Alaric Longward - Cantiniére Tales) Page 2

  I stopped at that and walked over to the counter to take some well-preserved brandy. Your grandfather eyed me suspiciously, but I waved him down carelessly and stood next to him for a while. I wondered where he hid my pistols, for they should be cleaned as they fell to the sticky mud and the horse stepped on one. I need the guns, Marie, for not all the people in Cherbourg love us. Your grandfather does more than sit on old women thrown into pools of mud, for his arms have broken many a quarrelsome bone, especially those men frequenting The Melancholic, a rutted tavern down the street. Our competition is not a graceful one. I kissed him, to a blushing amusement of an old guardsman, sauntered back to my seat, cursed the creaky seat, and memories filled my head.

  I will tell you about my childhood, and how I became a woman, not a well-mannered woman you would expect, but a stubborn woman of the revolution, its keenly honed product, and while such a ruthless creature resembles a man in many necessary ways, I am and was also a woman. You will learn of deep fear, dear, and deeper hate, of many mistakes and ruthlessness and perhaps, a bit of love. You will learn of how I found the army. I was and am Jeanette Baxa, and I was a cantiniére in the French army, like my mother was.

  Let me start by telling you of Paris, and how our family fell apart and how mother and I fought our fate. We lived during the reign of fear, and by God, we learned to fight the many bastards, love. Know that in your blood, you too are a woman who can conquer, even from most horrible situation imaginable.

  Let this also be my petty vengeance on your mother, so you will know where your roots are, should she deny me my rights. God, your mother will hate that more than anything, but it is love that binds us despite our differences and past.

  I am a seed holder of love, love for you, for your damned mother, for your grandfather, for others. I am Jeanette Baxa, a tavern keeper in Cherbourg and I was a Revolutionary, a prisoner and a soldier.

  PART I: BOOKSISH GHOULS

  ‘It’s a mother’s lot to suffer first shit, then piss, no matter what she does, but I cannot blame you for airing what I myself think. I have thought of a suicide for the shame I feel every waking moment, and stiff drink to drown the haunting memories of the things I have done, but still I endure. They will come here soon, dear.’ (Henriette to Jeanette)

  CHAPTER 1

  First, dear, know your wonderful great grandmother was called Henriette Baxa. I do not remember her maiden name, but she came from beautiful outskirts of Lyons, and met my father, Guillemin Baxa at the story filled Pont Neuf Bridge at the heart of the crowded Paris, when her parents were visiting it on some sort of a farming business, though what exactly that was, also escapes me. She was sixteen at that time, a blonde girl with a very delicate face, slightly slanted eyes, and a woman to turn any man’s head. My father, then a lowly apprentice to his uncle, Colbert Baxa, was working to become one of the rare, few masters in the Paris Book Guild, a man to take over after his master Colbert retired or died.

  Their love was a simple affair, not unlike many other similar stories.

  Father was smitten by her smile; she was flattered. Guillemin was handsome, in a roguish way, his dark hair shading his eyes, and his back was straight. His eyes, I remember, were piercing blue. She told me they had been looking at a man getting his tooth pulled, for such activity is always popular and there has always been someone pulling rotten teeth at Pont Neuf. He had told her he would have a healthy one pulled for her if she but told him her name. She had giggled modestly, sized him up, called his terrible bluff and so father lost a tooth and gained her name. They would meet again, under the watchful eyes of her family, whenever they came to Paris, and she finally admitted she had simple feelings for him.

  On one of the long nights after he was gone, she told me of love and how she felt foolish to have risked so much for such a little thing. It had not been grand love, an epic all-encompassing burning thing, Marie. For her, it was a small spark, made up from a simple promise, just a promise. You do not know the heart of any silly man, not really, she told me sadly, only their promise. This is how my mother thought of love with my father, and I felt sorry for her, and feared love, thinking it utterly foolish and useless. Only later, I found she was wrong and I hope she did too, for there were other men for her, in her future. I forever admire her courage to grasp at these chances, after the terrible things she endured and harsh choices that were forced on her.

