The Book.
by Engel.
*** *** ***
The room was dark, the time late, and the shadows deepening in their shade with the second, but neither of the two occupants seemed to notice. The deep mahogany panelled walls spoke of an age gone by, left behind in the dust of the current times. Shelves of dust-coated books, volumes of thick philosophy and fiction, each painted with its own memory of being fervently read, lined the walls of the small room. The painted ceiling with its frightening seraphim did little to brighten the area, but glittered faintly with golden insets of eyes and wings, each a veritable star in the velvety gloom. The wavering lights on the walls were created by numerous candles spread about on tables and shelves, burning lustily to shed yellow flickers of gold on the inhabitants of the room.
The one window that peered into the room was frosted with icy cold designs, each created upon the last to form a swirl of ethereal curtains on the panes. A small puff of breath appeared on the inside of the glass, then a young girl's face appeared, removing the frost on the pane with the flame of her thin hand. As she looked suspiciously out the window, one noticed she was but a small waif, une gamine of the Parisian streets.
She turned and walked back into the room proper. Clad in rags and earth, she was a stark contrast to her companion. The older man watched her antics. He sat in an old leather armchair, worn and soft, placed in the corner of the room. The man blinked lazily, grinning absently at her. A small streak of soot crossed the side of his face, adding a flaw to his clean face. He twirled a lock of long white-blond hair in his roughened hand, and then beckoned the pacing girl to him.
"Jean-Marie, come here please," he requested, and the small girl sat down quickly on the rug in front of him, disdaining the offered chair next to him. He watched her for a moment, and she looked up at him alertly despite the sombre sky. A small irrepressible smile crossed her thin mouth, but she quickly cleared it away, presenting a perfectly solemn and innocent, if somewhat soiled façade to him.
"What were you looking at out the window?" he distracted her. Her behaviour was erratic this evening, but He had been expecting such, given as he had not offered her any instruction yet, contrary to their routine.
"I wanted there to be a boy outside, M'sieu Eric," Jean-Marie blushed shyly. He looked at her wryly. She began pondering the carpet, not meeting his silent remark with a customary snicker. Jean-Marie looked up sharply at her teacher, and glared momentarily, then began comparing one colour in the thick carpet to another idly.
Eric finally cleared his throat, and Jean-Marie's head shot up, watching him. He smiled comfortingly at the tousled head measuring his features for any telling body language of his next movement. "I've decided that today ought to be your birthday," he began cautiously. She arched an eyebrow, amusement dancing across her features. He sighed.
"So I have a birthday? Merci, M'sieu Eric!" she smirked. Eric eyed her warily. Jean-Marie snickered, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a debate.
"I haven't done anything," she offered lightly, watching the trepidation clear from his brow, to be replaced with sarcasm. She rolled her eyes. He ignored her amusement at his expense.
"Not yet, anyway. To the point, since it is your birthday, I have a gift for you," he grinned, handing over a small wrapped box before it was torn from his hands. Jean-Marie was beaming as she tore apart the coverings from the package, then gasped.
Within the box lay Eric's most prized book, a slightly tattered copy of Voltaire's Lettres anglaises ou philosophiques. He had read to her many passages from it in the late evenings of winter, when she fell asleep on the carpet at his feet, when he carried her slight form into her bed in the spare room. He had taught her to read from it the last summer, watching her tear off after a night of learning each time, her cold refusal to stay chilling him. The sharp reminder of the book had meant to him that he had yet to lull her to sleep and prevent her from a spending another frozen night in some passage betwixt the brothels of the city.
Jean-Marie stared in wonder at the worn leather cover, basking in the warm, approving smile she knew was on Eric's face, and the sheer pleasure that flushed her body, knowing that her teacher trusted her to have his most precious tome of literature. Her body quivered, scared and joyous, uncertainty colouring her face a heated pink. She turned, letting her eyes ask what her mouth could not.
"I want you to have it. It's my gift to you," Eric affirmed. Jean-Marie punched the air happily, then threw herself into his arms. Eric held her gently, waiting for her to remove herself, then felt the shoulder of his blouse becoming soaked from Jean-Marie's chilled tears. His gamine was crying. Eric trembled, afraid he had somehow offended his student.
