It was a cold morning, and Jack was awakened by the draft. Gathering his effects, he draped his coat around himself and headed downtown to his favorite café. Robért could see him staggering down the alley, and he walked out to meet him. "You know something, Jack, one of these days they're going to find you frozen to the side of that bridge. Why don't you take us up on our offer? It might keep you out of the sanitarium."
"Well, you know me, Robért," Jack replied wryly. "I'm a survivor."
"You can survive and be warm at night, too. No?" Robért quipped as he handed Jack his coffee. "Okay. You remember deal. Your breakfast is ready. What do you have for me today?"
Jack pulled out his portfolio and handed Robért several sketches. "This one…" A picture of an elderly couple standing outside the Louvre, kissing. "…would look great above the mantle."
"Oui! Very nice," Robért affirmed. "It captures the heart of París. I don't know how you do it, Jack Dawson. You seem to have lived a lifetime in every one of your drawings."
"I wish everyone had your sense of vision," a dejected Dawson said, biting into his breakfast roll.
"Don't listen to them," Robért said. "You have a gift they cannot see; they cannot understand. You draw with your heart. They see with their eyes. You give life and depth to your work. They see paper, nothing more." Robért took the sketch and set it up on the mantle. Stepping back, observing the scene, he said, "You know something? I think a work of art like this could pay for a lot of hot meals...even a bed, maybe..."
"Robért..."
"...and if you say no, you will insult me..."
"But I can take care of myself..."
"But Sophie and I can take care better. Oh, come on, Jack. What do you say? You can wash some dishes, make some beds. Sophie could use the rest with the baby coming soon. In return, I give you a bed, a couple hot meals and a little bit of private time for your art..."
"Okay..." Jack said. "…but only for a while. I don't plan to stay in this town forever, you know..."
"Long enough to watch the baby be born, I hope..."
"Okay, Robért. You got it."
They shook hands, and it was settled. Even as they sealed the deal, both of them knew it wasn't going to last long. Jack had his heart set on Italy, and he had a good plan in the works to get there. He finished his breakfast and strolled out into the street, looking for his next great subject. Turning the corner onto Rue Provénce, he heard a commotion from the second floor of an apartment building--a man and a woman arguing in French. Angry words gave way to loud slaps and the sound of a woman yelping and weeping. After what seemed like an hour--but what was actually a few fleeting minutes--a tall, stately gentleman emerged from the parlor of the building. He made eye contact with Jack for a moment, then went on his way. Fearing that the woman had been hurt or killed, Jack waited for the man to round the corner, then darted up the stairs. He burst through an open door to find not one but four women, huddled in a circle around a small makeshift bed in the middle of the room.
In the middle of the throng was a fifth woman. She was bruised and crying silently to herself, while the others tried to console her and tend to her wounds.
One of the women turned and looked at Jack. "We are closed, Monsieur. Come back tomorrow."
"Is she all right?" Jack asked.
"She will be fine, but she won't be back on the job until tomorrow. Now, if you please, we must take care of her."
Jack suddenly realized the situation he was in, and what kind of business was being run in the midst of this squalor, and he was simultaneously filled with anger and disgust. The battered woman looked up at Jack, and feelings of disgust quickly gave way to compassion. She was naked, yet Jack didn't seem to notice as he stared intently into her beautiful yet vacant brown eyes. She looked at him with fear. Jack, sensing her state of mind, approached her slowly. "It'll be all right," he said. "He won't be back anytime soon." He reached out his hand to her. As she reached back, Jack noticed her hands. How, he thought, could a person who has had such a hard life have such soft, beautiful hands?
"Did you ladies know this guy?" Jack asked.
"He's a regular," one of the women said, "but he seems to like Monique the best. She's different, you see, and that excites him."
"Different?" Jack asked as Monique sat up. She swung over to the side of the bed, and Jack noticed that she had only one leg. "I see..." he said, trying not to stare.
"It's not just that," said the woman who had first spoken to Jack. "He is completely impotent. He comes here all the time, and all the time he beats the women and leaves without handing us so much as a sou for enduring it."
