It’s a trippy scene. Everyone has red ribbons tied around their necks. The dance begins and they move toward each other, then nod in a weird, jerky way that’s supposed to look like a severed head falling off a neck. It continues for about ten minutes. When it’s over, we take a break. We’ve been playing for more than two hours in all, and need to eat something and stretch our legs.
I pick up a chicken leg off a long table covered with food, then stand in a corner to gnaw it. There are bosoms popping out of dresses everywhere I look. Miniature portraits of loved ones who were guillotined are pinned to clothing, fastened to crazy-tall wigs, or propped up on tables. Near me, a woman bites into a strawberry. The juice drips down her chin. A man slurps it off. A smelly terrier dozes on a satin chair. Girls hide, smiling, behind pretty fans. A man takes a whiz in a corner. A parrot flies across the room and drops a load on someone’s shoulder. The host hobbles after it, a cane in his hand, yelling, “Malvolio! You scoundrel!”
From where I was sitting, with the other musicians at the far end of this enormous ballroom, the whole thing looked glittering and decadent, but now, as people pass by close to me, I can see the pockmarks under their paint and the lice crawling in their wigs and the loss in their glassy, haunted eyes.
“It’s beautiful, no?” a man next to me says dreamily.
But it’s not. As the night wears on, the people seem to me like dolls dancing, like clockwork figures. Lost in time.
The party breaks up just after one. The music stops. The ribbons come off. There are sighs and kisses and promises to meet again soon. Everyone leaves quietly and disperses quickly once they hit the street.
“Let’s go to the Foy,” Amadé says to me and a few musicians who are walking with us.
I hang back. I met with Fauvel earlier, gave him a snuffbox, a ring, and six gold coins, and I now have a new bundle hidden under Amadé’s bed. I’m going to go back to his apartment to get it, then make my way to a rooftop near the prison.
“Are you coming?” he says to me.
“No, you go. I’ll catch you back at the ranch.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’ll see you later.”
He frowns at me. “Where are you going?”
“To meet someone.”
“Who?”
I’m about to tell him some big fat lie when Stéphane, one of the musicians, talks over me.
“Do you think we’ll have fireworks again tonight, Deo?” he says. There’s a woman hanging on his arm. He introduces her as Mademoiselle d’Arden.
“They’re beautiful, the fireworks, no?” she says, giggling.
“It’s whispered that they are for the little prince,” Stéphane says.
“A tribute to the little captive. How tragic. How beautiful,” the woman says. She’s drunk and stupid.
“No, it’s not beautiful,” I say angrily. “He’s sick. He’s dying. Horribly.”
“Nonsense! I have heard the boy is treated well and will be released soon,” Mademoiselle d’Arden says.
“Yeah? Where did you hear it?” I ask
She waves her hand. “I cannot remember. The papers. My neighbors. Somewhere.”
“Friends, friends!” Stéphane says. “What matters is that things are getting better. The Terror is over. It’s finished. It will not trouble us anymore.”
“But it will,” I say. “Over and over again.”
“That’s right, of course,” someone else says. “Do you imagine that simply because one madman is gone, there are no more? Yes, Robespierre is dead. And Marat. Saint-Just. Hébert. But there are always more, waiting in the wings. History always throws off these power-hungry monsters. It’s because of people like them that this little boy suffers.”
I think about another Max. And another little boy. I remember the future. “Maximilien R. Peters! Incorruptible, ineluctable, and indestructible! It’s time to start the revolution, baby!” he shouted. I remember the other people who lived with him in the Charles. Poor people, damaged people. I think of how I walked past them every day, not seeing them, not caring. Until it was too late.
And then I think of how these people, Amadé’s friends, amuse themselves all night long with mannered dances and witty conversation, shutting themselves off from the world, while a helpless child slowly dies.
And I say, “No, not because of Robespierre and Marat. Or people like them. Because of people like us.”
It’s quiet then.
