The Confectioner's Tale (18 page)

I fall asleep in a strange place, with the sea wind whistling through the window, lulling my thoughts until they are as quiet as sand.

Chapter Twenty-Six

March 1910

Sundays were slower at the pâtisserie, and Gui came to love their atmosphere, their calm after the frenzy of the week. They ran only one sitting to fit around church-going, so the kitchen operated on half-staff, producing more humble offerings. The towering stacks of profiteroles, the mille-feuille and champagne creams were banished in favour of the sweet and the simple; pans of clafoutis with preserved cherries, slices of tarte tatin and cups of hot chocolate.

Gui put himself forward for all the Sunday shifts available, even the earliest, which meant arriving at the pâtisserie before it was light. It was his job to light the ovens and get them up to temperature, whilst two other chefs proved the dough for that day’s baking. One morning, he walked yawning to the back door to see a cart standing empty in the alleyway. A figure was tugging on a rope to secure it.

‘Luc!’

The large man turned in surprise.

‘Gui?’

Seizing Luc’s hand, he shook it warmly, surprised by his own enthusiasm.

‘Calm down, lad,’ the big man laughed. ‘I’ve had a long night, as you know.’

He greeted Marc and Yves, then stood against the cart, exchanging news with his former colleagues. He accepted a share of a cigarette, to ward away the morning chill.

‘We wondered what had happened, after Christmas,’ Yves said pointedly. ‘First you disappeared, then Mademoiselle at the end of the month. Thought there might have been something in it.’

‘Monsieur Clermont offered me a job here, so I took it,’ said Gui, careful not to drop ash onto his uniform. ‘It’s a long story. What did you mean about Mademoiselle disappearing? I saw her last week.’

‘From duties, is what he means,’ interrupted Luc. ‘End of January, after all the flooding, we brought the delivery as usual, but no Mam’selle. They got another chap now.’ He indicated inside, where an old man was staring into the delivery ledger as though it held an almighty puzzle. Gui recognized him as the cleaner. ‘Hopeless he is, but we know where to go all right, so we’re muddling through.’

Gui remembered Mademoiselle Clermont’s words about her father and their disagreement. He wanted to tell the men what had happened during the flood, but he had promised to stay silent. Yves eyed him with interest as he bade them farewell and climbed the back step.

He felt a strange sadness as he watched the cart trundle away, but it was soon eclipsed by the smell of dough in the kitchens. He tended to the ovens, but was allowed to help the other chefs for a few hours, warming butter and measuring out orange blossom water to create trays of rich, buttery brioche.

Monsieur Clermont or Josef were rarely present on Sundays, preferring the company of family and a leisurely breakfast on the day of rest. Usually, the kitchen was run by one of the senior chefs, like Ebersole or Melio, but it was best when Maurice was in charge.

‘Let us give thanks to our patron, Saint Honoré!’ he yelled across the echoing room. ‘We’ll need a dozen cakes by the time church slams its doors and ejects those hungry sinners. How long for the crème Chiboust, Gui?’

‘Five minutes, Chef!’ Gui called back, furiously whisking the egg whites that would be added to another apprentice’s pastry cream.

‘That should be sufficient, my son. Fetch the caramel, quick, before they finish mass!’

No one in the kitchen could match Maurice with a knife. He sent pieces of sugared almond and dried fruit flying into a tidy pile quicker than Gui could get them out of the jar. Every so often, the older chef would pretend to slip, sending pieces of nut or chocolate skidding down the counter. Gui and the other apprentices fell upon these, grinning, whilst Maurice turned a blind eye.

Gui was learning, slowly, the language of the kitchen. Every night, even when he was exhausted, he read Monsieur Carême’s book by the light of his tiny stove, and soon, he could recite it inside out. Proudly, he realized he could nod whenever a silk sieve was mentioned; he had made countless bain-maries, he could whisk egg whites into spires in his sleep.

What was more, he found that he was a natural with pastry dough. Where the other apprentices swore and struggled, Gui’s callused hands made deft work of the temperamental substance. One day, Maurice had grabbed his sleeve, pressed his wrist to Gui’s palm.

‘That explains it,’ he declared, testing the other one. ‘Your hands are like ice. Warm hands will never make a pastry chef. Did you know that?’

