There are not many tigers left in Paris. The flaming ones have all been extinguished, and the animals of the Jardin des Plantes menagerie have been safely locked away, their keepers recalling stories from the last great siege of the city, in 1870, when citizens ate zoo animals to stave off starvation. Elephant soup and fried camel nuggets and kangaroo stew. The perfect Christmas feast!
You hope it does not come to that.
They promised the war would be won by Christmas, but with the German army closing in like a noose, you are beginning to have your doubts. You’ve once more started walking your beloved city at night—not to stumble upon some new enchantment but to say goodbye. Adieu, even. After hearing about the atrocities in Belgium, you find it hard not to wonder how much the kaiser’s soldiers might destroy. Will they set torches to the Jardin des Tuileries? Will they smash the statues lining the garden’s gravel paths?
They might have a difficult time of it with the tigress.
The bronze beast stands with her cubs in a long stretch of emerald grass. She has always called to you in a way—for you’ve come back again and again. Often enough to memorize every detail. Auguste-Nicolas Cain spent three years of his life casting this tiger’s stripes, her proud stance as she brings a limp peacock to her young. Her strength… it’s more than feral. More than the claws and jaws of her male counterpart on the other side of the garden. He wrestles a crocodile to death, yes, but she, she hunts for something better. She has mouths to feed.
You aren’t this statue’s only admirer. There is a white-haired woman standing by the tigress, her palm placed on its flank. You cannot see her face, but the way her shoulders move suggests she might be weeping. Her dark cape does not smear the dew as she walks to the other side of the statue. Out of sight. Vanished completely.
She leaves no footprints either.
You notice this as you walk to the spot where she stood. Another thing you notice? While the dewdrops stayed in perfect jeweled spheres, the statue’s bronze shifted at the woman’s touch. The deep grooves Monsieur Cain carved over four decades ago are all rearranged.
The tigress’s stripes have changed.
A much smaller orange cat emerges from some nearby hedges and picks his way across the lawn. He pauses by your ankles long enough for you to swear that he is studying the altered sculpture too. His ragged ears flatten. His tail stub twitches. He fixes his orange eyes on you, and you get the sudden feeling that you’ve seen a secret. A signal. A promise. A hope that has nothing to do with the war…
You decide, as you walk away, that you shall not say goodbye.
You will keep wandering.
You will keep wondering.