Lost and Found Chapter One

Chapter One

Midway upon the journey of our life

I found myself within a forest dark,

For the straightforward pathway had been lost.

Ah me! How hard a thing it is to say

What was this forest savage, rough, and stern,

Which in the very thought renews the fear.

So bitter is it, death is little more;

But of the good to treat, which there I found,

Speak will I of the other things I saw there.

Inferno, Dante Alighieri

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Montmartre rises over the city of Paris like the circles of hell in Dante’s Inferno. The white travertine Sacré-Cœur Basilica claims the highest point, while the lowest circle at the base of the butte is home to the Place Pigalle and the Moulin Rouge.

My temporary home was on the Place du Tertre, somewhere between the hypocrites and the heretics in Dante’s vision. A cobbled square ringed by trees and surrounded by three-story buildings, this was the traditional haunt of the city’s artists.

Finding one such artist was my sole purpose.

The May sun was drifting towards the west side of the butte. Fortified with a swallow from the flask from my blazer’s inner pocket, I picked up my bowler and left my small apartment on the Rue Norvins.

A popular café, L’Oiseau Bleu, operated next door, their dozen or so small indoor tables matched by an equal number along the sidewalk. Choosing a seat at random, I settled myself with the sun on my face, the chair’s wrought iron bar digging into my shoulder blades. Many tables were occupied by the kind of café philosophers I’d once dreamed of becoming, but instead of philosophy, I’d studied medicine. Instead of healing, I’d gone to war.

Instead of traveling the world with my friend, I’d come to Montmartre to find him.

Needing reassurance, I pulled the picture from the pocket with the flask and laid it flat on the table. The photo showed us standing side by side in front of a worn army tent, with Benjamin & Elias, June 1917 scrawled in pencil on the back.

Elias, where are you? He was my oldest friend, my best friend. He was gone, and I did not know why. Did I?

There were days when remembering my own name took all my faculties.

I swiped my hand along my brow, where the brim of my hat rested on a sheen of sweat. I’d been in Paris, what? Seven days? Ten? I tapped my fingers on the table for each night of sleep since I’d taken the train from Le Havre. Maybe eight, in fact. I wanted more whiskey. If I got drunk enough, maybe I’d remember.

At my signal, a waiter sidled up to my table. An arch whip of a man, he’d waited on me every afternoon, but he remained distant, reserved. My accented French was passable, honed by nearly three years in a battlefield hospital, yet he sighed with the weary toil of deciphering my request. He returned with a cup of coffee quickly enough and disappeared even faster.

I floated, unmoored, trapped in this purgatory until I learned Eli’s fate. The rich scent of coffee enfolded me, and the strong brew burned my tongue, bringing me back to my body, for the moment, anyway.

A man approached, clattering across the cobbles, his uneven steps aided by a cane clutched in his right hand, the grip so tight, it turned his knuckles white. He kept rooms in the same building as mine, and on several evenings, we’d shared the same café. He kept to his table, and I kept to mine, neither paying the other any attention.

Lean, dark hair, his handsome profile carved from granite, he had the stern gaze of the Archangel Michael, viewing all with scales in hand. On this day, he chose a table in my line of sight. He waved for the waiter, the liquid grace in that one gesture a stark contrast to his otherwise angular features. He glanced my way, and I smiled, a reflex I quickly smothered. His expression did not alter except to shift his attention to the other side of the plaza.

I almost smiled again. I’d forgotten. The French were…French. During my previous stay in their country, battlefield camaraderie had fostered transient friendships, made all the more intense by their ephemeral nature. If my neighbor, now chatting easily with the waiter, did not care to make the acquaintance of a foreigner, I would likely overcome the loss.

Placing the picture of Elias back in my pocket, I took a final swallow of my cooling coffee. Time to explore, to look for new faces, either Elias or someone who might know of him. Despite my lack of success so far, I could not shake the feeling that he would be here, on the butte. Somewhere.

