Not By His Name

Summer of 1751, Paris

Like most twelve-year-olds, Elias wanted to be an adult. Paris was a city that begged to be explored and enjoyed by someone old enough to enjoy its charms properly. He felt as if he fixed his hair just right, and if he kept his shoulders back and his mouth firmly set like his father, once he got a little taller, he could pass for such a fine adult that the right sommelier would pour him a glass of wine.

Elias stood on his tiptoes to see the upper half of his face in the hallway mirror. His father was tall and the mirror with its thick gold and black trim was hung for a stature closer to 180 centimeters, but he was barely 140 centimeters. He was on the shorter side of the boys at his school. He hated it, but he was positive he’d sprout up soon and someday even dwarf his father.

His mother was already in the washroom, carefully removing her powders and rouge, like she always did. His father wasn’t yet home, but that wasn’t unusual. His roadbuilding business often kept him away from their apartment for weeks on end.

He tried sweeping his fringe to one side. Did that make him look older or younger? He had half a mind to ask Félicie, their housekeeper, but she’d probably sigh and just tell him to get ready for bed. He didn’t realize how long he’d been fussing until his mother reappeared in the drawing room.

“Elias?”

He whirled around and saw his mother already in her long, pale pink dressing gown. She shook her head as she glided across the floor toward him. She smiled as she shook her head and rustled up his hair.

“Look at you, staring at the mirror,” she said. “You’re going to be a terror to all the young ladies in Paris when you’re older.”

“It’s only been a minute,” he retorted.

“Get ready for bed, my love. It’s late.”

Elias nodded and dutifully

~

Fall of 1753, Paris

Even at fourteen, some things never changed for Elias. He’d gotten the growth spurt he once only dreamed of, but he still spent most of his evenings reading. He wrote sometimes, too. But he spent two or three evenings reading to everyone he wrote. It was always easier to consume words than to produce them. His room grew more cluttered with books every year. His one wall was covered in shelves that had once been more decorative, with ample open space. Now they were filled with battered books he bought with his father’s ever-dwindling support.

Candlelight flickered over the page as the wick threatened to be extinguished by the puddling wax. It was late.

His gaze jumped from the page to his bedroom door when he heard the moan of the front door opening. His mother was away, visiting his grandmother out in Compiègne. Félicie had already retired for the evening to her small room on the kitchen side of the apartment. It could only be his father returning home at nearly two in the morning.

He heard his father’s heavy, careless footsteps, with no regard for the Simon family downstairs. Hell, Elias doubted his father even remembered the name of their lower neighbors. But of course, his steps weren’t alone. The ceramic tinkle of feminine laughter followed.

“Le petit ami, you promise she’s not here?” a woman said sweetly, her voice slightly hoarse—too many cigarettes.

“You don’t have to worry,” a moment of silence that Elias didn’t want to visualize. “I wouldn’t put such a beautiful guest in an uncomfortable situation.”

He heard a thud.

“Michel!” the woman exclaimed, all surprise and slightly drunken glee.

Elias reread the paragraph he was on. He heard the laughter again. He heard their footsteps going down the hall to the room that was supposed to belong to his mother and father. He didn’t absorb a single word. He read the paragraph again.

The strange woman’s laughter grated on him like glass breaking. He snapped his book shut, unable to focus. Would it kill his father to keep his women out of their home? Didn’t his dear mother deserve better than this?

~

Winter of 1754, Chamonix

It was rare for his father to take his mother and Elias along on his business trips. As his trade was managing money and people for roadbuilding projects, his father spent much of his time in the farthest corners of France. That was what brought them to the valley town of Chamonix, nestled between some of the country’s grandest snow-capped mountains.

There were only a handful of inns to offer ambitious travelers comfort for their long journeys. Elias couldn’t help but worry about the cost of the exquisite lodge they were staying at. He had his own room while his parents had a suite to themselves. When the breakfast hour struck, he hauled himself out from under the heavy comforters, driving out the mountainous chill, got dressed, and headed to his parents’ door.

He knocked. “Mother? Father?”

