The Maze Read online

  He hesitates to think it, but there it is in the mirror. This may be the best he’s ever looked. It is the blackest justaucorps he owns, made of the finest cloth, and with breeches that match perfectly. Another fine piece of tailoring by Pierre Kharlamov. His last, as it has turned out. Yet what better outfit to wear for a day such as this? A tribute to the man. A true craftsman to the end.

  Thomas takes the brush to his short brown hair. He’ll soon need to have it trimmed again. Today’s wig will be the silver one with the dozens of tight little curls on either side. He thinks it his most elegant, especially with the black silk bag at the back and the solitaire to complete it in front. It suits the formal occasion, as do the new shoes with the silver buckles. The lace ruffle of his chemise, however, may be too much. No, Thomas decides, it’ll do after all. He’ll select his hat after he’s paid his dues to Marguerite.

  He reaches for the small bottle of orange water. He gives himself a couple of squirts, one on each side. Back to the mirror, Thomas looks into his own brown eyes. Yes, he knows there will have to be a period of mourning, of course there will. But that’s for the public realm. The private world can and should be something else. Thomas winks at his reflection, which sends the wink right back.

  He opens the door and steps into the hall.

  “Monsieur,” says the maid, stopping to curtsey to her mistress’s husband as he passes her in the hall.

  “Ah, Simone.” It is getting easier to meet her in the apartment. And well it should, after the nearly four years the little woman has been back in Marguerite’s service. But Simone is still a reminder from Marguerite that Thomas’s past actions haunt him yet. “Good day, little one.”

  “And to you, Monsieur.” Simone curtseys once more.

  Thomas finds another smile. He supposes he should not have said “little one.” Oh well, it’s done. He knows little Simone would like nothing better than to even the score between them, but he’s not going to give her that opportunity.

  —

  Marguerite sees Thomas come into the salon with an especially pleased look on his face. He’s wearing the black outfit his wife knows he adores, even though she is not overly fond of it herself. She prefers almost any other colour in the world to black. And look at those shoes! The silver buckle is huge. She sometimes thinks her husband would wear the red heels of the royal family if he could.

  “Where are you off to today, my husband?”

  “The left bank, Marguerite. It’s the funeral for my tailor.”

  “Oh yes, so you told me I think. But a funeral for a tailor? Do you really have to go?”

  Thomas’s face remains gravely serious. “The man was a skilled artisan. Best tailor in the city, or one of them. He’s the one who has made all my best clothes these past few years. I owe him this final respect.”

  “Oh, of course you’re right. Well done, my husband. It often strikes me that there’s not enough respect given to the many artisans upon whom we all rely. Very good. A Russian, was he not, your tailor?”

  “He was. Pierre. Pierre Kharlamov. I’ll offer my condolences to the widow Kharlamov after the service at Saint-Médard.”

  “Why, of course. That is correct. And do you think you should make a donation to the church? For masses to be said for the repose of the man’s immortal soul?”

  “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “I think you should. It would be a comfort to the widow. I know that for a fact. It was for me, some years ago.”

  “Well then, I shall.”

  “Is she Russian?”

  “Who’s that?”

  “The widow.”

  “Oh no. I mean, I don’t think so. She does not have the same accent.”

  “As aged as the tailor?”

  “The widow?”

  “Quite.”

  “No, but a certain age just the same.”

  Marguerite nods. It’s a sombre truth that sooner or later everyone ends up in the same place. “Do tell me about the service, Thomas, when you get back. Will you do that for me?”

  “Of course, I will. Did you ... do you want to come along?”

  “You’re sweet to ask, but no, as you can see, my leg is not good today.”

  “I understand.”

  “But it’s a good thing you’re doing here. Showing respect for the old tailor and his widow.” She feels emotion welling into her voice. She raises a hand to her cheek, near the eye, just in case.

  “I thought it was correct. I must go if I’m not to be late.” Thomas bows deeply to his wife and leaves the salon.

