Author: Timothee de Fombelle
Category: Childrens
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The stand-off reached new heights in the second year, when Pearl made the decision to close for three days a week: from now on, the shop would only be open from Tuesday to Friday, eight o’clock to eight o’clock.
The local shopkeepers took this as an affront. They claimed that it had all gone to Pearl’s head, that he was showing contempt for his customers, and that he was acting like some kind of film star: haughty, soft in the head, spoilt, smug, selfish, aloof, lazy… No one dared admit that when Maison Pearl was closed, the neighbourhood became a wasteland, and that this was the sole reason for their disdain. And so the questions returned: what did he do with all his money? Where did he go when he shut up shop? Did he have girlfriends dotted around the country? Had he bought himself a villa somewhere? The poultry seller on Rue Dupuis told everyone that Pearl was mean and old before his time, and that he was thinking of retirement before he’d even turned thirty. He said he saw Pearl setting off every Friday evening with his silly old hat and suitcase.
“If it were my son, I’d feel ashamed,” he liked to say, shaking his head. He’d then proceed to look proudly at his own son, who was scrawny as a chicken claw and could barely pluck a bird – while the handsome Pearl did the work of ten men, with a queue of customers stretching all the way back to the square.
“Think of his poor parents!” the poultry seller said. But somewhere up in the confectioners’ paradise, Jacques and Esther Pearl must have been bursting with pride.
“You can see it in his eyes,” he continued. “I’m telling you: he’s mean and old before his time.”
When Joshua Pearl went past the poultry seller’s with his small suitcase every Friday, he was in fact heading to Gare de l’Est, Gare du Nord or the airport at Le Bourget. He left in the night for Rotterdam or Prague, or else to take the Orient Express and hop out before the Turkish border. He boarded ships at Cherbourg to sail to remote ports in Ireland. He negotiated the canals of Amsterdam in the pitch black, and had meetings at the docks in Gdansk or among the stalls in the market town of Paradas, Andalusia.
If Joshua Pearl chose not to raise the iron shutters outside his shop, it was because he was slipping behind the iron curtain that divided Europe in those days. He went on to defy the wall in Berlin and sneak his suitcases through the barbed-wire fences lining the borders. And if he wasn’t up to his elbows in marshmallows at 5 a.m. on a Tuesday, it wasn’t because he was watering his chrysanthemums at some villa on the banks of the Marne, but because he’d made the journey to Kharkiv or Naples; or because a charlatan was trying to lose him in the streets of Casablanca; or because he was trapped in a snowstorm; or some fraudulent street vendor was making a play for his gold.
In reality, this eligible young bachelor – accused of being old before his time, despite his thirty years, and labelled as avaricious, narrow-minded, idle – sacrificed his days and nights and everything he had earned, because he was consumed with a mad love for a fairy. He never shied away from danger, leaving untold fortunes in the hands of smugglers in order to build up his collection: a more unlikely and ethereal treasure trove of objects than any crazy collector had ever gathered.
As soon as Maison Pearl reopened in the autumn of 1946, Joshua started seeking out the doctor from Alsace who had helped him during his time as a prisoner in the stalag. And it wasn’t just because he wanted proof of good conduct, to counter the allegations that he wasn’t Joshua Pearl – no, he had other plans.
The doctor from the prison camp was very much alive. The two men met in Marseille, where the doctor was about to board a ship for Egypt.
The sun was shining, and they sat on some steps in a small square. Children were playing soldiers all around them.
“I didn’t think you’d survived,” the doctor smiled.
Pearl shrugged. The memory was still painful.
“Our friend Brahim died,” the doctor added, needlessly.
Pearl nodded.
“Kozowski had planned it all along. It never pays to blackmail the devil.”
As they watched the children running in the autumn sunshine, the two men reminisced about the morgue that had been the camp infirmary. Somehow all that horror had existed in the same world as this.
“You’re leaving,” Pearl said, pointing to the doctor’s bag.
