The Big Frog Theory - 5
The weekly serialisation of my Magic Realism novel.
NINE
By the time he reached Montmartre, Neville had calmed down and was in possession of a more even temper. The journey across the city had not been particularly quick, which, under the circumstances, had probably been a good thing. Pierre had been noticeably silent throughout, not even offering the briefest of guide-book commentary.
The taxi dropped Neville off at the foot of a long hill which led up to the white church that dominated the summit. Ahead were two parallel chains of steps that zigzagged in a mirror image to the top. He was struck by the whiteness of the whole scene, and — as he placed his foot upon the first of the steps — the strangely solid nature of the stone.
At various stages, the steps were broken by large plateaux. These were populated with bench seats, boys playing impromptu games of football, and North Africans selling trinkets from brightly coloured blankets. Neville paused at one selling necklaces made from various materials; coral, ivory, wood. As their owner chattered away, the necklaces writhed in time with the music from a nearby ghetto blaster whose owner was busy showing off his break-dancing skills.
As they left the necklaces to move on, Neville detected a sound from Pierre that appeared less than approving.
‘Something wrong, Pierre?’
‘Monsieur?’
‘You don’t approve of these people selling things here?’
‘The selling? Mais oui. The people, perhaps non.’
‘Why? Because they are not French?’
Pierre said nothing. Neville assumed an affirmative answer.
‘But I thought Paris was proud of her multi-cultural background; of the variety it brought to the city.’
‘But these people are scum — pardonnez moi, but I have to say it. They turn areas of our city into slums. They do not know how to live like Parisians!’ Pierre paused. ‘But is it not the same in England?’
‘The same?’
‘Do you not have ethnics too? Are there not problems?’
‘Yes. And there are problems. But we must try to overcome them.’
Neville realised that he was in danger of sounding like a politician, and almost forgave Pierre the Gallic sigh that closed the conversation. A thump in the back from a football just at that moment also helped to terminate the debate. He turned to seek out the offending footballer, only to find the area deserted — except for the football which was trying to slink away unnoticed. From somewhere in the bushes Neville heard someone say “Gazza”, and then muffled laughter.
Suddenly taken by a desire for boyish revenge, he set his sights on the football, took one stride forward, then aimed at the bushes. With a strange “crack!” he sent the ball flying towards the undergrowth where it arrived with such velocity that there immediately came the sounds of breaking branches and the faint smell of singed wood.
‘Very good, Monsieur!’ Pierre was impressed.
Neville — resisting the temptation to relate the story of his schoolboy soccer prowess (which was average at best) — resumed his climb to the top of the hill. As he neared Sacré-Cœur, it seemed to grow ever larger before his eyes, its whiteness becoming brighter all the while.
Pierre had obviously relaxed a little thanks to the incident with the football, and was once again offering stories about Saints and Martyrs — and how, after each of whom, there was at least one avenue in the city named to commemorate them.
The cathedral was quiet and peaceful. Neville noticed the difference between his first impression here, and that from Note Dame just an hour or so earlier.
‘We are lucky, Monsieur,’ Pierre offered, ‘there is a service.’
In the body of the church, a few dozen people sat listening to a priest talking to them quietly. Neville remarked the lack of microphones which seemed to dominate modern English churches.
He made his way round to one side, glancing alternately between the service — to which he was getting closer — and the statues and figures set within the fabric of the walls. By a large pillar he paused.
‘What kind of service is it, Pierre; a wedding?’
‘Non, Monsieur. I believe it is the taking of vows by some novices from a Monastery in the country. Sometimes they come here, just for this purpose.’
‘So they’re tourists too?’ Neville suggested a little facetiously.
‘Non. They are more than that, n’est-ce pas?’
‘Yes; sorry.’
Neville resumed his walk which had now taken him a little ahead of the front row of pews. As he glanced back he saw seven young men, each dressed in brown, intently listening to the words of the Priest. He tried to interpret, but could understand little of the ecclesiastic litany. Strangely, however, he felt a sense of peace in the voice of the older man, as if he were imparting years of experience upon his young charges.
