Chapter 3
Considering it was the end of September, it was unusually cold the morning we left for London. My mother, in an effort to point out how opposed she was to the trip, chose not to even change out of her nightgown. She came to say goodbye and stood at the front door, wrapped up in a long robe with her hair undone.
I, on the other hand, was presentable for once. My hair was brushed, I wore a skirt that my Parisian non-friends would have found cute with my long legs, and I sported a pair of shoes with laces. I stood on my toes to kiss my mother goodbye, and I smelled something bad on her, something that, years later, I would learn was alcohol.
She got close to me — so close that she surprised me, as that was probably the first time I felt the touch of her body.
“You will be careful, right, Irene?” she whispered in my ear.
I remember that moment very well.
The person I saw at the front door that morning was a real person, showing all her stubbornness, fears, and weaknesses. It was as if the mask of etiquette behind which my mother always hid had slipped away.
While we hugged, I wanted to tell her that I had never felt that close to her. But I didn’t.
Since then, I’ve learned that the most important words, the real ones, often get trapped somewhere between heart and mouth and never come out. This is what happened to me in that moment.
“Of course, Mama. You take care yourself,” was all I managed.
My mother was not used to being defenseless for too long. I felt her arms get rigid with embarrassment. And when our eyes met again, she was back to being the distant mother that I knew all too well.
She turned toward Mr. Nelson, who stood at the door, and gave him instructions on a number of things. Then she made sure that all our luggage was in the carriage.
As she did so, Papa came downstairs from his bedroom. He looked at me, smiling, and then said, “Come on, come on! The train won’t wait for us!”
He affectionately patted my back as he prodded me down the stairs to the street. I knew that his hurrying me to the carriage was an effort to keep me away so my parents could have a private goodbye. I did as I was told, but I sat by a window in the carriage so I could witness the whole scene without them knowing. Mama and Papa faced one another for a few seconds. She shook her head and said the word “crazy.” He gestured around them, as if to say that it was more crazy to stay in Paris.
Then Papa grabbed her hands and pulled them toward him, asking her one last time to come with us. She shook her head, looking upset.
But this wouldn’t convince my father to stay. He then shook his head, kissed her forehead, and walked toward Mr. Nelson and me, while Mama slipped down into a chair like a withered flower.
* * *
Our black carriage crossed deserted roads and crowded squares. Many Parisians were meeting up for protests or rallies. There were men building a barricade with furniture, perhaps to hold off the Prussians.
I grabbed onto the window, asking my father, “Is this dangerous?”
“Yes,” he said, quite frankly.
He beat the coachman box with his cane to make the horse go faster.
We arrived at the big train station, Gare du Nord, and the carriage left us right on the platform. Papa grabbed my arm as if he was afraid of losing me, and guided me to our train track. And then the three of us, Papa, Mr. Nelson, and I, got on a blue train headed to Boulogne-sur-Mer.
The train whistled so sharply that I had to cover my ears. A few seconds later, the train began its slow march. A cloud of steam surrounded the train cars and then disappeared in the cold air.
I finally relaxed in my seat. It was like I had just realized what was happening to me . . . I was traveling to London!
My father was already busy with his newspaper, and Mr. Nelson held a book written by the American author Edgar Allan Poe. Mr. Nelson told me he liked Mr. Poe, but thought his writing was too vulgar to be suitable for me.
I fumed. I hated that other people could decide what was suitable for me and what was not. But I was only unhappy for a few minutes.
I got wrapped up in the beauty of the landscape outside my window — an endless green plain, interrupted only by some low hills.
“Just a few years ago,” said my father, lowering his paper and gazing at the beautiful French countryside. “Actually, some years ago, when I was your age, a trip like this would have taken at least a couple of days. We would’ve had to change horses twice, stop to eat, sleep, check our packages . . .”
When he said that, I thought about my letter to Sherlock. Did the letter leave before us, and did my friend know about our arrival? I wondered.
“And now look . . . progress!”
We quickly stopped in Amiens, where many people got on and off the train. Leaning on the window, I realized that our blue train was full of people and luggage. It seemed that it was just the three of us who had the privilege of having our own compartment.
Three hours later, we arrived at the Boulogne -sur-Mer station.
“And now?” I asked my father.
“Now come with me,” he said, cutting me off like I was one of his employees.
I was not offended by it, however. I looked at his eyes, which sparkled with enthusiasm like a child’s and could not be angry. We either understood each other in a heartbeat or not at all, my father and I.
Mr. Nelson went to check on the luggage to make sure it followed us to the ferry, but my father was already making his way through the crowd in the station.
“Papa!” I shouted to get his attention. “What about Mr. Nelson?”
Like a soldier who had just been whipped between his shoulder blades, Leopold Adler straightened his back and stopped.
“Oh yes!” he said, emerging from his thoughts. “Where is he?”
Our butler found us a few minutes later. “Luggage is going to the ferry, sir,” he said, but Papa wasn’t listening. He started to walk again, satisfied that Mr. Nelson was by my side.
“What’s wrong with him?” I asked.
Mr. Nelson shrugged. “And with you, Miss Irene?”
I looked at him. How did he always understand what was on my mind?
“I’m thinking about London,” I answered.
“London?” He smiled. “Or is it someone living in that city?”
“The truth is, I’m thinking about two people. Not just one,” I quipped.
“Ah, Miss Irene!” exclaimed Mr. Nelson, half serious. “Such friendships are not suited to a young lady like you! One of these days your mother is going have a fit about it. You know that, right?”
Instead of answering, I asked him a question. “And what would good friendships be like, Mr. Nelson? The daughters of my mother’s friends? Goodness no! Can you picture me talking about weddings, shoes, and hats all day long?”
“If you really want to know my opinion, Miss Irene, I actually do not think those things suit you. But maybe you can find some friendships that do not involve murders and criminals.”
“Sherlock and Lupin are not criminals!” I exclaimed.
“I didn’t say that,” Mr. Nelson said kindly. “But I don’t think I need to say anything else, do I?”
“What are you suggesting, Mr. Nelson?”
“Nothing more than what I said, Miss Irene. I hope you’ll have the chance to meet your friends once again. And I also hope that a meeting doesn’t mean a —”
We were interrupted by my father, who stood in the middle of the street ahead of us, cursing.
We reached him in front of the battered door of a dilapidated building.
“I can’t believe it! This is the best inn in town!” he complained. The building looked like it had had some bad luck in recent years. “I came here with my father many years ago, when I was a boy, and I can assure you, I have never had such delicious duck breast in my entire life.”
His mustache made his expression look even more disappointed, the ends of it curling around the edges of his frown.
I laughed, and my father stared at me. “It’s a disgrace, I’m telling you! A disgrace!” he shouted.
“I wish you could see yourself, Papa!” I said, still laughing.
He opened his eyes wide, but when he saw that even Mr. Nelson could not contain his laughter anymore, he started to laugh with us.
And with a nice, big laugh, we all went to have dinner at another restaurant, Grand Cochon. Instead of duck breast, we enjoyed three wonderful baked pork legs with potatoes.