"Well, it looks like you ladies could use some protection around here..." Looking at his lanky frame, the ladies began to chuckle to themselves. Jack, trying to pull himself out of the hole he just dug, began to chuckle as well. "No, no...I don't mean me...I just think--"
"Idle words, Monsieur, will do us no good," Monique said, half in French, half in broken English.
"You're right," Jack replied. "So, let's see what can be done."
*****
Later that afternoon, Jack returned to the café. Robért had already set out a bottle of wine and some hearty bread and cheese at the corner table for the aspiring artist. Jack sat down at the table and tore into the loaf. From behind the curtain separating the kitchen from the café, Jack could hear a familiar voice. "You disappoint me," it said.
Jack nearly choked on his bread in surprise. "I have? Was I supposed to help with the dishes this morning?"
"You know what I am talking about," Robért said sternly. Now Jack was even more concerned, since he was at the end of his own ideas. "I open my home to you. Give you shelter from the cold, and how do you repay me? You squander what little money you have on whores!"
Jack breathed a sigh of relief. Oh, is that all? he thought to himself. "It's not what you think," he responded casually, continuing with his lunch.
"I see," Robért said, emerging from behind the curtain. "So what is it, then?"
"I was walking through town today and I heard a woman being assaulted," Jack began, "and I--"
"What?" an agitated Robért interrupted. "You think you're going to become a hero? You do not know París. You do not know what kind of trouble you ask for when you try to help a whore. They will take your money, then your soul. Jack, as your friend, I'm begging you..."
"I'm sorry, Robért," Jack said. "I guess I'm just too involved now."
"Well, you get un-involved, then!"
"It's not that easy...Robért, they're people and they're hurting. I guess I have too big a heart, but I can't just walk away."
Robért whispered a few curses under his breath and turned to retreat into the kitchen. Jack sprung up from his chair and grabbed him by the shoulder. "You didn't see it," he said. "You didn't see a beautiful young woman who had only one leg because one of her customers jabbed her with a Bowie knife and her leg got all infected. You couldn't see her eyes, you couldn't feel her hands tremble in yours. You couldn't see those women and their eyes crying out for help."
Robért stood there silently, unable to muster a legitimate retort. "I think maybe you see too much in people, Jack Dawson." He looked down for a minute and rubbed his temples--a sure sign that he'd been beaten in an argument. "Now I pray that you can see the danger you are in."
*****
Several days passed, and Jack had begun earning his keep with the café. Having spent the past few nights indoors, in a warm bed with three square meals every day, he began to think of home, about his father and how hard his dad had tried to raise his boy right. He remembered snowy winter days and the hot cider Mom always had waiting after he'd been running amok with the neighborhood kids all day. Chippewa Falls winters were always colder than Paris, but no matter where he traveled, Jack always felt a little bit colder during these contemplative moments. As night fell, Jack opened the window in his loft and looked out into the city. It was quiet that night, and it was business as usual at 708 Rue Provénce. No one would bring harm to the women who lived there tonight.
That night, Jack lay awake half the night. He could still see the eyes of the man who had battered Monique stare at him, half in defiance, half in indignance, knowing what Jack had seen and heard. Part of him prayed that he would never see the dark man again. The other part prayed that this man would eventually get what he deserved.
The next day, Jack rose early. Robért didn't even see him leave, but every inch of floor had been swept and every table set by the time Robért staggered, bleary-eyed, downstairs. Jack arrived at the apartment building and knocked on the door. One of the older of the women, Marguerite, peered out the window and called to him. "Please come up, Monsieur Dawson." Jack walked up the flight of rickety stairs into the apartment, where several of the women met him at the door.
"So, has our friend been by lately?" Jack asked.
"No, Monsieur," Marguerite said, "but he will likely return tonight."
"Well," Jack said, "I think Monique will be busy tonight."
"Ah," a petite and rather young girl named Colette interjected. "You like her. I knew the first time you looked at her."
"Oh, it's nothing like that," Jack said, smiling impishly. "I would like to draw her portrait. I'll pay what I can for her time, but I don't have much."
