Paris: The Novel

I built the Statue of Liberty.” They shook hands. Thomas continued to inspect the sketch. “I still can’t believe you painted a railway line.”
    “You expect artists to paint gods and goddesses in pretty Italian landscapes?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Plenty of people expect that. But what I try to do, and Monet, and many others, is paint the world around us. Paint what we really see.”
    “But a railway station isn’t beautiful …”
    “Are you familiar with any writers?”
    “I was at the funeral of Victor Hugo.”
    “So was I. Can’t think how I missed you.” The artist paused a moment. “Hugo was a great man. No question. But for myself, I prefer another writer of that generation—and that’s Balzac. He tried to depict the exact reality of the world he saw all around him. From the richest aristocrat to the poorest fellow in the street, and all the men and women in between—lawyers, shopkeepers, whores, beggars. We call it realism. That’s what some of the people you call Impressionists are doing, too. Renoir painted the people at the Moulin de la Galette. I paint all kinds of things, including railway trains. As for beauty, what does that mean? A railway is beautiful to me. Because we don’t live in a world of nymphs and fawns and classical gods. We live in a world of railways, and steam and iron bridges. It’s new and exciting. It’s the great adventure. It’s the spirit of the age.” He grinned at Thomas. “You build the bridges, my friend, and I’ll paint them.”
    Thomas stared at him. No one had ever spoken to him like this before. But he understood well enough. And the painter was right. The railways and their bridges were the spirit of the age. He, a humble ironworker, should be part of it. And the greatest iron construction in the history of the world was about to begin, here in Paris.
    “I am going to be building Monsieur Eiffel’s tower,” he suddenly declared.
    Norbert Goeneutte stared at his canvas thoughtfully for a moment, then he looked up and delivered his verdict.
    “I congratulate you. That’s a big adventure, my friend.”

    That Wednesday was the first of June. Luc was surprised when Thomas insisted he accompany him to Madame Michel’s emporium in the morning, but he set off with him all the same. It wasn’t until they were halfway down the hill of Montmartre that Thomas told him his plan.
    “You’re mad,” said Luc. “What will our mother say? And father too.”
    “I’m going to do it anyway,” said Thomas.
    While Thomas waited, therefore, Luc went through the Place de Clichy to the widow’s store and told her: “My brother is sick today. He sent me to tell you and apologize.” Madame was most concerned, and only when Luc had assured her that Thomas had nothing more than an upset stomach, and that he would certainly be back at work the next day, did she let him go.
    It took them over an hour to walk to the Eiffel company workshops in the northwestern suburb of Levallois-Perret. When they got there, they found a hive of activity. The framework of the huge tower was being assembled in fifteen-foot sections that were placed in huge stacks prior to shipment from the factory to the building site. Over a hundred ironworkers were busily engaged in this assembly and riveting work. But when Thomas politely asked if Monsieur Eiffel was there, he was told that the engineer was to be found at the Champ de Mars that day.
    Once again therefore the brothers set off, to the south this time, passed by the Arc de Triomphe and finally, toward eleven in the morning, crossed the Pont d’Iéna and entered the huge building site.
    The foundations were all but finished now. They looked like four gigantic gun emplacements, ready to fire across each other to the four horizons. In the middle of this great platform a group of engineers andother gentlemen clustered around a single figure, like a general with his staff.
    “That’s him,” said Thomas. “That’s Monsieur Eiffel.” He took a deep breath. “Come on.”
    Since Monsieur Eiffel was deep in conversation, they stood a little way apart. They had to wait half an hour before the group finally broke up, and Eiffel began to walk off the site with just a couple of companions, toward the river.
    “Monsieur Eiffel,” Thomas called out, just loud enough for the engineer to hear, as he moved to intercept him. Eiffel turned and looked at the two young people inquiringly. “Monsieur Eiffel, I am Thomas Gascon. I worked