Heartsong (45 page)

T
he several restaurants on Cours Estienne-d'Orves were filled with the usual variety of people—shopgirls, butchers, officer workers, financiers from the Bourse, military and navy people,
deckhands and dockworkers, mothers with children, husbands with mistresses, old ladies with tiny dogs, boulevardiers—and Franklin Bell. If he wasn't at some three-hour luncheon or another, he usually preferred the quiet of his own apartment and the simple salads or fish prepared by his housekeeper.

But today he sat in the shade of an umbrella at an outdoor table of Chez Louis, surrounded by happy, intense, loud eaters, sipping a mineral water and waiting for the notorious Martin St-Cyr. Even in such a gay atmosphere he felt a little soiled and obvious.

He glanced up at the sky and thought he would miss this Mediterranean climate. Even the heat wave of the past two weeks and the stench emanating from the Old Port had done nothing to diminish his almost sexual enjoyment of the
city
. But today was a perfect May day—warm but not hot, at least not yet, a hazy blue sky, and people enjoying a break from whatever labors guided them through the week.

He looked out to the open space of the
cours
and watched two young women in long slender dresses and straw hats with black velvet ribbons trailing over the back brim walking arm in arm, laughing as though they hadn't a care in the world. Normally he would have appraised them as possible partners, but today he just envied them their youth and innocence. They were completely at home in their world, unlike him, the perpetual outsider.

Just then he saw a slender man in his late twenties, dressed in a white suit, a starched blue shirt with a red cravat, and a straw boater with a candy-striped band around the crown, step around the girls and make his way through the tables of Chez Louis. Although he had never met St-Cyr, he recognized the delicate face, with its pencil mustache and neatly trimmed goatee, from the illustrated portrait at the head of his column in
La Gazette du Midi
Bell stood up, astonished at how much younger the dandy St-Cyr looked in real life.

“Monsieur St-Cyr? Franklin Bell.”

“Enchanté
, Monsieur Bell. So good of you to agree to meet with me. And on such a lovely day.”

Bell wasn't surprised that the hand was soft, but the way it was offered, arched with the palm down, like a lady's, took him aback. For an instant, he wondered if he should kiss it. Instead, he withdrew his own hand and indicated a chair opposite his. “Please sit,” he said.

When the drinks came—another mineral water for Bell, a glass of Chardonnay for St-Cyr—the young columnist raised his glass and said, “To your health, Mr. Bell.”

“You speak English then.”

“Only a very little. I studied it at university but I'm afraid I have little use of it here in Marseille.” He laughed. “My father said that I had better learn it, as the Americans were getting ready to take over the world.”

Bell noticed that St-Cyr spoke with a decided British clip, which didn't surprise him. Many Brits taught English in the universities of France. Must be a blow to the national pride to have to learn English, Bell thought of saying but didn't. He didn't feel very chauvinistic today. He had been up since five-thirty dealing with the latest mess involving Charging Elk, and his nerves were very close to the skin. In fact, he was downright scared that he was about to lose his job. There was no doubt now in anybody's mind at the consulate that Charging Elk had been his responsibility four years ago and he had muffed it badly. It had been so easy then to lose the big Indian, to let him disappear into Marseille, to forget about him. But Bell had never really forgotten him, had thought about him almost daily, if only briefly. But what really fascinated Bell in a perverse way was the dreams he had had of Charging Elk. Whether because of a guilty conscience or fear of discovery of his blunder, he had dreamed several times that Charging Elk showed up at his door in
the early morning, covered with blood, unable to speak, a tomahawk clutched in a dangling hand, dripping blood on the Persian carpet in the hallway. Each time Bell would slam the door shut and scream as the blood seeped slowly beneath the door into the room. Then he would awaken and find himself sitting upright, pajamas soaked with sweat on the coldest night, not knowing if he had actually screamed but listening for a commotion outside his door.

