The Penny Thief

Chapter 2

                                                             2

            “Etienne honey, it’s seven, the bells of Saint Jean just chimed, are you ready?”

            “Yes mom.”

            “Have you washed your face and combed your hair?”

            “Yes mom.”

            “Come here, let me see you and give me a kiss.”

            The boy entered the kitchen like a whirlwind, gave a loud kiss to his mother, who contemplated him with love and admiration.

            “You’re so tall. You grew some more last night! At this rate we’ll have to change all the doors in the house.”

            “Mooom…” moaned Etienne.

            “Go on, grab your bike and run and get the croissants while I wake up your little sister. When you get back we’ll have breakfast and then we’ll go and see grandma.”

            And noticing the speed at which the boy rushed off she added, “Go slow and don’t go down the stairs, remember your last fall…”

            But the door had already slammed shut. She shrugged, shook her head in helplessly, and went to the children’s bedroom. Etienne was an adorable 10-year-old rascal who knew how to make himself loved.

            Etienne ran out of the concierge apartment where he lived with his mother and sister, opened the door to the maintenance room in the patio and pulled out his shiny blue bicycle. It had been given to him by his parents for his birthday a few months ago. The old one hadn’t resisted the last fall down the stairs of Montmartre. It was the bike’s fault for not growing with him and causing his knees to knock the handlebar. It should be no surprise that he lost control and the two of them had ended up tangled on the floor. Fortunately, an old man who was out walking his dog came to the catastrophe and was able to call the fire-fighters to get them untangled. The issue resulted in a sprain and a few scrapes and bruises.

            Now, with the new bike, there was not a staircase in Montmartre that would put up a fight, especially at this time in the morning when the tourists weren’t out yet.

            He went with care through the little gate of the property that lead to Rue Girardon—there were no cars, nor a living soul. He took to the left pedaling hard to tackle the little hill. A few yards on, he arrived to Marcel Aymé square, turned left again along Rue Norvins and, leaving the Passe Muraille[1] behind, he stood up on the pedals to take on the hill which was getting steeper and steeper. Finally he reached the top of the hill, looking onto the bakery of Monsieur Bernard, Le Fournil du Village—best croissants in Montmartre, according to his mother.

            But Etienne preferred the croissants of Rue des Trois Frères. Not because they were better, but because they represented two sections of stairs leading down, one of them very steep and narrow, the kind that doesn’t allow a margin of error. But first he had to go in the bakery of Monsieur Bernard; if his mother found out what he had done he would be grounded for at least a week.

            So after diligently leaning his wonderful bike on the front window of Fournil du Village to keep an eye on it at all times, he went in, praying that the batch of croissants would not be ready, or that it had run out.

            “Bonjour!” said Madame Bernard with a huge smile when she saw him, as she kept tidying the counter.

            “Bonjour Madame Bernard,” replied Etienne eyeing the glass cabinet for the croissants, hoping not to see them.

            Madame Bernard’s surname was not Bernard, in fact it wasn’t Monsieur Bernard’s either. Monsieur Bernard was called like that because of his first name, and Madame Bernard followed suit because she was his wife, or out of empathy, something that Etienne still didn’t understand very well and that caused more than one long and confused discussion at home, always at the most inadequate moments.

            Le Fournil du Village was a remnant of the past, a nice and peaceful place, it had a few tables where the customers could sit down to have a coffee or a sandwich or a salad… But at this time on Sunday it was empty.

            “Were you looking for croissants?” asked Madame Bernard with an expression that bode well.

            “Yes, six please.”

            “It’ll be a quarter of an hour still before the next batch is ready…”

            Seeing the boy’s expression of joy, which she didn’t know exactly how to interpret, she felt obliged to say, “You could go down to the bakery on des Trois Frères, maybe you’re lucky, with the bike you’ll be there in no time at all.”

            “Thank you very much, Madame Bernard, that’s what I’ll do. Au revoir!” answered the boy as he shot out, smiling from ear to ear.

            Madame Bernard was left mid-sentence and shrugged her shoulders; too late to say goodbye, the little bell above the door had already jingled. Kids were like that. This one at least had good manners.

            Etienne jumped onto his bike and pedaled down the street, straight to Place Jean Batiste Clément. When he got there, instead of cycling down Rue Lepic, he took a shortcut and dived down the steep stairs of Rue de la Miré, without breaking, trusting good providence that no pedestrian, dog or cat would be in his way.

            “Yes!” exclaimed the boy when he reached the bottom in one piece.

            And he continued his dizzying descent to the bakery of Rue des Trois Frères, on the corner with the wide side of the Rue Ravignan, which opened up to a fantastic view of Paris.

            Instants later he caught sight of Place Emile Goudeau.

            The pharmacy on the corner must have been on duty because the pharmacist was outside smoking, in his white robe, and yelled out to him, “Where are you going so fast? You’ll break your bones…”

            But Etienne had more urgent things to tend to, such as dodging the stone bollards that guarded the square, trees, Wallace[2] fountain, and green benches, in order to reach his destination without losing speed: one leap down ten stone steps that lead to the esplanade bordering with Rue des Trois Frères, and then brake to skid in front of the bakery.

            The bike reached the top of the stairs shooting out like a missile. Everything was in its place: the esplanade, completely clear, the open bakery, the terrace tables of Relais de la Butte on the left perfectly positioned, the view of Paris opening up from Rue Ravignan… But there was something new for Etienne, a fantastic and unreal spectacle that caught the 10-year-old’s eye: the sun seemed to ignite the golden dome of Les Invalides.

            The sound of a motorbike brought him back to reality.

[1] Le Passe Muraille, The Man Who Walked through Walls, is a work by Jean Marais, a French actor and sculptor, created in 1989. It represents the figure of a man emerging from a wall. It is a homage to writer Marcel Aymé and his renown novel, “Passe-Muraille.” Marcel Aymé lived and wrote most of his work in Montmartre.

In the novel, Dutilleul, a Registry office worker who lives in Montmartre, discovers that he has the ability to walk through walls. First he takes the chance to avenge the humiliation from his office colleagues, later to steal and get rich, until he is imprisoned. As a good Walker Through Walls he escapes and falls in love with a beautiful married woman who he sees behind the husband’s back thanks to his ability. But finally one day the ability disappears and he is trapped forever inside a wall, on Rue Norvins… It is said that if you touch the left hand of the sculpture, you will acquire Dutilleul’s ability.

[2] Wallace fountains are a type of public fountain providing drinking water and considered as one of the symbols of Paris. Their creator and promoter was British philanthropist Richard Wallace towards the end of the 19th century.