  Marguerite nods at the door after it closes. Yes, she thinks, she was right to give her man another chance. He is becoming the good man she thought he might be back when she married him, despite the naysayers who said he was too young. She just had to give him some time, enough to put the selfishness of youth behind him. Wouldn’t her cousin Madame Dufour be surprised to see how Thomas has matured?

  —

  By the time Thomas arrives outside the tailor’s shop on rue Mouffetard, the area in front of the building is already crowded with mourners. He sees it will be impossible to get anywhere close to Hélène before, during or after the service. The grieving widow will still be inside, upstairs, where the coffin holding Pierre’s remains will have spent the past two nights. Had it not been for the folded-over handwritten note a Saint-Médard neighbourhood boy brought to Thomas at the magistrate judge’s office two days ago – a mere three words, Pierre est mort, printed in Hélène’s child-like hand – he would not have known about the death at all.

  Thomas looks down at his appearance. His new shoes are soiled and his fine black breeches have absorbed a few splatters from passing carriages and carts. Nothing he can do about that. Thinking back to the note, it occurs to Thomas that he really should teach Hélène how to write better than she does. And, for that matter, to read. If only they were not so pressed for time. It seems it’s not reading and writing on his mind when they are together. He feels the smile his wit brings.

  He presses closer to the crowd of mourners in the street. Everyone is waiting for the bells of Saint-Médard to ring, signalling the start of the sequence of events. Thomas cannot help but listen in on two old fellows as they whisper back and forth only inches from his ears. They are artisans, he can see, but he cannot judge their particular trade from their grizzled faces.

  “Has it made, she does.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Widow woman.”

  “Why say you that?”

  “A widow!”

  “True enough. Widows are the luckiest of all.”

  “There’s the church bell,” the older of the two says in a loud voice. He lifts his chin. “Silence please. Here they come.”

  All eyes go to the large crucifix coming out the door of the tailor shop. It’s carried by a young man. He must be an assistant to the local parish priest. Next comes the coffin carried by a half dozen men. All strangers to Thomas, burly types, faces serious about their task. They maintain the wooden box containing Pierre’s cadaver at shoulder height. A few drops of water are coming from the box. That would be from the ice required to keep the body cold over the past two days.

  After the coffin comes the priest. A sad-looking man casting blessings left and right. Next, at last, is Hélène. Her face is shrouded with a veil, and she’s slightly stooped. Despite the sag in her shoulders, she’s walking with a dignity that brings a smile of quiet pride to Thomas’s face.

  “That’s her, isn’t it?” A fresh round of whispers begins between the two artisans.

  “Can’t see the face, but must be. Canny, that one.”

  “How so?”

  “Marry old Pierre? Gets the shop. No one else.”

  “Right you are.”

  “Know I am. Another canny widow, I say.”

  Thomas pull
s back. He’s tempted to speak up in Hélène’s defence, but steps away instead. This is not the time or place, or the kind of people one argues with. As he stands apart from the crowd and watches the procession take its slow turn toward the church of Saint-Médard, he mulls over what he just overheard. It had not occurred to him that as Pierre Kharlamov’s widow and only surviving heir, Hélène is now the owner of one of the better – and perhaps profitable – tailor shops on the Left Bank.

  —

  Thomas is no sooner through the door than Marguerite comes out of the salon into the foyer. It’s a halting advance, given the condition of her leg. Yet her face is expectant in a way he has not seen in a while. She reverently clasps her hands before her chest.

  “Was it a comfort? To the widow?”

  Thomas blinks to recall their earlier conversation. Oh yes, he was to purchase masses for the repose of Pierre’s soul. Marguerite’s interest in the funeral for a man she never met comes from her imagining the predicament of the widow left behind. It touches some part of her heart. Thomas assumes a disappointed face.

  “It was very crowded, too crowded to speak directly with the widow. Nor to buy the masses. I’ll have to go back, I guess.”

