The Big Frog Theory - 3
The weekly serialisation of my Magic Realism novel.
FIVE
In spite of the impossibility of its sudden appearance, there could be no mistaking that the city beneath them was indeed Paris — but a Paris almost devoid of suburbs. Neville recognised the snaking shape of the island-bearing Seine, and then — as if any further confirmation were necessary — the unique frame of the Eiffel Tower standing proudly against the skyline.
Even from this distance, he could make out some of the more prominent landmarks as the old bus made its slow way down the hill and closer to the city. Occasionally the sun — which had now broken through the clouds — reflected on fragments of ornate, gilt-encrusted roofing, sending Morse-like greetings towards him.
For those first few seconds Neville was spellbound, not owing to the fact that he was suddenly here (he was beginning to feel as if nothing could surprise him now) but simply because of the bewitching beauty of the place.
Samuel had said nothing since he had re-started the engine.
‘Paris,’ Neville observed with a kind of naïve certainty.
‘Indeed, Sir.’
‘Because it’s first on my list? Is that why we’re here?’
‘Not necessarily. Perhaps it is simply the best place to start.’
This was immediately a little too cryptic for Neville to pursue. Indeed, he had already decided that Samuel’s inclination to stray into obscurity — like his open-ended references to “we” — would be left unchallenged, partly due to the fact that he sensed a futility in embarking on any literal challenge, but also because he hoped that such an approach might tempt Samuel to gradually lower his guard.
‘Where would you like to stay, Sir?’
‘I have a choice?’ It was a possibility which not been expected.
‘Of course.’
‘But it will be a question of money?’
‘Partly, yes — although at this point I am unable to say exactly how much things might cost.’
Neville smiled. He had begun to get a sense of the game Samuel was playing; a test almost, revolving around the notion of “worth” that the Colonel had so ably demonstrated.
‘Nothing too grand then. Comfortable perhaps, and certainly where I will fit in.’
‘As a visitor?’
‘An English visitor, yes.’
They were nearing the bottom of the hill and had arrived at the outskirts of the geographically-shrunk city. Four-storey apartment blocks lined the road on either side. Not particularly attractive, they somehow still seemed to possess an air of the Parisian about them. Perhaps it was the cream coloured concrete or the preponderance of shutters.
‘I know a nice place just south of the river, not far from the military academy. It should suit you fine, Sir.’
Through the window, Neville could see Parisians going about their daily business. It seemed he might soon be amongst ordinary people again; about to return to a world which shared his model of reality. Since the tea-shop, Neville had lost a grip on that reality and what he expected of it — one which had been loosened further thanks to their unruly temporal travel to Paris.
Cars whistled past them, often tooting as they did so, and Neville realised that Samuel, now sitting immediately in front of him, was driving — quite correctly — on the right side of the road. More than that however, the steering wheel, dashboard, and all other controls had moved with him. Above the dash, Neville noticed the logo of the Citroen motor vehicle company, and wondered if — again without his being aware — the whole bus might have changed too. The only thing that seemed to remain constant was their modest rate of progress, though even that had been translated into kilometres per hour.
‘Perhaps you would like to check your wallet, Sir.’
Neville pulled his wallet from his back trouser pocket and opened it. Inside was a collection of French bank notes.
‘A few hundred euros, I believe. The hotel has been paid for in advance, so you should really only need spending money.’
‘Can I keep track of the money I spend, Samuel, just in case?’
‘Check your watch, Sir.’
‘My watch?’
Neville looked at his wrist. The watch — that recognition of loyalty from his former employer and which had been swallowed by the tea shop waitress — was strapped to him once again, yet now it boasted a small crystal display tastefully inset into the face. The numbers 18558 stared back at him.
‘My balance?’
‘Not counting what you have in your wallet. We have booked you into the hotel for three nights. Is that enough? If you want to stay longer, there will be no problem.’
