asks.
‘I am from Normandy,’ he says. He is running a finger down a meticulously inked column. Seven Flaselles expired, one after the other, in the autumn of 1610. Seven in less than a month.
‘I thought so,’ she says.
‘Why?’
‘I have not seen you before.’
‘You know everyone in Paris?’
‘In the quarter,’ she says.
‘You know a family called Flaselle?’
‘No,’ she says. ‘There are no Flaselles here.’
‘There were once,’ he says. He closes the volume and walks towards her. From outside comes a frenzied clucking, an abrupt silence.
‘You are Jeanne?’ he asks.
‘Yes,’ she says, grinning at the lilt of his voice.
‘Your grandfather said you would show me the cemetery. That you know where the pits are.’
‘The pits?’
‘The common graves.’
‘They are everywhere,’ she says.
‘But you can show me?’
She shrugs. ‘If you wish.’
The old man comes in, the bird’s head in one hand, the softly kicking body in the other. Drops of blood fall like seeds onto the stone of the kitchen floor.
They start with the south charnel, a gallery of blackened stone adjacent to the rue de la Ferronnerie. Of the arches into the gallery, some are barred with man-high gates of rusted iron; others are open. Above the arches – and immediately visible to anyone coming into the cemetery – are garrets where bones, some black as the stones, have been packed behind iron grilles.
After a second of hesitation, Jean-Baptiste steps through one of the arches. On the stone beneath his feet is an inscription. He crouches, touches the lettering with a fingertip. Henri something, struck down, and his son also, beloved something, wife to, late of, devout, fleeting, merciful, the flesh, eternity, 14 something.
He stands and walks a little way along the gallery. Light falls oddly, shows some things clearly, others not at all. He sees the delicate tracery of stone flowers, sees a stone woman holding a stone veil across her face. Narrow steps presumably lead up to the garrets. His shoe kicks a fragment of masonry, the sound of it followed immediately by the sudden scuttling of live things, invisible but close. He turns, hurries back into the open.
He has a notebook with him, a roll of linen tape. When he takes measurements, he asks Jeanne to hold one end of the tape; then, with a steel-tipped pen, a portable inkwell, he writes and sketches in the notebook. He has many questions. She answers them all, and he scratches her replies onto the paper. Sometimes he shuts his eyes and takes out the cloth. He asks if she can read.
‘A little,’ she says, and points to the inscription on a stone. ‘ “ Hic Jacet ,” ’ she says. ‘And there, “ Hic Requiescit .” And there, “ Hic est Sepultura .” ’
He nods, almost smiles.
She says, ‘ You can read.’
‘I’m an engineer,’ he says. ‘You know what that is?’
‘A kind of priest?’
‘We build things. Structures.’
‘Like a wall?’
‘Like a bridge.’
He asks her the location of the most recent of the common graves. She leads him to it. He looks down, looks around. There is nothing obvious to distinguish it from the patch beside it.
‘You are sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘And it was closed, sealed, five years ago?’
‘Yes.’
‘You were a child then.’
‘Yes.’
‘But you remember?’
‘Yes.’
They go on. (He needs to keep moving.) Pit after pit.
‘And this? It is older than the last?’
‘Yes.’
‘And this one?’
‘Older still.’
He makes a map. She watches how he can make a line thinner or thicker with a little adjustment of the angle of the nib. And the figures and the little words. There’s a beauty to it.
‘What’s that?’ she asks, pointing to a squiggle, one of several she has seen him make, a shape like a half-skull.
‘A question mark,’ he says. ‘For when there is some uncertainty.’
Her face falls. ‘Then you have not believed me,’ she says.
He tells her that he has, but that
‘I am from Normandy,’ he says. He is running a finger down a meticulously inked column. Seven Flaselles expired, one after the other, in the autumn of 1610. Seven in less than a month.
‘I thought so,’ she says.
‘Why?’
‘I have not seen you before.’
‘You know everyone in Paris?’
‘In the quarter,’ she says.
‘You know a family called Flaselle?’
‘No,’ she says. ‘There are no Flaselles here.’
‘There were once,’ he says. He closes the volume and walks towards her. From outside comes a frenzied clucking, an abrupt silence.
‘You are Jeanne?’ he asks.
‘Yes,’ she says, grinning at the lilt of his voice.
‘Your grandfather said you would show me the cemetery. That you know where the pits are.’
‘The pits?’
‘The common graves.’
‘They are everywhere,’ she says.
‘But you can show me?’
She shrugs. ‘If you wish.’
The old man comes in, the bird’s head in one hand, the softly kicking body in the other. Drops of blood fall like seeds onto the stone of the kitchen floor.
They start with the south charnel, a gallery of blackened stone adjacent to the rue de la Ferronnerie. Of the arches into the gallery, some are barred with man-high gates of rusted iron; others are open. Above the arches – and immediately visible to anyone coming into the cemetery – are garrets where bones, some black as the stones, have been packed behind iron grilles.
After a second of hesitation, Jean-Baptiste steps through one of the arches. On the stone beneath his feet is an inscription. He crouches, touches the lettering with a fingertip. Henri something, struck down, and his son also, beloved something, wife to, late of, devout, fleeting, merciful, the flesh, eternity, 14 something.
He stands and walks a little way along the gallery. Light falls oddly, shows some things clearly, others not at all. He sees the delicate tracery of stone flowers, sees a stone woman holding a stone veil across her face. Narrow steps presumably lead up to the garrets. His shoe kicks a fragment of masonry, the sound of it followed immediately by the sudden scuttling of live things, invisible but close. He turns, hurries back into the open.
He has a notebook with him, a roll of linen tape. When he takes measurements, he asks Jeanne to hold one end of the tape; then, with a steel-tipped pen, a portable inkwell, he writes and sketches in the notebook. He has many questions. She answers them all, and he scratches her replies onto the paper. Sometimes he shuts his eyes and takes out the cloth. He asks if she can read.
‘A little,’ she says, and points to the inscription on a stone. ‘ “ Hic Jacet ,” ’ she says. ‘And there, “ Hic Requiescit .” And there, “ Hic est Sepultura .” ’
He nods, almost smiles.
She says, ‘ You can read.’
‘I’m an engineer,’ he says. ‘You know what that is?’
‘A kind of priest?’
‘We build things. Structures.’
‘Like a wall?’
‘Like a bridge.’
He asks her the location of the most recent of the common graves. She leads him to it. He looks down, looks around. There is nothing obvious to distinguish it from the patch beside it.
‘You are sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘And it was closed, sealed, five years ago?’
‘Yes.’
‘You were a child then.’
‘Yes.’
‘But you remember?’
‘Yes.’
They go on. (He needs to keep moving.) Pit after pit.
‘And this? It is older than the last?’
‘Yes.’
‘And this one?’
‘Older still.’
He makes a map. She watches how he can make a line thinner or thicker with a little adjustment of the angle of the nib. And the figures and the little words. There’s a beauty to it.
‘What’s that?’ she asks, pointing to a squiggle, one of several she has seen him make, a shape like a half-skull.
‘A question mark,’ he says. ‘For when there is some uncertainty.’
Her face falls. ‘Then you have not believed me,’ she says.
He tells her that he has, but that
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