Then, as he finished speaking, the young men rose as one and began to hum a Gregorian chant. The melody was taken up by those sitting behind them, with strange harmonies being added from all around the church. Even the statues seemed to be contributing their voices. Standing silently, Neville became enveloped in a wave of emotion transmitted through the echoes and harmonics of the building.
This lasted for a few minutes, and then the young men sat down — their habits now changed to a radiant and peaceful blue — and the priest began speaking again.
‘Magnifique, n’est-ce pas?’ said Pierre, who had obviously been affected by the spectacle too.
‘Marvellous, yes.’
‘And only in Paris, Monsieur; only in Paris.’
Neville wandered for a little longer, his visit punctuated by the occasional deep bass of the organ. By the time he regained the sunlight outside, he found himself in a much more relaxed mood.
‘And now?’
‘Maintenant, la Place du Tertre!’
‘Where the painters are?’
‘Oui, Monsieur. Another famous Parisian institution.’
‘But,’ Neville paused, leaning against a balustrade and looking down the steps to the base of the hill and the city below, ‘there is Art tomorrow, isn’t there? The Louvre...’
‘The Musée d’Orsay,’ Pierre prompted.
‘Yes. Of course. So more paintings today?’
‘But Monsieur, one does not go to the Place du Tertre for the paintings; one goes for the atmosphere, for the spectacle. And I know a small café...’
‘Where they do a fantastic pastry, n’est-ce pas?’
Pierre said nothing for a moment, and Neville sensed a degree of embarrassment in his guide.
‘Where is it?’
‘Ah, nearby. Ten minutes, no more! Just down the hill, to the far side of Sacré-Cœur.’
Neville left the Cathedral behind and made his way down a side street. Pierre’s directions took him to a small cobbled lane where the houses seemed to belong to a different age, their slightly misshapen windows and doors giving him an echo of Charles Dickens’ London — something he dared not mention to Pierre for fear of offence.
After a few minutes, the crowd began to thicken perceptibly, and Neville emerged into a small vibrantly coloured square filled with people. At its centre was an inner rectangle defined by trees and lined with artist after artist working at their easels and surrounded by examples of their work. In the centre of the square — and all around its outskirts — dozens of café tables. Between artists and cafés, two streams of voyeurs made their respective clockwise and anticlockwise progress, watching the craftsmen in action and, in turn, being watched by those at the café tables.
Apart from the colour of the scene — which was quite unlike anything Neville had experienced before — he was struck by the volume of noise, which seemed quite extraordinary. It was the sound of conversation multiplied a hundred-fold, and backed by wave upon wave of music emanating from the buildings.
There were many different styles of work on display, many undoubtedly honed to exploit the market they were designed to serve. Certain styles seemed to appeal to the visitors, and the instant portrait in charcoal was a popular attraction. It did not take Neville long to realise that he was not looking at “great art”, and the last thing he wanted to do was to spoil the day he had planned for tomorrow.
‘Where’s this café, Pierre?’
When no immediate response came, he looked to his lapel to see Pierre in conversation with the portrait of a pierrot resident on an easel by which he was standing. It could almost have been Pierre looking in a mirror.
‘Pierre.’
‘Pardon, Monsieur. An old friend.’
Neville accepted the apology, and though he did not quite understand it, decided not to push for an explanation.
‘The café?’
‘We are here, voila!’
The establishment Pierre was referring to appeared to be the oldest and shabbiest on the square. For a moment he thought to question his guide’s judgement, but just then a little old man appeared from inside the café and ushered Neville to one of the empty tables. He sat down facing the painters, ordered a coffee and pastry (again in accordance with Pierre’s suggestion) and settled to watch the crowds.
His time in Paris seemed punctuated by cafés, coffee and food, and he wondered if this was a reflection on him or on the city. When it came, the coffee was as reliable as always and — this time — the pastry remarkably good. Pierre chatted a little, but gradually became silent. Neville, relaxing in the warmth of the day, began to soak up the atmosphere.
Almost directly in front of him sat one of the charcoal portrait artists. He was busy at a new piece, but had no customers at present. Neville glanced over the examples of the artist’s work on display and was suddenly surprised to notice a drawing of Mirelle staring back at him. It was not a recent work — she looked a little too young for that, a little too much how he would have liked to remember her — but there could be no doubt that it was indeed her. With a start, he suddenly realised that there were other people there whom he knew; there was even a drawing of Samuel (who until this moment had slipped from his mind) sporting a natty French beret and Breton shirt.
