Crossings, A Thomas Pichon Novel Read online

  “Trim Street this one’s called, the first to be redone. Hard to believe, but before the turn of the century the area hereabouts was very mean. Elegance was not a description anyone—”

  As an interrogator the Swiss was good. Her questions wore Thomas down. No first response was ever good enough. She ferreted out a lot. If Élisabeth Cauvin were a man, she’d make as good a lawyer as any he ever saw in Paris.

  “Just look.” Gallatin’s right arm sweeps out as far as it can go. “This is it. Queen Square. A place for the people of the city to assemble together.”

  Thomas makes sure he nods.

  “Beau is thinking an obelisk in the centre would complete it.”

  “It would, wouldn’t it?” Thomas smiles at Gallatin’s enthusiasm.

  “Does not the completed side bespeak elegance and class? Palladian, of course.”

  Thomas is impressed.

  “Ralph Allen is a genius of both business and the building arts. He came up with a tramway that runs along the Avon to bring the cut stone from the quarries, which are not far away. It is much more efficient than the roads or a barge. And just look at the stone, is it not beautiful, the fairest you’ve ever seen?”

  “It is,” Thomas replies.

  When Élisabeth’s questioning was finally done, without so much as a beguiling look, she tugged off her chemise. “All right,” she said, “you’ve kept your side. Have me.”

  “Would you not swear that it’s a single house?”

  Thomas blinks in the direction Gallatin is pointing. “I would.”

  “Well, wait until you see the backside.”

  Thomas follows as he must, and recalls with a shudder the act itself. It was no good. Élisabeth might as well have been a whore in a Paris stall. She barely participated.

  Gallatin comes to a halt and his arm goes out. “There. Just look. Here in the rear of what is built we see the truth. The single grand front is just that, a front. The reality is seven townhouses united only by the uniform facade.”

  Thomas can still hear the sound the two of them made. The sound the English use to describe the act itself. Fuck. Direct from their ancient Anglo-Saxon tongue, no doubt. The sound of a hand clapping mud.

  “Muck.”

  “Muck?” Gallatin’s face is aghast. “Oh no, Thomas, this is a clever and fine design. By the architect I told you about, John Wood. A true achievement.”

  Thomas offers a sheepish face. “Sorry.”

  “You weren’t even listening, were you?”

  “Yes. No. Look, I was. I am impressed, I really am.”

  “It doesn’t look like you are.”

  “No, I am. I just— Well, I was thinking of something else. I need to clear my head.”

  Gallatin does not remove the disappointment from his face. “Yes, maybe you do. Well, I must leave you here anyway. It’s time. Hélène wants me to escort her to the bath.”

  Thomas nods.

  “Perhaps we’ll see each other later. Hélène and me, you and Élisabeth?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “All right, no it is.”

  “Écoutez, Jean, I’m sorry,” Thomas calls out to his friend as he heads back the way they’ve come.

  Shoulders slumped, Gallatin does not turn round. He does, however, raise an arm in something like a backward goodbye wave.

  Thomas leaves behind the last of the stone houses and heads to the gap in the hedgerow. Up over the wooden stile he goes. A few moments later, maybe fifty strides up the hillside, he slows his pace. He’s well into a field of turf and tufts, and his shoes and socks are quickly wet in the long grass. He does not mind, for he expected as much and has worn old clothes for this walk. Yet he finds the rising hill behind Bath is putting new muscles to the test. It’s been years since he’s been scampering up hills. It feels good, but still a test. He has to grab a few deep breaths.

  It is now a slower climb and is suddenly especially slippery. Thomas lifts his shoe. Yes, he has stepped in a mound of freshly dropped pellets. He looks around. There they are – a small herd of guilty sheep is farther up the hill.

  Thomas scrapes the bottom his shoe on a tuft and continues the climb. Here and there he sees evidence that cows also use the field. Their dried-up patties the size of pies.

  A few more careful paces and he comes to a full stop. He cannot do what he came for, take in the view, when his eyes are constantly studying the ground. He finds a place where he is sure there is no shit, plants his feet and stands erect. He inhales the fresh morning air. He fills his lungs. There is no smoke up here.