Just then, Monique emerged from a back bedroom and hobbled over to Jack using a makeshift crutch. Her body was healing, but the shadow of events past still loomed over her in the form of the bruises the dark man had inflicted upon her. "Monsieur Dawson," she said, "you are an angel in disguise. I will be pleased if you would draw my portrait."
"Then I guess I'll be back tonight," he said.
"Then until tonight," Monique said, "au revoir." She kissed him lightly on the cheek.
*****
That night, the cafe became rather busy. Jack furiously scrubbed dishes while his thoughts kept turning to Monique and the rest of the prostitutes. Would he beat the dark man back to the apartment, or would he be too late to save Monique from another night of torment? Robért noticed the sense of urgency about Jack that night. "You have someplace to go tonight, yes?" he asked.
"As a matter of fact," Jack answered, "I made a promise to someone."
"In that case, I should make you stay. But if you're that set on helping this whore, then you can go."
"Thanks, Robért," Jack said, as he draped his dishcloth over the edge of the sink.
"You know," Robért said, in a sage-like tone, "I think you just might be saving more than just the life of a whore. I think you may just save her soul, as well. I will pray for yours."
Jack could only smile once more at his friend before he turned to leave. He arrived minutes later at 708 Rue Provénce, and walked right up to the second floor. Colette met him at the door. "Oh, Monsieur Dawson! You are here just in time. Monsieur Fournier is here."
"Who?" Jack asked, realizing the answer a second later.
The dark man now had an identity.
"Where's Monique?"
"We put her in the tub," Colette said, "and we are entertaining him."
*****
When Jack entered the room, his eyes met with Fournier's once again. "I've come to see Monique," Jack said. "Where is she?"
"If you please," said Marguerite, "she is in the bathtub and will be ready for you shortly."
"Monique!" Fournier yelled. Then, looking at Jack, he said in French, "What does this urchin think he is doing? Monique is mine!"
"I beg your pardon, Monsieur Fournier," Marguerite responded, "but Monsieur Dawson has paid in advance, and will be requiring the company of Monique for the balance of the evening. Would you care to go to one of us instead?"
Fournier stood up and surveyed the room. "No! I want Monique. If not tonight, I shall return tomorrow. Here," he said, opening his billfold. "Now I have paid in advance."
"If you please, Monsieur," Marguerite said, handing back the money. "Monsieur Dawson has traveled here from America and has paid in advance for the week for Monique's company. Please keep your money. We know you are an honest man."
Disgruntled, Fournier walked out, only stopping briefly to say, "Then in one week I shall return...and then I shall have Monique, yes?"
"But of course, Monsieur," Marguerite said. "In one week."
Monique emerged from the tub and wrapped a threadbare towel around herself. Jack breathed a sigh of relief and said, "That was easier than I thought it would be," and began gathering his things.
"Surely you don't intend to leave, Monsieur Dawson," Monique said.
"I think we've managed to ward him off, for a week at least. You don't need me anymore."
"If you please," said Colette. "What shall we do if he sees you leaving? He will surely return to have his way."
"And," added Monique, clutching Jack's wrist. "I believe you promised to draw my portrait when we last met."
"That I did," Jack said, noticing her hands once again. "I take it you actually want me to?"
"Very much," Monique said, looking deeply into his eyes.
"All right, then," Jack said. "What sort of picture would you like?"
"Well," said Monique, dropping the towel. "We can start over here." She hobbled over to her bed and lay down, draping a blanket over herself up to her hips.
Jack realized that she was trying to hide the fact that she was missing a leg. "You know, I can draw it any way you want, but I prefer a more real approach. Trust me, I have more than enough beauty to work with."
Monique blushed. A girl in her profession wasn't used to being lavished with compliments. She lay there while Jack drew. First a portrait just of her torso up, then a picture of those luminous hands by themselves. He stared intently at her hands for a long moment and thought about how much they pointed to her heart. How the shame of the person she had become still could not mask the essence of the true beauty that was kept locked inside her, and the innocence she longed to reclaim. Jack began picturing her as a little girl, running though fields, climbing trees, and laughing. Those hands told stories of a past that Monique longed to recapture, and Jack somehow was telling that tale in his drawing.
