Page 40 of Atlas: The Story of Pa Salt
‘Oi! Get off me!’ he cried. The girl appeared to tighten her grip. ‘Ow!’
‘You will give this instrument back, Jondrette, or I will tell Madame Gagnon that it is the pair of you who broke into the storeroom and stole the biscuits.’
‘You have no proof of that, you telltale!’
‘I have a feeling that the crumbs under your bed might suffice, Maurice.’ The girl pointed to the door, where Madame Gagnon was smoking a cigarette and observing the youngest of the children. ‘If I run over to her now and tell her, she’ll be up to check quicker than a flash, and you know it.’
Maurice and Jondrette looked at each other.
‘Why are you sticking up for this little worm? Have you not seen the clothes he’s wearing? He’s got money. He’s come here to mock us.’
‘Not everyone in this world is out to get you, Maurice. Now, Jondrette, hand back the violin.’
Jondrette hesitated, and the girl rolled her eyes. ‘Fine, have it your way. She turned her head towards the building, and raised her voice. ‘Madame...’
‘All right, all right.’ Jondrette shushed her. ‘Here.’ He rippedhis arm from the girl’s grip, and handed me the violin. ‘Do you always need girls to stand up for you?’ he hissed.
‘That’s enough. Run along, you silly little boys,’ said my saviour.
Maurice and Jondrette reluctantly began to shuffle off, but not before the latter had given my broken case a good kick, and it skidded across the forecourt. The girl walked over to retrieve it, and brought it back to me. I was sitting on the ground, cradling my violin like a sick puppy.
‘Sorry about them. I wouldn’t take it personally, they’re horrible to everyone. Here, let me help.’ She began to gather the pieces of paper that had fallen to the ground as I had pleaded with the boys. She glanced at the top sheet. ‘You can’t speak?’ I shook my head. ‘Goodness. I was wondering why you didn’t cry out. What’s your name?’ I quickly shuffled through the papers and found the appropriate page. ‘Bo?’ I nodded. The girl giggled. The sound was so pleasing to me that I thought my heart might simply stop there and then. ‘I like your name, Bo. Is that why you carry a violin?’ I shrugged, and without realising it, a smile had made its way onto my lips. I removed my pencil from my pocket and began to write.
What is your name?
‘Oh, yes, sorry. My name is Elle. It’s good to meet you, Bo.’
20th March 1929
Monsieur Ivan has insisted I attend recreational activities at the Apprentis d’Auteuil orphanage so that I might enjoy some positive experiences with other children. He believes that if I can make friends, thenthe weight of the world will be lifted from my shoulders and I will become a better violinist. I respect Monsieur Ivan’s wishes, and for the past few weeks I have attended lunchtime breaks on Tuesdays, and evening recreation on Fridays. I am grateful for the experience, and have learnt how lucky I am to have been taken in by the generous Landowski family. Many of the children in the orphanage lost their parents in the Great War. In truth, it is somewhat difficult for me to acquaint myself with others, due to my condition. I am unable to call for balls, or sing during the game which is called ‘hopscotch’.Nonetheless, I am determined in my quest to become a virtuoso violinist, and I will persist. There is one person I have met at the Apprentis d’Auteuil who I do enjoy spending time with. Her name is Elle, and she does not mind that I do not speak. She is a great deal more interested in my music, and has asked me on several occasions if I will play my violin for her. I confess that I have not yet gathered enough courage to do so, not out of fear of what the other children might do (although based on experience, that is a legitimate concern). In truth, I would be so afraid of disappointing her in any way that I am crippled by anxiety. Her golden hair and blue eyes make me think of an angel, and the thought of dispiriting an angel is too upsetting to imagine.
I pulled my pen from the page. I didn’t think recording my feelings in myofficialdiary would be appropriate, just in case the Landowski family ever did try to read its contents. I will switch over to my secret pages, of which these are a part. If it is not already obvious, the horrors of the Apprentisd’Auteuil orphanage are worth enduring to spend two hours per week with Elle Leopine.
In the brief time that I have known her, I have discovered that she plays both the viola and the flute, and is self-taught. The instruments belonged to Elle’s parents, and serve as the only connection she has to them. Both were lost in the war. Elle’s father died in the trenches, and her mother perished during the influenza outbreak of 1918. She is thirteen years old, and as such, has no memory of either. Perhaps the saddest thing that I have come to learn about Elle is that she had a baby brother, only a few weeks old when her mother died. The orphanage had been able to arrange for his immediate adoption, as there was a high demand for newborns from families who had lost so much in the conflict. But Elle was not so fortunate. She had been a resident of Apprentis d’Auteuil for eleven years.
When I am with her, I find that I do not think of anything else. In those moments, I am not contemplating my past, or the pain and tragedy which I have experienced. She is like music in that way, able to transport me to a place beyond the physical ground beneath my feet. Goodness! Who do I think I am, Lord Byron?
In truth, I have always found his poetry a little difficult to stomach. But now, I find his verses resonate with me wholeheartedly. Since meeting Elle, I am ashamed to say that I now care about little else. My nightly visits to Evelyn are secondary, as are the books I borrow from Monsieur Landowski. Even my violin lessons with Monsieur Ivan now take an incidental position in my mind. My bi-weekly trips to Paris are no longer fuelled by the excitement of playing at the conservatoire, but the thought of spending time with my new friend.
I am aware of the effects of ‘love’ and what it can do to a mind. From literature I have read, I understand that eventhe sturdiest of brains can lose all sense of reason and logic. And yet, even though I know this, I do not find myself caring.
Elle has told me that she has read every book in the library at the orphanage twice over, and so I have taken it upon myself to bring her novels from Monsieur Landowski’s collection. If this is not proof that I am taking leave of my senses, I am unsure what is. The books are not mine to lend out, and I hate to think of how Monsieur Landowski might feel if he discovers what I am up to. But I cannot stop myself; my urge to please Elle supersedes any repercussions my actions might have. When she has finished with a book, we discuss it together (I use the term ‘discuss’ liberally – she talks, and I write). Although, remarkably, she often knows what I wish to say without my pen ever having to touch the paper.
Tomorrow is a Tuesday, and I am hoping that Elle will have finishedThe Phantom of the Opera. I am blushing as I think about it, for it is the tale of a gifted musician who tries to win over an unattainably beautiful woman with his talent. I would like to think that I have a significant advantage, too, for my face is not disfigured, like the phantom. Although, I must concede, if I am to impress Elle with my musical skill, it would necessitate actually playing for her first.
I packed away my diary and climbed into bed. I’d played a particularly challenging set of arpeggios for Evelyn that evening, and soon enough I found my eyes closing, aided by thoughts of Elle’s sweet face. I turned onto my front, and once again I felt a stabbing in my chest. Forgetting to remove the pouch from around my neck was becoming a more frequent occurrence. As the days passed, it was simply getting easier and easier to forget who I was and why I was here.
On Friday evenings, I was permitted to enter the Apprentis d’Auteuil and go to the common room on the first floor with the other children. Elle and I would perch ourselves in the window seat, and look down onto the Rue Jean-de-La-Fontaine.
‘I just can’t believe that Christine would ever be truly happy with Raoul!’ Elle said of Gaston Leroux’s novel. ‘Music is her passion, and only the Phantom truly understands that. Raoul is boring. He’s just... good-looking and rich...’
The Phantom is a murderer!I wrote in response.
Elle laughed. ‘True enough, Bo!’
Who would you choose?
She looked at me, her blue eyes somehow gazing beyond my own and into my soul.
