Free The Emperor of Paris by C. S. Richardson Page A

emperor worried about the birds he had lost, the more he could see them in his mind’s eye. As clearly as if they were still crowding his rooms. Then he remembered his own portrait. How he had imagined the man standing before him. Could he do such a thing with his memories of his birds? Like the one that had lived above his kitchen cupboard, a smelly, moulting thing it was. Could he see that little fellow suddenly bouncing up and down like a bird twice its size, puffing itsgreen chest feathers and crooning to the females at the other end of the shelf? Or the bird with the giant yellow bill that had spent every day perched on the back of the emperor’s armchair, picking at loose threads and making a mess of things. Could he imagine it raising its grand beak, coughing once or twice, then reciting a poem? Could he, Papa?
    He could and he did, Monsieur said. The emperor discovered there was no little bird telling anybody anything. Indeed it wasn’t birds he had needed at all. The pictures in his head would make him wise.
    A good and simple emperor, Octavio said.
    Monsieur stopped pacing around the kitchen table. That is why we Notre-Dame men need our pictures, he said.
    Like your newspapers, Papa?
    The thinnest baker in all Paris smiled. We shall look at them together. This Sunday we make a start.

 
    The brigade captain has seen it all before. Too many versions of
I was only gone for a moment
. Someone steps out to retrieve his mail, leaves a candle too close to a wafting curtain, and by the time he reads the postcard from Arromanches and argues with his concierge, a lifetime of companionship has vanished. For the captain the family pets were always the most tragic. Dogs, cats, mice, rabbits, lizards, fish even; in his time he had swept up a zoo’s worth of cremation. He remembers a pair of pigeons in the twelfth, huddled together, claws still curled around their perch, no more than lumps of cinder. Thecaptain might have stumbled into the ruins of Pompeii rather than an old widow’s suicide.
    He turns the baker back toward the stairs. Best you stay out of harm’s way, monsieur, till the boys have mopped up.
    He watches as the man manages a few steps before slumping against the railing. Take your time, monsieur. It’s all quite a shock, I know, but consider yourself lucky. You could have been at home.

 
    E mile Notre-Dame unfolded his newspaper, taking care not to reveal the front page, and smoothed the crease through his fingers. A stretch of his arms, a snap of the paper, a determined lick of his thumb. He turned the issue around.
    Filling the front page: a man in military uniform clutches at his chest as he falls against the rear seat of an open automobile. Splatters of red ink stain his white tunic; his medals jostle, his helmet is knocked askew. A woman in an elegant day dress and matching feathered hat clings to the man as he falls. In her effort tosteady her companion she too loses her balance. There is a look of surprise on her face. Lining the street and crowded on balconies, onlookers stare in disbelief, their stunned expressions and pointing fingers drawn to something at the margin of the illustration.
    Monsieur followed the crowd’s eyes.
    A man in a dark suit leaps from the crowd, his face obscured by the brim of his hat. He waves a small pistol at the couple in the automobile. The weapon spouts a flash of yellow and a soft puff of smoke.
    Octavio emerged from the bakery and sat next to his father. He began whistling an unrecognizable tune. After a moment he released as loud a sigh as he could.
    You promised, Papa.
    Monsieur, suddenly aware he was not alone, glanced from his son to the page and back again. So I did, he said.
    Monsieur looked to the sky, scratched his head, ran a finger around his collar. Warm today, he said. Octavio only nodded, his one eyebrow cocked higher still.
    That is not a beginning, Papa.
    Quite right, Monsieur said. Sometimes a story needs a push to get started. But I know a game.