"Thank you, thank you thank you!" she sniffled into his shoulder. No one had ever trusted her with anything so dear before. As a gamine she had barely anything that wasn't stolen. She had almost refused Eric's offer to teach her those years ago, and she trusted him. And he trusted her. She whimpered into his shoulder, scorching tears streaming from her eyes. He patted her back, soothing her wordlessly. She quieted quickly, and nodded in gratitude. She removed herself awkwardly from the warm embrace, and blushed. Eric hid a smirk, receiving a glare for his pains.
Jean-Marie dropped to the floor again, and began gently, so carefully as to barely touch the pages, devouring the book. Eric dropped into their routine, and drew out a book of his own to read, sharing the presence of his student. Her eyes flickered over the pages quickly, consuming the words as if starved and been given food of the finest sort, occasionally ashamedly asking Eric to tell her a word or explain a concept. Too soon she was yawning, the deep night having fallen determinedly upon the city.
Jean-Marie closed the book sadly, and stood, clutching the volume to her chin defensively. Eric looked up, and tried to smile, knowing the battle ahead, occurring as oft as Jean-Marie came late at night. She would not stay of her own free will, but of circumstance alone. She did not seem tired enough to allow a stay in a warm bed instead of a frigid alley.
"Jean-Marie, please stay the night, it is cold outside and I have the spare bed," Eric offered attempting weakly to wear her down. Jean-Marie shook her head, falling into the pattern as common as her lessons now. He knew the end result now as certainly as she would come the next day, as always, yet they danced the fiery argument again. Eric looked down and traced the design of the arm of the chair, sighing. He reasoned that he could not take the choice from her, even though his heart protested that she would sleep the night in the glacial snow.
She frowned, rubbing the book's cover absently, then quietly sighed. She met Eric's concerned brow with a cheery smile, interrupted by a yawn. Her cheeks reddened, mortified at the ungainly sound. Eric smiled, but the creases about his gaze spoke in contrast.
She yawned again, and coolly thanked her teacher, ignoring anything he might have said in protest. She stumbled down the stairs from his rooms, more exhausted that she had thought, and trotted off. Her body screamed from the biting cold wind until her skin numbed and her teeth chattered. The night was grey in the flickering lamplight, soon absent entirely as she entered the slums in the eastern portion. The stars hid behind a cloud this night, the sky pale and lit from behind like a smoky stage. Jean-Marie traced lines between the stars in her mind, recalling Eric's tales of ancients who had done the same to mark out the sky. Her minds supplied icy outlines of la flicaille, prostituées, and voleurs amongst the lights, a spider's web of the slums.
Her feet were beginning to ache as she forced herself towards the filth and stench she could smell even from so far. Needles of cold pierced her skin, injecting drowsy, painful awareness into her. She would not rest unless she knew her parents could find her, if they wished to expend the effort. She pushed on until she found a corridor in a neighbourhood local to a flic's beat, thus being safe to sleep within. She settled against the wall, ignoring the rough filth on the wall behind her. She slumped against the building and rubbed her face raw with the snow, cleaning herself with the sharp black knives of frozen water. She curled up in her rags, and fell asleep to the sound of the flic's boots echoing on the cobblestone.
Eric watched the painfully thin student leave his house from the frosted pane, gazing out the window in concern. He closed his eyes briefly in prayer for her safety, then smiled fondly as he rubbed her fingerprints off the glass through which he was perusing. He puffed on the glass, the frost fading with his breath, and gazed after the tiny dark form as Jean-Marie was swallowed up by the night.
***
Jean-Marie awoke, surrounded by blistering cold and icy sparks of pain. She tried to move, and only succeeding in animating her frozen body from its black slumber with the aid of pricking her skin with her knife to distract herself. Her muscles cramped again each spasm dismaying her with their frigid sadistic delight. She forced herself to clamber to her feet, whimpering quietly at the pain of movement.
She tried to move her arms above her head, then deduced with a sharp cry that they also were stiff and pained. She slowly introduced the idea of activity to her slight form. She saw her knife fall to the ground, and stooped to pick it up. She bit her lip, glaring about the ground, then her gaze snapped up, alarmed.
