AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Where the Guillotine Stood
Harry looked around at the stream of tourists milling back and forth on the paths of the Tuileries Garden. He’d had to abandon his tour of the Louvre after an hour and a half. He’d been staring up at a vast canvas six metres high, titledThe Raft of the Medusa, when he’d felt the dreaded tingle of pain in his spine.
He’d tried sitting down for a while on a bench facing the picture. It was a dark painting, an image of a group of men clinging to life on a flimsy raft that was being tossed by a roiling sea. Some of the bodies were greyish, obviously dead. A couple of men at the front of the raft were stretching forwards, waving flags or scraps of clothing towards a ship on the far horizon. Towards the back of the raft, but close to the front of the painting, one man sat with his back turned to the distant ship, facing away from any hope of salvation. He sat with his elbow to his knee, his hand supporting his head, his face a picture of desolation – or perhaps, thought Harry, it was acceptance. The man’s free arm was draped, almost lovingly, over a corpse. The whole was an image of death, the fight against it and the inevitability of defeat.
Harry had shivered as a cold shadow, as if stage-managed, fell over him. Not yet the actual hand of death, he thought, just a dark cloud closing in over the glass roof of the gallery. The red walls deepened to the muddy colour of old wine. Harry had hauled himself to his feet and walked away, not quickly but as fast as he could manage it.
Now, in the Jardin des Tuileries, he was ensconced more or less comfortably on a stone bench at the edge of an overflowing flowerbed. Tall purple flowers – he didn’t know what they were called – leaned out from the shrubbery, dropping minuscule purple petals on the pages of his book. He’d made it to the part where the new device for the merciful taking of life, the guillotine, was erected and tested on a highway robber who happened to be available. Too fast, complained the onlookers. Too easy, said the executioner.
Too much, thought Harry.
The pain had passed, but the dark cloud hovered, threatening a burst of rain. On the lawn in front of him, an imposing bronze tigress was offering a bedraggled bronze peacock to her mewling bronze cubs. Harry tipped his head to examine the peacock’s expression, checking that the creature was definitely dead before the cubs pulled him apart.
He sat back, turned instead to watch a butterfly perched with folded wings on the purple flower at his side. It was close enough that he could see the butterfly’s proboscis stretching into the well of nectar, curling and uncurling. A single raindrop fell on the flower’s head, making it sway back and forth, though the butterfly, tempting fate, held his place. Harry held his palm out, expecting more drops of rain, but none came.
TheMona Lisawas overhyped, he thought, though at least he could cross her off that list of things the internet insisted he should see before he died. How much more time did he have anyway? The doctors had become ever more vague on the subject.It all depends,they told him, over and over,on this or that.They muttered about new drugs, new treatments, always more coming down the line, trials they could get him on. They had become vaguer about those, too. People thought –hehad thought – that this sort of situation came with a timeline: bucket-list time, followed by put-your-affairs-in-order time, and all rounded off with some emotional music, lots of strings and say-your-goodbyes time. He wasn’t so convinced it was going to work out that way. A nagging voice in the back of Harry’s head was telling him that the violins were tuning up.
He’d been taken with the enormous painting opposite theMona Lisadepicting the wedding feast of Cana. It wasn’t the homely nuptials he had always imagined in his mind’s eye but a wild Bacchanalian frenzy of glasses clinking, jugs pouring, and everyone, even the dogs, falling down drunk. It was strikingly bright, he thought, like a vintage movie poster. It reminded him that he’d ducked out of throwing a party before he left London. Maybe he would throw a party when he got home, invite the people he wanted to see – and Nancy might agree to come to a party, no pressure or anything. He’d invite Louis Casteneda, too – all the old gang.
Putting the book aside again, Harry pulled out his phone, scrolled the list of contacts and hitcall. The dial tone repeated three times before a hoarse voice answered.
‘Hello?’
‘Louis! It’s Harry. How are you doing?’
‘Harry.’ Louis didn’t sound so thrilled to hear from him.
‘Listen, Lou, I was just talking to Nance.’ Not entirely truthful, but close enough.
‘Oh yeah?’ Louis sounded cagey, like maybe he didn’t quite believe Harry.
‘Yeah. She says you’ve got a script for her. Look, Lou, she’s really excited about this TV show. She seems to think it’s a sure thing. You wouldn’t mess her around, would you?’ Harry wasn’t even sure why he’d said that, but it felt good to him to be on Nancy’s side.
‘Harry.’ Louis sounded pissed off now. ‘This thing is a done deal. It’s a starring role, and Nancy is perfect for it. She’s a damned good actress, you know?’
‘I know that. You don’t have to tellmethat, Lou. I just didn’t want to see her getting hurt.’
There was a shuffling noise; a second voice in the background spoke. ‘Is everything alright?’ It was a woman’s voice.
Huh, thought Harry.
Lou’s voice softened. ‘Nancy doesn’t need you looking out for her. Listen, Harry, you know I love you, man?’
‘Yeah?’
‘But it’s 3am.’
‘Shit, sorry – I didn’t realise. G’night Lou.’
‘No problem, man. Everything good with you?’
‘Never better.’
‘Goodnight, Harry.’
‘Bye, Lou. Bye.’
He hadn’t mentioned the party. Just as well. It was a dumb idea. He made an attempt to fit his book into his jacket pocket, to no avail, probably should have opted forA Moveable Feast. The clue, after all, was in the title. Fucking Hemingway, getting it right.