‘No; three nights should be fine.’ He allowed himself a moment of mental arithmetic. ‘But isn’t a little over five hundred pounds a bit much for such a short stay?’
With the somewhat arbitrary relationship between monetary value and worth already established, when Samuel declined to say anything Neville gave up the enquiry.
Despite the fact that he was on the verge of a mission of self-discovery, Neville could not help but feel that there might be little true exploration to be undertaken. How much, for example, had been laid out for him already? He already had confidence in Samuel’s decision that three days at the hotel was the precise amount of time he needed to spend there, in spite of anything he might suggest himself.
‘Thank you for your faith, Sir,’ Samuel had been mind-reading again, ‘but I do assure you that our skills are merely organisational; I think in the modern world of business, you might call us “facilitators”.’
‘Yes, perhaps we might.’
By now they were in the heart of the city. Occasionally Neville caught glimpses of the Eiffel Tower between buildings, across open spaces, or at the end of long tree-lined avenues. Although it had represented little more than a landmark up to this point — a geographical stake in the ground as it were — he now began to feel as if it might hold some greater significance within his overall visit.
Samuel pulled the bus round a corner and — accompanied by the obligatory tooting of other road users — came to an almost immediate halt outside a large and impressive hotel. It looked expensive.
‘Not too pricey, Sir. We have found it very reasonable in the past for the services it offers.’
‘Of course.’
Samuel turned and smiled.
‘Your bags are on the seat behind you. Just a few things for your visit: toiletries, changes of clothes, that sort of thing.’ The door opened with a moan that was, quite noticeably, Gallic. ‘I’ll be here in three days to pick you up.’
‘But if I need you before then?’
‘Don’t worry about that, Sir. You just make the most of it.’
The journey was evidently at an end. Samuel had made his final statement, and smiling but tight-lipped, waited for his passenger to disembark. Neville rose. Two bags — taupe canvass ones he had owned for some years now — awaited his attention. He lifted them up and made for the steps.
‘Thank you, Samuel.’
Samuel nodded, and Neville climbed down from the bus.
With a complaining hiss, the door of the vehicle — now a rather dirty yellow Citroen which had also seen better and brighter days — closed behind him; then, accompanied by a chorus of car horns, Samuel swung the bus out into the speeding throng. Neville stood and watched as it became submerged in the stream of traffic and then veer suddenly out of sight.
When he turned his attention to it, the hotel facade proved even more impressive than he had first thought. Either side of the large revolving entrance doors, two majestic stone lions stood guard, growling menacingly at passers-by who strayed too close. The doorman, surprisingly rugged despite the elegance of his uniform, looked more like a lion-tamer than a member of a noble service industry. Indeed, the rather gruff “Good day” he bestowed on Neville — with one eye firmly fixed on his stone charges — did little to dispel the notion.
Inside, the foyer offered both warmth and intimacy. Its decor, once presumably the height of fashion, had lost a degree of its lustre, and its plushness seemed slightly warn. It was a hotel on the way out but still tenaciously clinging to the traditions of a more glorious past.
Neville rested his bags at his feet when he reached the unattended desk. He raised his palm to press the bell provided for those seeking attention, but before he could complete the action, the bell rang itself.
‘Pardon monsieur, but I am — how you say — “pissed off” with being banged all the time.’
Neville, now feeling quite unfazed by such animated interruptions, nodded and lowered his hand. When he looked up, he was faced by a middle-aged woman dressed in a neat, if somewhat prim, suit.
‘Monsieur?’
He was uncertain whether or not to try out his rather rusty schoolboy French at this point, but then he realised that both the Doorman and the bell had already addressed him in their own interpretation of English. He decided to stick with his native tongue.
‘Good day. I believe you have a room booked for me.’
The woman smiled professionally, and nodded.
‘Of course — and may I say, Monsieur’s French is most excellent.’
Neville had spoken in English — yet apparently this had been instantly translated into fluent conversational French. He decided to try something a little more elaborate.
