Hunting for Silence by Robert Thier

City of Love, Bacon, and Eggs

I waited in the candlelit entrance hall, nearly jumping with excitement. I was going on a rendezvous with Mr Rikkard Ambrose! In Paris! And also in trousers. I would have put on a dress, but I had been expecting to march into mortal danger when coming here, and so hadn’t even bothered to pack one. Maybe I would remedy that at some point in the future, but for now…

I grinned at the sound of footsteps behind me and turned to face Mr Rikkard Ambrose marching towards me.

‘Good evening, Sir. Ready for your rendezvous?’

He gave me a cool look. ‘This isn’t a rendezvous, Mr Linton. This is a business matter.’

‘Of course, Sir. Certainly.’ I lifted the wicker basket I’d brought with me. ‘I brought a picnic, just as you asked.’

‘Marching rations, Mr Linton. Those are marching rations.’

‘Of course, Sir. Just as you say, Sir.’

I pushed open the door, and together we stepped out into the mild Paris evening. In passing, I smiled and nodded at the doorman, who was halfway into nodding back—when suddenly, his eyes widened with recognition, he gave a squeak and jumped backwards to duck behind the nearest column.

Mr Ambrose looked from me to the doorman and back again. One eyebrow lifted about a quarter of a millimetre. I acted as if I didn’t notice and, whistling, strolled off into Paris.

We made our first stop at a beautiful, wrought-iron bridge spanning the Seine. For several minutes, we just stood there, gazing over the water glittering in the last light of the sinking sun, and taking in the fact that we were both here, side by side, in this beautiful place. Finally, the little ifrit in me reared its head and asked:

‘So…what are we here to inspect?’ One corner of my mouth lifted. ‘What real estate do you want to buy?’

Mr Ambrose’s little finger twitched. Quickly, he glanced around from right to left, and then said, as if that should be evident to anyone and he was surprised I’d asked, ‘This bridge, of course.’

‘You want to buy the…what is it called?’ Doubtfully, I glanced at the massive iron construction connecting two public roads. Couples were strolling up and down everywhere, holding hands, enjoying the fresh evening air.

‘The Pont des Arts.’

‘Pardon my saying so…but won’t the city of Paris object to your buying a public bridge?’

In answer, he pulled a measuring tape out of his pocket and started examining the bridge, mumbling and taking notes in a little notebook. I looked on with a little smile and let him be. Firstly, because it was adorable how hard he was trying to be businesslike, and secondly, because there was a tiny chance that he was actually planning to buy up all of Paris’ public bridges. This was Mr Rikkard Ambrose were talking about, after all.

‘Where next?’ I enquired when he put his measuring tape away.

Mr Ambrose pointed across the bridge, to where an imposing two-wing palace with a lavish park rose high above the Seine.

‘There.’

‘Err…Mr Ambrose?’

‘Yes?’

‘Pardon me if I’m mistaken, but isn’t that the Louvre?’

‘Yes.’

I blinked. ‘The Louvre is part of your real estate inspection tour.’

‘Indeed.’

‘Just so I get this right – you want to buy the Louvre.’

‘I am not in the habit of repeating myself, Mr Linton. The building in question is prime real estate near the waterfront that wastes a lot of space — space that could be used as building sites — on greenery and open spaces.’ Cocking his head, he gave the museum a critical look. ‘Also, I have heard that for some reason, a number of eccentric people consider the contents of the building to also be of considerable value.’

Covering my eyes, I gave a dismissive wave. ‘Forget I asked.’

‘Well, what are you waiting for, Miss Linton? Let’s go.’

He marched off towards the Louvre, and I followed. I had to say, it was quite an interesting visit. It was probably the first time that the museum’s guides and curators had been asked questions like ‘How thick is the wall behind that ugly painting there?’ and ‘How much rent does an average flat bring in this quarter of the city’ or ‘Excuse me, is that a water pipe behind that chunky statue? How much would it cost to get running water in this whole place if you partitioned the rooms?’

Of course, most of the conversations happened in French, so I wasn’t really sure what was said most of the time, but I could deduce pretty much everything from the way the curators’ faces turned first white, then red, and maybe even a little bit blue in a fit of enraged patriotism. One of these artistic gentlemen finally tried to have Mr Ambrose removed from the building after he started to check the wall behind the Mona Lisa for structural soundness. I, meanwhile, leaned against a column next to an ancient Greek fellow in a marble bedsheet, watching the whole scene with relish. This was exactly what I needed to relax.

‘And?’ I asked innocently when Mr Ambrose came over, his lips tight and his hand clenched around his measuring tape. ‘How is the wall behind dear Lisa?’

‘Mr Linton?’

‘Yes, Sir?’

‘Be silent!’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Follow me.’

