Heartsong (23 page)

But he hadn't seen the
indien
cast a sharp glance at this sudden gesture.

Breteuil had noticed, but he had noticed more the large but slender hand that had slipped so neatly into his. Despite its limpness, it was not a soft hand. He could almost feel the potential power of that hand, and it excited him and frightened him at the same time. He had known the same kind of thrill with some of the
nègres
that sailed up on the ships from West Africa. Many of them were as tall and powerful as this
indien
, but they were little more than slaves. Some of Breteuil's friends had been with the
nègres
and had encouraged him to do likewise, but to see the large
nègres
being ordered about by Arabs had left Breteuil with a feeling of frustration and contempt. It disgusted him to see them accept such humiliation; yet, he found many of them quite beautiful. He looked at Charging Elk and saw that the
indien
was looking right at him. The narrow eyes glistened in the electric lamplight and Breteuil almost stepped
back in fright; still, he felt a warmth surge through his body, in spite of the chill of the dusky hour.

B
y six-thirty, all the boats, including
La Martine
, were in, and their catches were lined up neatly in large wooden boxes at the top of the Quai des Belges. The marketmaster rang the brass bell and the bidding began.

Most of the fishmongers gathered around the boxes from
La Martine
, hoping for hogfish and tuna, as well as herring. The boat was fitted for trolling as well as for seining. When the fishing was slow, the captain put out the net. When the herring ran out, the lines were put down. When the tuna were feeding on schools of sardines, the crew cast the shiny hooks into the turbulence they created. Seeing what
La Martine
would come in with was almost always a happy adventure for the fishmongers.

But René didn't harbor much hope in the big ship's catch this morning. Instead, he started at the other end, where he was pleasantly surprised to see several boxes at least half full of herring and
rouget
, as well as a decent supply of anchovies. The shrimpers had had a little luck, but the langoustine and shrimp were in short supply. And there were only a couple of dozen octopi in the whole catch.

By now, two other fishmongers were bidding with him, and so René got down to work. He enjoyed this part of it—to pay as little as possible, occasionally bidding the price up, then leaving another fishmonger to pay a little extra for his booty. Next time he might be a little shy and bid too low. In the end, René purchased twenty-eight kilos of herring, seventeen kilos of
rouget
, a basketful of anchovies, and one octopus—mostly for display. He paid too much for it, but it would go by the end of the market, even if René had to take a beating on it. He bought what few squids and sea urchins he
could find. Breteuil had been partially right—it was not exactly nothing but not a lot either. René estimated that he had enough fish to last about half of the four-hour market, just enough to keep the people in his neighborhood—at least the early birds—from grousing too much. Ordinarily, he could sell well over a hundred kilos, but he would make do with what God provided him. At the last minute, he walked down to
La Martine
and bid successfully on a twelve-kilo tuna, which he would cut into steaks. As he was leafing through his roll of francs, satisfied that he at least had a decent variety of fish, he glanced around, looking for Charging Elk. In the excitement of the bidding, he had forgotten his ward. He saw François walking toward the cart with two heavy baskets. François had been bidding for scallops and mussels at the other end of the quai. By the look of the baskets and the awkward gait, he had been somewhat successful.

Then René spotted Charging Elk. He was helping Breteuil load his fish on a cart. Damn that Breteuil! He was an abomination in the eyes of God, with his effeminate ways and haughty manner. René knew by hearsay the kind of crowd the chef ran with. They were all
polissons
, all bound for perdition in the next life—but in this life they were more than a simple thorn in the side. They were evil beyond compare.

René finished paying the fisherman, then hurried over to his baskets, dropping the tuna in with the anchovies. He was almost running by the time he reached Breteuil s cart. “Monsieur Breteuil! What are you doing with my new helper?” René felt his heart beating in his chest and he knew that he was more worked up than he probably had a right to be. And he realized that he was more scared than angry. Charging Elk was like a puppy. He could be led by anyone with nothing more than the promise of a treat. Even now, he had a long, thin cigar clamped between his lips.

“He offered to help me, Monsieur Soulas. It is nothing, just a
helping hand.” Breteuil wiped his glasses on his coat. It had begun to mist, and both he and René instinctively looked up at the graying sky. Both seemed mildly surprised, after yesterday s brilliant winter sun.

“But it is not done, monsieur. You have a helper. You must not take mine too.” René laughed and immediately felt ashamed of himself for being deferential to an insolent pervert. He tried to recover. “You must never do it again, monsieur. It is not done on the Quai des Belges. Look around.” He waved his arm toward the men loading the carts.

Breteuil hooked his spectacles behind his ears. “It is nothing, Soulas. He was just standing here, so I invited him to help me lift my baskets. My helper was bringing the langoustines from way over there.” Breteuil pointed off into the vague darkness. “I thought your Peau-Rouge could use some exercise.”

But René was already leading Charging Elk away toward his own baskets. “You must stay away from that creature. He is an evil one. He and his fellows prey on the uninitiated. They are the devil's own spawn, a pox sent by Satan to tempt young men of limited intelligence and morals....”