  “You must. And don’t just speak with the priest. Express your condolences to the old Russian widow. Would you do that?”

  Thomas cannot resist the tiniest of smiles. “You’re very kind-hearted, my wife.” He bestows a soft kiss upon her brow. “Now, can I help you back into the salon? You really should keep off that leg.”

  “I know I’ve been a burden to you lately, Thomas. I’m sorry. But do go see the widow. I know she’ll appreciate it. She will.”

  “As you suggest, Marguerite.”

  —

  With his index finger made wet by his tongue, Thomas traces a circle twice round the closer of Hélène’s nipples. Then he pushes gently off the nipple’s tip, wets the finger again and moves on to do the same on the other one.

  “Still finding them fascinating after all this time?” She gives a bemused eyebrow raise.

  “Little raspberries.”

  “You have raspberries of your own, but I bet you don’t give them so much attention.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  Thomas props himself up on an elbow. It looks like he intends to lean over and do with his lips what he’s just done with his finger.

  “I think that’s enough.” Hélène gently pushes his face away from her chest. She’s had enough. They’ve accomplished what they came to do and that is that.

  She sits up and places two firm hands upon his bare shoulders. She directs him to lie all the way down. She wants them side by side, shoulder to shoulder on the narrow bed.

  “You’re not much for play for the sake of play, are you, woman? You know, there’s a sublime pleasure in touching, kissing, smelling the one you love. Why, another bit of time and I just might be able—” He sends a hand sliding down the flat of her belly toward her most tender spot.

  “No.” Hélène coils away from his hand and stands up beside the bed. She gives him what she hopes is a stern look. But it gives way to a chuckle. “Look, I have to go. I don’t want any of the neighbours, or my journeyman tailor, talking about how long I take for lunch.”

  “They understand a person needs a couple of hours to rest and digest.”

  “Is that what we just did? Rest and digest?”

  “We have more than one appetite.”

  “It seems we do. Where’s my chemise? I have to get dressed.”

  Thomas locates her chemise in the bedclothes and tosses it to her. She sees his disappointment as she pulls it over her head. It’s nice to be admired, though she knows she no longer has the slender figure of the girl she once was. Then again, neither does he. Eating three meals a day every day and sitting in an office as he does has started to add a softness the younger Thomas would easily have walked off.

  She likes the feel of her chemise. It’s the finest linen she’s ever treated herself to. She feels like she can afford such quality since she has come into Pierre’s modest inheritance.

  Hélène walks over the window, stocking in her hand. “I like being able to see the top of Notre-Dame from our room.”

  Thomas pulls on his chemise and comes over to where she stands. He makes contact with her as he looks out as well. The twin towers are glowing in the sun.

  “It’s why I chose the room.”

  “Really? You surprise me. Well done.”

  Thomas shakes his head. “I didn’t check the window view. Though I did ask for a top floor room. And since all the top floors in this city have fine views, I guess I deserve some credit after all.”

  Hélène reaches up under his chemise and gives him a squeeze. “Your credit is good with me.”

  “All right then.” Thomas reaches out to pull her close.

  “No, no.” Hélène scuttles away. “A joke. Help me with my things, will you?”

  Thomas snorts, but gives a nod.

  The next few minutes are spent putting on the clothes they were wearing when they arrived. Thomas helps her with whatever she asks. He laces the strings and pulls her stays tight. It’s only after all is done – and the mirror consulted to make sure wigs and accoutrements are straight and Hélène’s cheeks suitably rouged – that she touches Thomas on the forearm. They are standing near the door.

  “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

  “By that long face I’d say it’s serious. You know we’re too far from your parish for anyone around here to know who you are or that you’re meeting with me. Remember, I have to be careful to keep it from my side as well.”

  Hélène laughs. “Your side? You mean Marguerite?”

  “And Simone and Marie-Claude. And anyone else who would tell. There would be disappointment if I were found out.”

