Chapter XXI

❧ 15th of August 1904 — Quartier des Grandes-Carrières

The sound of heavy machinery had never sounded pleasing to his ears. Not that he had met any sensible man who would argue the contrary; Joseph Gaubert had a particular distaste for it as it even followed him at home, by dint of the factory close to which he resided. The sounds by which he lived and ate, and slept. By which is dear Cassandra lived. By which their children lived.

His family had taken residence in a fairly large attic room, at the top of a worker's house. They had been lucky to get it. This did not mean that it was in any way an apposite home by modern standards, but it was a cherished one. The ceiling sloped down quite sharply and Joseph had to duck his head when sitting down close to the wall lining the street, but there was still room for three low windows and he enjoyed the scarce daylight they allowed to seep into the room.

Now out on the landing, grasping for the handle of the door in the low light that came from a gas lamp up high, Joseph Gaubert plastered a wan smile onto his visage. He'd been drinking. Not as much as on most days; he knew when to stop when he wanted to hide it.

He turned the handle.

By the curtains, Julia and Pierre were seated in an armchair that was too big for them. All that Joseph could see of either of them were two pairs of short legs, sprawled out from under a sheet which hid the rest of them from sight. They were whispering. Beside the armchair grew a thicket of newspapers. Cassandra was nowhere to be seen.

Most of the furniture was simple, and rather old, but decent. Opposite Joseph, next to the door leading to the only bedroom was a heavy chest of drawers, covered with toys, neckties and odds and ends, including a large, tattered rocking horse and a boys' cap. In the corner was a gas stove, and, beside this, a wooden cupboard against which leaned a small, folded market trolley.

Joseph Gaubert sat himself down at the sturdy dining table, lifting back the chair rather than scraping it. Cassandra had told him below had made some complaints. The children had yet to react to his entrance. He grunted as he relaxed into the chair.

"Where's mom?" Joseph enquired.

"Out." The girl said from under the sheet.

"Out." The boy echoed.

"Did she say when she would be back?"

"No." The girl said.

"Yes. The boy said. He then peeked over the sheet. "No," he said. Pierre was the very image of his mother's father.

"When did she say she would be back? When did she go out?"

Joseph couldn't see it, but he assumed his son shrugged. The man sighed and allowed himself to rest his head in his palm as his son disappeared back under the sheet. A whispered song and clapping hands followed.

Gaubert was a sturdy, big man about twenty-three, but looking older, wearing a very worn jacket and new but creased trousers. He was known to be a disconcerting mixture of sincerity and cheerful malice, of tenderness and cruelty; restless, tenacious, and on occasion full of pride, a combination which alienated most.

To some he was a shy man. To those, Joseph appeared unwilling to risk even having an opinion, and to be at his ease only when he could furnish, with meticulous accuracy, some precise but unimportant detail. Generally, this was an attitude which he invariably adopted when face to face with general life.

To others, he was a loudmouth. When residing in a familiar environment, and made comfortable, or even brave, by alcohol, he would contradict any opinion— just for the purpose of being inconsistent and challenging. Shouting at the top of his lungs to those who would hear it, certified of his own verity and righteousness.

Until that morning, Joseph Gaubert had worked in a fabric mill at Gare du Nord that manufactured cloth and deported them to the coast. The ownership of which went out to the very boorish but strangely respected Mr François Aldouin. In Gaubert's eyes, what he lacked in allure, Mr Aldouin made up for in acuity. The man was a very shrewd businessman who had made a considerable fortune with his 'buy low, sell high' mantra. They had many clients oversees but were mainly credited to provide dyed fabric to most companies in the region.

He'd been a bagger. Punishing and gruelling work. He got lousy wages, but a percentage for all he did over a certain minimum. Down in the basement they dyed raw cloth and sent it up to the next floor in tubes. They would ring a bell, and he'd open his bin and there would be a load of loose fibre, in all the colours of the rainbow. Julia and Pierre would love the colours, he knew. Joseph Gaubert would take it out, put it in sacks, and chain-hoist the sacks onto a big pile of other sacks for the picker machine. They would separate it, the weaving machines wove it, and some guys upstairs cut it and sewed it into shirts.

He could hear Cassandra arrive on the landing and lifted his head from his arms. He should break the news to her as soon as possible. Joseph threw a quick look at the children, whereupon he rose auspicially and went to the door, opening it — Cassandra looked up from where she had been looking for her keys — and closing it directly behind him with slow and careful consideration, as if the slightest noise might set of a storm.

Two young heads let the sheet drop to their shoulders. Pierre kept regarding his sister, wondering why their game had been put on hold. He had liked their little game. There was no reason for them to stop. But his sister regarded the door. The door behind which sounds began erupting in rapid consistency.

"Then you're ought to do something, Joseph! Goddamnit!"

"What do you expect me to do—? Beg for my job back? Well— that hadn't occurred to me, if only I'd tried that!"

Pierre softly smiled. He had found a loose thread to play with on his breeches. Julia covered his hands with hers before he might unravel more. The sounds kept travelling towards them. Pierre regarded the mayfly on the wall. He smiled. He had not often seen them here. Only by the shallow stinking water-place behind the house.

"You're blaming me?"

"If you had perhaps spent less time at the union, getting drunk with those dreaming fanatics, we wouldn't be in this predicament, Joseph!"

"We don't just—"

"What, get drunk? I can smell the drinks of your clothes. The children can smell the drinks on your clothes. You think Julia hasn't ever asked me why you spend all these nights away? What am I to tell her? How long before they realise you are being held by the gendarmerie? This is becoming too dangerous, Joseph. I don't care what fantasies they put in your head back at the union, you're not ruining us for these people."

Pierre reached out his hands. He wanted to catch the mayfly. He regarded his sister and saw Julia had lost interest in his antics, her hands had slid down his and were now bunched tightly in the fabric of her own colourful dress. Pierre looked back at the wall. The mayfly was a slender thing, with delicate transparent wings and two or three long filaments on his tail. Pierre smiled again. It was pretty.

"You don't understand, woman, this is for us. For them. For Julia. For Pierre. You think their lives are going to be any different from ours? They're going to spend their lives in low ceilinged rooms dusted with mire and waste. Julia will be twelve in February. You think we have the means to give her a secondary education? Even if you asked dear dad, he won't be able to help us. With some luck she might get a job at some factory in Gare de l'Est. And then what? We wait for things to get better?"

"No matter your ideals—! You are never going to succeed! Do you think it matters that you're right? That you have the moral high ground? Those people don't care! You being part of some righteous case won't help us!"

"Don't be so—!"

"You're naive! I may be pessimistic but you're naive! You can't possibly think they are going to do anything but make our lives worse?"

"Then what would you have me do? Explain that for me, Cassandra, what would you have me do? I refuse to remain ignorant and kicked down, like some dog in the street, because that's what we are to them! No better than dogs!"

"And you think I don't know that— or enjoy living like that? You think I don't want to live in a perfect, pink-coloured world?"

"I wouldn't know— I've never seen you try changing anything. Never heard you voice it!"

The mayfly had left. And his sister was upset. Pierre could feel it in his bones. He did not know why; but if she was upset then there must be something wrong, right? A sickening wave of misery overtook him, and he felt tears form in the corners of his eyes. Julia redirected her attention to him with a start as he let out the first, involuntary sob. And he found that he could not stop, no matter how much his older sister pleaded him to.