“Later, Deo,” I say, and head away from them. Into the darkness.
80
I’ve burned my right hand and it hurts like hell. But that’s not why I’m whimpering as I’m walking up the stairs to Amadé’s room. I’m whimpering because I’m scared I’ve injured it so badly, I won’t be able to play guitar again.
I burned it last night. The last rocket caught fire and wouldn’t go. I had to grab it, flames and all, and throw it off the roof before it exploded.
Guards were in the street when I got down off the stable roof I was on. I’d gotten up there with the help of a rain barrel and a drainpipe. I got down a lot faster, sliding on my butt, then I ran into the stable and hid inside a carriage. There was a fur throw on the seat. I got down on the floor and pulled it over myself. It was still dark outside, and the fur was dark, and it must have fooled the guards, because they looked through the window of the carriage—I heard them—but they didn’t see me.
I stayed there for hours, my hand throbbing. Not daring to move, to make a sound. I left just before dawn, before the stable boys rose.
Amadé is working at the table now. He looks up at me when I come in. His eyes travel to my right hand. I’m holding it behind my back.
“How was your night?” he asks.
“Wonderful,” I say, too brightly.
“How is your new friend?”
“Great!”
“Is he handsome?”
“Oh, dude. Totally.”
“Wealthy, too?”
“You bet.”
“Where does he live?”
I hesitate. Just for a second. But it’s enough. Amadé stands. He walks over to me, grabs my wrist, and raises my burned hand. I let out a howl.
“How strange. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you smell like gunpowder. Is your friend a soldier? No? Hmm … does he sell guns? No? Well, then let me see.… Does he perhaps make fireworks?”
“Let go!” I yell. “Go away!”
He lets go, but he doesn’t go away.
“General Bonaparte is not a tolerant man,” he says. “And from what I hear, he does not enjoy fireworks.”
I don’t say anything. I’m busy cradling my hand to my chest.
“You must want to die,” he says. “I tell you what.… Since you are so hungry for death, perhaps you would like a little foretaste. I will give you one.”
Then he grabs my arm and pulls me, howling, across the room, out the door, and down the stairs to the street.
81
“Hurry up! This is the best theater in all of Paris. I want to make sure we have front-row seats.”
“Amadé, please let go.”
“No!” he says, violently jerking me along.
“Where are we going?” I ask miserably.
“La Place du Trône,” he says. He stops suddenly. “Ah! Do you hear it? The overture?”
I can’t hear anything. Just shouting. And cheering.
“We are almost there. Come on.”
I follow him. I have no choice. He has me in a death grip. We continue up the Rue Charlot. Past the Temple prison. The streets are getting crowded. People seem to be in a holiday mood. They are laughing, singing, hugging each other.
Amadé pulls me through the throngs, past newsboys hawking papers and girls selling cakes. We get close to the square, but I still have no idea what everyone is gathering for.
He takes me into Duval’s, a coffee shop. “I know the owner. He lets me stand on the roof for a franc,” he says.
Up three flights of
stairs we go. Amadé pushes his way to the front of the roof, dragging me in his wake. And then I see it. Why he brought me here. Why all these people are here. In the center of the square stands a guillotine.
“Shit, no,” I say, terrified.
He smiles at me, claps me on the back. “Shit, yes!” he says. “You’ve seen the blade at work, no doubt. Who hasn’t? I wager you’ve never been so close, though. Duval’s has the best possible view. Worth every sou.”
Just then, a huge cheer goes up. A tumbrel is making its way into the square. Its progress is slow because people keep getting in the way. They make it stop so that they can throw mud at the prisoners inside it. They scream at them, taunt them, laugh at them. Guards are everywhere but they do nothing to stop the abuse.
“It’s Fouquier-Tinville,” Amadé says. “Under his orders, thousands went to the guillotine. Now it’s his turn. And his lackeys will follow him. They showed no mercy; now they are shown no mercy.”
