the bar, waving a copy of Le Temps around, chiming and chanting and working everyone up.

  “We knew this was coming, eh? What did I tell you! Paris will not go down without a fight!”

  Beer jugs were defiantly raised into the air and the crowd cheered him on.

  Remy scanned the crowd and quickly found Francois, throwing his fist up in the air and shouting. He pushed through the throng of people.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Remy!” Francois beamed and clapped him on the back. “What did I tell you? The Artist Protest I told you about; they signed a petition and printed it in the newspaper! Forty seven of the finest poets, writers and artists of Paris. Forty seven! Can you believe it! Leon there just read it out to us a minute ago. You missed it! They’re asking this outrage to stop. They don’t want the tower ruining the face of Paris with such a deformed creation of engineering.”

  “People are serious about its removal, I see. How simple-minded they are.” Remy sighed darkly to himself.

  “And what makes you so much better than the rest of us, Monsieur? Our opinions are just as valuable as yours, even if they are not the same.”

  “It’s
just a tower Francois. Think about it.” He had made the comment more to himself than to Francois, but had obviously said it a little too loudly.

  “I do think about it. We all do, that’s why there is a protest. This is not just about a fair, putting up something nice to remember. You don’t see the bigger picture. This is all about the government, and how they’re not letting the people speak for themselves.”

  “Nonsense. This has nothing to do with the government. Francois, you see a government concern in everything. It isn’t necessary to go mad over something that is not even meant to last.”

  By that time Francois was in a huff. Remy wasn’t scared of him, he would be able to overpower him any time, but he didn’t like getting into arguments with friends. In times such as these people would be better off if they stood together, and by standing together, he meant for a cause greater than something like a work of art, or engineering, or whatever they decided it was.

  The atmosphere was electric as everyone got swooped up by the notion that the great evil called the Eiffel Tower needed to be destroyed. After a while, as alcohol kept on flowing in celebration, the cheers and shouts turned into a jolly roar, with some men linking up and singing as it became impossible to have a conversation. Not that it really mattered. Clearly Francois was no longer interested in listening.

  Remy shrugged his shoulders and strolled out of the tavern. He didn’t have much of a passion for the tower, but he wasn’t against it at all, and it bothered him how much animosity arose because of it. There were so many ways that life could be bettered if anyone got even half as serious about making a real difference as they were about this ridiculous thing. But Remy knew how his people were. They were easily drawn into something as contagious as an outrage, but not courageous enough to follow it through. Not for something simple, and not for something serious. That kind of thinking had belonged to their fathers.

  He thought of looking Claire up and telling her the news as promised, but he decided against it, feeling that calling on a lady at this hour might be frowned upon. He wasn’t in the best of moods anyway. He was also not sure exactly where to find her. He knew the area she lived in, but not exactly where, and he wasn’t about to go knocking on doors in the cold asking for her. So he blew hot air on his hands, rubbed them together to try warm them up, and walked home.

  The next morning Remy got up earlier than usual and made his way back to the far side of town. Because he stayed on L’Ile Saint-Louis, he ran into only a handful of workers every day. He had decent chats with them on the odd occasion, but Claire wasn’t one of them. She lived close to the tavern on the other side of the Rive Droit. He wanted to speak to her. He definitely didn’t want to have to wait for another couple of weeks to pass before he got to see her again, and he wanted to be the one to tell her the news. He liked feeding her excitement. Remy could watch her light up about it all day.

  When he got to the avenue where they’d spoken the night before he hesitated, unsure which way to turn, but she came walking down the street toward him before he had the time to make up his mind.

  “Remy,” she smiled, “what a wonderful surprise! What brings you here?”

  “I.. ah.. I was in the area.”

  “You were in the area? When at this time of day you should be building the tower?” she laughed. “It is no accident that I’m running into you on the street, Monsieur.”

  Remy could feel his cheeks flush red under his beard.

  “No, you caught me, mademoiselle, I was looking for you.”

  She flashed one of her brilliant smiles and turned her eyes to her fiddling hands for a second before she looked back at him. Her liquid eyes seemed browner than he thought they could get as she waited for him to carry on.

  “I actually came to tell you the news from last night,” he said, running his hand through his coarse hair and then stroking his beard. “There’s a petition in the paper. An artist protest.”

  “Against the tower, I heard.”

  “Oh, you know already.”

  “Yes, my brother came home last night and told us the news. He heard at the tavern.”

  “Ah, that’s where I went too.”

  He felt jealous that he wasn’t the one who brought her the news.

  “It was very kind of you, monsieur, to look for me, and fill me in. Merci.”

  He smiled at her.

  “I have to get to work. They’ll start construction soon and I can’t be late.”