Jean-Marie heard the sharp tapping of boots on the street, and flattened herself against the wall, hissing silently between her teeth. A flic passed, looking suspiciously into all alleys. She narrowed her eyes as the flic looked down into her snowdrift, and she bolted, darting off in the opposite direction. The flic chased her, she could hear his boots clattering in mad pursuit, but she knew the area far better than her tracker did. She ducked into a bordel, pausing irreverently to give a crude gesture at the flic that had not kept up with her pace, then collapsed, moaning in pain as her legs gave out.
Jean-Marie lay on the filthy floor of the bordel for a moment, trying to regain her breath from her frozen lungs. The dark, revoltingly grimy building led her panting into a back room to regain her breath. She coughed quietly on the icy shrapnel left in the air, then felt her back nervously. She held her knife in her hand, glowered at the ground in thought, then gasped. She scrabbled at her skirts frantically, but no leather binding of slip of paper coincided with her glance or her hands.
Jean-Marie tore out into the street, glaring frantically about the ground from the precious leather cover and the golden letters she could barely read. She dashed along every alley she had frequented in her escape, back even to the alley where she had slept. The grim grey sky offered no hope but more rain. She snatched the knife and jabbed it into her waistband before tossing the snow about in search of the beloved leather cover. She found no comforting relief from her efforts.
She slumped against the filthy wall harshly, throwing herself down carelessly. She could not feel the freezing snow soaking her skirts and shirt. Desperation permeated her features, sinking into the grim brown and grey walls behind her back and before her face. She began to sob, her fingers aching.
"Mon Dieu, M'sieu Eric will not forgive me this! I lost his most precious book!" she whimpered, curling up against herself. She shook painfully, each wracking sob ripping her ribs from her body. Her belly screamed agony at her with each blackening movement.
"I can't go back to M'sieu Eric like this, without his book. He will hate me!" she moaned, weeping hot tears, each leaving their burning trail of acid down her reddened cheeks. She was panting, her chest heaving in sorrowful whimpers. She stumbled to her feet in a futile attempt to escape the torment from within.
"And this is how I repay his trust, his gift," she sighed, glancing at the lightening sky, facing the dreary grey world that seemed to paint everything its callous shades. She trudged out into the filthy Paris streets, wincing as the biting cold wind ripped into her skin, tearing all semblance of sensation from her hands and face. Her feet, clad in worn boots, ached from the bitter cold as she forced herself to continue in the early morning light.
The violent wind buffeted her from side to side of the street with its vicious whims. She looked at the fairly clean area of Paris where M'sieu Eric lived, then fixed her eyes at the cobblestone below.
"And this is how precious it was to me, that I could even do this," she murmured as she entered the square, and flopped on the curb next to a whore. She looked up at her new neighbour, then blinked her tear-crusted eyes.
"Mum?"
The woman shrugged, drunk, and fell over. Jean-Marie looked back at the square morosely. She gazed at the sky, then drew out two francs from the purse in her skirts, leaving them in the whore's numb hands. Her cold palms were like clay, soft and uncaring. The drunken women seemed dead, lifeless in the gutter, another body to step over.
Jean-Marie closed her eyes briefly, then mournfully stared at the merchants carrying their wares into the square, the flics returning home from the night beat, the whores limping from their corners painfully. The cool breeze seem to be created around them, carrying soundless moans of agony, each held so dear by each pained person, so close that those cries that were allowed to fly on the wind were met by cruel indifference. Their sluggish forms slowed before Jean-Marie's angle, all dying in their inert status, each so slowly, painfully marching to their own suicides.
She buried her head in her hands, grime streaking her skin and hair, and wept.
***
Eric peered out the newly frosted window. Night had fallen, yet no sullen gamine had appeared at his door, demanding to be taught. She usually came with the noonday blazing sun, yet she had not yet arrived at his smithy door, and it was growing late. The merchants had gone home, the brothels opened, but no sign from the little imp had shown.
Eric distracted himself with shaping a new icon for the church most of the day, but each blow spoke of absence to that he finally gave it up. The little girl was practically his only friend in his work, sharing his love of labour and learning. He grimaced vaguely.