He blew the latent bits of charcoal from the paper and handed it to Monique for her approval. "If only I were that beautiful..." She sighed.
"Well, that's you in the picture," Jack said, in a matter-of-fact sort of way, "so I guess you are."
The other women were eager to see themselves through Jack's eyes, and they all asked him to draw their portraits. He would eventually oblige them, but was way past midnight and Jack could feel the weight of his own eyelids. He ventured out into the street and back to the loft. Monique was safe for one more night.
*****
The following morning, not to be outdone again, Robért came up to the loft and shook Jack awake. "Jack! Jack, wake up! There is a man downstairs looking for you. He says he knows you."
A chill ran up Jack's spine.
"I don't think he speaks English, so I must translate," said Robért. He turned away while Jack sprung up from his bed, and mumbled to himself as he descended the stairs. "What did I say? I say is no good getting involved in the dealings of whores...I say leave them alone...Mon Dieu..."
Fournier sat at an empty table. He smiled at Jack like a politician trying to sell his platform to the voter as Jack descended the stairs from his loft.
"Ask him how he knew where to find me," Jack said. Robért translated.
"I followed you when you left the house," Fournier said. "I know you were not with Monique last night. I have come to make you a deal."
"I'm listening," Jack said.
"I am willing to pay. What do you want? Twenty? Fifty?"
"I'm not interested in your money," Jack said, as Robért reluctantly translated. "I'm interested in you leaving Monique alone."
"You don't get it, do you?" Fournier said, remaining calm and collected. "No matter what you do, no matter how many pictures you draw, sooner or later I will have her again. So why don't you take the money, Dawson, and walk away?"
Jack sat there and looked stone-faced into Fournier's eyes, yet right behind that cold exterior he was screaming, almost paralyzed with fear. All that drove him in that moment was the picture of those beautiful, unspoiled hands and the story of an innocence longing to be rediscovered. If he could help Monique find that place in her own heart, then he might find the time to be afraid of someone like Fournier. "As you were told, I have paid for her for the week," Jack said, as he watched Robért begin to sweat. "After that, we'll just have to see what happens."
"Stubborn kid," Fournier said. "You won't hold me off forever." He got up, put on his hat, and walked out.
"Now you have really done it, Jack," Robért said. "You've made him upset. Maybe next time he comes here he won't be alone, eh?"
"I wouldn't worry too much," Jack said, amazing Robért with his overall cavalier attitude. "If he really wanted to, he could've squashed me like a bug."
Robért knew it was true, but was still notably concerned, what with a wife nine months pregnant and on bed rest only steps away from the whole exchange that had just taken place. He had pictures running through his head of six large men like Fournier showing up tomorrow to persuade Jack further to back off. Still, he knew that Jack would meet this struggle undaunted and without anyone's approval. For Jack, the days of meeting anyone else's approval had ended when he last touched the Welcome to Chippewa Falls sign and kept walking out of town at age fifteen. As could be expected, Jack returned to 708 Rue Provénce later that night, drawing supplies in hand.
It was a slow night for business, so the ladies took turns having their portraits drawn. All of them, upon looking at their drawings, offered Jack a sort of non-conventional payment for the impressive work he had done, but Jack had at that time only one true love--his art. It was all the pleasure and satisfaction he needed. Colette was particularly fond of her portrait--a simple nude portrait of her in front of a horizontal barre, gazing off contemplatively. Marguerite opted for a more seductive pose--lying prone on a couch, a cigarette dangling from her lips. The others were less selective, and simply struck various poses which they found difficult to hold for the duration of the drawing. Jack often came to the edge of his patience as the girls laughed and chuckled giddily, making it difficult for him to really find the right lines and curves. After drawing all of the other four in various poses, he retreated to the back bedroom for his nightly portrait of Monique.
Only three customers came and went that night, but the women didn't mind. They were too enthralled by the company of the dashing young American who had captured both their images and their hearts.