Neville took another sip of coffee and wondered if he should ask Pierre what was going on. And then he remembered that Pierre could read his mind so there was little point. Presumably, as he had volunteered nothing, Pierre had nothing to offer. Or chose to offer nothing.
In front of him, the artist rose from his small seat. As he did so, Neville saw the face of the woman he’d seen on Rue St Dennis staring back at him from a drawing which, until that moment, had been obscured from his view. He felt an arrow slice through him. She was truly amazing. For a second he froze.
‘Magnifique!’
Pierre’s voice interrupted him, and Neville looked up to suddenly find himself focusing on his own face, there in charcoal, being presented to him by the artist. Yes, it was his face, but it was a strange face too. There was something about it Neville failed to recognise, as if it were him from another time; past or future he was uncertain.
‘Every visitor should have one,’ Pierre extolled, ‘and such value!’
Neville went to his wallet and offered the artist some cash, which he took with a slight smile and handed over the portrait in return.
‘I thought you might like that, as a souvenir,’ Pierre said.
‘You asked him to do this?’
‘Monsieur; it is my city, this café and this seat was my choice. I wanted you to have this.’
And Neville looked up to see that the artist — and all his works — had vanished, and now someone else occupied his place. He was not surprised, but began to wonder again exactly how much control Pierre had over him.
Neville rolled up the portrait carefully and slid it inside the cardboard tube he had also been given. Dusk was falling, and for the first time that day, Neville felt a slight chill in the breeze. The crowds had begun to thin, and one by one the artists were packing up their wares. Things seemed to disappear rather than be put away, their owners more like magicians.
He watched two portraits conversing in front of him: one was of an attractive, bare-torsoed young man; the other a young woman, tears welling in her eyes. The drawing styles were different, and they were obviously about to be parted.
‘Good night, my Darling’, said the woman, stifling a sniffle.
‘Tomorrow, perhaps,’ came the reply.
‘Can you persuade him to stand here again?’
‘I can’t be sure; today we took very little money. He may want to try somewhere else.’
A woman appeared; evidently she was the owner of the female portrait, which she lifted from the ground.
‘À bientôt, my sweet,’ and in a moment the portrait had gone, gathered up in an armful of others.
‘Monsieur?’
The familiar voice of Pierre broke into the closing of the scene. Neville rose, and threw some money on the café table.
‘Monsieur?’
‘Yes, Pierre?’
‘She we go to la Pigalle now? There is much to see there.’
Neville walked into the centre of the now deserted square. All the artists had gone, all the café tables were empty, the lights hanging in the trees were dim. Without the magic, there was nothing. He felt the portrait in his hand.
‘No, Pierre. I just want to go back to the hotel.’
Pierre remained silent. Neville wondered whether the pierrot was aware how tired he felt or if he recognised the sense of doubt — about Paris, about his future — that had suddenly come upon him.
Neville looked up, hopeful of seeing a battered old yellow bus waiting for him on the street corner, Samuel standing by its door. But there was no bus; and Neville felt strangely alone except for memories of the past and dubious premonitions of the future.
TEN
At breakfast the next morning, Pierre began to harangue Neville over their failure to visit La Pigalle the previous evening. There was nothing venomous in Pierre’s nagging, but Neville began to wonder again if the visit Pierre had envisaged — or perhaps had already planned — was more for his own gratification rather than Neville’s. Because of that he did not feel disposed to consider the wants and wishes of his porcelain companion.
Inclined to something a little different — and regretting his rather meagre intake of food the previous day — Neville ignored Pierre’s advice and wanting some form of cooked breakfast, made his way down to the hotel’s restaurant. He assumed such a request would not be unusual for an establishment catering for English tourists, but when the feast eventually arrived Neville found himself staring at a single, rather wizened sausage, and three fried eggs. Accompanied by two slices of rather under-done toast, the whole was somewhat indecorously arranged on a willow pattern plate.
