Paid and Loving Eyes

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

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Paris is beautiful. I mean it. Oh, the traffic’s noisy—everybody’s water-cooled motor horns on max for no reason—and a city’s but a city. Yet it surprised me. Small. I’d expected something massive like, say, New York or London. Paris gets to you by cleverly putting all its bits within reach. Unbelievably, it’s a walker’s city. And its charm isn’t synthetic polyurethane gloss; it’s natural. Sweet yet protein, so to speak.

They, my golden pair, booked us in at a small hotel by the simple process of screeching to a heart-in-the-gob stop at the front door and strolling in, ready to remonstrate with whoever came forward to remonstrate. The booking-in process wore me out. Guy remonstrated, Veronique remonstrated in a crosstalk act straight from music hall. I got an upstairs room. There were only about fifteen rooms in the whole place.

Nothing to unpack, I opened the window and was captivated. The famed Paris skyline really truly exists! Jumbled roofs, chimneys, windows with tiny balconies. Church spires here and there, television aerials, wires, a splash of washing, pots flowering on sills, now and again a flat roof, an old man having a sly kip, children skipping to some chant. Beautiful. I turned, smiling, and jumped. Veronique was standing silently behind me. I hoped she wasn’t one of those stealthies.

“What do you see, Lovejoy?”

“Eh?” She looked sullen, brittler than usual, narked as hell. “Never been before, love. Didn’t know what to expect —”

“Decadent enough for you, Paris?”

A glance out showed me the same charm. A woman across the way was seeing to her pretty window box. “Looks fine. I’d thought skyscrapers, black glass boxes filled with bankers—”

“Decadence!” She glared past me. “It needs thorough cleansing, Lovejoy! Of parasites that drag her down.”

Well, there’s not a lot you can say to this gunge. I’d been wondering how far it was to Monet’s garden, but didn’t risk asking while she was in this black mood. I couldn’t see many parasites, but no good arguing with a bird.

“You don’t see, do you?” Baffled, I started to edge past her into the room. “The tourist’s vision.” She spoke hate-filled.

“Look, Veronique. We’re tired. That hell of a drive—”

She grabbed me and with ominous strength dragged me to stand looking across the street. “Calm? Tranquil, Lovejoy? Pretty? Can you see Notre Dame from here?”

“Dunno.” I was only trying to be helpful, please the silly cow, but she started to shake.

“You know what I see, Lovejoy? I see unemployment—French jobs stolen by foreigners! They pour in to bleed our money, give nothing back! To France: The Last Land Before the Sea!”

“Really?” Polite, I managed not to yawn. These days it’s politically upright to grouse about this kind of thing.

“Unemployment! Misery, resentment! You think you have strikes across the Channel? Not like we have strikes! We have more grievances! Recently, every French port was closed. Nurses on strike this week, all public transport in France next. Farmers riot. Our…” She struggled over the word, spat as she said it: ”… autobahns are blocked by fighting lorry drivers. The airports are in uproar, barricades everywhere. Pretty, the view?”

“Yes,” I said simply, because it was.

“You are determined to be stupid.” She let go, stepped away. I’d been close enough to be intrigued by the faint division across her hairline, but looked away.

“I can’t understand,” I suggested lamely, but thinking, what does a girl this lovely want to wear a wig for? “I think France is bonny. Political things blow over. They always do.”

“We French sink under a morass of foreigners! Frenchness is losing its identity. You know Romanian roulette, Lovejoy?”

“Russian?”

“Fool! Romanian immigrants here market imported Romanian women! Thousands are shipped in each year! It’s obscene!”

She sounded likely to kill anybody who disagreed. I hesitated. Change the nationality, you can collect a million such moans in any bar anywhere in the world. Every nation’s at it, same old grumbles against governments, changes, taxes. It signifies nothing. I can’t honestly see the point of shoving the clock back to some Good Old Days. We all know they never existed. What was wrong with France? I thought it superb, fetching, full of interest. They even have a Mushroom Museum in the Loire Valley. Ever since Louis the Fourteenth the Sun King ordered mushrooms, France has—

“It’s a pity,” I tried soothing. She was still trembling. Was it rage? “But there’s nothing you can do.”

She smiled a crooked smile, oblique with vile meaning. Her hand stroked my face. I didn’t like it—unusual, this—and drew away. “Oh, yes there is, babee,” she said.

Just then Guy called from the next room, and she left. I shivered as the door closed. I never have a watch, so I had to estimate a lapse of five minutes. I went and knocked.

“It’s only me,” I said to the handle.

Veronique opened, let the door swing while she returned to the bed. Guy was sprawled out of his skull, warbling incomprehensibly. She was already naked, reeling. On the bedside table, a couple of tinfoils, spilled white powder, a tiny mirror, a syringe. A smarting pong filled the air. She was giggling as she tumbled spread-eagle over Guy, whose hands moved over her. I swallowed, backed out.

“Sorry,” I stammered. “Excusez-moi,’s’il vous plait.”

“Come back, Lovejoy!” Veronique carolled. They erupted in laughter as I meekly crept away. “I can handle two!”