  “I don’t think disappointment is the word. But no, that’s not it.” She takes a breath. “I— I’m selling the shop.”

  Thomas leans back, apparently startled. “The tailor shop?”

  Hélène nods that yes, that’s the one – the one and only shop she owns.

  “I guess that makes sense. A full-fledged tailor might want to buy the place. Or maybe even your journeyman. Maybe he’s ready to move up. Location’s good.”

  “That’s what I thought. But Thomas....”

  Mumbling to himself, Thomas does not catch that Hélène has not finished yet.

  “Three months since the funeral,” he mutters, hunching his shoulders, “no one will think ill of you for taking this step. It’ll be all right. Someone will come along.”

  “Well, that’s just it. It’s done, Thomas. A tailor from a few streets over approached me a few days ago. Yesterday I agreed. He takes possession in a month.”

  “The sale? It’s done?”

  “It is.”

  “And you kept this ... you did this by yourself?”

  Hélène covers her mouth with her hand to hide her smile.

  “I could have helped.” Thomas holds out a hand.

  “I didn’t want to involve you, given our ... situations.”

  “No, of course.” Thomas walks around in a tight circle, coming back to stand before Hélène. “So, we need to find you a new place.”

  Hélène hears herself send a jet of air out her nose. “That’s the other thing, Thomas.” She reaches out and lays a hand lightly upon his cheek. “I ... I’m leaving.”

  “You’re leaving?” Thomas’s cheeks ride high. There are laugh wrinkles, yet it’s not laughter she sees in his eyes. It’s bewilderment. “Leaving what? Leaving where?”

  Hélène tries to shrug, without success. She might as well just say it. “Thomas, I’m leaving Paris.”

  “But ... but Paris is the centre. The centre of everything.”

  Thomas makes the shap
e of a ball with his hands. But when he sees Hélène smile, a near laugh at what he’s done, he flattens his hands together like he’s just crushed something.

  Hélène reaches out for the handle to the door. “Who’s that friend of yours? The one you write to in Londres? Gaillardin?”

  “Gallatin, Jean Gallatin.”

  “That’s the one. I’m going to do what he did. Once I get the money from the sale of the shop, I’m going to Londres.”

  “Londres,” Thomas repeats in what he hears is a small voice. He stares at the floor. He didn't notice how narrow and worn the boards are until now. He looks up at Hélène. “The English pronounce it Lon-don, not Londres.”

  “Lon-don. I see. Without the r.”

  “That’s right. Listen, Gallatin is my friend, not yours, Hélène.” Thomas wonders why his voice is sounding so weak. It’s like it’s coming from someone other than himself.

  “I know that. I’m not going especially to find your friend. People say there are thousands of French in England. Even our old friend Voltaire lived there for a long while.”

  Thomas makes a face at the mention of Voltaire.

  “I do ... speak ... their English,” Hélène says haltingly.

  Thomas leans back. His eyes go wide. “I am a surprise,” he says, trying out some English of his own. He has read some English books, including those sent him by Gallatin, but rarely does he speak the language out loud. “How do you do ... how did you do?” he asks.

  “Un garçon ... an English boy and his père,” Hélène continues in a mix of English and French. “At the auberge in Évreux. We— vous savez. Later, à Paris, when I was ... accepting men ... il y avait un particulier, a regular he call himself. In the ambassade d’Angleterre he was.”

  Thomas takes in a breath. “I see,” he says in English.

  Hélène laughs. “We not just—” She glances toward the bed. “He like talk almost as much.” She shrugs. “Un beau smile. That’s how my English learns.”

  Thomas rolls his eyes.

  Hélène switches back to French. “Look, I have to leave.” She turns the handle and pulls. The door comes open half a foot. “It’ll be after two by the time I get back. My journeyman never asks, but I know he wonders where I go when I come here. The neighbours as well, I’m sure. I have my loyal widow’s reputation to protect.”