The Courtyard - Who Runs Paris?

“If this is what I think it is…” Dutch stopped in his tracks but Henri walked ahead, looking back over his shoulder with a grin.

“You remember the way?”

“How could I forget?” Dutch stalled. “You were always so sentimental.”

“Me?” laughed Henri. “never.”

“Says the man who sent me his auntie’s cookie recipe in prison.”

“That was a code.”

“Yes, and after I decoded it, got the kitchen to serve them for lunch.” He reminisced as he walked on. “Thank you for the birthday wishes. I noticed you didn’t send anything on my official birthday.”

“Careful,” said Henri. “That kind of green will land you back in prison before you’re ready.”

Dutch caught up and linked their arms together. They walked deeper into the city. Old and new buildings glimmered down at them. The sun was high and hot on his face and he could feel his skin embrace it as he fell into step with his old friend. Soon the streets would be strewn with tourists fleeing stifling hotels, and locals fleeing the shivering old churches.

Henri was watching him.

“What?”

Henri shrugged. “Nothing.”

“Staring problem never went away. Gonna get you in trouble some day.”

Henri sighed. “Your suit is the wrong shade of blue. I wrote ‘periwinkle’. This is cornflower — ”

Dutch unlinked their arms. “Race me,” he said. “Before the streets fill up.”

Henri’s face brightened at the suggestion, as if ten years or more had suddenly turned back, and they were just two boys again, wandering the streets on a late Sunday morning. Alone but not lonely.

“I’m at an advantage,” he said, taking a deep breath of preparation. “I’ve done this every day while you were getting fat in your cell.”

Dutch guffawed as a nearby revolving door spun, spewing out a dozen or so suit-clad men and women.

“It was the cookies that did it,” countered Dutch. “That was your plan all along.”

“You caught me.”

“Ready?”

A pigeon flapped overhead, leaving its droppings on one of the men’s expensive suits, and the two boys set off sprinting on separate directions.

Henri emerged red-faced from a narrow stone stair-case onto a patio overlooking a barren court-yard, but Dutch was already seated on a folding chair, half a cigarette between his lips. He smoked with his eyes closed, sunning himself like a cat. A gold cigarette case sat open in his lap.

“You picked my pocket,” panted Henri, keeling over the wrought-iron railing.

“And beat you,” said Dutch through a sweet-smelling smoke. “Again.” His face was uncharacteristically stern, an he only looked at Henri through half-lidded eyes. Henri snatched the cigarette case away and took one for himself. “Besides,” said Dutch, nodding to the inscription, “you picked hers first.”

Henri read aloud as if he’d never given the words any thought. “Ma chère Lisa.”

“Lisa’s missing out. That’s a pretty trinket.”

“She’ll have to miss it a little longer,” said Henri, putting the case into his right pocket, the left one now sporting a discreet slash through it. He took out a single key and unlocked the door at the head of the stairs.

Dutch tipped his head back and flicked the cigarette but into the yellow grass below. Henri stepped into the dark apartment.

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” Dutch called after him.

“Did I have to invite you to rob me?”

“You made it too easy,” he said, and when Henri didn’t reply, added “Apologies, Maestro.”

“Get in here.”

Dutch took another minute to look over the court yard. Tall buildings crowded around it in an off-balanced square. The bottom of the yard dipped down into a dry pond, whose tiles were once white, now brown and cracked, half-full of weeds and old fireworks. The roses that lined the path towards it were nothing but a memory. Even the long yellow grass was withered and bent in mourning. Dutch remembered stepping so carefully around the court yard as child, and the reprimands of Henri’s grandmother if even a single rose petal was out of place.

She was long gone now, he suspected. He said a short prayer for her, and went in after Henri.

“She leave this place to you?”

“No,” said Henri. “To my sister.”

“Marie’s dead too?”

“Chicago, with her kids.” Henri dashed from surface to paper-strewn surface almost breathlessly and Dutch gathered this wasn’t the time for catching up. He wondered why Henri didn’t write about all this in his letters. He couldn’t stifle his curiosity, and scanned the walls of the little one-bedroom apartment where pictures once hung. Now there were only newspaper clippings so faded he wondered if their only purpose was to patch the ancient wallpaper.

Dutch stood in the middle of the kitchenette, once more feeling like a guest, always in the way. His larger build made the space feel even smaller than he remembered. At any moment, the old lady might emerge from the little sitting room, hands piled high with teacups, smile politely and nudge him out of the way of the sink. The smell of roses in the breeze would make waiting in the doorway for Henri to finish his homework worth it. Now the roses were gone and the work never ended. Prison at least didn’t keep him waiting for much.

So he watched and wished he’d kept the cigarette case. Henri seemed to be looking for a dismantled coffee pot among the stacks of letters, all of which were addressed to various different names, and none but a few opened.

“What do you think about the job?” asked Henri in an attempt to be good host. “Not really up our alley, but the money’s good.”

Dutch shrugged. “If you think so.”

Henri paused, then located a kettle press in a box of unwrapped lightbulbs and abandoned the search. “There’s a sewing kit in one of these drawers,” he said as he started to fill the kettle with water.

“I’m out of practice on my embroidery,” said Dutch as he started gently pulling drawers. He was silently relieved to see the order of things remained intact there. Tin cutlery in sets of ten arranged in their own caddy, just as the old lady had left it. Dutch always got the feeling she didn’t like him, but for some reason she always had a cake and icecream prepared whenever it came close to his birthday. He suspected Henri got her to do it, but now he wasn’t so sure. She sent one to him the first year he was in prison, but she didn’t send anything for Henri. He should have guessed then they had had some falling-out. It still didn’t make what Henri did with the place right.

“You should clean up a bit,” said Dutch after he found the little biscuit tin of needles and thread. “Poor hospitality.”

“I don’t have guests around often. Not in here, anyway.” He took two packets of cocoa powder from the same pocket as his key and tipped them into two ornate teacups he’d fished out of the mass of takeout boxes in the sink. “I guess the place needs a woman’s touch.”

“No woman would touch this place with a fifty foot pole for fear they’ll be accessory to some kind of murder.”

As the kettle boiled they sat outside. Henri took off the blue jacket and began stitching up the pocket with the closest shade of thread he could find. Dutch wished he’d taken the seat again. if not to rest his legs, then to keep from having to lean over the railing and stare at the yard again.

He gestured at the surrounding buildings, but Henri wasn’t watching. “I suppose you bought these out, too?”

Henri grunted in assent. “Couldn’t risk neighbours coming around asking to borrow some sugar.” In contrast to the dingy little apartment, the buildings were one shingle short of lavish. Doors on all sides of the court-yard gave access to anyone living in them, but to Dutch’s recollection, only Henri’s grandmother ever took the time to keep it tidy. She wasn’t a gardener, but the old landlord who Henri must have given a hefty price to used to give her a small allowance every month for the service. Much cheaper than hiring an actual gardener, and she always needed extra with all the mouths she had to feed.

“You look sour,” said Henri suddenly. He clipped the thread with his teeth.

Dutch shrugged. “Place feels different.”

“Everything is different.”

“You aren’t,” he noted. “Still spiteful.”

Henri tucked the sewing kit away under the lounge chair and folded the jacket over the back, using it as a pillow. He didn’t say anything more.