Always the next day Bell would sit at his desk, ignoring the paperwork, and analyze the dream, looking for a reason for the night-time visitations. But he knew the answer deep down: He had failed the Indian. He had neither gotten him home safely nor reunited him with the Wild West show. He had simply willed the Indian out of his life, and with the help of the Soulas family, it had happened. For four years now. But he knew that Charging Elk would come back to haunt him someday, in some way that bore resemblance to the dream. The dream was too strong and persistent.

So why was he taking lunch with the celebrated columnist of
La Gazette du Midi
on such a momentous day? Bell didn't even like what the man wrote about the institutions of commerce, of government. That socialist garbage only went so far. What would these supposed downtrodden citizens do without their leaders, the men who ran the country, the men who supplied the goods and services, the men who greased the wheels of industry, who gave them their jobs? It was absurd to blame them for every little injustice that occurred in the normal business of business. So what was he doing here with this foppish antithesis of everything he stood for?

He was having his last absurdly normal meal before he had to go back to the consulate and face the controlled (he hoped) rage of Atkinson, who would probably blame him for harming years of delicate negotiations between the two countries with this one act of immense stupidity and incompetence. Unfortunately, Bell would only be able to agree with the old man. The French were notoriously difficult
to deal with. They seemed to look for incidents like this one to turn a cold shoulder in other matters. If he was fortunate he would have time to write a letter of resignation after lunch. It would be a token gesture, a small way of saving face. He knew he would never work for the foreign service again. And to think that he had thought he was just a few steps away from replacing Atkinson as consul general. Of course, he had thought that for four years now.

“I see that you are smiling, Mr. Bell. Perhaps you will share your amusement.”

Bell was almost amused, in a dark way, to think that he had been smiling through the horror of it all. “Actually, nothing is amusing, Monsieur St-Cyr. I have spent all morning at the Préfecture, trying to appease your people—notably Chef de Police Vaugirard—to no avail. I have had nothing to say in defense of our Indian friend. I have been browbeaten, horsewhipped, keelhauled, and I have been able to say nothing. I'm afraid his ship is sunk.” And mine too, he almost added.

“It is a grave matter, my friend, very grave indeed. But why would the vice-consul engage himself in such a matter? Surely, you have a legal attaché to handle such an unfortunate incident. Or perhaps you have a personal interest....”

Bell listened to the voice trail away, and he wondered how much the columnist knew. He had read the articles in
Le Petit Marseillais
when Charging Elk had been kept in the jail of the Préfecture the first time. And he had grudgingly admitted that St-Cyr had done more with those two pieces of overheated journalism than he himself ever could, even with the weight of the United States government behind him. The weight had been surprisingly light and completely ignored by the Marseille authorities. St-Cyr had probably saved Charging Elk s life. The power of the press, thought Bell, in this case more powerful than two of the most powerful governments in the world.

The waiter came with a basket of bread, and both men ordered
salades niçoises
. St-Cyr insisted that they also order a bottle of wine, and Bell, tired physically and emotionally, put up no resistance.

When the waiter had gone, Bell said, “I'm sure there's a reason you asked me to lunch with you. And I'm quite sure I know the reason. We might as well have at it.”

St-Cyr laughed, a surprisingly deep laugh for such a thin body, and said, “Ah, I am afraid you are too quick for me, Mr. Bell. It is supposed to be my job to initiate this interview.” Then he leaned forward, his sudden burst of mirth behind him. “It is about the Indian, of course. I have not been able to acquire any information from our police about the case. I talked to the reporter who initially wrote the news article, but he knows nothing more.” St-Cyr paused for just a moment, toying with a piece of the dry bread, as though he were hesitant to ask the big question. “I was hoping—could you give me an account of what happened in Rue Sainte?”

This time it was Bell's turn to hesitate. He glanced up at the buildings on the other side of the
courj
. Rue Sainte was just behind them. They were sitting, having lunch, less than two blocks away from where it happened. Tired as he was, Bell tried to estimate the pros and cons of speaking frankly with a journalist. Of course, he knew the whole incredibly sordid story, at least the story as told to him by the scolding Chef de Police Vaugirard. But how much could he divulge to a man who would undoubtedly twist it into something that would reflect badly on the American Consulate and probably Bell himself? Should he tell him anything at all? Wouldn't it be better, if rude, to just get up and walk away?