The tumbrel finally arrives at the scaffold. I try to turn away, but Amadé holds me there. I watch as one by one, the condemned are led up the steps. Dazed. In despair. Helpless and hopeless.
“Please, Amadé. I can’t watch this anymore. I can’t.”
“Ah, but you must. You have to pay attention so you know what to do,” he says. “After all, you’re going to be standing up there soon yourself.”
The condemneds’ hair is hacked off. Their shirts are torn open at the neck. Each is tied, in turn, to a narrow plank. The plank is lowered into place. The head is secured. The blade is raised and then released. The head falls. Blood sheets down the front of the machine. The executioner lifts the head from the basket, dripping. Its eyes blink. The mouth twitches. And then it’s still.
The body is thrown into a cart and another prisoner is tied to the plank. And another. Women crowd around the basket and dip handkerchiefs in the blood to sell as souvenirs. I can smell the blood and the fear and the glee and it makes me feel sick. The ones who are jeering now were the ones weeping only a few weeks ago. They should know better. But they don’t. I try to put my hands over my face but Amadé forces me to keep watching.
“Will you stop now?” he asks. His voice sounds raw.
I look at him. He’s not angry anymore. He’s not mean. He’s crying.
“Will you stop?” he asks me again.
I’m crying now, too. I lean my head against his. “No, Amadé,” I whisper. “I won’t.”
There were fourteen guillotined. Or so he said. I don’t know for sure. I collapsed after three.
82
Today is June 8, 1795.
The last day of Louis-Charles’ life.
It’s still very early. Just past midnight. It’s so dark. There is fog coming off the river and I cannot see the stars.
I’m on the roof of a church. To finish what Alex could not. I sneaked in during the evening Mass and hid in the back behind an old stone tomb. I waited until the priest had snuffed the candles and locked the door, then I fished my flashlight out of my pocket and made my way up a spiral staircase to the bell tower.
I look at the Temple now and I know that inside it, Louis-Charles lies dying. Alone. In the dark. Insane. In pain. Afraid.
And all the while, the world keeps spinning. People sleep. They dream. Snore. Kick the cat off the bed. Fight. Cry. Pray. It doesn’t stop, this world. Not now, in Paris. Not years from now, in Brooklyn. It goes on.
And I can’t bear it. I want to scream. To howl. I want to wake up the priest in the rectory. The people in their houses. The whole street. The city. I want to tell them about Louis-Charles and Truman. I want to tell them about the Revolution. I want to make them see that nothing is worth the life of a child.
And if I do it? If I start yelling from this rooftop? What then?
Then the guards will come and throw me in prison and a day or so later, it’ll be my head in the basket. So I don’t yell. I wipe my eyes and get to work. I do what I can.
My guitar case is heavy. There’s no guitar in it tonight. Only rockets. I gave Fauvel everything I had left from Alex’s treasure box and told him to make the most beautiful fireworks Paris had ever seen.
“Two dozen Lucifer rockets,” he’d said as he handed them to me. “The biggest and the best.”
Lucifer, the morning star. I’ll use them to light up the sky. Turn night into day.
I will rain down silver and gold for you. I will shatter the black night, break it open, and pour out a million stars. Turn away from the darkness, the madness, the pain.
Open your eyes. And know that I am here. That I remember and hope.
Open your eyes and look at the light.
83
I took too long.
I set off too many.
By the time I’m off the roof, down the stairs of the steeple, and out of the church, the street is teeming. Men and women in their nightclothes are running back and forth, yelling and pointing to the sky. Guards are everywhere. They’re stopping people. Asking them questions. Shouting at them to go back inside.
I put my head down and walk fast, my guitar case in my hand. It almost works. I’m nearly off the street and around a corner when one of them shouts at me. I pretend I don’t hear him.
“You there! With the guitar! I said stop!”
And then his rough hand closes on my arm, spins me around.
“Your papers!” he shouts at me. He’s holding a pistol.