  “No, of course. Have a good day, Remy.”

  They parted and walked their separate ways, but he stopped and turned.

  “Claire!” he called after her, “would you like a promenade along the Seine this evening? Now that it is not so cold, the sunset is something to enjoy.”

  “I think I would like that very much.” Her expression seemed excited, which pleased him.

  “Until tonight then. Shall I come for you here?”

  “No, I work close to the tower. I will meet you there when the sun sets. Adieu!”

  When the workers received the signal that the day’s work was done, she was there. The bright orange light coming from the rays of the setting sun enveloped her in color. Her eyes seemed darker and her caramel hair almost glowed as it framed her face and spun into a tight bun at the back of her head. Remy couldn’t help but notice his own dirt from the long day of work in comparison to her flawless skin. The clothes she was wearing were simple peasant clothes, but she wore it well, taking pride in being neat and clean.

  She smiled at the sight of him, and as he approached he dusted his hands on his pants repeatedly before squeezing hers.

  “It was good of you to meet me, mademoiselle, you’ve lightened up my mood.”

  “It was good of you to invite me, monsieur, but please call me Claire.”

  “Alright, Claire, excuse my filthy clothes, I haven’t had the time to do anything about all the dust and grease.”

  “No matter, we are here to watch the sunset, no? It will set regardless, and I don’t mind the dust on your shoes.”

  Her eyes sparkled and a smile played around the delicate corners of her mouth. She straightened her skirt with her hands unsure of what else to say. He offered her his arm.

  “Shall we?”

  They walked along the river in silence for a while, Claire lost in the light rays that the sunset cast across the water, dancing a dance of flickers across the swell. She was so small next to him, the top of her head barely reaching his shoulder. She was like a delicate doll, he thought, made to perfection and then accidentally dropped in a part of town she didn’t belong. He could easily imagine her in one of those ruffled dresses and petticoats he saw the ladies wear, with lace white gloves and a parasol, and a sky of blue encircling her feet as the dress swished with every step. She was too good for the worker’s class.

  As the sun dipped below the horizon, the lamps around them flickered to light and Remy was pulled back to reality, with the dust on his shoes and her not-sky-blue dress in the grey Paris dusk. They stopped and looked at strange lights together.

  “I’m still trying to get used to them,” she said, holding up her hand as if trying to hold the light in her palm, “I know it’s been a while now, but I still keep waiting for it to flicker into darkness when the wind blows. It’s so steady.”

  “I know. I wonder how long it will take for them to reach the homes. Perhaps not for us for a while still. But for the upper class?”

  “I don’t think it will take very long. We are in an era that sees change almost every day.” She opened and closed her hand, her slender fingers trying to curl around the light.

  “We are. Paris has changed so much since I was a child. I remember when they were building everywhere.” He strongly fought the urge to wrap his hand around hers and pull her closer to him. He felt as though a magnetic force was pulling him closer to her, but he had to resist.

  “They’ve made it a lot better.” She was looking slightly down and away from him.

  “Bett
er, yes, in a way. We don’t get so sick anymore; it’s cleaner now. But they changed it for war.”

  “They changed it so that we could win the wars.”

  “And look how that has worked out.”

  She laughed. “One day, Remy, I will leave.”

  “Where will you go?” His heart was sinking. Remy already knew that life would be empty without her.

  “To the country, perhaps, see if I can make a living there. Find a new life, maybe find love.” Her eyes flicked up at him and then quickly away.

  “Love? You can find love in Paris. It is romantic here. The city is breathing with new life.” He was afraid he sounded a little too desperate with that response. But he was starting to not care.

  “I don’t see it that way,” and she looked at him with eyes that suggested she’d seen too much, that the doll he imagined her to be had been dropped into much more than just the wrong part of town. As delicate as she was, nothing in her big brown eyes suggested that she was fragile. He wanted to draw her into his arms and protect her. She had clearly been through too much and it made him want to murder anyone who had ever caused her frustration.

  They walked on, and she told him of her life growing up; of how her father died in a mass execution when the workers formed the Paris Commune and fought against the government. She’d grown up with her father and her brother fighting with vigor for the concept of a democracy, standing up with thousands of other workers and trying to overthrow the power in Paris, fighting to make a point.

  “Paris is full of war. That’s all that I have known. If it’s not France fighting Prussia, it is Paris fighting France. Even after my father’s death, my brother would not stop. His fighting makes my mother ill because she’s worried that he will get himself killed in the same way. He pushes and pushes, further than what makes me comfortable. There are murmurs of dissent about the tower too, many are saying that it will only scar the beauty of Paris, but my brother and a group of his friends are convinced it’s political. That something must be done.”