“Yes. And I’m never coming back. There’s an archaeological dig in a valley in Egypt, and I’m going to be their doctor. After that I’ll find other tombs to explore, until eventually I reach my own…”
The doctor handed Joshua an envelope.
“Here’s the letter you asked for. I say lots of nice things about you.”
“It’s not for me…”
“I know. Nowadays, they need written proof for everything, even our nightmares.”
Pearl thought of Captain Alexandre’s words as he took the letter: They must have tokens of proof.
“I wanted to ask you something else,” Pearl said.
“Go on.”
“Where’s Kozo?”
The doctor tilted his face towards the sun a little.
“I cured him, I’m sad to say. I cured him,” he admitted, laughing awkwardly. “I promise I didn’t do it on purpose.”
Pearl didn’t flinch.
“Where is he?”
The doctor stopped laughing and looked at Pearl. He could see that the boy wasn’t just out for vengeance.
“Still after that mermaid’s scale?”
Pearl didn’t respond.
“Kozo took it off Brahim. I was there when they brought back the body. I also found out that Kozo had stolen it, before the war, from a Portuguese shoemaker in Cracow.”
“Where’s Kozowski now?”
“It was the Soviets who liberated the camp. Kozo switched sides straight away. He became their friend and was made interpreter to the general staff.”
The doctor got to his feet. It was time for him to leave.
“But don’t give up hope. I’ve already told you: I know about these things. I’ve been chasing them my whole life… And as you can see, I’m still chasing them.”
There was a blast of a ship’s horn, and they shook hands.
“Be careful. Mysteries have a habit of slipping through one’s fingers.”
As he let go of Pearl’s hand, he saw the leather cord around his wrist, and hastily lifted the sleeve to reveal the rolled-up slingshot.
“Where did you find this?” the doctor asked.
“It’s mine. It comes from the place I call home.”
The doctor gazed at the object, as if transfixed by it. Pushing up his glasses, he released Joshua’s hand and looked him in the eye, as though he’d known the truth all along.
Over the children’s screaming, they heard the boat let out another blast.
The doctor nodded knowingly.
“Kozo’s in Moscow,” he said, taking a step backwards, his bag slung over his shoulder.
As he went, a child aimed two fingers at him, like a pistol, and fired. The doctor pretended to die, convulsing on the ground. Then he got to his feet, picked up his glasses and went on his way, casting a final backwards glance at Pearl.
27
THE COLLECTION
Who can say how Joshua Pearl made it to Moscow in January 1947? All that matters is that this expedition served as a blueprint for the many others he would make in the following years: a fleeting visit where nobody suspected a thing. Just as you avoid burning your hand when running it through a flame, so Pearl realized that by disappearing as quickly as he arrived, he could confront even the most the merciless of enemies.
Burglars of the more gifted variety know that a successful operation can’t be a three-step waltz: arrive, steal, leave. There must only be two phases: arrive, leave. The stealing has to happen – as if by magic – somewhere between the two.
And so it was that Bartosz Kozowski found himself dangling from the ceiling of his office in the Kremlin. He hadn’t noticed anyone come in. The mistake he made was to wear a tie as well as the silver cord with the merma
id’s scale. A hand came from behind his shoulder and grabbed his tie, hauling him up to the ceiling light above his desk, where he remained for a few seconds with his feet kicking in the air.
The shoddy light fitting was Kozo’s salvation. He fell, smashing all his teeth on the edge of his desk. Only then did he discover that his mermaid’s scale had disappeared.
Two days later in Paris, Pearl opened the shop five minutes later than usual.
Every time after that (or almost every time) he did his best to refrain from violence or force. After the first expedition, he also made sure that he always settled his debts: the mermaid’s scale didn’t belong to him, therefore he had to pay for it.
So one month later, he went to Cracow, where he had no trouble finding the city’s only Portuguese shoemaker: there weren’t many of them in Poland in those days.
It was snowing in the streets. Before entering the shop, Pearl had taken off one of his shoes and struck the sole against the ice hanging from the gutter, causing the heel to fly off.
