Page 39 of Atlas: The Story of Pa Salt
‘I understand, Madame Gagnon,’ Evelyn replied.
The spindly woman turned on her heels and entered the orphanage. When the great wooden doors closed behind her, the thud echoed across the forecourt.
‘Goodness me! I shall not be too swift to judge, little Bo, for she has a difficult job, but I sense lava runs through that woman’s veins. Still, I’m sure the children she cares for will prove a different story. Remember, I shall only be gone one hour. Try and have fun,chéri. Would you like me to take this?’ Evelyn grabbed my violin case, which I was still holding after my earlier lesson with Monsieur Ivan. Instinctively, I clutched on to it. It was my most prized possession, and I struggled with the concept of even Evelyn taking it from me. ‘Very well, Bo. You may keep it with you if you wish.’
The doors of the Apprentis d’Auteuil opened once again, and children began to flood out into the forecourt.
‘Goodness. Some of those winter coats have more holes in than Swiss cheese,’ Evelyn said under her breath. ‘Good luck, little Bo. I will see you shortly.’ With that, she left through the iron gates. I had often wondered what the ancient slaves might have felt as they waited to walk out into a seething Colosseum of Romans to face the lions. Suddenly, I felt I knew.
The variety of ages shocked me. It appeared to me that some of the residents could hardly be described as children at all, whilst others weren’t older than two or three years old, their little hands clasped by older inhabitants. The forecourt filled quickly, and I was eyed suspiciously by those who passed me. Some children took out chalk from their pockets and began to draw squares on the ground. Others had old rubber balls which they threw to one another. As this frenzy of activity ensued, I simply remained still and looked around, unsure of what to do.
In truth, having never attended school, I was not used to socialising with other children. Apart from one individual, of course: the boy who had been my best friend, the boy who I had loved as a brother and... the boy from whom I had run.Hewas the reason I had fled into the snow on the worst day of my life. A shiver travelled down my spine as I contemplated the consequences of ever seeing him again. He had vowed to kill me, and from the murderous look in his eye on that terrible morning, I had no reason to doubt him.
‘Who are you?’ A boy with an angular face and worn woollen hat stood before me.
I reached for the paper in my pocket and began writing.
‘What are you doing? He asked you a question,’ said another boy, who had thick, dark eyebrows.
My name is Bo, I cannot speak. Hello.I held the paper in front of me.
Both boys squinted at it. It suddenly occurred to me that I was arrogant in my assumption that everyone I met here would have the ability to read.
‘What does it say, Maurice?’ the boy with the hat asked.
‘It says he can’t talk.’
‘Well, what’s the point of him then? What’s the point of you?’ I somehow sensed that the young man’s question wasn’trelated to the philosophy of my compatriot Dostoyevsky. ‘What did your parents die of?’
I am only a visitor here, I scribbled.
‘I don’t get it. Why do you want to visit this dump?’
I would like to make friends, I penned hopefully.
Both boys broke out into laughter.
‘Friends? You belong in the circus. And what is this, circus boy?’
The one known as Maurice grabbed my violin case. A surge of panic rushed through me. I shook my head with as much energy as I could muster, and brought my hands together in prayer, silently pleading with him to return it to me.
‘A fiddle, is it? Why would you bring this here? Who do you think you are, that ponce Baudin?’
‘Yeah, he does, Jondrette. Just look at his clothes. He reckons he’s a fancy littlemonsieur, doesn’t he?’
‘You think it’s funny, do you? Coming in here to have a laugh at us, who’ve got nothing?’ I continued to shake my head, and dropped to my knees, in the hope that they’d see my desperation. ‘Praying won’t help you in here. Let’s have a little look at what we’ve got inside this then.’
Jondrette began unclipping the case. Every fibre of my being wished to cry out, to verbally attack him, or to use my reason to win my violin back. But I knew I could not draw attention to myself.
‘Give it here, you weakling.’ Maurice ripped it from Jondrette, and began pulling at the clips, attempting to force them from the casing. The brute was successful, and he threw the metal buckles to the floor. Then Jondrette hungrily flipped the lid up and, with his grubby hands, lifted my precious cargo from within.
‘Well, would you look at that. I’d say it’s even nicer than Baudin’s. What do you reckon, Jondrette? Shall we try and sell it?’
‘Who do you know that’ll pay us for something like this, and not immediately report us to the gendarmerie for trying to flog stolen goods?’
‘Yeah. You’re right. Seems to me that this would be a good opportunity to teachMonsieur Fancya bit of a lesson.’ Jondrette raised my violin above his head. I closed my eyes, and prepared myself for the crash of wood on concrete. To my surprise, the sound didn’t materialise.
‘What on earth do you think you’re doing, you horrible little toad?’ I opened my eyes to see a girl with blonde hair grabbing Jondrette’s arm.