He finally sat down, slumping in the armchair. He fingered the book she had left behind. Eric stared at the cover, tracing the pattern scarring the leather with artistic brutality.
Eric gasped.
He grabbed her book, and tucked it into his vest. He threw on an overcoat and dashed out the door.
Jean-Marie had to be found.
***
Jean-Marie sat listlessly in a dark alley. She had sat there beleaguered by her own mind for most of the day, regarding marks and voleurs as they passed on the street. The filthy ice about her lent a physical benumbed state, almost as bad as her mental apathy.
Jean-Marie espied a fool walking down the centre of the street, calling for someone. She rolled her eyes, and slid down into the shadows, her clothes filthy from the streets, and she became a formless lump as the rich mark walked by.
She stood up, then casually walked onto the street, walking away from the man, forcing her frigid muscles to move in a staccato march, each mite of heat from them stripped away by the breeze. She sniggered quietly as she passed her reflection a dusty store window. She appeared a frozen corpse. She paused momentarily, then whirled around, the voice of the mark echoing from down the street. She slunk into an alley, and listened carefully, drowning out the icy fear within and bitter screams from without
Jean-Marie heard it again, associating the sound with the man. It was her name.
She watched him for a minute, peering from around the corner. He was tall, and seemed muscular enough to handle most anything, yet he walked like a mouse, afraid of the shadows decorating each building.
Jean-Marie walked silently behind the man, keeping to the darkened corners of the street while he paraded down the middle, oblivious to any danger. He seemed frantic, each hoarse cry charred with fear. She narrowed her eyes, then muffled a cry from her mouth.
No. Eric.
Jean-Marie walked faster, not caring now that her boots slapped against the stones, that she could be seen. She choked back a sob, then darted in front of the man. He jumped in alarm, and she winced. She clenched one thin hand into a gaunt fist, focusing on her ragged nails biting into her palm to distract her from the turmoil within.
"M'sieu Eric, you must return home. It is not safe here," she lowered her head, refusing to meet his gaze. Her tired body swayed in exhaustion, but she ignored it. She saw his shadow approach, hesitating before reaching down to cup her chin, forcing her to look at him. She scrunched her eyes closed in response, her frozen eyelids protesting the hot tears soaking her lashes, and heard him sigh.
"I don't know what I did to you that you won't look at me, but I'm sorry," He whispered as if from afar.
"You didn't do anything," she stammered, stuttering on the ice-clad words that refused to roll off her tongue, then her lips closed, and wouldn't move again.
Eric winced as he saw the grimace spread on Jean-Marie's face. He began striding away towards home, and smiled in relief when he heard her grudgingly follow after his long step. Each footfall seemed a stomp of rage from Jean-Marie. They walked to his house, a pregnant silence between them, pained and tormented with words unsaid and hopes dashed. She wavered with each advance, exhaustion and anguish claiming her body. Eric supported her as much as she would let him, each time violently shoving his hand from her shoulders.
Jean-Marie almost walked past the house, staring at the ground, but Eric guided her staggering form upstairs to his warm rooms. She winced as she stumbled on the steps, barely capable of continued awareness. Her body was burning with biting needles as the heat of her former teacher's apartments attacked her cold, stiff body. The light of the oil lamp and numerous candles stung her eyes. Eric silently brewed a cup of strong coffee for the morose imp standing in his doorway, and she drank the scalding liquid wordlessly. Eric raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.
He pushed her towards the spare room, and watched her sit awkwardly on the bed that was truly hers, whether she used it or not. Eric fetched water and a cloth for her to clean herself up with, then added a shirt of his own to replace her stained garb. She sulked as he handed them to her, gesturing towards the tub in the corner of the room. She slammed the door as he left in a small vent of anger. Eric nodded sadly at the blank wood, walking to the library and flopping in the chill chair. He began to sob quietly.
Jean-Marie washed herself viciously, scrubbing her skin raw and nearly bleeding. She knew that Eric would not realise why she was so upset. She whimpered as she realised her pain wasn't making sense, and slipped into the soft, clean shirt that Eric had provided. It went down to her knees, each touch of the warm cloth against her drained skin heavenly. She giggled, stopped abruptly, and threw herself viciously on the bed.