  For mother, Guillemin held promise and he was considerate, like a man should be when reaching for a beautiful woman, or any woman for that matter. He was modestly romantic in his simple, straightforward way as he wooed her for a long time. Mother’s parents wanted a good, prosperous man for her and hoped Guillemin would eventually become a master in the Paris Book Guild, and earn more than the moderate sum of thirty sous a day he would earn as a journeyman, providing he first passed his apprenticeship. He did. After this, it was a promising pact indeed, and they wanted mother to consider it and so she thought him a man with a bright future. He would own a splendid house, like his uncle Colbert did, with fanciful furniture, some riches. They would hold happy salons and be content.

  That is how the quarrelsome, secretive and elitist guilds worked; being very family oriented and to get into one, was a fine chance. From the great ones, like the book guild, goldsmiths' guild, to the lesser ones, like the drapers, the butchers and so on, you preferred family to take the rare mastership, the journeyman ships, and the lowly apprenticeships. The family stayed close to you, living on your very own street, hopefully even in your house, crammed like mice, working through the burdensome stages of taking over the very lucrative business.

  The Book Guild of Paris was mighty important. Back then reading was the luxurious hobby of the nobles and the clergy, for while many commoners could read, they could not often afford to buy the finest books. Some bourgeoisie did, of course. Many merchants were wealthy, some bought imaginative noble titles. Guilds were there for a reason. Just like not everyone could bake bread and sell it at what prize they desired, not everyone could go and print whatever they wanted. You had to acquire an accepted member of the guild for the making of the print and the demanding design work and the complex approvals had to be in place before that. The king, Louis XVI, you see, feared the free word. He had good cause too. France was utterly bankrupt, but bankrupt kings do not hamper love, and so mother saw a handsome future journeyman, possibly a master in the making, an important man.

  She took him for the future promise he held. They had a modest wedding and soon she was pregnant, for they wasted no time, and I supposed they enjoyed each other before the children ruined it for them.

  Father and mother moved to a beautiful house in the Cordeliers section, left side of the wide, muddy Seine river, into the house owned by his uncle and employer, Colbert, master in the Paris Book Guild, and an affluent member of the guild, rich as a land-owning duke, they said, though eccentric, guarding his wealth like a predatory spider. He was old, seemingly overly religious, had no wife, but whistled happily to young women in the streets, for he was a lecherous old religious man. He loved all kinds of cake and small sweets, and often his eyes strayed for a silver platter full of such things, one he seemed to carry everywhere with him. He was a bit of a mad recluse, held few open salons, and rarely met anyone outside the family, save for the occasional paid woman, which mother scoffed about. He wore rare silks and an old wig, fine culottes, knee-length pants embroidered in gold thread. He was fat, and his thighs were uncannily bulging out of his pants, but he did not care to change his unhealthy diet. His face was grey of complexion; he had saggy cheeks, and we often wondered if he would live for much longer.

  Yet, at that time, we did not dislike him.

  He spoke to us civil, flirted with my mother gently and ruffled my blond hair as I went past. I rarely visited his luxurious apartment on the second floor. Few did, as I said. He loved his small garden and would let no man near his large, carved, beautiful gothic stone bench, and his prized roses. That was his haven and more.


  Also, in the same house lived Adam, my father’s younger brother, one level below us, and one up from Colbert. He was always all too clever, a show-off with a desperate, nervous voice. Adam looked painfully erect as he walked, his nose chronically dripping. There was, I think, always something wrong with his soul. He was a desperate, unfeeling man, brutal and unfair and none of us liked him. We occasionally spoke with his wife, Sara, a visibly unhappy woman, but not often. Sometimes we heard Adam shout crudely at her, and even slap her and mother would bully Guillemin to go and stop it. Guillemin did not need much bullying for he enjoyed putting his younger brother in his supposed place. They did not love each other, never had. We did not like Adam, he did not like us, but I know he was dutiful and good at the trade.