The old shoemaker, who spoke a little French, didn’t enquire as to what had brought Pearl to Poland – accustomed as he was to being asked the same question himself.
“Shall I mend it straight away?”
“If you don’t mind. It’s snowing out there, and I don’t have anything else to walk in.”
“Wait for me here.”
The shoemaker slipped his leather apron over his neck and disappeared into the adjacent room, where the sound of hammering started up from his workbench. Pearl slipped behind the counter and began rummaging through compartments that were stuffed with leather, soles and heaps of strange accessories. Kozo’s scale had once belonged to this man, so maybe he possessed other treasures too.
With the sound of filing now audible from the workshop, Pearl stooped to pull out a box from the lowermost shelf. It had been nailed shut, but he managed to prise it half open, thrusting both his hands inside.
“Don’t move.”
Pearl turned round.
“I said don’t move.”
The shoemaker was wielding a shotgun with barrels wide enough for a man’s arm to fit through.
“Hands up.”
Pearl removed his hands from the box. They were black with boot polish. Turning his head slowly, he saw that the old man was shaking.
“What are you looking for?”
Pearl could tell that the shoemaker was ready to fire.
“Did he send you again?” he asked.
“I don’t understand,” Pearl said.
“I told them I don’t have anything else. Your lot have already come here twice.”
“Are you talking about Kozowski’s men?”
The shoemaker was still shaking.
“I punished him,” said Pearl. “Kozowski will never come back.”
“So what are you doing here?”
“I would like to make good his debts.”
This surprising tactic could have triggered a violent reaction.
“Look in my pocket,” said Pearl. “There’s a white package.”
The old man looked out of his depth, as he lowered his weapon.
“Give me the coat,” he said.
The snow had melted on Pearl’s shoulders. Very slowly he shrugged off the heavy coat, which the shoemaker took in one hand, with the shotgun weighing heavily on his other arm. He started searching in the pocket.
“Put your weapon down,” Pearl said. “It’s not loaded.”
“How would you know?”
“It’s a customer’s gun. They brought it in for you to mend the leather strap. Put it down. I want to talk to you.”
Sure enough, only half of the embroidered leather strap that was hanging below the shoemaker’s arm had been re-stitched. Trembling more than ever, he slowly lowered the gun and laid it on the counter.
Pearl watched as the man removed the white Maison Pearl package. He opened it a fraction before rushing to double-bolt the shop’s door. Then he returned to count the notes.
“I’m paying on Kozo’s behalf,” Joshua explained. “I’m the one who rescued the mermaid’s scale he stole from you.”
The old shoemaker wiped his forehead with his sleeve: the bundle of notes wrapped in this paper was roughly equivalent to the value of his shop.
“Where did you find the mermaid’s scale?” asked Pearl, walking over to the shop window to glance down the street.
“The story goes back a long way. A German man wanted to pay for an overcoat and a pair of boots. He’d lost everything in the first war. The mermaid’s scale was all he had left. He ended up wandering across Europe, and drinking heavily.”
“Do you remember his name?”
“No. Later on, a man tried to buy it off me. He was from Lisbon, like me. A coffee merchant. His name was Caldeira. I think he was the one who told Kozowski I had the scale.”
Pearl realized that there was nothing more for him here, and put on his coat.
“What you gave me – it’s too much money,” said the man. “I got the scale thirty years ago for the price of a pair of boots.”
“So why not throw in my repair for free?”
As the man went to fetch the shoe from the workshop, Pearl thought of one more thing.
“You said the German bought a pair of boots and a coat?”
“Yes.”
“He paid for the boots with the mermaid’s scale…”
“Yes.”
“What about the coat?”
The old man smiled. First he helped Pearl put on his shoe, before carefully lacing it for him. Then he stood up and tore off a square of leather that had been stitched onto the front of his shoemaker’s apron, and put it in front of Pearl.
“He bought the coat with this.”