  What a fine valley the spa town is in. Its buildings form a near circle, while the rising ground on both sides of the river are open fields. Thomas supposes the other fields are like the one he’s in, tufted ground where sheep and cattle graze all day. It is especially pleasing the way the fields are defined by either hedgerows or lines of trees. In this morning light, which warms and flatters everything, it is almost as if the scene before him is one some painter might conceive. A wonderful prospect in all directions. And speaking of painters, do not the clouds hang as if put there by an artist’s shaky hand? They are swirls of grey and white, loosely brushed across the pale blue sky. The rising sun emphasizes the clouds’ canescent glow. It is truly a November morn.

  There is a solid patch of blue sky over the distant hills. It seems to widen as he studies it. Yes, the clouds are indeed slowly moving westward. If that keeps up, it may turn out to be a bright day.

  As for the little city itself, it offers an arresting scene. Some rooftops – they must be slate – glint brightly in the sun. Here and there the upper reaches of a few yellow stone buildings shine like pearls. From this angle and at this hour, Bath might be a box of jewels.

  Thomas’s gaze goes to what has to be the abbey. He walked past it last evening on his way to the bonfire and was struck by how large it is. From up here he can see that it is more than large. It is an enormous cruciform shape for such a small town. Its mass and towers dominate everything else. Cleland told him that on its western front there are angels carved in stone, on a ladder going up to Heaven. The thing is, one of the little buggers is coming back down. Cleland said that’s because the contrary-minded angel does not like what Heaven offers. He is choosing Earthly pleasures instead. Thomas could not make out the angels’ ladder in the shadow, but he intends to do so before he leaves town. He always admires the effects stone carvers achieve. They can be jesters second to none.

  He notes a few other towers and spires in Bath, but none capture his interest. What does intrigue him is the veil of haze that has formed over the rooftops of the town. It is coming from the chimneys as people warm their houses and shops. The plumes lighten their hue as they rise and mingle with the clouds above. Thomas is glad he is where he is, up where the air is clear. He fills his lungs. If the town below is to expand as its renown grows, attracting those with money in their pockets to visit its streets, hot baths and assembly rooms, the builders would be wise to put their new construction up on this hill. Yes, that is what Thomas would do. He would put up more eye-pleasing, golden-coloured stone symmetry, such as Gallatin showed him at Queen Square, away from the older town below.

  Thomas has stood still long enough. He sees a track that looks to be free of animal droppings. At a sauntering pace he will follow where it leads, while still taking in the view.

  He selects the River Avon as his focus as he strolls, and follows it as it threads like a ribbon through the town below. Everywhere he’s ever lived there’s been a river coursing along. Only the scale of the city or village has varied. It is unlikely he will ever come to live in Bath, but its river must delight those who do live here.

  Something is moving far below, along the river to the south. It gives off a plume of smoke. He decides it must be the tramway Gallatin was talking about, the one the builder uses to move his stone
from the quarries into Bath. Their day starts early it seems.

  Thomas sucks in another deep draught. He should soon start back down. Eventually he has to face Élisabeth. He hopes he did no irreparable harm with his behaviour last night. Neither his confessions about Hélène nor the loveless fuck.

  A clutter and thrum from a copse higher up the hill makes him look that way. A covey of partridges bursts out and takes flight. The skirr of their wings fills the air. Thomas watches as the partridges disappear into the dense woods still farther up the hill. From some dark corner up there comes a raven’s call. It is a cruel laugh. The great dark bird gives its location away when it skips from the top of one tree to another nearby. Thomas is mightily pleased. He’d like to see more winged ones. Pheasants with their bright red necks. He counts to twelve, waiting patiently, but no more birds take flight.

  Thomas spies a different footpath than the one he used to climb the hill. It loops up and over the crest of the next gentle rise, then descends to a different opening in the hedgerow that defines the edge of Bath. He will follow that beaten earth track as it twists back toward the spa town.