Montmartre, its neat apartment buildings alternating with gardens and parks and shabby wooden structures, held traces of the village that had been swallowed by the great city of Paris. The dome of Sacré Cœur hovered over my shoulder, too close to be seen, but always there, a weight, a presence.

With the coming of dusk, streetlights brightened, along with the open warmth of numerous cafés. Shop windows dimmed, but above them, apartments lit up, many windows open to the mild evening.

And so I wandered, drawing encouragement from glimpses of normal life and from the steadying company of my flask. Traffic rattled over the cobbled streets, cars and trucks and the rare horse-drawn wagon. A large van pulled to a stop, blocking my view of the square. I changed directions, since my route mattered less than my goal.

Nearby, a young man capped tubes of oil paint, wrapping up his work for the night. His easel still held a half-finished painting, splashes of color in the shape of a nearby market, fine black lines shaping the door, the window, the letters m-a-r-c-h-é stenciled on the glass.

I made a show of examining his work, then caught his eye. “Pardon.”

“Oui?”

I held out the photograph and drew a trembling breath, steeling myself for disappointment. “I’m looking for a friend.”

His eyes narrowed, though he did not otherwise respond.

“He’s a painter. I’m wondering if you’ve ever seen him.”

Still, he gave me little response. My task couldn’t be so unusual. The war had disrupted lives across the globe. Surely there were others searching for someone who’d been lost.

Turning away, he packed his supplies in a leather bag. His trousers were held in place with a length of rope, the fabric at his knees dirty and patched.

“Here.” I laid a few francs over the picture. He glanced over, then glanced again.

Stepping closer, he examined the photo, and I slipped him the money.

“Non.”

His shrug made me weary. “His name is Elias Simmons. I think he came here some months ago.”

“Did you try Montparnasse?” He named the quartier on La Rive Gauche that, since the end of the war, had attracted many of the artists and writers who’d once called Montmartre home.

“I believe he’s here.”

Another shrug. “I don’t know him.”

A loud blast rocked the Place. My heart seized. Bombs! I lurched, out of control, and clipped the easel with my knee.

“Merde.” The young man caught the painting before it hit the ground, but only just.

“That noise!”

“What’s your problem? It was those two”—he pointed at a pair of men standing behind the van—“unloading pallets.”

“Oh.” Panic gave way to shame. “I’m sorry.”

Shaking his head, he turned away.

“If you see him, my friend Elias, tell him Benjamin is looking for him.” He ignored me, so I thanked his back and took my leave.

Finding a darkened alley, I returned the picture to my pocket and drew out my flask. My heart still raced after my brief return to the battlefields. Hands shaking, I took a deep swallow of whiskey, and then another. Time to leave purgatory and head out into the lower levels of hell.

Before I made an even bigger fool of myself.

Traversing Montmartre required fortitude. The butte was steep, the streets narrow, twisting, and busy. In places, stone stairs climbed straight up the side of the hill, connecting one block to another.

Farther downhill, along the Rue des Abbesses, the smell of fried fish brought a rumble from my belly. The source was a café on the corner near a small park, one of numerous places where the food was plentiful and cheap. I took a table and, despite my imperfect accent, managed to place an order without eliciting a frown from my waiter.

The place was crowded, men in loose suits, women with hard eyes and glossy lips, everyone talking at once in a boisterous chorus. The waiter brought me wine, a crisp Chablis. Back home, Prohibition would have made it impossible for me to enjoy a glass of wine in a crowded restaurant. I sipped, and savored, and at the table nearest me, a couple argued.

Not an argument, exactly. Using pretty shrugs and pouting lips, the young lady was attempting to persuade her young man of…I couldn’t tell what. The whiskey must have dulled my senses. She would not have convinced me of anything with her display, but judging by the avid gaze the man kept fastened on her décolletage, she was winning.

