The First of July(27)

The red-haired man grunted his thanks and on the spur of the moment Jean-Baptiste asked: “Do they need men? I’m strong and a good worker.”

The man looked impassive, shrugged, but then pointed at two men standing under a tree, studying plans. One was coatless, neat, in a straw hat, the other a worker in a blue cap. Jean-Baptiste walked over to them, trying to look confident but not assuming anything. When the two men looked up, he was about to speak when a voice behind him said “He helped us. He seems like a good lad. We could do with a replacement for Loiret.” It was the owner of the fine red beard.

The man in the cap, who Jean-Baptiste thought must be the foreman, scrutinized him. “Any experience?”

“I was a blacksmith. Well, an apprentice,” he said in a burst of honesty. “Near Amiens.”

“Come to seek your fortune?” said the man with the map, whose Parisian accent was tinged with authority. “And willing to find it in a ditch.” He jerked his head toward the diggings. “I gather we’ve got a man with a broken leg, so his misfortune might be your good luck. What do you reckon, Duval?”

Blue Cap nodded. “Start tomorrow. No drinking, no scrapping, and you show up on time. No second chances. And you’ll need decent boots, it’s wet down there… .”

The man with the smart accent looked up from his plan again as if recalling something, then down at Jean-Baptiste’s feet. He leaned forward, pushing his spectacles up his nose as if unsure of what he was seeing.

“Where in the name of St. Joseph did you get those? You look like a pimp.”

“He can have Loiret’s,” said the man called Duval. “Loiret won’t be needing them.”

And so began his second river life. It was to be a short one, but he didn’t know that then and was grateful simply to have work. The men he was working with seemed all right.

“Thank you, sir,” he said to Duval, when the other man, who was clearly a boss, had left.

“Pierre,” he said. “No sirs here. We’re working men, as good as any. Unfortunately, the redhead over there is also Pierre and so is the boy. You’re not Pierre, I suppose? No? That’s a relief. Can you write your name?”

“Yes. I mean, I can read and write.”

“Ah, an intellectual. Well, we only need your name. In case the police come asking.”

For a second Jean-Baptiste was tempted to give a made-up name, but he didn’t want to start this new life with a lie and hoped Paris gendarmes, with real crimes, bloody, violent ones, to solve, would have little interest in a provincial bicycle and boot thief.

“Jean-Baptiste Mallet,” he said.

“Where do you come from, Monsieur Mallet?”

“A village near Amiens,” he said. It was true enough.

“And where are you staying in this great city of ours?”

Jean-Baptiste’s head dropped.

“Ah, no work, no boots, no lodgings,” said Pierre, shaking his head. He picked up a stub of pencil. “I’ve known several lads lodge here. It’s simple and you’ll have to behave, and it’s a bit of a walk, but it’s cheap and if you take this note, they’ll do their best for you.”

“I don’t have—”

“You can work over there for a couple of hours. Stacking timber. When it’s time to leave, you’ll have earned enough for a bed. Young Therzon can take you.” He pointed to a moon-faced lad. “He boards there.”

A couple of hours had exhausted him. The red-haired Breton, one of the three Pierres, could lift four times the quantity that he could and talk at the same time. Jean-Baptiste thought that just a week ago, the strength he had gained in Godet’s forge would have left him equal to the task, but the last few days had weakened him. He was glad to follow Therzon to the lodgings, have a bowl of fibrous horsemeat stew, and, exhausted, slump onto a narrow box bed in a dormitory full of other men. The smell of them, tobacco and sweat, reassured him; at least he could smell no worse. A notice exhorted the residents to wash, not to sleep in their boots, warned them that alcohol and women were strictly forbidden on the premises, and advised that holy mass would be held at the church of Ste. Clothilde.

He was awake when Therzon materialized at six the next morning and handed him a brown-paper parcel. Inside were well-worn work clothes, clean and adequate.

“From Pierre,” Therzon said, his teeth clamped around an unlit pipe.

“Pierre?”

“Duval. Pierre the old.” Therzon took out the pipe and grinned. He had very few teeth for such a young man.

“He seems kind.”

“Not bad on a good day. His son’s our age. In the Army, serving in Africa with the blackamoors. But Pierre’s a man of peace.” Therzon grinned again; his face was loose and his speech slow. “Any talk of fighting or generals and he’ll fly into a rage.”