Silence greeted him. He knocked again.

“Mother? Did Father leave already?”

He frowned. It was conceivable that his father had already left, though mornings were not his strong suit. Or perhaps, if he was truly lucky, they were already dining together? It was a rarity for his parents to do anything together.

Elias took a deep breath before he went downstairs. The wooden steps creaked beneath his feet, and ice clung to the windows he passed.

He paused by the entrance to the dining room. The lodge’s first floor had a grand entrance with a well-appointed sitting area warmed by a massive hearth. He scanned the tables in the dining room, looking for the smaller ones. There was no sign of his parents.

He walked to the double doors at the inn’s entrance. He peered out through the ornate metal decorations around the window, scanning the courtyard. It was frigid outside, well below freezing. But he saw a form standing out there.

He pushed the door open and winced at the cold that accosted him. He hadn’t brought a cloak. His eyes widened when he spotted his mother standing with her arms outstretched. Snowflakes drifted down lazily around them.

“Mother!” he exclaimed, hurrying to her side. “You’re going to catch ill. Come inside.”

“But Elias!” she said, spinning around, a huge smile on her face. “Look at the snow!”

“Yes, it’s lovely, but come in,” he said, gently placing a hand on her arm.

“Can you believe how it’s covering the ground? It never snows in Paris!”

He froze in place, as if the mountains’ ice had covered him.

“It’s good luck, you know,” she said excitedly. “Since snow is so rare.”

“Mother, we’re in Chamonix, remember?” he asked.

She stared at him. Her smile fell. She blinked.

“Right. Of course.”

His hand fell back to his side. “Come in. Quickly, please.”

He feared for her memory, he feared for her mind, but he ushered her toward the door and promised himself he wouldn’t make a fuss. He wouldn’t make it worse.

~

Summer of 1757, Paris

Elias knew from the books he read and the extravagant travels his classmates took that Parisian winters were fairly mild. Of course, Parisians always complained all the way through spring, every time the weather skewed colder. But it was now indisputably the start of summer. Elias went through the apartment, opening every window and door to get the breeze to come in and cool the rooms. They’d let go of Félicie

And Elias’ mother… well.

He took a deep breath to steel himself as he knocked on her door.

“Félicie?” his mother asked, sounding surprised..

“No, it’s me. May I come in?”

“Oh. Yes, of course.”

Elias pushed the door open. His mother was still in bed, the heavy navy quilt pulled up to her chin. She was confused more often now. More than before. But she was still hsi mother, she still rouged her lips every time before they went out. She still waited for his father to come home.

“We should have breakfast,” he said with a smile.

She pulled the blankets tighter around herself. “Darling, I’m just not hungry.”

“You barely ate any supper last night. Please get up? I got fresh croissants and pecorino. Imported from Italy.”

“You’ve always loved those Italian cheeses,” she said, a wistful smile coming across her face. “Remember that night in Orvieto?”

Elias arched an eyebrow to her. “I’ve never been there.”

“Of course you have, silly!” she said, tilting her head. “It was our two year anniversary. How could you forget?”

He felt bile rise in the back of his throat. She couldn’t—she couldn’t. She couldn’t mistake him for that horrid adulterous bastard he had no choice but to call father.

But he needed to say something. She was looking at him so expectantly.

“I’m sorry?” he finally managed.

“Michel!” she said scoldingly.

And that was it. He stopped short.

“Mo—Marianne,” he said, his mother’s name feeling like a profanity on his tongue. “Please, come have some breakfast.”

She let out a dramatic sigh. “Only because you’re asking nicely.”

She pushed the quilt aside and rose to her feet with a grace that didn’t belong to someone ill enough to forget her own son. To mistake him for the man who abandoned her for a dozen girls half her age. Suddenly, being old enough to be mistaken for his father felt like a horrible prize.

He guided her along to the kitchen, passing the mirror in the hallway. He was more than tall enough to see his face in the reflection. The warmth of summer couldn’t reach him. Time passing just felt cruel. Here she was, forgetting more and more.