She stood, and bowed her head in contrition. She padded out to the library, where she knew he was waiting. It was their favourite room, where she lay on the thick carpet and read, or discussed new teachings each day. It was where the frosted window held all the mysteries of Paris in it's fragile portal. It was the place where she had been given the book.
It was fitting that it should bear witness to her ultimate failure. She looked around, as if a convict's last look at the world before entering le Bastille, then trod numbly into the library.
Eric fiercely wiped his wet face as she entered, then looked up, and smiled warmly. Jean-Marie knelt at his feet, and stared at the floor. Eric cleared his throat nervously, massaging away a headache at his temple, his coarse fingers leaving a red trail of scraped flesh. Jean-Marie gulped, and began haltingly.
"M'sieu Eric, I am very sorry, and I will understand if you send me away, but, I," she gasped, her throat grown too thick for words, "I lost your book. I'm so sorry, I know you treasured it so much, but I couldn't find it when I woke. Dieu, I'm so sorry I disappointed you, you can't trust me!"
Jean-Marie wept her confession, cradling her face in her palms. Her stomach hurt even worse with the onslaught of these newest tears, almost pure acid, cold and chilling as they eroded at her fragile skin. She became increasingly hysterical with each whimper of pain and emotional agony. Her bent body shuddered viciously with each wracking sob.
Eric slipped from the chair and knelt in front of her, carefully gathering her cold frame into his arms. She offered little resistance now. He murmured soothing words while stroking her broken hair. He flinched in empathic pain with the thought of her self-imposed suffering. She squirmed slightly, and looked away. He let her move away slightly, but held her arm with on hand, the other on her neck, as if to prevent her from running away.
"Please, Jean-Marie, listen: you left the book here last night because you were so tired, gamine, I have it right here," he spoke quietly, attempting to assure her by his gaze. Her head shook, then slowly glanced up. Her blood-shot, red-rimmed eyes blinked. He smiled slightly, then retrieved the book from inside his vest, and handed it silently to his student. A tiny smile of hope crossed her pained face, stained with tears and residual grime, now gratitude. The shadows that crossed the room made her seem so much older and sorrowful, yet even that was fading with the impending dawn.
Jean-Marie drew off to open the book cautiously, still warm from Eric's vest, then paged carefully through the first few sheets. She closed it gently, and stared down to where she held it on her lap. She glanced at Eric's large callused hand dwarfing her arm. She offered a tentative smile.
"Dieu, I've been so stupid. Please, M'sieu Eric, do you forgive me?" she whispered, almost too quietly for him to hear. She forced herself to meet his gaze as she waited for his reply. He nodded, and she dove against his chest, completing their embrace gratefully. She burrowed into his shoulder, the fiery agony of the day working into Eric's vest.
"I forgive you, Jean-Marie. I always will," Eric promised her, calming her trembling form. The promise hung in the air between them, and she lifted her head from his shoulder. Eric grinned. The palpable warmth of the joy on her countenance calmed him, flushing his face.
"I will always forgive you," Jean-Marie returned shyly, before burying her heated face in his shoulder again. Eric smiled peacefully, watching over his student's scrawny shoulder at the window in the library, etched with icy art. The dawn streamed in its pink rays, turning the dusty air of the room to a blanket of comfort with a touch of the golden brightness in the dark room. The frost designs on the window were melting.
*** *** ***
Memory says, 'I did that.' Pride replies, 'I could not have done that.' Eventually, memory yields. - Friedrich Nietzsche
You're never a pain. - Erik
*** *** ***
French Terms
i Une gamine - a street urchin of the female variety.
ii M'sieu - a shortened, slang version of Monsieur.
iii Lettres anglaises ou philosophiques - English or Philosophical Letters.
iv Les flics, le flic, un flic, la flicaille - police.
v Un bordel - brothel.
vi Une diablotine - a female imp, little devil.
vii Les voleurs - thieves.
***
I blame this on the real Erik.
And because he's probably going to read this, I will explain the job I chose, since IT sysadmin doesn't have an equivalent. Just think about comic books, and a song, 'Maxwell's Silver Hammer'. You'll get it.
