Toward the end of the ride, the conductor escorted them to the diner. Unlike their railway at home, there were tables covered in starched linen, the napkins fanned out at each place.
Two waiters in white tie served them while bus boys, their hair slicked and wearing long aprons, ran back and forth with bottles of mineral water. A separate wine was served with each course. Their group was seated at three tables and the meal was a four course affair. They began with escargots, followed by their choice of beef with fresh herbs or duckling with crispy potatoes and asparagus with truffles. The food was served in china so fine that the candlelight shone through. For dessert they were served a selection of cheeses, brandy and cafe for the adults and to the delight of Tessa, Arcangelo, and Teo, creme glacee. Serafina had to admit the meal was an event, the food exquisite, and she’d been hungry.
But with the last bite, her attention was arrested by fleeting light and shade moving at the end of the car. Staring, she saw the disappearing flap of a leather jerkin. The men who followed them were beginning to take up more and more room in her mind, the inscrutable Busacca swimming alongside the disappearance of Loffredo and the finality of Elena’s death.
Chapter 7: Arrival
As they pulled into the Gare de Lyon, the train belched steam and the iron wheels screeched to a halt. Serafina rose and Rosa stretched. They descended, making their way on unsteady legs down the length of the platform. Serafina felt the damp evening chill and walked with increasing speed out of the station and into the Paris dark, the end of a long journey. The beginning of another.
She gazed up, trying to see the stars, but the night was cloudy and the air misted. Haloes surrounded rows of gas lamps and Parisians swept past, speaking in that guttural way of the French. Serafina peered across the boulevard to the notorious shape of the Prison Mazas and felt a stony creature breathing fire deep within her. Buttoning the collar of her cape, she glanced back at Teo and Arcangelo who walked behind her, talking and pointing at everything they saw. She looked over at Rosa embracing Tessa and gesturing toward the huge square buildings surrounding them while carriages whirred by in the wide tree-lined streets.
Carmela caught up with them, towing a stevedore and his cart. She took Serafina’s arm and marched her to the curb where three of Busacca’s agents greeted them in passable Sicilian. After suitable small talk, she asked the men to arrange a conference for her with the prefect of police and with Madame de Masson, Busacca’s sister, as soon as possible. “I want to begin my investigation tonight.”
“An impossibility,” they said, laughing and saying, “No, no, Madame,” and stomping their feet on the cobbles. They said Madame de Masson expected her at ten tomorrow morning and they’d scheduled a meeting tomorrow afternoon with the prefect. A carriage would be waiting for her at half past nine in front of her hotel.
“Nothing for it but to enjoy Paris tonight. I for one am famished,” Rosa said.
In a few minutes, the hotel’s omnibus arrived. While a porter stowed their luggage, a liveried footman helped them up the few steps into the vehicle. Serafina took one last look around the station. A figure, dark and foreboding, hid in an alcove across the square. As she stared at him, the cloaked man receded into the shadows.
Arcangelo and Teo wanted to ride on top so they all climbed the stairs and sat holding onto the rails in the open air, Serafina hugging her cape and rubbing her arms for warmth. She felt the resistance of the wheels as the horses strained and they began to move.
Plunking down next to Carmela, she gave her a peck on the cheek and an encouraging hug. Poor Carmela, an unwed mother, by necessity she’d stayed at home most of the time with her baby, helping at home with the younger children, forgotten by the world. Carmela’s brow was furrowed. Serafina looked down at the people in the streets, the Frenchwomen with such flare they exuded an unmatched style and sophistication. She felt rather than saw them staring back at her. Fingering the thin fabric of her dress worn through in spots at the hem, she pulled at a loose thread and tried to smooth the pucker.
As the horses clopped onto the Rue de Rivoli, the crowds thickened and their glamor increased, taunting her. She tried to see herself through the eyes of the wealthy Parisians and other travelers who flocked to the city. They seemed to mock her with their finery. Why did she think she’d have the skill to operate here? She felt each breath of air like a fist in her stomach. Her imagination fed her fears, no doubt a trick, but in her mind, Paris was filled with disquiet, the straight boulevards and laughing crowds an elaborate charade hiding a medieval terror lurking beneath the paved avenues where the real city waited like a wild beast ready to pounce. After all, she’d been a student of midwifery in the old Paris, long before Haussmann bulldozed the medieval neighborhoods. She remembered the dirty warrens, the narrow alleys that bred bitter poverty and disease and far too much death. And as in all cities in Europe, she knew there were scores of the desperate ready to kill for a sous. She doubted they’d been totally eradicated; memory and minds and class structure would have to change first. She shivered. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that one or two hapless souls waited for her somewhere in this city ready to surprise her one day, hired by a formidable power as yet unknown. Well, she’d just have to disappoint them.
“I want to see the Bastille you told me about,” Arcangelo said.
“Torn down,” Teo said. “We passed the spot where it stood, not far from the station. Hundreds of thousands were imprisoned there. Thousands died by hanging or starvation or the guillotine.”
Arcangelo’s eyes widened.
“Too much Dickens,” Serafina said, and tried to swallow her own fears.
The omnibus turned into the Rue de Rivoli, passing buildings grander in scale than those surrounding the station and lit by rows of gas lamps. The wide sidewalks were filled with groups in evening attire walking arm in arm, the women elegantly coiffed, the men in top hats.
“What’s that?” Tessa asked, pointing to a large building on their left.
“The Louvre. It used to be a palace,” Rosa said. “Filled with art, but not your taste, I’m afraid, my girl.”
“But I want to see it at least once.”
“Me, too,” Teo said.
“You boys and Carmela will have your days filled with work,” Serafina said. “Which reminds me…” She tapped her daughter’s shoulder. “Tomorrow while Rosa and I are visiting Madame de Masson, I’d like the four of you to go to a studio on the Boulevard des Capucines. There’s an exhibit I want you to see, and the paintings will be more to Tessa’s liking.” The omnibus turned and they held onto the railing.
Tessa smiled.
“I read about it too,” Carmela said, taking out her map, silent while she studied it. “No need to take public transport. It’s close to our hotel, right in back of us.” She traced the route with her finger. “And why do we visit this exhibit, not just to look at paintings, I hope.”
Arcangelo made a face, straining to hear Serafina’s reply.
Serafina paused a moment, taking in the scenery, then continued. “I’m hoping you’ll find some of Elena’s friends. If no one’s there when you arrive, return later. I want you to find out as much as you can about Elena’s life in Paris, the names and location of her friends, their regard for her, how they took her death, the shops she frequented, the names of her lovers, their addresses. I need to know everything about her.”
“Won’t her aunt provide us with that?” Rosa asked.
“Perhaps, but better to hear information from several different sources.” Serafina continued. “You and Tessa will be interested in the paintings. But Arcangelo and Teo won’t even go inside.”