With a slight sigh — ‘Not what you had in mind, eh?’ was all Pierre offered — Neville picked up his knife and fork and made for the sausage. As he did so, the sausage rolled out from under the knife as if to avoid any incision. Two small figures in the pattern on the plate — a “typical” Japanese scene common on willow-patterned plates — also moved just as Neville’s knife made contact with the china.
He stared hard at his breakfast, then listened, waiting the inevitable voices. There ware none. The restaurant was virtually empty, and the only background noise came from the slurping of coffee at a table hosting two Germans. Neville prepared for another attack.
As his knife and fork once again made for the sausage, he heard the distinctive roar of an aeroplane (some kind of dive bomber) and then, unmistakably, the sound of anti-aircraft fire. It was an echo from Malvern. Again the sausage rolled away this time managing to get underneath one of the eggs, and the two figures — who had been standing on open ground — disappeared into a willow-patterned house. Again his unsuccessful knife hit the plate.
Frustrated, he dropped the knife and fork and grabbed one of the soft slices of toast, biting hard before it too could escape.
A waiter appeared at his side holding a small plate containing two hot croissants. He placed the these in front of Neville, removing the virtually untouched “English” breakfast with his other hand. Then — again unbidden — he topped up Neville’s coffee. As he went away with the willow plate, the sound of an “all clear” siren wailed. Neville took up one of the croissants. It was warm and moist and the first bite melted in his mouth.
At this particular moment, Neville’s desire was to talk about the things he had seen over the previous two days, but the only person he could really confide in he would not see until sometime the next day. Whatever he may have been, Pierre could in no way be considered a confidant. Neville no longer trusted him. It was hard to say why — or if his suspicions had been aroused by the shower head — but he could not help but question the course events seemed to be taking.
‘Monsieur?’ Pierre prompted, the tone of his voice showing no concern for Neville’s state of mind. Indeed, there appeared no recognition that his present master might be in the process of rebelling.
‘Yes, Pierre?’
‘The croissants; they are good?’
‘Of course. And the coffee.’
Neville sensed his small friend wanted praise or thanks, but he was in no mood to offer either. He wondered what today might have in store for him; where his Parisian roller-coaster might take him.
‘Where should we start today? The Louvre or the other one?’
‘The Musée d’Orsay, Monsieur. Bien sûr, the Louvre is the more famous, but she is — how shall I put it? — not so “moderne”. I think you will find the d’Orsay more immediate.’
‘You mean accessible?’
Pierre paused, weighing Neville’s choice of word.
‘Accessible, perhaps. But I think immediate is a better word.’
From somewhere in his past, Neville remembered a rare trip to a circus. He had seen a clown there, face painted white, tall conical hat. This clown proved to be more of a ring master than a fool, directing those about him into situations which brought them nothing but humiliation or pain. He rose.
‘Shall we go?’
‘The Musée does not open for another demi-heure; but perhaps a short walk along the Seine then would be good. The weather is very fine.’
Outside, Neville waited in the hotel doorway for a taxi. The two lions eyed him with a degree of suspicion, but without imparting any sense of danger. A yellow cab juddered to a halt and Neville, without regard for its driver, opened the rear door and got in.
As he watched the streets roll by, he was aware he had managed to cultivate an undeniably fatalistic attitude towards the remainder of his visit; perhaps even beyond that. He could not say if it had come to him out of choice or as a result of his recent experiences; he was aware of a new sense of wanting to get it over and done with — whatever “it” was.
The taxi spun round a corner and headed towards the river. Pierre was silent (as seemed his want now) and Neville was in no particular mood to talk. Outside, the weather seemed a little less bright than previously, with an intermittent layer of cloud partially blocking out the sun.
They came to a halt by one of the many bridges over the river. Neville paid and found himself once again heading off under Pierre’s direction. Ahead in the distance he could make out Notre Dame, and his mind flitted back to the scene at the café and the disappointment that whole experience had given him.
Across the river, Neville saw a glimpse of the giant pyramid that was the remarkable entrance to the Louvre; an edifice strangely out of context with the solid and historic building to which it provided a gateway.
After a short while, Pierre pointed out the Musée d’Orsay; a large rectangular building on the other side of the road.
‘It looks like a railway station,’ Neville said, immediately unimpressed with its exterior appearance.