‘I must say I am impressed by your welcoming vestibule. It retains the character of a bygone era and expresses all that is quintessential in elegance and style.’
Again, perfect French.
‘Monsieur is too kind.’ Again the smile and the nod.
A young man had appeared at Neville’s side, and was already holding a taupe bag in each hand.
‘Room 206, Sir.’ She looked at the boy. ‘Chambrés deux cent six, Albert. Allez, vite!’
Neville followed the boy to the far end of the hall. Stairs swung upwards in a wide sweeping spiral enveloping as they did so the wrought iron lift that rose in their centre. The boy pulled back the lift’s trellis door and Neville stepped in. As they rose to the second floor, Neville watched the hotel foyer disappear beneath his feet and the first floor pass before his eyes. The lift — which reminded him of one he had ridden as a child in Foyle’s London bookshop — seemed typically French. He would have expected nothing less.
Room 206 was a few yards along the corridor. The boy opened the door and led Neville into a large room. That feeling he had sensed in the entrance hall of a more luxurious past was echoed here too: the slightly fading wallpaper; the slightly tired curtains; the slightly worn fabric of the arm chairs. There was comfort too, but mingled with that a sense of sorrow and regret.
Neville turned to tip the boy, but he had already left; the door was closed and his two bags were resting on the large double bed. Neville walked to the window, drew back the curtains, then opened the shutters onto the street below. There was a table near the chairs, and on the table some hotel stationery. He thought of the Eiffel Tower again and wondered if, in order to make the most of his visit, he ought to plan an itinerary.
He pulled off his jacket, laid it across the back of one of the chairs, then sat in the other. The stationery, not surprisingly off-white (though this time presumably by design), bore the name of the hotel beneath its rather elaborate leonine crest, as did the ball-point pen that had been placed nearby.
Neville picked up the pen — no cheese straw this time! — and reflected how he seemed to be doing nothing but making lists. From outside the tooting of car horns was joined by the shouts of street vendors who had stalls across the road, and the combination of the two began to take on something of a rhythmical quality. In the corner of the room a water dispenser bubbled in time, and from the vase on the dresser Neville noticed the aroma of the fresh flowers.
‘Ambiance.’
He looked behind him to where an antique grand-mother clock tick-tocked quietly with the rhythm.
‘Ambiance, we call it. A very French word, you do not think, Monsieur?’
‘Indeed. And thank you. I am quite relaxed.’
The clock tick-tocked on. Neville turned his attention to the paper again.
‘Not everyone appreciates it you know; the ambiance,’ the clock interrupted again, ‘especially — if I might be so bold — the English.’
‘Ah.’ Neville resisted the temptation to turn round; he wanted to work on his list. On the dresser, the flowers appeared to be leaning in his direction, listening to the conversation. He wondered where he should start.
‘A list; that is good, Monsieur. And La Tour Eiffel; of course you must go there.’
Neville turned to the clock. A small moon-like hand, swung from side to side beyond a glass aperture in the face, keeping time with the pendulum that swung out of sight within the clock’s mahogany case.
‘Should I go there first, do you think?’
‘Monsieur?’
‘After all, you’re a local; an expert in these matters.’
‘Oh, you are too kind.’ The clock tick-tocked slightly louder, as if with pride. ‘But you are correct; I have helped people in the past. It is not my job of course, but then if one can be of assistance...’
There was now the faint sound of dripping behind him, and Neville turned to find a fresh filter coffee brewing on the table in front of him.
‘Déjà vu?’ The clock asked, and then chimed the quarter hour with such relish that it was almost a laugh.
‘Déjà vu, indeed.’
‘Now, La Tour. I would suggest that you leave her to last. She will give you a view of all you have seen here; it will be a memory to take away with you. Do you not agree?’
‘Sounds very sensible. So, apart from the tower, what else should I see?’
‘Monsieur, in Paris where does one start?!’
Neville picked up the pen and divided the page into three, one part for each day. At the very bottom he made a note of his final destination.