It was a piece of tanned hide with a copper-threaded trim. Pearl paused a moment before picking it up. Instantly he felt the object’s peculiar vibration. The talent that would turn him into such a fearsome relic-hunter was making itself known even now. Nobody could deceive him when it came to identifying tokens of proof from the Kingdoms. This wasn’t so much skill as an intimate memory of things. After all, who can fail to recall the scent of lilac from their childhood, or the feeling of sand sticking to their body when rolling on the beach after swimming?
“Do you know what it is?” the shoemaker asked.
Pearl nodded slowly. It came from an ogre’s seven-league boot, and it was in immaculate condition.
“I’m giving this to you,” said the shoemaker, pulling off his apron solemnly. “You’re an honest man. As for me, I’m going to close down the shop and live out the rest of my days in my homeland.”
Pearl held the piece of leather against him. His collection was beginning to grow.
“Remind me, what was the name of the coffee merchant you mentioned?”
“Caldeira.”
They shook hands, and the shoemaker turned out the lights.
Pearl returned to Paris and opened the shop at eight o’clock on Shrove Tuesday morning. He served no fewer than two hundred customers that day. Forty-eight hours before, he had given away all the money he had earned since opening the shop: he was going to have to work hard to finance this mad quest.
Inside the small suitcase that he’d hidden between the sacks of sugar lay a mermaid’s scale and part of a seven-league boot wrapped in Maison Pearl tissue paper. Together with the slingshot that never left his wrist, these were the first jewels of Joshua Pearl’s collection; the first pebbles marking the way home for Iliån. It was by gathering these tokens of proof that he would undo Taåg’s spell. Gradually, over time, other treasures and other suitcases came to join them.
In Lisbon, Pearl found Vasco Caldeira. The coffee and cocoa dealer had retired ten years earlier and lived in a small house by the sea. Pearl spoke to him of the shoemaker from Cracow, and the old man admitted to having met him, even though Caldeira himself had never been a collector.
“I travelled, and I met a lot of people over the years as I
loaded ship after ship with bags of coffee. But deep down, all I wanted was to be a pirate. So I started seeking out contraband.”
Caldeira went to fetch some paper with a Portuguese Spice Company header.
“You’re young,” he said, sitting down in front of a candle. “What’s your interest in all this? You’d be better off falling in love.”
“Perhaps,” Pearl replied.
In the course of an hour, Caldeira scribbled away on the paper, drawing a map for Joshua Pearl that detailed all manner of information about what he referred to as “contraband”.
He gave the names of merchants and the locations of prime areas, such as souks, ports and bazaars. He spoke of the violence of the trafficking routes and networks; of the rivalries. His nib scratched the paper, tracing arrows and weaving links between the continents. Pearl listened attentively to the details of the operations, the rates and the tricks of the trade.
When Vasco Caldeira had rolled up the sheet of paper and set it alight in the candle flame, he offered a final word of advice.
“Never keep too many of them with you. It always ended badly when people got greedy and wanted too much. Let the objects go.”
He wasn’t entirely sure how to explain the danger, simply repeating that for collectors who went too far, it ended badly. Very badly.
The paper was still burning on the table.
“Blood and ruin,” he kept saying, pointing out at the ocean. “Blood and ruin. That’s why I never kept anything. Look at me. I’m doing alright here, aren’t I?”
Pearl didn’t follow this advice. He sold the furniture from the apartment on the first floor and started stockpiling his treasure there. Ten years later, the suitcases were approaching the sitting room ceiling. In Joshua’s old bedroom, it wasn’t even possible to open the window. The hoard spilled into the hallway, and Madame Pearl’s abandoned kitchen soon looked like a left-luggage office.
Maison Pearl became a small outpost of the Kingdoms; an enclave of the story world. Among Pearl’s treasures was a stained-glass window cut into the shape of dragons’ claws, a petticoat so worn it had become transparent, and the pip of a famous apple that had been set in amber to prevent it from poisoning anyone. In a particularly emotional purchase, he had even bought a scrap of his own crib that had washed up on the seashore and been passed from hand-to-hand for decades.