15
LI
That afternoon,Fiona and I walked along the Seine. Varied scents drifted toward us along the bank of the river: buttery popcorn, cinnamon, freshly baking bread, grass, urine, stale beer, river water, women’s perfume. The weather had cooled, and angry purple clouds threatened a rainstorm. As we strolled, arm in arm, we talked as we always had. She told me more about her exploits over the last few months. I shared my own stories from home, including how her brothers had taken care of the men who attacked me.
“What about the ship?” Fiona asked.
“It was fine.” I didn’t want to tell her what I’d dealt with. Someday, perhaps, but not this one.
“You don’t need to protect me, you know,” she said.
“I know.”
We walked in silence for a few minutes until we came upon a crowd of people circled around an arena, shouting and cheering. For a moment, I couldn’t fathom what I saw. Two boys were in a ring, boxing. Shirtless, wearing fat gloves and dancing around each other in what appeared to be socks on their bare feet. One of the boys had long, floppy hair and the other with hair so short one could see the imperfect shape of his head. A referee was in the ring with them, dancing his own dance as the boys took shots at each other.
Fiona stopped us, just outside of the crowd. Mostly men, wearing bowler hats and suits, sat in chairs all around the ring as if they watched a concert. “What are they doing?” She squeezed my forearm with her hand.
“Fighting,” I said, as if she didn’t know that in some places men fought each other and people watched. There were gambling bets made on these fights in the States. I’d never gone to one, but I’d heard about them in Chicago.
“They’re only children.” Fiona’s voice trembled with outrage. “Little boys.”
“Let’s go back.” I tried to steer her away but as small as she was, she’d become immovable. This was not good. A Barnes could never walk away from anything they saw as an injustice. “Fiona, come on.”
“No, this isn’t right. We must do something.”
Part of me wanted to laugh; the other wanted to haul her over my shoulder and run. “There’s nothing to be done. This must be something they do here.”
“Watch children pummel each other? It’s barbaric.”
The crowd cheered as the bushy-haired boy punched the other one hard enough that he fell to the ground. He wasn’t down for long, bouncing up as if the ring were made of rubber.
They danced around for a few more seconds before the long-haired boy hit the other again. The boy with the cropped hair fell. His nose gushed red. The audience shouted, a seething mad crowd enjoying the scent of sweat and blood.
Fiona broke away from me. Before I knew what she was doing, she’d charged through the gathering of men and flung herself against the ropes, shouting for them to stop. For a second, I froze in shock but soon snapped to attention and ran after her. God only knew what could happen to her in a mob of angry men.
The short-haired boy got back on his feet, stumbling as if drunk, a beard of blood covering most of his face. Still, he managed a swipe in the other’s direction.
Fiona leaned over the ropes and pulled on the jacket of the referee. “Stop this at once.”
The referee swatted her away as if she were nothing more than a fly. The weaker boy went down once more.
Fiona went right back at the referee, this time tugging with both hands on the back of his jacket with enough force that he stumbled backward. He turned away from his duties to look at Fiona. His complexion turned an ugly purple. He pushed her away, shouting something in French, then turned back to watch the boys. The fight appeared to be over as the weaker one remained on the ground.
Thank God, I thought. It’s over and we can go.
But no. Fiona wasn’t done. She started to climb into the ring. I pulled her back by the waist, lifting her off her feet. She struggled to get loose and knocked me off-balance for long enough that she wriggled away and started to climb under the rope and into the ring.
The crowd broke into frenzied jeers, although most appeared delighted at this unusual turn of events. Some hollered in French what I’m sure were obscenities; others threw popcorn at her. One man tossed an empty bottle of beer. It hit her on the head just as I reached her, knocking her hat sideways. Nothing deterred her. She ran to the fallen boy and knelt next to him. He was still. Too still.
“Look what you’ve done,” Fiona shouted to the referee, who shrugged and looked around as if there might be someone to tell him why this unhinged woman was in his ring.
I jumped into the ring. My plan was to haul her out of there and away from this threatening throng of humanity before the crowd turned on us. I sprinted toward her, the floor of the ring soft under my feet. I fell to my knees next to her. “You’re going to get yourself killed.” Or both of us.
She didn’t hear me, too busy using her handkerchief to wipe blood from the boy’s face. The men were louder now. Several more bottles of beer flew into the ring. The boy who’d won simply stood there, obviously dumbfounded.
“Fiona, this isn’t your concern,” I said. “Please, we have to get out of here.”
She looked up at me with eyes as wild as a panther. Her curls had fallen from their comb and hung loose around her forehead. “This boy is hurt. We have to take him to the doctor.”
The referee was now shouting rapidly in French and gesturing for Fiona to get away. No language barrier could disguise what he wanted. Several of the men from the crowd seemed to have noticed me by then. I heard the word Chinese and looked to see two men standing at the side of the ring. Darkness. Hatred. I saw it all there in their eyes.
“Fiona, look at me,” I said. “This isn’t safe. You’re going to get us both hurt or worse. Do you see how they look at me?”
She blinked and then looked around us. The crowd was close now, pressing against the ropes. “What about the boy?”
“He’ll be fine. It’s not his first time, I’m sure.” I got up and offered her my hand. “Please, we have to go.”
She allowed me to pull her to her feet. The boy groaned in pain. Frantic, she looked into the crowd. “Where’s his mother? He needs his mother.”
“No maman,” the bushy boy said. “Orphelin.”
“Orphan,” I said to Fiona.
“You too?” Fiona asked the standing boy.
He nodded and shrugged, then said something in French. They spoke the rapid Parisian French that I had trouble understanding. I might have picked up the word money but I wasn’t sure. The boys’ ribs were evident. They were doing this for the money. These men were putting them up against each other for sport, for their own sick enjoyment.
“Where did you find these boys?” Fiona asked, springing to her feet and lunging toward the referee.
He shook his head and spoke French back to her. I couldn’t tell if he understood her or not.
She turned to the long-haired boy. “Where do you live?”
He looked at her blankly.