Читать книгу The Predator of Batignolles: 5th Victor Legris Mystery - Claude Izner - Страница 16

Six o’clock in the morning, Wednesday 21 June

LÉOPOLD Grandjean lived with his wife and two sons on the fourth floor of a building in Rue des Boulets, near Place de la Nation. His rent was three hundred and ten francs a year, which included the door and window tax and the cost of the chimney sweep. In return, his three-room lodgings were equipped with running water and gas lighting. He had always loved reading. History, geography, science and literature – everything interested him. He could quote whole passages from Jean-Jacques Rousseau. Two lines from The Social Contract had influenced him in particular:

Man is born free, but everywhere he is in chains.

The fruits of the earth belong to everyone and the earth to no one.

On Sundays, he would take a stroll with his family along the fortifications and spend the day walking and setting the world to rights. Life was good.

His enamelling business was thriving. It was by no means a life of luxury and he occasionally had difficulty making ends meet, but everything about him suggested a relaxed and bohemian attitude towards life. Léopold had been an apprentice engraver then a porcelain painter. He adopted the attitudes of an artist and didn’t give a damn what his neighbours thought. His factory – a shed with a glass roof – stood at the end of Passage Gonnet in the shade of a lime tree whose dense foliage in summer was a haven for birds. Beyond it was a patch of wasteland where ragged children whooped and ran wild. The premises were divided into the factory proper and the sales room. Its shelves were filled with the most commonly enamelled objects of the day: sweet dishes, powder compacts, bowls, brooches, and pommels for canes and umbrellas. Once spring arrived, Léopold would get to his workshop at dawn in order to work on the more difficult orders. This time he had to produce a picture based on an icon; the task he’d set himself was complicated, but he felt confident that he would succeed. He began by making a quick, bold sketch.

‘Perfect. Now let’s fill in the detail.’

He added a finishing touch to his design then went over to a lathe, which had a copper plate covered in a first coat of clear enamel resting on it. He transferred the plate to a low table crowded with pots, paintbrushes, spatulas, and jars of gold and silver leaf. He cherished such moments of solitude as a respite from mass production and book-keeping; they were his secret moments of creativity. At thirty-nine, he still looked like a young man. Broad-shouldered and of medium build, he gave an impression of calm determination. Rarely did anything disturb his equanimity.

At this early hour, the workshop was bathed in an atmosphere of peace; even the chirping sparrows were scarcely audible. Léopold applied his colours, placing blobs of paste onto the lighter areas of the design then blending them gradually in the cloisonné sections. This preliminary task allowed his mind to wander freely.

If business went well, he’d buy a plot of land in Montreuil and grow peach trees; they’d give a good return. His two sons would take over – they were better off there than in a factory – and his wife would finally have the kitchen garden she’d always wanted.

A milk cart rattled down the quiet street, followed by the clatter of dustbins being hauled across the courtyard and wooden shutters banging. There was a sudden murmur, as though these noises had woken the sleeping neighbourhood. Léopold set down his brush. In half an hour his workers would arrive; it was time to snatch a cup of coffee. He whistled as he donned his jacket and battered hat, and stuck a cigarette in his mouth.

The Chez Kiki café stood on the corner of Rue Chevreul and Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Antoine surrounded by grocers, charcuteries and wine merchants. A steady flow of garrulous, sharp-tongued, sharp-eyed housewives streamed in and out of these shops lit by oil lamps. On his way to the bar, Léopold greeted Josette, the dark-skinned flower girl, back from Les Halles where she had stocked up her cart. He was feeling in his pockets for a match when a man sprang from nowhere and offered him a light. As Léopold thanked him, his smile suddenly faded. The man whispered something in his ear then stepped away, lowering his arm. Léopold fell backwards. He could see a flock of sparrows flying overhead, the façades of the buildings, the sky dappled with clouds …

His vision became blurred and his stomach throbbed. The last thing he heard before sinking into oblivion was a song:

But the cherry season is short

When two go together to pick

Red pendants for their ears …

Cherries of love all dressed alike

Hanging like drops of blood beneath the leaves.