‘Monsieur!’ Pierre was pleased, ‘Bien sûr! It was a railway station! Only in Paris would you find such a thing transformed into a palace of wonder.’
Neville thought “palace of wonder” a little strong, and, despite the tone of Pierre’s voice being reminiscent of their initial few hours together, was not entirely convinced of its authenticity.
Having crossed the road, he joined the short queue that had begun to form. In the window, a poster proclaimed a special exhibition of works by a group of artists whose movement was known as Fauvism. Neville considered asking Pierre for a little background, but decided against it.
In the small square in front of the building, pigeons fluttered amongst the few tourists who were waiting on the seats, begging for crumbs from late breakfasts nibbled from anonymous paper bags. The sound of bolts being pulled back and keys being turned, drew Neville’s attention to the doors which were now opening.
The queue shuffled forwards and in through the glazed entrance hall. Once inside, they filed through one of two booths collecting entrance fees. Having paid, Neville loitered for a moment looking for a guide to the museum written in English, then, suitably armed, moved into the core of the building.
He was greeted by a large and remarkably bright open space. The roof had been generously panelled with glass, and the day’s light flooded in. Much of the interior of the building had been refurbished with white marble. The centre of the museum was dedicated to sculpture, and on this floor numerous alcoves opened off the central atrium, each boasting its own small collection of paintings dedicated to individual artists or schools.
Standing quietly, absorbing the breath-taking quality of the place, Neville found himself as thrilled by its interior as he had been non-plussed by its exterior.
Gradually he made his way from alcove to alcove. The ground floor seemed dedicated to Realists and Romantics, wall upon wall filled with both the famous and the unfamiliar. He was pleased he had come early as the gallery was still not busy, and he was able to relax as he toured in relative silence.
At the end of the building, an escalator rose to the first floor. Open to the body of the building, he was able to see others as they wandered below him, in and out of the alcoves just as he himself had done.
He consulted his guide. Each level existed as a ring about the central space, with balconies and walkways looking out across the museum and down to the sculptures below. The first floor was dedicated to more Realists and a few early Impressionists; the second offered the great and famous works of the Impressionists, and the Fauvism exhibition. Neville decided to try the special exhibition and work his way back down to the ground floor.
As he made his way up to the top floor, he pulled off his jacket and swung it over his shoulder, supporting it with his finger in the collar tab. Pierre, who had once again become silent, was lost amidst folds of cloth. ‘Out of sight...’ thought Neville.
Turning left at the top of the escalator, he found himself confronted by more of the posters he had seen at the entrance, then, turning right into the exhibition area, came face-to-face with the pictures themselves. There was a display on the wall offering a general introduction to the exhibition and the artists whose works were on show. Despite the paucity of Neville’s knowledge about Art, he recognised a couple of the names.
As he wandered slowly to the first wall, his eye was caught by a number of paintings by Andre Derain. They were landscapes; bright, attractive pieces that Neville found instantly appealing. Here was the quality missing from the Place du Tertre! One piece in particular drew him. It depicted a number of trees in the foreground of a brightly coloured landscape. According to the display, it was painted in 1906 and called — appropriately enough — “Les Arbres”.
He walked up to it and stopped three feet from the canvas. The trees were bright, wiry things in mauve and bold reds, and the landscape danced before his eyes with its bold brush strokes.
‘Enticing, isn’t it?’ Pierre had emerged somehow from the folds of Neville’s jacket and appeared to be admiring the work too. ‘Derain has a certain vitality,’ he continued, ‘a certain rawness, perhaps. As if he is in touch with — something.’
Not bothering to reply, Neville leaned a little forwards and took one single step closer.
His foot came to rest on a surface that felt entirely different from the hardness of the museum’s polished tiles. He looked down and found it softly embedded between great tufts of grass. But the grass was not green; it was amber and ochre. And looking up, he saw four trees immediately in front of him. The one nearest, to his left, was light purple deepening to a dark blue base; the others, various rusts and reds. He pushed out his hand and felt the firmness of the trunk.
About his body, he sensed the heat of a summer’s day; the sun shone brightly in the pale blue and yellow sky, and there was a breeze which carried with it the hint of water. In the distance rose mountains of blue and indigo.