Charging Elk stopped, freeing his sleeve from the tugging hand, and looked back at Breteuil. He suddenly knew who the man reminded him of—the pale skin, the slender body, the spectacles. Yellow Breast. And this man had given him a smoke too. Perhaps they knew each other, or were sent by Wakan Tanka to help him. Perhaps they were
heyokad
, sacred clowns, come to show him the way. The little man tugged more forcefully, all the time chattering at him, and Charging Elk allowed himself to be separated from the pale
hey oka
. But he knew he would see him again. He would watch for him, for surely, somehow, he or Yellow Breast would give him a sign.

René was almost beside himself with excitement. He had been
surprised when the
indien
had looked back at the evil Breteuil. He seemed to have known what René was saying and looked back to confirm his judgment. Charging Elk could understand! Madeleine had been wrong to doubt the man's intelligence.
“Oui, oui, mon ami
, you are a bright one. You see what I say is true. A severe lesson. But come, René Soulas will show you how to sell fish.”

B
y midmorning the drizzle had stopped and the dark clouds were giving way to the high gauzy puffs that would soon blow off to the south. The tall gloomy buildings across the way were lit with streaks of sunlight. To the left of the market, where the street narrowed, a woman began hanging her wash on a line between buildings. She leaned out of her third-floor window, pegging clothes to the line, then moving it on little wheels at either end.

Charging Elk watched her with a neutral interest, much as he had taken in the activities of the market. He had been standing on the duckboards behind the tables full of sea creatures, watching the little man and his wife scoop up quantities of the slippery fish, then put them into a metal tray that hung from a hook beneath the canopy. They would slide a piece of heavy metal along a rod until the metal and the tray would hang in balance; then they would yell at the customer until she gave them money in exchange for the fish. At first Charging Elk had been confused by all the yelling back and forth; one man in particular, who was dressed in white beneath his blue coat, yelled back at the little Frenchman. He made faces and threw his hands about, at one point walking away with a disgusted wave. But soon he came back and yelled some more. Finally he bought several kinds of creatures and he and the little man shook hands. When the man in white turned to leave with his baskets full, the little fish man glanced back at Charging Elk and smiled.

Charging Elk knew that the fish man was Ren-ay. And that the
taller dark man was called France-waa. The little man had pointed to Charging Elk and said, “Charging Elk,” in a way that Charging Elk barely understood. Then he had pointed to himself and said, “Ren-ay.” When the dark man came to the cart, the little man had pointed to him and said, “France-waa.” Then he repeated the process twice more, the last time seeming to want Charging Elk to repeat the words. When Charging Elk mumbled the odd sounds, he was more surprised at his voice than the act. He had not heard his own voice since he had sung his death song in the iron house. How many sleeps ago was that? Then he thought of the girl in Paris and how she made him repeat her name—Sandrine. She had given him much power with the picture of the man whose heart bled. Later Broncho Billy had told him the picture was
wakan
. The man was
wakan
to the white people, but many Indians now worshiped him too, just as they did Wakan Tanka. Charging Elk should have been angry—the girl had tricked him into worshiping this strange, bearded
wasichu
—but he wasn't; in fact, he thought of the girl as a spirit-giver who had presented him with his own
wotawe
, a good luck charm which he should keep with him always. He didn't have to worship the man, only the power of the charm.

But now both the girl and the
wotawe
were gone, and he was in another place—a place where people walked among the stalls with straw baskets and bags, many already filled with cabbages and olives and dates and rough bread. Right next door to the Soulases' stall was a stand that sold every type and shape of cheese. Some of the pieces were small and round, covered with a moldy white rind. Others were cut into wedges or large squares. The flesh was creamy or hard, white or yellow or orange. A young woman stood behind the raised counter, smoking a cigarette in a rare lull, several bills woven between her fingers.

From his vantage point behind the fish boxes, Charging Elk could see that one of her legs was shorter than the other. A shoe had
been built higher to compensate for the deformity. He was surprised to see that her foot seemed much like the other one. In Paris he had seen people, mostly men, with one leg gone. Once he and Featherman had almost been run over by a man with both legs cut off at the thigh. He was seated on a low wood platform with small wheels and he moved by swiping his knuckles along the sidewalk. The strips of cloth wound around his hands were dirty and ragged, but his beard was neatly trimmed and his coat and shirt were fairly clean. He didn't even seem to notice the two Indians looking down at him as he sped along.

Now Charging Elk looked up and saw that the young woman was staring at him, a crooked smile creased around the cigarette. He looked away, unnerved by the frank stare. At the same time, he knew how odd he must look, a hulk of a man among these people, much darker than any of them. The stature that had once made him so proud in Paris now made him feel as freakish as the man with no legs. He glanced down at his new clothes—the wool jacket, the blue pants, the sweater, the rough shoes. He had stumbled several times on the rough cobblestones with his new shoes. They were stiff and hard and he couldn't feel the cobblestones. Ren-ay had laughed each time and held him by the arm, chattering up to him with that wide smile that showed the gap in his lower teeth.

Charging Elk didn't like the feel of the stiff new clothes, but he was relieved to see that the other men were dressed similarly. If the coat and pants were a little longer, he would feel almost like one of them. At the very least, if he stood perfectly still he would feel almost invisible.