‘I would start with the city. Just to drink her in, to feel her. That is how to start your visit, Monsieur.’
‘And you would suggest?’
‘A walk down Le Champs Elysées; a cognac on the terrace, watching the city pass you by. Magnifique! Then perhaps to simple stroll through the streets; perhaps a little shopping. That is the way to start your visit.’
Neville wrote almost as if he were taking dictation.
‘And then?’
‘Then you must do two things: see our history, and see our art. I would suggest Sacré-Cœur, Montmartre, Notre Dame. And for our art you should see the Louvre, and the Musée d’Orsay.’
The visitor continued to write.
‘Monsieur?’
‘Yes?’ Neville looked up. This time the interruption was a little more hesitant.
‘The evenings; les nuits. Do you wish to see Paris — at night?’
This question seemed a little loaded, as if it carried with it some special challenge.
‘If I have come to see Paris, then should I not see as much of her as I can?’
‘Bravo! Bien sûr! So, to your list you must add a visit to La Pigalle — you may take in a show if you choose — and, perhaps, la Rue St Denis.’
‘Rue St Denis?’
‘I offer it to you, Monsieur, simplement. I say nothing further.’ And with that the clock stopped.
From the dresser, Neville thought he could make out the sound of whispering, but when he looked round, the flowers were still and silent. On the table in front of him the paper revealed
Day One: The Champs Elysées — Shopping
Day Two: Montmartre — Notre Dame
Day Three: Louvre — Musée d’Orsay
The Eiffel Tower
As he re-read his list and pondered its appropriateness, there came a knock at the door.
SIX
He opened the door to find the Doorman facing him. Instinctively, Neville looked down half-expecting to see his visitor accompanied by one of the two stone lions from the hotel’s entrance.
‘Monsieur,’ the doorman was alone, ‘your taxi is ‘ere.’
‘My taxi? I wasn’t aware that I had ordered a taxi.’
The Doorman said nothing, standing motionless and with the air of a man who was determined to take his charge — however unwilling — down through the hotel and to the waiting cab. Neville recalled the earlier image of the man complete with whip, and decided not to argue the point.
‘Just a minute.’
He left the man at the door and walked into the en suite bathroom. Again the air of faded glory: the fixtures were a little worn and ornate, attractive in their own way yet now seeming somewhat over-elaborate.
Sitting on the porcelain toilet, Neville heard a hiss from his right. At the head of the bath, the taps boasted a hand-shower attachment and it was this that was now moving slowly snake-like in the bottom of the bath. A small amount of water dribbled from the steel head.
The attachment stopped moving and looked hard at him, its spray holes combining to form a curious one-eyed stare.
‘Off out?’
‘Apparently so.’
‘You pay good money for facilities like this, yet no sooner do you arrive than you go out! And when will we see you next, eh? Tonight, when you come back — drunk, probably. You’ll come in here for a quick piss and then go straight to bed. Have you any idea how neglected that makes us feel? Have you?’
Neville stood and pulled up his trousers. He took objection to being nagged — especially as he might have expected his status as “visitor” to demand a little respect to be shown towards him — but couldn’t deny that the shower head might have had a point.
‘I’ll make full use of you tomorrow. Really.’
‘They all say that!’
‘Promise. OK?’
The shower head hissed again and turned away from him. Neville expected to find the Doorman still waiting for him, but although the door to the room was still open, there was no-one there. Picking his coat from the chair, he left the room. There was no-one in the hallway outside either, so — ignoring the lift — he made his way down the stairs.
The lobby was also deserted, except for a small figure standing by the entrance, looking through the window onto the street outside. Neville looked behind the desk to see if he could locate the Concierge, but failing to do so decided to take his key with him.
As he walked towards the exit, he could see a bright yellow taxi outside. It had been badly parked, with its two near side wheels up onto the pavement.