  He is not even a dozen loping paces along the track when he spies the bouncing tip of a white parasol. It rises and dips above the top of the next hill. Then there is the top of a second, a lemon-coloured parasol. Thomas wants to laugh. Women? Women of leisure up in the hills? He would have assumed all such women were either asleep at this hour or preparing for the day. Or like Hélène, heading to the thermal baths. His curiosity is piqued. He picks up the pace of his advance.

  He sees the rest of the parasols, then the gloved hands holding them. Finally, the top halves of the two women themselves. One in a dress the colour of fresh mint. The other in light and dark shades of rose. They are dressed for a salon, not for a country path.

  The women startle to see Thomas coming at them along the path. He smiles to see them jump and to make their expressions as funeral-worthy as they can. With the gesture of a gallant he steps off the track and gives a courtier’s bow. Then he raises a hand in what Gallatin has told him is a Roman salute.

  “Good morning, ladies.” They are pretty and young, maybe even as young as Élisabeth. Their cheeks are charmingly rosy from their early morning walk.

  “Bonjour, Monsieur.” The one in mint lowers her eyes.

  “Et bonne journée.” The one in rose takes the other by the hand. They hurry past.

  Thomas puts his hands on his hips. “Alors, mesdames, vous êtes Françaises?” He admires their curvaceous forms as they stride away. A force within him stirs.

  The ladies slow their pace then come to a full stop. They look to exchange words. The one dressed in red is the first to peek over her shoulder back at the man whose path she has just crossed. The one in mint does the same. Neither offers him a further word or wave, but their look lingers longer than Thomas thought they might. At last they show him their backs and continue their slow climb.

  “A plus tard, peut-être!” Thomas calls out.

  ——

  As the three sisters from Bristol slowly drift away from where they’ve been gabbing for far too long, Élisabeth finally has a chance to extend her arms. She knows it’s an opportunity that won’t last long. Other waiting bathers are pacing under the stone arches. Everyone, it seems, wants to immerse themselves in the hot sulphurous water of the King’s Bath. Before lunch, that is, and before the clear blue sky overhead fills again with clouds and a cold November drizzle might begin. Not that any chill from above would affect the steaming water so very green. Such a downpour would, however, ruin hair, caps and make-up.

  Though she’s been in the water well past long enough – her fingers are already pruned – Élisabeth will stay another bit. She’s been waiting for some room to swish her arms. She reaches out both ways. Like a conductor, she swings her hands through the green water, fingers splayed. It feels good. Better than when she had to keep her arms to herself and endure endless talk – which wall finishing and which wheeled conveyance the three Bristol ladies wished their husbands would purchase, if and when they move permanently to Bath. Élisabeth sighs to see the chatty sisters reach the far wall. As they step out, the water streams off the canvas covers that the Master of the Bath insists all women wear. Their jaws are still at it, not pausing for a moment to take a breath.

  Élisabeth pushes farther away from the wall. The canvas clothing makes it difficult to float. She gives a few tiny kicks lying on her back and swirls her arms. She is keen to see how buoyant the hot sulphurous water is.

  “Hello there.”

  Élisabeth sees a red-faced man with what looks like a floppy maid’s cap atop his balding head. He is peering at her. She slaps her hand atop the water to send spray his way.

  “Feisty,” he says. His smile reveals yellowed teeth.

  “No.” Élisabeth swishes through the water, her feet touching bottom. She grabs hold the closest brass ring.

  “Trying to be friendly is all,” says the man in a raised voice.

  Élisabeth does not so much as glance his way. The niches at the other end catch her eye. They’re of a different stone than the rest of the King’s Bath. Earlier construction it appears. In one niche there’s a couple— Oh. Élisabeth averts her gaze. They are snuggling close. She cranes up and away, around the gallery of fully-dressed men and women at street level above; most are staring down. Beyond the stone balustrade where they stand are the houses that overlook the thermal bath. A few buildings have their windows up to welcome the day. Her father would approve. Regardless of the temperature, he always insisted their house bring in fresh air.