  On the bottom floor, next to the garden lived Madame Fourier, an old hag smelling of rancid perfume, her grey hair powdered. She was fat like Colbert, her body draped in finery above her station, and so we knew she lived well with some money. We all thought she made a fortune with illegal abortions using tangy she grew in the garden for sometimes there were unhappy, disheveled girls who visited her in the evenings. She was away during the daytime and sometimes the suspicious police would come to question her, but Colbert’s plentiful coin would make it so that the police forgot any business they might have with her. She had a place in the house, but we did not understand it then, though we often wondered why she lived in a house owned by Colbert.

  The first floor hosted the fabulously beautiful, dark oak plated, richly painted, and gilded bookshop with excellent collections of well-bound books, aimed primarily at nobles with scientific aspirations. The press itself was hidden in the backroom, where the real art of book printing was practiced.

  And then there was Gilbert. God, I do not know if I hate him still after all these years, but at times, despite what was to pass between him and my family, I feel sorry for him, and even miss the happier times of our childhood. I am partly to blame for what he became, but there was a dark shade in him, one that was likely always there, no matter our history. Gilbert was Adam’s boy, a quarrelsome boy, like his father, also too clever for himself. He was a tall, strong-bodied boy and his face was curiously well boned. He had a square head; topped with stiff, brush like hair. He was my childhood companion, and we played wildly together, fought like kittens, but generally, when faced by some of the meaner kids on the street, we stalwartly held each others side.

  His lot was not an easy one, for Adam poured all his frustrations on his son. Mainly, he hated everything Gilbert did and aspired for and wanted him to forget games and concentrate on useful skills. Yet, Gilbert was not an easy one to convince to do so, for children play and disobey their parents, and then it is up to the parent to adapt. Adam did not. Adam could and would demean Gilbert and punish him in so many clever ways for Gilbert’s disobedience and stubbornness, his words hurtful and sometimes, downright terrible, and Gilbert cried, many, many times. I remember the happy Gilbert still, up until he was around eight, bravely keeping his head up. Yet, the abuse of his father, I think, wore on Gilbert, and he started to change, and sometimes, dwell deep on his own thoughts, brooding and lost, and I feared him then. Yet, we were close, finding solace in each other and we were not alone, for we had one more in our trinity.

  Next door, the son of a chocolate maker Claude Antin lived Florian Antin, a boy near our age. His father was a famous man at that time, a curious looking man with no chin and an ample paunch. He was famous for he had secretive recipes for strangely colored chocolates that made even the queen take notice, at least once that is, but that was enough to make him known in certain districts, and he made a small fortune, no doubt. He served many nobles and churchmen, and the wealthy bourgeoisie as well. Rumors said he was a gambler and did not look after his modest riches. Florian was gangly and awkward, his hair long and silky, framing his long face. Where Gilbert was very masculine, Florian had some female like qualities in his manners, at least. He would put a hand before his mouth, for example, when surprised, to our everlasting amusement.

  As for me, I was a mix between a girl and a boy. Oh, I was blonde with a long, glimmering hair and a pert nose with delicate face, very much like mother, but in my manners, I took after the boys, even if they often expected me to act like a girl in our games. The three of us were usually together, close as lice. Usually our games were games the boys invented, and I did not mind, since there were few girls around the family and curiously even the block we lived in, and I did not wish to lose the fairly privileged position in our group, for I was jealous of Gilbert and Florian as they had much in common.

  It was normal that Gilbert made Florian his fawning servant, or obedient man-at-arms, and I was the quarrelsome enemy they had to conquer, or the disgustingly helpless princess they would rescue, though often they decided to hold me for ransom themselves, after the rescue, and I would disappoint them by escaping. I hated it when I was placed in the role of a simpleton, but endured it and made it hard for them to treat me like a girl.

  Florian liked me, but was flattered by Gilbert’s attention, I think, but when Gilbert was not around, he was more than happy to play with me, the way I liked. I loved Florian and he would try to stand up to me, when Gilbert was being a bully, which was often. Gilbert had other qualities, though, from early on. He would seduce Florian with flattery and attention, or me if it suited him, for he had a rare talent for making one feel special. Gilbert loved to be lavishly admired. He was dangerously intelligent, Marie, not only a simple bully.