He took a another step and moved further into the field. Just beyond the clump of trees — in whose midst he now stood — the land slipped away slightly, down to a yellow field. Beyond this field and some more trees — was that the green of figs or dates? — the river.
Lured on by the shape of the land, its invitation to explore, Neville continued walking, down through the yellow field and across the pale blue shadows cast by the dark trees with their solid fruits, pink in the sun.
The river flowed in blocks of solid colour, purple, blue. Away in the distance, riding on a mass of red, the ferry — little more than a splash of brown — plied its trade to the far bank. Neville looked down. His shoes had become misshapen rectangles of blue, and his crimson legs were apparently suffering from years of exaggerated rickets. He felt fine.
Over his shoulder, the four trees he had first encountered were now away across the field and up the hill. Ahead, beyond the river, the mountains; and to either side, stretching away, the strange mosaic of the landscape.
As he reached the river, the ferry was making preparations to leave. The ferryman — a misshapen man of black and blue — beckoned him facelessly, and with confident steps Neville climbed on board the strange vessel. It seemed to have no definite sides or edges to it, just layer upon layer of reds and fleshy pinks. He could make out no definite hull or waist, but managed to find a seat (a spotted white oblong) on which to sit. Silently the ferryman pulled on his oars, and with the wind pushing at the magenta and cobalt sail, they moved out onto the river.
The journey to the far bank was over in moments. Neville had hardly time to take in the sensation of travelling across a rippling surface of blue — the boat trailing a wake of green and yellow — when they arrived. Immediately in front of him, the mountains rose ever higher, their mass darker and more solid now. A road — strangely white — beckoned him towards the mountain pass, and effortlessly he carried on.
As he moved further into the hillside, he noticed that the colours had become more solid; they had begun to be defined by black lines around their perimeter, as if to hold the colours in. Gone was the freedom and the flowing beauty from the other side of the river; now things seemed a little darker. The yellow had gone from the sky which was a deeper blue; the lightness of the fields had moved towards orange; and Neville noticed that in one or two places, deeper shadows had begun to appear. Where there had been nothing but colour before — the blue shadows of the green fruit trees — now came true shade.
The road began to sweep downhill, and Neville was carried onwards by it. He tried to look behind, to check his progress, but to no avail. His legs were no longer irregularly shaped, but solid and more exact things; and on the white road, he had begun to cast a shadow.
The road swept down through the mountain pass, and as he travelled onwards he moved further into a darker landscape. He had begun to feel a little cold, and donned and buttoned his jacket against a chill breeze which had sprung up. The sky menaced before him; now ebony, it bore nothing but the promise of storm.
He turned a corner and was suddenly out of the landscape and into a bleak monotone flatness. The earth was a dull grey now, and large rectangular shapes of buildings loomed on either side. Black windows offered him nothing, and their long shadows cast a deep cloth in front of him. On the wall of one building, a plain clock began to dissolve under his gaze, its numbers melting down the brown brickwork. Ahead on the horizon — and how far was that? — strange creatures appeared to be moving in his direction.
The empty space became swallowed up the shadows of the building, and he found himself in an ever darker alleyway. Ahead was a single door through which he seemed compelled to go.
From one place of desolation, he entered another. Now there was no sky, and no walls. All seemed to blend together. Even the definitions between things had begun to blur in a monotony of tones. He suddenly longed for a splash of yellow; for a hint of green. He looked to his lapel, but Pierre was invisible in this light.
Ahead, from what appeared to be some kind of kitchen, came the throbbing sounds of a boiler as it beat against an invisible wall. Neville tried to stop, to turn back, but his progress was remorseless. Suddenly the boiler wrenched itself from the wall, spewing black water in his path. Steam poured from its pipes as it lowered itself to the ground, then, uncertainly at first, began to walk towards him.
Neville could see the flames within it burning ferociously; but even these possessed little colour. The boiler began to make better progress, growing larger before his eyes. The noise it was generating had become almost deafening, and Neville began to wince at the intrusion. He looked for help, for an exit, stairway, anything; but there was nothing he could distinguish, nothing remained.
The boiler stretched out its pipe-like hands, spraying water and steam towards him. It roared monstrously, and all Neville could do was to find his voice and scream.