“Ah, citizen, I’m so sorry. I left them in my rooms,” I say.
“Who are you? What’s your name?”
“Alexandre Paradis,” I tell him.
“What are you doing here?”
“I was playing guitar. At a café. The Old Gascon. Just up the street.”
His nostrils twitch. I stink of sulfur and smoke. He grabs my case and opens it. It’s empty. Almost. He holds it upside down. Shakes it. Paper fuses flutter to the ground.
I know what comes next. “Don’t. Please,” I whisper. “Listen. Listen to me.…”
“Raise your hands above your head,” he commands.
I shake my head and start to back away. I didn’t go to church as a child so I have no prayers to say now. No words to commend my soul. But the lines of a poem come to me.
“ ‘Perchance I perished in an arrogant self-reliance ages ago,’ ” I say, “ ‘and in that act, a prayer—’ ”
“Raise your hands!” the guard yells.
“ ‘—a prayer for one more chance went up so earnest, so instinct with better light let in by death—’ ”
“This is your last warning!”
“ ‘—that life was blotted out—not so completely but scattered wrecks enough of it remain, dim memories, as now, when once more seems the goal in sight.’ ”
He raises his pistol.
And fires.
84
I run. With a bullet in my side.
Through streets and alleys, through the night, through the pain, I run. And somehow I get away. The guard is slow. There are no other guards nearby to hear him shout for help. There are too many people screaming and running, frightened by the gunshot. I push through them, run down an alley, through a yard, and into a dark street.
I keep running. South. To the Palais-Royal.
The Foy is open when I get there. People are eating and drinking. The kitchen is busy. I wait by the door, in the shadows. When I see my chance, I dart to the cellar.
I make it through the passageway. I make it through Orléans’ empty kitchens, up a flight of stairs, through hollow, echoing rooms, to the dining room, where I collapse on the cold stone floor.
I lie there for some time, and when I’m brave enough, I feel the wound. It’s a hole at the bottom of my rib cage. The blood on my hands looks black in the darkness.
I close my eyes and try to think. About what to do. And where to go. I have no money on me, nothing. The guard has my guitar case. My bag and the guitar itself are in Amadé’s rooms. All I have is my flashlight, tucked inside my boot.
r /> I hear footsteps. It’s a guard; it must be. He’ll drag me out of here and there’s nothing I can do about it. I don’t have the strength to hide. I close my eyes and wait. The steps come closer. They round the door and stop.
“My God. What have you done?”
I open my eyes. It’s Amadé.
“I tried to help him,” I say.
“You stupid, stupid fool.” He kneels down, opens my jacket. “Are you alive?”
“I think so.”
“Then you must get up. Now. The guard is coming.”
“I can’t.”
Amadé lunges at me. He grabs my arms and lifts me to my feet. I cry out.
“Stand up!” he shouts.
I do, and feel blood trickling out of the wound.
He wraps my arm around his neck. We stumble out of the dining room and head for the foyer.
“The door’s locked,” I tell him.
“There might be a key somewhere,” he says. We’re walking fast.
“How did you find me?” I ask him.
“I went to the Foy to eat. There was commotion everywhere. In the dining room, the kitchen, outside in the street. I asked Luc what had happened. He said Benôit saw you go into the cellars. He saw that you were bleeding and knew you to be the Green Man. He’s run off to shout for the guard.”
“And you came through the cellar to find me?”
“Yes. Shouting all the way that I would catch you and drag you to Bonaparte myself, to fool them. Luc was afraid to follow. He thinks you’re armed. He says—”
Just then we hear it. A pounding on the door. Loud and insistent. And then the sound of wood splintering.
Amadé swears. “It’s the guard,” he says. “We have to go back. Quickly!”
He pulls me along with him back through all the rooms, locking every door behind us.
“They have an ax. A locked door won’t stop them,” I say.
“It will slow them.”
“We can’t go out. Or down.”