  Despite his nervous energy and ludicrous and constant need for attention and admiration, Gilbert would, sometimes, have a wonderfully peaceful moment. He would read some freshly printed book our family was in the process of developing, usually stolen from the busy store along with some of the delicious cake that was always present with corpulent Colbert. They were sometimes wonderful stories of love and romance, other times of brave adventures and war, and he seemed to enjoy himself well enough, at least occasionally. We all loved the old stories, tales of old Rome and lost Troy, the heroics of young Alexander, of the wonders of strange India and fabulous and terrible Egypt, and I learned much from these foreign stories, understanding a bit of histories and geography and the wonderful life so alien to us, yet similar in human deeds and thoughts. Inspired by the stories, Florien gave solemn oaths to be a brave soldier one day; a ludicrous claim to us at the time, for he looked too gangly and was too clumsy, but time changes people, Marie. Gilbert mocked him mercilessly, and told him he would be a demon, and an ugly one and we laughed dutifully, but Florian had dreams and I hoped he would achieve them, and started to wonder what my road would be like. A wife, likely, and at the time, it did not seem a preposterous duty. From Gilbert, I even learnt to read, just a bit, looking over his broad shoulder, though not to write.

  We also played chess, though often with rules of our own. In Paris, the torrential rains are slayers of the unwary, and when it was raining and the filthy gutters were full of morbid, dangerous water and dreadful waste, we would use an old finely carved oaken chess set from the counter at the store, especially when our parents were entertaining wealthy customers, and we would play. Gilbert, of course, beat me a hundred times, but when I started to pick up the finer details of the game, I actually beat him once, and so we stopped playing and we would see a book with swords and war. That was fine, for I loved those stories, and God, I yearned to go and have an adventure, and find sweetest of love and most savage of adventure. I would have all that, Marie, but not the way the books described them.

  Often, after such a story, we would use rough wooden swords, and fence around the house. As I told you, I was often the victim, but it was fabulously fun, even if the boys were stronger than I. Once, I whacked Gilbert madly across the scalp and he beat me roughly for it, but we were like that, rough, and loud, brash and stalwart and I did not have one doll to play with, which worried mother greatly.

  When we were nine, Adam’s subtle torture on Gilbert cha
nged to more physical abuse, though the sibilant words were still there. He would haunt us in the house, stopping our enjoyable games whenever he could. He would grab his son, threaten him for, as Adam said it, his apparent uselessness, calling him many names, thinking he would never produce offspring. Gilbert would fawn and obey him as he usually did, for he feared Adam. His father saw this, and often, with us watching in silent disapproval, Adam would whisper uncouth threats to him, holding his ear in a vice like grip, and I knew it hurt like hell, for Gilbert tried to hide his tears, unsuccessfully. After such episodes, which increased at this time, Gilbert’s rare good moods would evaporate in a sudden burst of nervous energy and a need to do mischief, though his melancholy moments were also present, his thoughts hard to interrupt.

  Since Adam did not like us to play together in the house that left us with the winding streets of Paris, where one should basically stay near home, but we did not, and risked beatings from gangs and small tyrants of their respective neighborhoods.

  We loved the fanciful and terrible parts of Paris back then, and especially the beautiful Cordeliers district. Few foreigners visited the winding back alleys and twisted street, but the major attractions were popular and full to the brim with people, of the low and the high, of all the estates. Right near our house, there lay the only true hill in Paris, the crowded Ste-Geneviéve, so named after the fine patron saint of the city, may her yellowed bones be blessed, Marie. The Parisians prayed meekly for her help, when the times were hard, which was often, for fever, strange diseases, and ever-present hunger killed droves of people in the city. The harried officials tried to keep the bursting city under bounds, but the people of Il de France flocked here after mean jobs and scarce food, which was hard to transport here, anyway.