Neville had one hand on the revolving door when a voice to his side said, ‘Taxi?’ It was strange guttural voice, almost as if it had become encrusted with years of prolonged coughing or chest infections. He turned. The voice had come from the figure at the window, and the figure belonged to a toad.
‘Sorry?’
‘Taxi? You wanted a taxi?’
Again the strange voice. Neville expected the last question to be followed by a kind of croak but it was not; he sensed that might have been suppressed, the only trace a vague and almost inaudible “hic”.
‘Yes. Thanks.’
He let the toad leave first. He was wearing a bomber jacket with the collar turned up, and a faded baseball cap with the letters “N” and “Y” stitched in white. His legs were adorned with silky track suit bottoms, the legend “St. Etienne” embossed in green down the sides. From a distance, there could be no telling that the owner of the clothes was an amphibian; not from behind at any rate.
Neville followed the toad’s odd gait to the car, where a green, three-fingered hand fumbled with the door.
‘Great. Thanks.’
The cab had a strange, distinctly saline odour to it. And on the back shelf behind Neville, was a model of a plastic newt with a nodding head. It bobbed caustically at him as he got in.
‘Bonjour.’
‘Morning.’
By now the driver had managed to get himself into the car and was fiddling with the controls. His apparent lack of dexterity gave Neville little confidence; a concern that was redoubled as the taxi suddenly lurched off the pavement with a bang, and sped out into the traffic. They did not appear to be following too straight a line.
‘Champs Elysées, oui?’
‘Yes, please.’
The driver looked at Neville in his rear view mirror.
‘You OK?’
‘Fine, yes.’
They were racing along the street with the driver still looking at Neville rather than at the road. He gave a slight toad-like grin.
‘Surprised?’
‘At what? Sorry.’
‘Me.’ And with that the car suddenly lurched around to the left and began to career down another avenue. ‘I am a toad, yes?’
‘It would appear so, yes.’
‘And you are a little surprised, no?’
‘A little’ — though not as much as he might once have been.
‘Special treat for the English. Toad taxi drivers. Get it? Sophisticated French joke, non?’
And with that the toad gave a sudden laugh that sounded like all the plumbing in the entire city had suddenly ceased to function and was belching water and sewage everywhere. Neville smiled politely, but was, by now, too nervous to laugh. From behind him he heard the newt whimper “Oh, shit” and when he turned he found its head had been withdrawn into its hollow body and was nowhere to be seen.
It now appeared that they were travelling at least twice as fast as any other vehicle on the road, and the toad seemed determined not to change his driving style — if it might be called that — in order to accommodate anyone. Neville thought about saying something, complaining even, but felt that to distract the toad now might actually end up being his last ever action: “3B” a little prematurely perhaps.
Within a short while — though to Neville it felt like a period of torture — the Arc de Triomphe was in sight and the toad spun the taxi out onto its mesmerising roundabout without a moment’s hesitation. Suddenly the Champs Elysées stretched before them. The taxi bounded on for a hundred yards or so then suddenly dived to the right and came to a screeching halt on the pavement. Neville could smell the burnt rubber. He handed over some cash, uncertain of its value or the amount actually required. The toad checked it and seemed satisfied.
‘OK. Get out.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I should have a cognac if I were you,’ and with those words of advice hardly uttered, the toad rammed the taxi into gear and speed out into the traffic again, the door from which Neville had exited flapping and banging against the side of the cab where he had not even had time to close it.
Conveniently, the taxi had dropped him immediately outside a café. Even though its pavement tables were very busy, it appeared that the rather alarming manner of his arrival had gone unnoticed. There was a table free near the front of the terrace area and, as Neville made his way to it and sat down, he decided that if the toad’s driving might not be much to write home about, then his advice could well prove worth taking.
The waiter — a stiff individual who gave every impression of having an ironing board shoved down the back of his jacket — was at his side in an instant, offering him a napkin and some cutlery. Neville raised his hand and smiled politely.
‘No thank you. Just a coffee — and a cognac, please.’
‘Au lait?’
‘Thank you, yes.’
