Revolution - Jennifer Donnelly [137]
“The Palais? Oh, right! You mean busking? Yeah, I could do that. Totally. Hey, thanks, Jacques.”
I stand up and grab my stuff. If I can just get a few coins, I can get a loaf of bread. Maybe even some cheese to go with it.
“Wait,” Jacques says, pulling a dirty rag out of his pocket. “You’re bleeding.” He dabs at my forehead. “It’s an ugly wound. Does it not hurt?”
“Yeah. All the time,” I tell him.
I say goodbye and head into the Palais. It’s a scene. Even wilder than last night. As I walk into the courts, I almost get my hair burned off by a firebreather. There’s a woman up on a tightrope. She’s pushing a wheelbarrow with a small child inside it. I see a prostitute sitting in her customer’s lap. She can’t be more than fourteen. There’s a little blind boy begging piteously. There are dancing rats. A skinny monkey on a leash. Jugglers. A muzzled bear. Gamblers throwing dice. Little girls selling lemonade.
And there’s a head. On a table. At first I think it’s a fake, but it’s not. Flies are buzzing around it. People are jeering at it. Sticking cigars in its mouth. Giving it sips of wine. I hear somebody say that he was one of Fouquier-Tinville’s, a Jacobin. The same man says it will soon be Fouquier-Tinville himself sneezing into the sack and all of Paris will turn out for it.
I walk on. Away from the head. Then I take out my guitar, put my open case on the ground in front of me, and start to play. No one cares. I play Lully, Rameau, and Bach, but I might as well be invisible. People are taunting the head, trying to trip the jugglers, messing with the rats. My stomach twists painfully. I start to feel panic-stricken at the very real possibility of starving to death. I’ve got to get money. I’ve got to eat. I’ve got to get their attention.
A girl walks by hawking colorful sweets and a lightbulb goes off inside my head. I launch into a rousing acoustic version of “I Want Candy.” I bet that’ll get some attention. I’m playing the tune for all I’m worth, and singing, too. I’d stand on my head if I could.
And then, out of nowhere, a guy stumbles up to me, drunk. He has blond hair and a stubbly beard. He stands there for a minute, swaying and listening. Then he lurches forward and a plants a big tonguey one on me. He tastes like rotten fish.
“Back off!” I yelp, breaking free.
He staggers backward, laughing, and chucks a handful of coins at me.
“I always wanted to kiss a savage!” he says. “Where are you from? Africa? The Americas? I love your braids. Are you a Mohican? I never heard such wild music. Play for me, Pocahontas! Better yet,” he adds, leering, “come home with me. I’ll make it worth your while. My name’s Nicolas. Nicolas LeBeau. What’s yours, you darling little beast?”
I’m still wiping his kiss off my mouth when the little blind kid swoops in and starts picking up the coins.
“Hey! Those are mine!” I yell at him.
The kid tells me where I can go and keeps scooping up the coins. I bend over, trying to grab a few for myself. Wrong move. The drunk guy’s got friends. One of them grabs me from behind. I spin around to smack him but he catches my hand, jerks me toward him, and kisses me. The other one drops a coin down my pants then tries to get it back.
I swing my guitar, catching the first guy in the face with it. He grabs his nose and howls and the other one’s so busy laughing at him that he lets go of me. I pick up my case, slap it together, and run.
I keep going until I’m out of the courts and under the colonnade. I’m almost out of the Palais—I can see the tall white pillars of the entrance, and the street beyond it—when another man steps out of the darkness and grabs me. I try to scream, but he claps a hand over my mouth and pulls me into a doorway. I struggle and kick, trying to break free.
“Oof! That hurt! Stop it, you fool! It’s me, Fauvel!”
I freeze. I know that name. Fauvel is the man Alex bought fireworks from.
“Stop kicking and I’ll let you go,” he says.
I nod. He lets go of me and I spin around. We face each other in the gloom. My chest is heaving. I’m breathless