The table on the other side of me was empty, at least until I’d poured myself a second glass of wine. Then, crossing the room in a familiar halting rhythm, my neighbor, the man from the café on the Place du Tertre, took a seat.

I raised my glass in a toast of alcohol-fueled enthusiasm. “It’s nice to see you.”

He blinked as if surprised by my words. “I’m not sure I know you.”

His gaze suggested otherwise. “A while ago, you were at L’Oiseau Bleu.” I swirled the wine in my cup. “Are you following me?”

“I had a taste for fish.” Hooking his cane over the edge of his table, he shrugged again. “And I have better things to do than observe the habits of a drunk American.”

We were interrupted by the arrival of my dinner. There might have been humor in his tone, but still, the sting of his words quashed the impulse to invite him to join me.

Turning to the waiter, slick black hair gleaming, he placed his own order. When the waiter brought his wine, I took the opportunity to raise my glass a second time. “Cheers.” I deliberately did not smile. “Comment allez-vous?” How are you, using the formal “vous,” not the more intimate “tu.”

Tu. In all my time in France, I’d never regularly used the personal form of address. To be honest, if English had an equivalent construction, I could have said the same about my friends and family at home.

“Bien. I am well.”

His tone, and the slight tremor of his fingers on his glass of wine, hinted otherwise. He turned as if to shield himself from my appraisal. I couldn’t help myself. It was my nature to observe. Assess. Diagnose. “I’m Benjamin Holm.” The distance between us was too great to bridge with a handshake.

He raised his glass. “Louis Donadieu.”

I forced my fork through the crisp crust of fish. Juices ran free, and my mouth watered. I ate, hunger keeping my attention fixed on the food on my plate. Though it had been almost two years since I’d last sat at an army canteen, I still attacked each meal as if someone might steal it away.

At my last bite, I glanced at Louis. He watched me, a pool of stillness amidst the confusion around us. “Did you even taste it?”

“Yes.” Swirling my fork through the drippings on my plate, I fought the urge to smile, unsure of the rules for the game he played.

He sniffed. “Bien.” Shifting in his seat, he poured himself more wine. As long as he wasn’t looking, I continued my assessment. He held his right leg extended, as if he was unable to bend it at the knee, but was otherwise quite vigorous, virile even.

I finished my peas and potatoes, bemused by my strange dinner companion. After a week in Paris, I’d had no luck with my main goal, and this conversation, though tentative, intrigued me.

“Were you injured?” I gestured at his feet with my wine.

“What?”

“In the war. Your leg.” His narrowed gaze suggested I’d transgressed. So, no questions about his health. “Pardon. I did not mean to—”

“No, I was unable to participate in the grand conflict.”

He turned his attention away, leaving me confused. This was less a game than a jousting contest. Rather than bring another helping of rudeness on my head, I swallowed the rest of my wine and prepared to leave.

“What are you doing?”

I paused in the act of reaching for my wallet. “I’m finished. I need to be going.” Though I had no real destination beyond the poor comfort of my solitary rooms. Instead of my wallet, I fished out the photograph. “Here.” I stood, leaning over his table and offering him the picture of Elias. “I’m looking for my friend Elias. Have you seen him?”

Always the same words, bringing the same blank response.

“Maybe he doesn’t want to be found.” He tapped the white edge of the photograph, and I snatched it away.

“He’s my friend.”

“So?”

His acid tone burned through my good humor. Who is this man to follow and then abuse me? “Have a good evening.”

“Good evening, though if you give up so easily, you must not really want to find him.”

Surprise kept me planted by his table. “Do you know where he is?”

He tipped his glass in my direction, the corner of his lips curling in what could not truly be called a smile. Though it wasn’t a scowl either. “No, but if I do see him, I will send him to the heavy-footed American man who lives on the floor above me.”

Tired of being the target of his sport, I straightened, falling into the habitual pose of a military officer. “Again, good evening.” Annoyed beyond what the situation called for, I departed.

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