Gui shook his head, inspecting his pale blue fingernails. Perhaps being too poor to afford coal had its advantages. He remained at the bottom of the long ladder of apprentices, but his steps quickened, he laughed more, exchanged jokes with the others.

That Sunday, business in the pâtisserie was slow due to a spring rainstorm and, for the first time, Maurice allowed Gui to leave early.

‘Go ahead,’ he told him, taking a stack of trays from Gui’s arms and depositing them in the scullery sink. ‘I’ll bet the others have conveniently forgotten to tell you that you’re due one day off per week.’

Gui tried to smile gratefully. He knew about the days off, but did not take them. He would rather be at the pâtisserie where it was warm and he was fed, than in his freezing room on the Rue de Belleville.

‘Why don’t you slip away now?’ Maurice insisted. ‘It’s only a few hours until we close and there are plenty of hands here. Take some time for yourself, go and have fun. Young men should enjoy themselves.’

It would be rude to turn down the offer, so he moved quietly to the cloakroom to dress in his street clothes. It was strange, to leave when there was work still to be done, but as he buttoned his jacket, the excitement of liberation crept upon him. He rarely had the chance to see Paris with its eyes open to the daylight.

In the jumble of the lost-property box he found a rickety umbrella. Several of its spokes had snapped, and it looked more like an ancient crow than a device to keep him dry, but he took it anyway. He sheltered under the pâtisserie’s sign, struggling to wedge it open.

There was a commotion in the street before him. A shiny blue motor car stood steaming by the kerb, a man in a chauffeur’s uniform poking around beneath its bonnet, water cascading from the brim of his cap.

‘Need a hand?’ Gui yelled over the rain.

‘No, lad.’ The chauffeur shook droplets out of his eyes. ‘This’ll be a night’s work to repair.’

‘Good afternoon!’ a second voice called.

Mademoiselle Clermont was peering at him from inside the vehicle.

‘Good afternoon.’ He held the umbrella close to the window. ‘What’s happening?’

‘Oh, something has broken,’ she said. ‘It’s a nuisance, I was on my way to visit a good friend, but now I shall have to stay at home.’

She did not look overly upset, smiling through the rain-spattered glass. Gui hesitated, but the feeling of liberty was stronger than his caution.

‘How far is it? Perhaps I could escort you, then there would be no need to miss your appointment?’

He wished he could take back the words almost as soon as they were out of his mouth, but it was no use now, they had been said. He steeled himself for her polite rebuttal.

‘It … it is a very kind offer, Guillaume, but my friend lives near the Musée des Arts. I fear it would be too far to walk in such weather.’

The look of embarrassment on her face was unmistakable. He heard himself speaking again.

‘In that case, we might take the metro.’

‘The metro?’ she exclaimed, glancing towards the chauffeur.

‘It is only a short trip.’

Her colour deepened.

‘You
have
ridden the metro before?’ he asked, incredulous.

‘Father believes it is improper, and my aunt has a terror of being underground.’ She tapped her gloved fingers upon the door, as if itching to open it. ‘I suppose one would take the line from Opéra?’

He nodded. ‘There are only a handful of stations between there and Arts et Métiers.’

In truth, he had only ever taken the metro once before, but he had talked endlessly with the other apprentices about it. The fright and the thrill of hurtling through dark tunnels to emerge in another part of the city was something he was desperate to experience again. The boy in him grinned at Mademoiselle Clermont.

‘Of course,’ he said mischievously, ‘if you too are afraid of being underground …’

An impish smile was growing upon her face. She reached for the door handle.

‘Emile,’ she announced to the chauffeur, ‘I shall be taking the metro to Lili’s. I will telephone later, or ask that their driver bring me home, if the motor is not yet fixed.’ She stepped under Gui’s rickety umbrella. He took care to swivel it so that the leaks did not fall on her side. ‘Don’t mention this to my aunt, please,’ she told the man. ‘It would only worry her unnecessarily.’

The chauffeur nodded, face carefully blank. Mademoiselle Clermont’s steps down the road were so fast that Gui had to hurry to keep up. The rain cascaded around their small shelter, until he could not help but stifle a laugh.

‘Slow down!’ he said. ‘I can barely keep up with you.’

‘I am sorry.’ She was breathless, her smile huge. ‘I feel like a prisoner escaping.’