‘Right away, Sir. Bye!’ Waving to my Greek friend and to the curator who was still mumbling about mad Englishmen, I hurried after Mr Ambrose.

Our next stops were the Champs-Élysées and the Arc de Triomphe. By the time we had switched directions and were heading towards the Cathedral of Notre Dame, Mr Ambrose had pretty much given up the pretence of reviewing possible real estate for purchase and development—which was good, because I don’t think the Catholic Church would have been happy. I heard the Pope can be difficult about things like levelling cathedrals to build apartment buildings. We climbed all the way up to the top (after Mr Ambrose stared at a priest who said we couldn’t, and the little man hurried off to pray) and stood at the stone railing, looking over the city of Paris in the setting sun.

For the first time in a long while, I was away from all work, from all noise, breathing in clear air. It made me feel free. I gave a sigh.

‘I could stay up here forever. Too bad I don’t have a hump on my back.’

Mr Ambrose stared fixedly ahead into the sunset. Or…did his eyes flicker over to me for just a millisecond?

‘I cannot say I feel similar regret over that particular lack, Mr Linton.’

Mr?

I jabbed his ribs.

‘Oh, come on! We’re at the top of a church, hundreds of yards away from anyone, in a city where the people don’t speak English! Even if I’m wearing trousers, I think you could call me Lillian without risking a scandal, don’t you?’

‘No.’ Still, he would not look at me. ‘I can’t. Because if I were to call you Lillian, if I’d let myself think and feel what you really are to me, I would do something that would cause a scandal. Especially in a church.’

‘Oh.’ I felt heat rush to my cheeks. Thank God it was fast getting dark. ‘Mr Ambrose, I…’

Suddenly, he whirled to face me, and, in the last light of the setting sun, his usually cold eyes seemed to gleam with fire.

‘You haven’t given me an answer yet.’

I didn’t even pretend not to know what he was talking about. His question still echoed in my mind, haunting me at every opportunity.

So, have you changed your mind? Will you be my wife?

I swallowed.

‘You know I didn’t say no the first time because of you, don’t you?’ Whose voice was this timid, whisper? Who was speaking? Surely not I. I was a strong and independent woman, and I bloody well sounded like one!

Silence was the only answer I got.

Quickly, I turned towards him. ‘You do, don’t you?’

More silence. Cold. Hard. Icy. Silence. Grabbing his beautiful face in both hands I stood up on tiptoe to press my forehead pressed against his. Our breaths mingled in the cool evening air. Revelling in the feeling, I closed my eyes.

‘It’s not because of you,’ I whispered. ‘I love you. But…those vows…I…I…can’t…’

I can’t swear to obey a man. Not even you. And you won’t take me unless I do.

Opening my eyes, I gazed up at him, hoping he would read in my face what I couldn’t put into words right then.

His left little finger twitched.

‘Maybe we could come to some kind of…compromise.’

Pardon?

Screech!Pull the brakes. Halt the universe for a moment. Had I just heard correctly? Had Mr Rikkard Ambrose, Mr I’ll-grind-you-into-the-dust-before-I-shift-an-inch-from-my-conditions Ambrose just offered to compromise?

‘Did I fall off the cathedral, break my neck and go to heaven?’ I enquired.

To judge by the look on his face, he didn’t appreciate my attempt at humour. His eyes narrowed infinitesimally. ‘Not that I’m aware of, Mr Linton. However, that can be arranged.’

‘Ah. I must be dreaming, then.’ Dropping all humour, all defences, everything that stood between the two of us, I slid my arms around him and pulled him close.

A compromise. A compromise! What does it that mean?

Should I dare hope it meant he wanted me more than he wanted to own me?

He hesitated for a moment—then roughly pulled me against him and held me so tight I almost couldn’t breathe. I didn’t complain.

‘And what a dream it is,’ he whispered. ‘What a dream.’

‘In a dream, we could be together forever.’ My grip on him tightened even more, as if I never wanted to let go. ‘Just imagine it…no society, no judgements, no laws, no stupid vows of obedience…just the two of us, able to do whatever the heck we want.’

His grip tightened, too. Now I really couldn’t breathe—but for the moment, I didn’t care. I’d always thought about starting a career as a Caribbean pearl diver. Didn’t they have to hold their breaths for over eight minutes?

‘Adequate.’

‘So…how do we make this dream reality?’

Loosening his grip, he took my chin in one hand and made me look up at him.

‘I’m master of my fate,’ he told me, and his cold, hard face had never looked as beautiful as in that moment. ‘Making dreams reality is what I do.’

‘I thought that was making massive amounts of money.’

He raised one eyebrow about half a millimetre. ‘As I said—making dreams reality is what I do.’

I narrowed my eyes. Suddenly, a very important question occurred to me. A question which, all things considered, I probably should have asked before now. ‘Which is more important to you—me or your money?’