Leaving the napkin, the waiter removed the cutlery and disappeared into the café.
Relaxing a little in anticipation of the cognac, Neville eased himself a little further back in his chair and began to take in the scene. As he did so, he realised that the occupants of the table to this left — two suited businessmen — had indeed taken an interest in his arrival and were evidently talking about him.
‘Poor English Bastard! That old toad-driver stunt gets them every time!’
‘Bet his pissed his little white panties, don’t you?’
Both men laughed.
‘Now watch the waiter sting him for his drinks. Here he comes!’
Neville was considering speaking to the men (though what he might have said was uncertain, especially as doubts about his command of the language were returning) when the waiter reappeared with his coffee and brandy. He pulled a note from his wallet and handed it to the waiter, who nodded, then disappeared.
‘Told you! That’s the last he’ll see of that!’
The two men laughed heartily again then rose. They exchanged pleasantries with another couple nearby and then moved away. As they did so, one of them brushed Neville’s shoulder.
‘Excuse me. Terribly sorry.’
The accent was impeccably English.
‘That’s quite all right, really.’
Once the two men had gone — they lingered on the pavement for a moment, shook hands, then went their separate ways — Neville took up his coffee and scanned the boulevard.
The avenue was, of course, busy and bustling. Six lanes of traffic pulsated in that stop-go way major arteries do, punctuated all the while by the tell-tale repetition of yellow taxis. For a few moments Neville concentrated on these, to see if he could count the number of toad drivers there were; or indeed, if there were any other members of the animal kingdom who had taken up the hackney carriage as an occupation. He gave up after a while, a little disappointed to find his search inconclusive.
People moved about the pavement in seemingly ever greater numbers; a pavement which might well have benefited from the kind of markings which attempted to impose some modest discipline upon the traffic. In just in a few seconds, he witnessed numerous bumps and near misses, and soon picked out the many phrases of “Excuse me” or “Pardon” which accompanied them.
It was obviously a wealthy street in a wealthy city. Many of the women were wearing fur coats, and such a large proportion of the men were adorned in sharp and fashionable casual clothes that he might have been forgiven for mistaking half the population as members of the modelling profession.
The coffee tasted wonderful — “really French”, Neville thought — and half way through this he took his first sip of the cognac, which warmed him even more than the coffee. He felt himself sigh internally. Yes, he had imagined Paris to be like this.
After a few minutes, a pony and trap pulled to a temporary halt outside the café. It was a ride for tourists, taking them for a one-way trip along the Champs Elysées. The driver had dismounted from the trap and was now collecting his fare from two middle-aged American ladies who were struggling with their French and, in consequence, offering the man less than half the standard tariff. The driver simply spoke slower and louder. Neville had thought it was only the English who did that.
The horse, which had for a brief moment shown some interest in the negotiations, now turned his attention to Neville.
‘Having a nice time?’
‘Yes, thanks. You?’
‘Oh, so so.’ The horse attempted to shrug his harnessed shoulders — presumably much in the manner of his master — but simply succeeded in rattling his hooves on the tarmac. ‘You know; up and down, up and down. Still, I suppose it’s better than being sliced up and served to voracious Italians.’
‘So I would imagine.’
The horse looked back at the driver. Negotiations were coming to a conclusion.
‘Fancy a ride? Down to the Louvre, perhaps?’
‘Not today. But thanks anyway.’
‘Sure. It’s nothing.’ And with that, the horse and trap moved sedately off, the driver looking for their next customers.
Neville finished the last of his coffee and chased it down with the remainder of the cognac. Remembering the bill, he looked around for the waiter who had served him. He could not see him. He waited for a few moments then, with casual resignation, gave up on getting any change, rose, and walked onto the pavement proper.
To his left, the Arc de Triomphe stood large and proud against the skyline, with the heads of visitors who had climbed the monument just visible at the very top. To his right was the long stretch of the tree-lined avenue, and it was in this direction he decided to go.