Jack said his good nights and returned to the café. As was her Friday night ritual, the woman known only as Madame Bijoux sat at the end of the bar. Robért was notably tired, yet was always up for a conversation with the good Madame. She had great stories to tell of whirlwind romance and such. No one knew how much of it was true, but what did it matter? Jack always thought that it was better to have lived life on a grand scale in one's mind than to have remained focused on the grim facts of that same life. And from the looks of her, Madame Bijoux had had a hard life. Her stories were all she had to hold on to. Robért knew this, too, and would always entertain the good Madame for as long as she wished. Jack stood up with them both for over an hour before Madame looked up and said her good nights, commenting as she left about how Maurice still had not returned for her.
*****
The next several nights all belonged to Monique. Jack drew dozens of pictures of her; so many, in fact, that by the last night he had run out of paper and supplies. He gathered up the few francs he had--besides everything else, Robért had insisted upon paying him a salary for the work he was doing--and ventured into the big city to replenish his stock. After a long day of strolling the streets of Paris, Jack was tired. Going a bit out of his way, he made certain to plot a route down Rue Provénce. The lights were on upstairs, as usual, but it was strangely quiet. As he rounded the corner at the top of the stairs, he noticed a familiar black hat on the post outside the apartment. Fournier did not waste a moment. He could hear Marguerite arguing with him inside. Taking a long, deep breath, Jack entered the apartment.
"See?" Marguerite said, gesturing at Jack. "He is here. You can take it up with him."
Fournier looked Jack hard in the eye. He gave Jack a start by saying, in perfect English, "Your week is up. Now, she is mine again."
"I don't think so," Jack said. "I've already paid for another week." Fournier's feigned grasp of English became evident as he looked at Jack with an expression of confusion. Marguerite translated. Confusion turned quickly to fury.
"Colette!" Jack said. "Bring me a bottle. I wish to share a drink with my friend, Monsieur Fournier."
A bit startled, Colette did as he asked and quickly produced a large jug. Marguerite translated for Jack. "I have decided to take you up on your offer. Fifty and she's yours. I walk away, no questions asked."
"Then it is settled." Fournier reached into his pocket and handed Jack fifty francs.
Marguerite was shocked, yet she managed to play along. "Good," Jack said. "Now, we drink to our deal, one businessman to another." Jack took a long tug from the wine jug and offered it to Fournier. The gruff yet well-dressed man took the bottle and proceeded to gulp from it greedily. This wasn't his first drink of the night, either...judging from the smell about him. He handed the bottle back to Jack, and Jack took another long tug...or so it seemed. He pursed his lips over the mouth of the bottle, not really taking any in. For the better part of an hour, they passed the bottle back and forth. Fournier kept drinking, and Jack kept giving him more. By the time the bottle was empty, Fournier had forgotten why he had been there in the first place. He got up, gave Jack a healthy pat on the back--knocking the wind out of him in the process--reached for his coat...
...and fell flat on his face, passed out cold.
It took all six of them to carry him out into the alley. Colette managed to flag down an Inspector who, after sending for some much needed assistance, carried Fournier off and put him in jail for public drunkenness. The time he spent in that cell was enough for the women to get out and relocate to a vacant apartment miles from 708 Rue Provénce. They all laughed when they thought of the look on Fournier's face when he next stormed into that vacant apartment. From that point on, he never bothered Monique or any of the other women in that house ever again. Jack said good-bye to them for what would be the last time, and asked if he might keep a few of the drawings he had done of them. They each gave him a picture of themselves, kissed him on the cheek, and thanked him for all he had done. From that day on, Monique never prostituted herself to another man. She found honest work in a textile mill, where she met her husband. The subtle lines of charcoal on those plain sheets of paper had shown her her true worth.
Several weeks later, Jack took a long stroll though the city for the last time. After being coaxed into staying one last night, Jack said good-bye to his friend Robért, his beautiful wife. and their new daughter, Cheríe.
"Do you know where you're headed?" Robért asked.
"Oh, I dunno," Jack said. "I hear Italy is nice this time of year."
The End.
