The Designer(53)

A large banner was being carried along in the crowd, flapping between two poles. She wanted to get a shot of it as it passed. ‘Just a moment,’ she called back to Dior.

‘Copper!’

She was aware of something whizzing past her. It was not until she heard it smash on the cobbles behind her that she realised it was a bottle. Startled, she looked up from her viewfinder, just in time to see a man throw something else at her – a large stone. She skipped nimbly aside and it rattled past her without doing any damage.

‘Hey,’ she yelled. ‘What’s the big idea, lunkheads? I’m on your side.’

A shower of abuse came back at her. Other men had their arms cocked back now, ready to hurl missiles at her.

She turned and bolted back to the car where Dior was in a state of panic. ‘Are you mad?’ he gasped. ‘We have to get out of here.’

She grabbed the wheel and turned the car around as fast as she could, riding up on to the kerb in her anxiety to get away. More missiles were flying towards them, bouncing off the bodywork. ‘They’re a little jumpy, aren’t they?’ she panted, wrestling with the gear lever. ‘I don’t mind being cussed out in French, but I draw the line at brickbats.’

‘Just go!’

As they sped away, something smashed loudly into the rear window, starring it like a spider’s web.

‘Holy Moses,’ Copper said, examining the damage in the rear-view mirror. ‘What did we do wrong?’

‘It’s the car,’ Dior said, still quivering. ‘They’re communists. They think anyone with a car must be rich. For God’s sake, don’t do that again. Let’s look under the pont de Passy.’

They drove there without further incident and walked under the arches of the great bridge together searching among the rubbish. A stray dog snarled at them before running off and a few clochards, huddled against the wind, watched them with bleary, suspicious eyes. Some had lit smouldering fires and were already, at this hour of the morning, clutching bottles of cheap wine. Overhead, a Metro train rumbled slowly towards Passy, showering them with black dust. Dirt, cold and desolation marked the place.

Suddenly, Dior gave a cry and hurried forward to a pile of refuse that lay against one of the iron pillars holding up the bridge. Shivering with the cold, Copper followed him. The pile of refuse turned out to be a man, and the man turned out to be Bérard.

There were tears on Dior’s cheeks as he helped Bérard to sit up. ‘Mon pauvre ami,’ he said in a choked voice. ‘Bébé! Tu m’entends? My God. He’s half-dead with the cold, Copper. Help me.’

Copper knelt down beside Bérard and stared at him in horror. He was barely recognisable. His bloated face was heavily bruised down one side from a blow or a fall. His beard, always tangled, was matted and filthy; he stank of alcohol – and worse. His swollen eyes half-opened as they tried to rouse him, but he seemed unresponsive.

‘Bébé!’ Dior said, his voice cracking. ‘Peux-tu m’entendre?’ Bérard merely groaned. He was unable to walk and he was a heavy man, so getting him to the car was an exhausting process. ‘I have never seen him as bad as this,’ Dior gasped, shouldering the burden of his friend. ‘My poor friend. I blame myself. I’ve been so busy with the wretched dolls. I neglected him.’

‘It’s not your fault,’ Copper replied. ‘Why does he do this to himself?’

‘He’s worked himself into nervous exhaustion with this damned Théatre de la Mode. This is his way of escaping.’ They hauled Bérard on to the back seat of the car. Dior, weeping quietly, went through the pockets of his greasy coat and came up with a handful of blackened opium pipes, a syringe and a bottle of something that looked like paint thinner. ‘Merde,’ he said, tossing everything away.

Copper saw that Bérard’s small, dirty hands were still stained with the sky-blue paint he’d been using days earlier. For some reason, this detail made her start crying, too. ‘Where are we going to take him?’ she asked.

‘To the Pitié-Salpêtrière. There’s a doctor there who knows how to treat Bébé’s problems.’

‘What do they do with him?’

‘What none of us can bear to do,’ Dior said grimly. ‘Lock him up and let him scream.’



She found Henry waiting for her at the apartment.

‘I hate being at odds with you,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry if I upset you. I’m just anxious about you. Can we make it up?’

‘You are a bully sometimes, you know.’

‘I know, and I apologise.’ He kissed her cheek. ‘You’ve been crying. What has happened?’

‘I went with Tian to find Bébé Bérard.’ Copper described the morning’s events. ‘It was terrible when we got to the Pitié-Salpêtrière. He started to wake up as they carried him in. When he realised what was happening, he started to plead with us. Begging us not to leave him there. He was crying. So was Christian. When they locked Bébé in the room, he started to scream like a child. I couldn’t bear it. I had to cover my ears and run away.’

‘He does it to himself,’ Henry said curtly.

‘Henry, it was pitiful.’