  Her gaze pans back to the balustrade. She’d like to think she’s not looking for Thomas, but she is. She’s not seen him – well, not heard him – since he crept out of their room thinking she was still asleep. She dressed not long after and spent the morning exploring the town. Her unescorted walk drew some disapproving glances, from women, alas, even more than men. Well, Élisabeth does not care. She’ll be back to London soon enough, and if it’s over with Thomas, because of all her questioning, well, she’s not sure what comes next. Surely, he wouldn’t have Gallatin fire her just because he wants to go his separate way. Would he? She doesn’t know.

  Her eyes go the ring she has grasped with her right hand. She detects an inscription. THANKS TO GOD. That makes her eyes go wide. She sees another ring six feet farther on. She strides through the water to examine it. It has a coat of arms as well as words. BY GODS MERCY AND PUMPING HERE AYDED.

  It seems these rings are offering proof, or at least belief, that some who have stepped into these waters have been truly cured. Élisabeth hopes for Hélène’s sake that coming to Bath will give her what she seeks, the ability to conceive a child.

  Élisabeth closes her eyes and sinks. She lowers herself until her shoulders are covered. If this hot, smelly water really can change someone’s life, what would she want that change to be for her?

  She submerges more, to bring the water to the bottom of her chin. Then to just below her lips. Far enough. The other bathers are not standing still. She does not want to take into her mouth any of their chop. God alone knows what might be washing off them. She hopes that the sulphurous vapours are enough to neutralize what is foul.

  Élisabeth opens her eyes just far enough to keep the world around her a blurry swirl. The nattering of others sounds faraway when she does this, which allows her to stay within her own thoughts.

  All right then, what does she want the hot water to bestow on her? Security? Yes, first of all. Affection? Yes. Truth? Maybe. But which truth?

  Thomas assured her last night that what once was hot between him and Hélène has since grown cold. Élisabeth would like to know if she can really count on that. She fears, alas, that Thomas is the scorpion in Aesop’s tale. No matter what he promises, he cannot change. His true nature is fixed. If so, does that not make Élisabeth the frog in t
he river, doomed to her fate?

  Élisabeth opens her eyes all the way and glances across the surface of the steaming water. A canvas-covered woman wearing one of the large hats not meant for the bath is heading directly her way. Élisabeth lowers her gaze and pretends to study her outstretched hands. She does not need any more conversation or acquaintances.

  “Oh my, so far away.”

  The spoken words come with a soft touch on her shoulder. Élisabeth’s eyes scramble to focus. It’s a woman’s face beneath a broad-brimmed hat. She is dark-eyed.

  “Hé … Hélène?”

  “Not the greeting I was hoping for.”

  “I am the one who is sorry, sorry for giving you a start.”

  Yet it is not merely surprise that Hélène reads on Élisabeth’s face. There’s a nervousness in her eyes and in her voice. Or is it embarrassment? No, it looks like guilt. This is curious.

  “This likely doesn’t help.” Hélène removes the large hat and places it on the stone ledge, revealing the small white cap she wears beneath. “It’s not for in here, I know that. But I’m going to be pumped on in a bit. I’ll need it then.”

  Élisabeth blinks. “The pump is even hotter, I hear. Practically a punishment.”

  “No, no, not so bad as that.” Hélène makes a deliberate smile. “It’s in a private room and … well, I endured it early this morning, up to fifty times, and here I am back again. The hat protects the head. You wear flannel and open yourself up to the pump.”

  “I don’t think I could.” Élisabeth waves a hand in front of her face. “This is hot enough. You’re brave, Hélène.”

  “That’s a first, someone thinking me brave. But surely you recall why I’m here, in Bath. A means to an end, our men might say.”

  Confusion flickers in Élisabeth’s eyes. “Our men? Oh, you mean Thomas and Jean, don’t you?”

  “I do.”

  Élisabeth reaches out to tap Hélène’s canvas cover. “I hope you know that I wish the very best for you. You’re a friend. I would never do anything to hurt you. He will be a good father, your husband, Monsieur Gallatin, will.”