The two of them walked down the stone embankment of the Seine.
The river was still a pot of tomato hash, though the water level had receded a bit, revealing moss-covered stone steps along the shore.
Based on police intelligence, they had narrowed their search to an old newspaper stall beneath the bridge at Place Saint-Michel.
The location was odd, stuck right in a wind tunnel. Several tarps flapped loudly in the breeze, looking like funeral banners.
The owner was a scrawny old man wrapped in a tattered military overcoat of an indiscernible color. A black, leather eye patch that looked like a dark circle covered his left eye. He was waving a feather duster, chasing away two pigeons that were trying to defecate on the stacks of books.
“Shoo! Shoo! I can’t even drive them away. They have the same temperament as those cops!”
The old man grumbled, his spit flying everywhere.
As he saw Cicero and Vivian approaching, the old man scanned them from head to toe. His gaze lingered particularly on the police investigation order peeking out of Vivian’s trench coat pocket.
“We’re out of stock! Closed up!”
The old man slammed his feather duster onto the table, kicking up a cloud of dust.
“The sun hasn’t even set yet,” Vivian blinked, pointing at the stacks of picture books and old novels. “Aren’t you still open?”
“I’m in a bad mood today, so I’m not doing business,” the old man snorted, his single eye fixed on Vivian’s pocket. “The paper here is clean. I’m afraid it’ll get your hands dirty.”
‘This old man is interesting.’
Vivian wanted to argue, but Cicero reached out and stopped her.
“Don’t be so angry, boss.”
Cicero took a step forward, his cane tapping on the muddy ground.
“We’re looking for an old one.”
The old man squinted at him without speaking, a pipe clenched in his hand.
“How old?”
“May 28,” Cicero said calmly.
That was the day the “Bloody Week” had ended.
The old man’s movements faltered. He picked up his feather duster again, pretending to nonchalantly sweep a pile of expired fashion magazines.
“The newspapers from that day burned long ago. Even the ashes were scattered by the wind.”
“The newspapers burned, but the typesetters are still around.”
Cicero suddenly switched languages.
It was a very authentic Belleville slang, with slurred pronunciation.
“I want to buy the layout called ‘Cherry Red’.”
*Clang.*
The feather duster fell from the old man’s hand.
Even the sound of the wind around them seemed to dim.
“… That slang. I haven’t heard it in twenty years.”
The old man leaned over to pick up the duster. He didn’t try to drive them away anymore. Instead, he reached under a pile of yellowed books and tremblingly pulled out a flat tin flask. He unscrewed the cap, took a large gulp, and handed it to Cicero.
Cicero didn’t show any disdain; he took a large swig as well and wiped his mouth without changing his expression.
“That’s more like it.” The old man grinned, revealing a row of incomplete, yellowed teeth. “You know the rules.”
“Speak up then… what do you strange fellows want to know?”
“The river.” Cicero pointed to the churning Seine nearby. “And those guys in old uniforms who’ve lost their way.”
The old man sighed.
He tucked the flask back into his coat, turned around, and pointed at an inconspicuous whirlpool in the center of the river.
The current was very swift there, occasionally sucking in a few dead branches that vanished in an instant.
“See that?”
The old man lowered his voice, sounding mysterious and jittery.
“Lately, every night as soon as the clock tower strikes 2:00 AM, you can hear something down there.”
“What kind of noise? Fish snoring?” Vivian leaned in, her curiosity taking over once again.
“It’s singing.”
“It’s a woman’s voice… it sounds so tragic, yet so beautiful. She’s singing ‘The Time of Cherries’.”
Vivian froze for a moment.
*The Time of Cherries*.
Even a “Parisian” who had only arrived halfway through her life knew that song. It was the elegy for that short-lived regime, the wild flowers on the graves of all idealists.
“It makes me want to sing along with her…” The old man’s eyes went blank, as if he were lost in some memory. “That tune is exactly how my old flame used to sing it…”
“But I’m warning you, don’t go there.”
The old man suddenly snapped out of it and waved his hand dismissively.
“That place is cursed. Last night, a hobo tried to scavenge some scrap metal to sell, but as soon as his boat rowed over, he was gone.”
Vivian didn’t listen to the old man’s warning.
She was the type of person who felt the need to stick her paw out and try anything she was told not to do.
She walked to the railing and leaned most of her body over, straining her ears to listen to the center of the river.
“I think… I really do hear something?”
Vivian frowned. The sound was very faint, mixed with the sound of the waves, intermittent like someone crying or laughing.
Before she knew it, her entire body was practically hanging over the railing.
The stone steps beneath her feet were slippery, covered in moss and the silt left behind by the receding floodwaters.
*Whoosh — !*
Vivian’s foot slipped, and her center of gravity shifted. She was about to plunge headfirst into that pot of red soup, becoming an extra ingredient for the people of Paris.
“Holy shit!”
An incredibly unladylike expletive escaped her lips.
In a flash, Vivian instinctively reached out and grabbed something.
Her hand latched onto the cast-iron railing.
*Creak — !*
The piercing sound of twisting metal rang out clearly in the wind.
The solid iron railing, as thick as a wrist, felt like a hot noodle in her delicate white hand. It was instantly crushed flat, leaving clear fingerprints behind. Because she gripped it so tightly, the iron bar bent into a strange “U” shape.
Using that force, Vivian flipped light as a gymnast and landed steadily back on the ground.
“Whew… scared the life out of me.”
Vivian patted her chest, still shaken.
When she looked up, she saw the old man standing there with his mouth agape. His single eye looked like it was about to pop out as his gaze slowly moved from Vivian’s slender wrist to the mangled railing.
“This… this railing…” The old man pointed at the twisted metal, stuttering.
“Dilapidated!”
Cicero stepped over in one stride, his wide trench coat fluttering to block the old man’s view.
“Look at this municipal engineering. It’s total garbage!” Cicero condemned it with a pained expression. “It’s rusted to this state and they still haven’t replaced it! It’s practically a crime against the taxpayers!”
“Huh? Is… is that so?” The old man tilted his head suspiciously, trying to get a look. “That iron looked pretty sturdy to me…”
Just as the old man was still debating whether the railing was made of iron or clay.
Suddenly.
A clear chant drifted from the thick mist on the opposite bank.
It was grand and solemn, like a giant boulder pressing down from the clouds.
“Hallelujah…”
It was a church hymn.
The dark red river water, which had been churning incessantly, seemed to meet a hot knife through butter the moment the singing began. It parted neatly to both sides.
A waterless path sliced through the river’s surface, revealing a riverbed filled with silt and white bones.
Cicero stopped his nonsense.
He looked at the parted waterway, and the careless smile on his face vanished bit by bit.
He sighed, pulled a cigarette case from his pocket, and lit one.
“Trouble’s here.”
Cicero exhaled a cloud of smoke, staring at the figure on the water with a tone of helpless familiarity.