Paris: The Novel

of working on the inner edge of the tower’s slope would be any different from working on the outer edge as he had been up till now. But yesterday, he’d had the network of girders under him. Today, there was nothing under his feet. Nothing except forty yards of empty space.
    He’d supposed he had a good head for heights because he could stand on a hill and look down. And 120 feet wasn’t so high, in any case. But this was like stepping onto a tightrope.
    And then he realized that two men were looking up at him. Monsieur Eiffel was smiling. But the eye of Jean Compagnon missed nothing, and he wasn’t smiling.
    “What’s the matter?” his voice was sharp. “You want to come down?”
    And at that moment Thomas Gascon knew that he was about to lose his job.
    “Mais non!”
he cried. And then, he hardly knew how he did it, except that he knew he must, he made himself lean out a little, and somehow let go of the girder with his left hand and saluted Monsieur Eiffel.
“Bonjour, monsieur,”
he called. “I’m just waiting for your creeping crane to send me something.”
    He could see Eiffel smile and nod, but Compagnon’s gimlet eye was still fixed on him suspiciously. So Thomas, wondering if Compagnon could see the white knuckles of his right hand, which was still clenched tight onto the metal strut, carefully turned and looked at one of his crew. And when he took his eyes off the yawning chasm underneath him, he felt a little better. The man was looking at him curiously also, so he forced himself to smile.
    “When I worked with Monsieur Eiffel on the Statue of Liberty, he told me it would be the most famous project he ever did. Now he builds this.” He managed to loosen his hand from the metal strut and shrugged. “When we’re finished I shall ask him: ‘So, monsieur, what will you do for an encore?’ ”
    The men laughed. He felt calmer now. For the rest of that day, he would glance down every little while, and gradually he got used to it.
    That weekend, when he was up at Montmartre and Luc asked him, “How’s your head for heights?” Thomas just smiled.
    “No problem,” he said.

    In the second week of November he decided to take the plunge.
    “I have to go to see my family on Sunday,” he said to Édith. “Would you like to come? I can show you Montmartre.”
    She looked down thoughtfully.
    “It’s a long way,” she said.
    “Not really. We can take a tram to Clichy and walk up the hill.” He could see her still hesitating. “I think you should come if it’s not raining. But if it’s raining, there won’t be any view to show you.”
    “I could come if there’s a view.”
    “Exactly. I’ll have to have lunch with my family, but then I can show you around. If it’s a clear day, even in November, there are usually some artists painting outside.”
    “All right,” she said.

    They hailed a tram just north of the Arc de Triomphe. Since the trams had no official stops, but were hailed by people as they went along, the drivers used their discretion. For a respectable elderly lady, they’d pull up the horses, but not for young poor folk like Thomas and Édith. As she stepped onto the moving platform, Édith slipped, and if Thomas hadn’t caught her with his arm, she might have fallen. He used the opportunity to pull her close, and she didn’t seem to resist. But moments later she was sitting demurely beside him in the tram, and when he tried to put his hand on her leg, she gently removed it.
    They got out of the tram at the Place de Clichy, and walked up the hill. As they neared the top, he guided her around the picturesque little streets and she remarked that even when she was a little girl, parts of Passy had still looked like this. The windmills on the hill delighted her. But as they started down the slope into the sprawling shantytown of the Maquis she said less, and it seemed to Thomas that she became a little thoughtful.
    “It’s not a palace, where we live,” he said.
    “Who wants to live in a palace?” She gave him a smile.
    When they came to the house and went up the steps, they found the two Gascon parents, Luc, and also Nicole. They were all rather surprised that Thomas had brought a young woman with him, but Thomas told them easily that Édith was a friend from Passy, who’d never been up to Montmartre. “I said I would show her around, and that she could come and eat with us first,” he said to his mother. “Is that all right?”
    “But of course.” His