In the warm pause that followed, Gui realized he had forgotten himself, had been addressing her informally. She did not seem affronted, but he switched back to the polite form when he spoke again.

‘I met Luc recently, at the back door,’ he said, as they slowed their pace. ‘He told me that you hadn’t been taking deliveries. Was that what you and your father disagreed about, a few weeks ago?’

The smile fell from her mouth.

‘Yes,’ she answered, ‘amongst other things. My aunt told him that it was not appropriate for me to be doing any kind of work. He never listened to her before, but now …’ She seemed about to say more, but sighed, gave a half-smile instead. ‘These visits to Lili are the only time I am allowed to myself.’

‘Is it because of what happened in January?’

She nodded reluctantly.

‘I am sorry.’

‘Please don’t apologize, Guillaume. If not for you, the situation might have been far worse.’

Place de l’Opéra broke open before them, obscured and rain-softened. A few motor cars slicked around the road. They had to leap back as one flew past, sending a sheet of muddy water towards their shoes. Mademoiselle Clermont just laughed, peering in the direction of a set of marble steps.

‘There’s the metro!’ She pointed. ‘Are we truly going to take it?’

‘If you wish.’

‘Of course I wish! Quickly, before my boots are soaked through.’

They ran the remaining distance to avoid motor cars and carriages, bumping into each other as they attempted to stay beneath the umbrella. The marble steps were treacherous with mud and rain. Mademoiselle Clermont steadied herself on Gui’s arm, and together they made it to the ticket booth.

‘Two single tickets, please,’ Gui announced, ‘to Arts et Métiers.’

He fished in his pocket for coins. Even a third-class journey would come at the cost of eating that night, but he had never been more willing to part with money.

‘Wait,’ Mademoiselle Clermont was opening her purse. Firmly, Gui placed a small, perforated ticket in her hand.

‘We are travelling third class?’

‘I thought you wished to see the real metro?’ he said, and received a smile in return.

They descended grit-spattered steps, and it was as though a hot gullet was swallowing them up. The narrow tunnel curved and Mademoiselle Clermont gripped his arm as they emerged onto the platform. It was saturated with sepia light, a sunset in autumn captured and crammed into the globes that hung from the vaulted ceiling.

The rain was a great equalizer. Men in overcoats mopped their faces and cleaned eyeglasses that were too steamed up to wear. Women removed dripping hats and attempted to brush them dry. No one noticed the young man and woman who stood arm on arm, although a close look would have revealed that they should not have been stepping out together.

The train arrived and Mademoiselle Clermont almost tripped over her skirts in her haste to board. During the short journey she pressed her fingertips to the window and stared in awe through her reflection into the black walls of the tunnels. Gui watched too, taking in the turn of her head and the curve of her cheek. It was with mutual reluctance that they left their seats when the train pulled squealing into their station.

‘But I know where we are,’ she exclaimed, running ahead as they emerged into the early evening. ‘We are by the square. We have come all that way and it feels as though we’ve barely moved at all!’

‘But we have.’ Gui smiled, wrestling with the umbrella once more beneath the glass and iron shelter. ‘That’s the joy of it.’

The walk to Mademoiselle Clermont’s destination was over far too quickly. The rain had eased, and it was almost pleasant in the grey, dripping evening. Gui told her about his work in the pâtisserie, stories of initiations and accidents, which had her alternately amused and appalled. She demanded to inspect his cold pastry-making hands for herself, turning them over to touch the burn scars in way that made his stomach tumble like an acrobat.

‘No one discovered you then, when you burned your jacket?’ she asked as they ducked past an overflowing gutter.

‘I’m safe for now, thanks to you and Patrice,’ he said. ‘Does that make us even?’

‘Hardly.’ Her eyes were shadowed beneath the brim of her hat. ‘I still feel that I haven’t thanked you …’

There was a rattling from above and he pulled her to one side, thinking a slate might be tumbling from a roof. Instead, a head appeared from a fourth-storey window.

‘Jeanne!’ a girl’s voice called.

‘Lili!’

Mademoiselle Clermont waved at her friend and hastily shook out her skirts, wet through at the hem.

‘Lili must have been watching the road,’ she said quickly. ‘Thank you for escorting me, Guillaume. It was a thrill.’

‘It was my pleasure, Mademoiselle Clermont.’