Aye, I thought, shaken. I’d only gone to see if they’d mind if I went for a stroll. Druggies. I had two crazed junkies on my hands. The charming skyline of roofs, all colours and textures, was still there. It was coming dusk. I stood at my window to watch it. The distant roar of traffic reassured me that this aerial stillness was founded on the brisk bustling life of a stunning city below. Just my frigging luck, I thought bitterly. My exquisite assistants were zooming deranged through some stratosphere powered by illegal chemical toxins. The gentle “antique silver” job had become a major scam, with loony political overtones, and I was no longer a mere courier. I was the main player. Which told me what Colonel Marimee’s logic would be if the enterprise plunged to failure—I’d cop it. Guy and Veronique would blame me, of course. The pattern was already established by the Sweet episode. Marimee had promised me sanctions and penalties, all because that golden pair had been late. Hindsight, blindsight.

This scam had a bad odour. I needed a friendly face, the sort I was used to. The kind, in fact, I could depend on for absolute unreliability. I went for a walk on my own authority, to clear the cobwebs and mentally pick my way through a selection of friends back in East Anglia.

Paris has it. Really, honestly has it. Oh, I’d slowly become aware that France looks with a vague—sometimes not so vague—mistrust at its capital, same as Italians regard Rome. But she has a quality to life, and quality’s rare. And never cheap.

Bravely risking all, I had a coffee in a small nosh bar. The people chatted, smoked. The traffic snarled away outside. Lights were showing. Rain was coming on. You get a kind of osmosis in such places. Even before you know the layout, nostalgia seeps in and you start remembering things you never even knew, about streets, names of squares, statues and buildings. That you’ve never seen them before hardly matters. They stroll alive out of your subconscious. God knows how they got there in the first place, but that’s unimportant. It’s the way civilization is. It pervades, doesn’t need highlighting.

With some surprise, I noticed how mixed a folk the Parisians were. And the accents! Becoming attuned to cadence, I was now able to pick out some differences. And the garb! There seemed a number of North Africans about—or was I wrong, and they were older inhabitants than most? I definitely heard a snatch of Arabic. The serving lad sounded Greek, and two artisans covered in a fine dust were Italians. A cosmopolitan city.

Grinning like an ape—smiles are never wasted, when you’re a stranger in a strange land—I left, walked down to the corner. Greatly daring, I returned and walked to the other corner. Quite a large square, two trees barely managing, some seats, a couple of cafes. Starry Starry Night, with some minuscule motors occasionally racing through and vehicles parked in improbable spots. I stood a minute, rehearsing school words, then went for it and triumphantly bought some notepaper and envelopes. I was really narked that the serving lady served me without noticing my huge cultural achievement. I sat and scribbled a letter home. A wave of homesickness swamped me, but I stayed firm and finished it.

Then I went out, found a pay phone, painstakingly followed the directory-enquiries saga. The phones are quite good in France, unlike everywhere else except Big Am. I got through the trunk dialling in one, to my utter astonishment. Even phoning the next village is enough to dine out on in East Anglia, and here I was

“Hello? Can I speak to Jan Fotheringay, please?”

“Who is it?” The same bird, Lysette.

“Lovejoy. It’s very urgent. Hurry, please.”

“He’s resting.” God, she was on the defensive. I might have been… well, whoever.

“Listen, Lysette. I’m on Jan’s side. He knows that.”

By the time he came on I was frantic, seconds ticking away. “Jan? Lovejoy. Jan, if I ask for you to come to France, as translator, adviser, whatever, will you?”

“I’m still not mobile, Lovejoy.” He sounded worn out. Just when I needed the lazy self-pitying malingering sod. Aren’t folk selfish?

“Jan. It’s serious. You know it is, and getting worse by the hour. You won’t be allowed to survive. I won’t either. Mania stalks out here, mate.” I gave him a second, and yelled for a decision. The pillock, buggering about when I was… “Eh?”

“You’re right, Lovejoy. Where?”

The hotel, I told him, but he’d have to come immediately because I’d probably be there for only a day or two more. I’d leave some message if he didn’t quite make it in time. Like a fool, I babbled profuse thanks as the line cut. For God’s sake, I was trying to save him too, wasn’t I? I seethed indignation thinking about it.

My second call took longer, but fewer words. I said there was a letter in the post, containing my best guesses. “Positively no obligation,” I finished lamely, the salesman’s lying assurance. “Help me, pal.” I tried to limit the pause, but it went on and on until my voice got it together. “Please,” it managed. What a lousy rotten word that is.

Hoteltime. Maybe by now my golden pair would be unstoned. Did people say destoned, or is that what you do to plums? How long did junkies take to come down? I really needed Mercy Mallock, sort these sods out with her karate.

There are occasional non-French motors around in Paris. So I wasn’t at all concerned when a car bearing a striking resemblance to Gerald Sweet’s motor trundled out of the square as I moved away from the phone by the two trees. I mean, a car is a car, right? I was so definitely unconcerned that I made a long detour, just proving how casual I was.

Back in the hotel, I showed me and the world that Lovejoy was cool by peering down from the window at the passing cars for at least three hours before turning in. I didn’t switch the light off, because I’d not switched it on. Good heavens, can’t tourists tour? I’d known the Sweets were heading for Paris, hadn’t I? So they were here, exactly as expected. So what? God, but my mind’s ridiculous. Sometimes it gets on my nerves, bothering me hour after hour with inessentials. I didn’t sleep that night.

Seven o’clock, I was downstairs in a panic having that nonbreak-fast breakfast they give you, one measly crescentic pastry and a cup of coffee. It was urgent to do something in antiques that looked really legitimate, even if it never is.

Which means auctions. It’s practically the definition.