Bell tried to think of something positive that might come from such a revelation. He sat silently as the waiter poured the wine, then automatically lifted his glass to St-Cyr and drank. The wine was cool and tart to the tongue, just the way he liked it, and he was a little relieved that he could enjoy something so simple. He glanced
across the table at St-Cyr, who had taken a notebook and pencil from his pocket and was poised with a slight smile. Bell suddenly felt too big, too shabby and unwashed, in the presence of the elegant journalist. But he had made up his mind.

The only positive thing Bell could think of was that
he
would tell the story. And he would tell it from the very beginning, from his first meeting with Charging Elk in the hospital, then again at the Préfecture. It was important that the journalist have all the facts so that he might understand why Charging Elk had done what he had. What he did with the facts—well, who knew? At least, Bell could walk away with a somewhat cleaner conscience. It wouldn't ease his burden any—he was a goner—but it might help Charging Elk in a way his muddy mind couldn't foresee just then. He simply knew that St-Cyr had a reputation for a sympathetic ear and voice for the downtrodden working classes and the misfits of society. Ironically, that's just what Bell wanted at the moment.

And so he told the journalist everything he knew about Charging Elk's history in Marseille. He told of the family (without mentioning the name) who had taken care of the Indian. He told of the crucial mistake the doctor had made in pronouncing Charging Elk dead instead of Featherman. Then the fake death certificate to justify his decision. Bell's own futile attempts to get Charging Elk documents so that he could rejoin the Wild West show. His frustration at every turn in dealing with the French authorities. And surprisingly—Bell hadn't meant to reveal this—his ultimate helplessness and subsequent surrender to the system. He had simply given up and purposely lost track of Charging Elk until today.

Bell took a sip of wine and watched the pencil scribbling furiously down the sheets, one after another, each one snapping back as the pencil missed not a beat. Bell noticed the salads, the lettuce wilted and the olive oil and vinegar separated, lying in glistening amber globs around the tuna. He looked around and noticed that
the lunch crowd had pretty much dispersed. Only one other table at Chez Louis was occupied—by a young couple who were drinking
citrons pressés
between long soulful kisses. Right now he was too drained to envy them.

Finally St-Cyr put the pencil down, rubbed his eyes, and leaned his head back to ease the stiffness in his neck. Bell studied the slender neck, the slight protrusion of the Adam's apple, and the dark goatee, which was so thin he could see the chin clearly outlined, and he realized that he had not had time to shave. St-Cyr slowly leaned forward, murmuring, “Well, well, such a story, my friend.”

“You can understand why I hesitated to tell you my role in this sorry mess. If I had been more dogged, perhaps Charging Elk would be back in America with his people—instead of. . .” Bell shrugged.

“Of course! But you mustn't blame yourself. The French are famous for their bureaucracy. Everything must be rubber-stamped three times, then three times more. Sometimes things get ‘lost.' Always there is a petty bureaucrat in the way who does not get enough loving at home and takes it out on the people.” St-Cyr caught himself and laughed. “Of course, that is not your case. You are the United States, but sometimes that is enough to make the bureaucrats even more recalcitrant. They feel threatened with a loss of power and so they do the one thing they do well—they obstruct until the aggrieved party, even the United States of America, finally gives up. It is natural, Mr. Bell, to give up at a certain point in this interminable process. But you are blameless. What else could you do?”

Although Bell was suspicious of the journalist's sympathetic response to his part in the Charging Elk affair—after all, he was a bureaucrat too—he felt a great deal lighter in spirit than he had just an hour ago. He knew that this interview was political suicide, but the unburdening of his story, of his very soul, after four years of
carrying his load of guilt and bad dreams made up for his fear that St-Cyr would turn this story on its head.

St-Cyr was sharpening his pencil with a small silver penknife, carefully shaving the lead to a perfect point. Without looking up, he said, “But the story is only half finished, of course.”