He considered the matter for a moment. And another moment. And another.

Finally…

‘Is that a trick question?’

I stomped on his foot.

‘You…you…bloody son of a bachelor!’

‘Language, Miss Linton. Language.’

‘Just shut up and hold me.’

He did. And so we stood there, high above Paris, watching the sun set, safe in each other’s arms. And deep, deep inside, I didn’t need to hear the answer to my question, because I already knew with a hundred percent certainty which of the two was most important to Rikkard Ambrose.

Well…ninety-nine percent. But that was all right.

Soon, the sun had disappeared behind the horizon, and the cool blanket of night spread across Paris. Still—neither of us felt like returning home already and breaking the spell of the evening. So we went to the Luxembourg Gardens[23] and settled down in a quiet corner of the magnificent park. Spreading out a chequered blanket, we unpacked our dinner and tucked in. For entertainment, we had a little disagreement.

‘No,’ Mr Ambrose said, his face immovable, ‘it is not.’

‘Oh, come on!’ I jabbed my elbow into his ribs, nearly giving it a bruise. ‘How can you say that?’

‘Quite simply. It. Is. Not.’

‘Mr Ambrose—we are in the middle of a beautiful park, which by the way we have nearly all to ourselves at this late hour—sitting on a chequered blanket, eating sandwiches and watching the stars glitter in the night sky. How does this not qualify as a romantic picnic?’

‘Easy. It is merely a simplified work dinner. It relieves one of the need to expend money on useless items such as chairs, tables, knives, forks and plates. I am actually considering implementing a similar eating environment at my various offices and factories.’

‘I’m sure your staff will be thrilled.’

In answer, Mr Ambrose pulled out a baguette and started cutting it into neat, equal slices. Somewhere in the distance, a nightingale started to sing. Other than that, there were no sounds audible here, deep in the park, shielded by the trees and the night.

We’re totally alone.

As if sensing my thoughts, Mr Ambrose glanced up. He didn’t stop his preparations for his simplified work dinner, his hands continuing to move with the effortless precision of someone who’d had to make his own meals many a time. His eyes bored into me.

We’re even more alone than we were on top of Notre Dame. Nobody else is in the park at this hour. All the fine people of Paris are probably preparing to go to the opera, looking forward to hearing sweet songs about love.

The nightingale sang again, this time closer. Mr Ambrose put the knife aside and leant towards me.

I don’t think I’m going to need to go to the opera.

‘Miss Linton?’

‘Yes?’ I breathed.

‘Hand me the bacon.’

I blinked. ‘Pardon?’

‘The bacon. To put on the baguette. And the bowl of scrambled eggs.’

What the…? Was he serious? He wanted to eat? And, even more disturbing…

‘You’re out on a romantic midnight picnic in the middle of Paris, and you brought eggs and bacon?’

‘This is not a picnic. And certainly I did.’

I reached into the basket and pulled out the bowls with the eggs and bacon. For a moment, I considered smashing them over his head—but then concluded that would probably hurt the bowl more than him.

Doesn’t he know? Doesn’t he feel what’s happening between us?

Before I could fling the questions or the bowls in his face, he reached out to take them. And when his fingers touched mine, I realized: he did know. He did feel. He was just very good at hiding underneath a hard shell of ice.

Heat surged between us as our fingers brushed against each other. His hand lingered. One moment. And another. And another.

‘Let go of the bowls, Miss Linton.’

‘You let go of my fingers.’

He didn’t.

I let go of the bowls.

He still didn’t.

A branch cracked nearby, and we started apart, relaxing only when the shadowy form of a bunny raced across the lawn. If someone saw two gentlemen in tailcoats having a romantic picnic in the moonlight, probably not even the liberal-minded Parisians would be willing to look the other way. Still, I couldn’t seem to make myself care. It felt as we were in our own little world, as if the night around us was protecting us and our special moment.

Opening the bowls, Mr Ambrose started to prepare sandwiches. I didn’t really feel hungry anymore. Not for food. But when he lifted one tasty morsel into the air and held it out towards me, that didn’t keep my mouth from watering.

His eyes met mine.

‘Come here!’ he ordered.

I shook my head. ‘No. You come here.’

A muscle in his jaw twitched. But…it wasn’t the usual kind of twitch. ‘Maybe we could meet in the middle?’

A smile tugged at the corners of my lips. ‘You mean…like a compromise?’

‘Yes,’ he said, leaning forward. ‘Exactly like that.’

I leant forward, too, and by the time we reached each other, food was long forgotten. Our lips met and we clung to each other, in the silence and the dark, not needing anything or anyone except each other. Deep inside me, a beautiful, inescapable knowledge settled.

This is the beginning. The beginning of us.