?I am Rimbald. Pietr Rimbald. What is it you seek, my dear?? he said, and he took her hand, bending to kiss it with aplomb. She returned his kiss with a small curtsy, and he turned, leading her away from the men and women who were now walking away and laughing amongst themselves.
?I could not but help noticing you at our performance,? he said, smiling gently, his teeth showing, a wide gap between the top front ones, but otherwise, flawlessly displayed in a marketable arena; a Hollywood smile. He had an accent, if not quite distinguishable, which disarmed her, and she nodded politely.
?What is your name?? he asked.
?I am Francis Delaney,? she answered.
?Welcome to Boulogne,? he said. They had stopped walking and were now standing underneath the spreading branches of an hoary oak. Its roots were rapturously entangled with an old wall entrance, engaged in a millennial struggle for supremacy over the ground and its manmade interloper. Stretching along the length of the street similar trees grew, ancient and dominant. Inside the shadow of this grandfather, Francis felt a cold chill, and held herself to rein in the warmth.
?Am I correct in thinking you are unfamiliar with these grounds?? Pietr asked. ?The only reason I ask is because I too am a newcomer. There are only a handful of men and women here who can speak? parare con una variet? di lingue, and I am always thankful for the opportunity to express myself in a more preferred tongue. You, my dear, seem frightfully at odds with your surroundings, if you don?t mind me saying so. Where are you from??
?I lived in Chicago. I am having some trouble locating my friend, who I thought perhaps was in your theatre. He was the man in front, attempting to keep order, though why he would be there, I can?t imagine.? Francis sighed and lowered her head. She felt an order of frustration and fatigue creep across her neck and on the undersides of her feet, and the urge to sit washed over her.
Pietr seemed to have a preternatural recognition of her needs, for he said, ?You are tired, and I have not even offered to help you. Please forgive me.? He bowed, and offered his hand to her. She accepted it with a tired smile, and together they slowly ambled up the empty street.
As they walked, Pietr?s easy manner and sensibility induced Francis to talk. She had some concern that her vociferousness and woodenness would distract him and place him ill-at-ease, but he responded graciously, politely asking her questions and laughing at the appropriate moments, seeming to be genuinely interested in her oratory. By the time they had traversed the length of Rue de Cygne and approached the entrance to the Old Town, she had recounted her most recent activities, from their arrival in Boulogne in November. She held in reserve, however, her discovery of the body of the woman in the bay, not fully knowing why.
?One thing you have not mentioned?why is your friend missing? And where are your other two friends?? Pietr asked, wiping his hand across his brow as if trying to divine her thoughts before their utterance.
Francis thought for a moment, giving herself a chance to ask herself the same question. Why was Stuart missing? Besides the awful scene that had unfortunately befallen all of them at the entrance to the city, what power had consumed her and commanded her to roam this foreign base in search of a man who, more than any of them, could blend into the natural environment and stay hidden if he so desired? Indeed, now that she considered it, the entire exercise would have been futile even had she known the language or the people. Nevertheless, she knew she would have gone in search of Stuart even knowing at the outset its uselessness.
Where Charles and Lindsay were at this point, she could not say, and only hoped they had sufficiently recovered and were now on their own search of sorts.
?Stuart had a?a bit of a disagreement with Lindsay when we arrived here, and he stormed off. Charles sent me after him to make sure he didn?t get too far, while he stayed behind to talk with Lin. I guess Stuart?s the kind of man who doesn?t want to tarry when he feels he?s been slighted. He does have a bit of a temper.? Francis looked at Pietr, unsure of his response.
For his part, Pietr simply laughed, saying, ?It is a rare man that chains himself to civility at all times. A little boiled water makes a great tea, yes?? Francis agreed this was true.
They turned into an enclosed alley that led up around the outer wall of the Old Town. The old walls were covered in stringy vines, early spring leaves just beginning to sprout; in the summer they promised to hurl themselves across and over the alley in a vibrant show of organic prowess and architectural growth. Now, however, the skeletal strands branched in vertebral formations, struggling to receive what heat and light they could in the short, early spring days. The sun rose, while they climbed up to the Notre Dame Cathedral, and Francis began to feel, for the first time since Stuart?s disappearance, delighted in Boulogne.