His words were as blunt as ever, but Jörg couldn’t argue because it was true. He would certainly have an easier time pretending to be a former soldier than someone of another occupation. Speaking with French people, all he needed to do was replace his position in the German Army with that in the French Army, then throw in a few curses and criticisms against the Germans at the end. It shouldn’t be all that difficult.
“What about a name?” Jörg asked. “I should have a French-sounding name in case anyone asks.”
“Okay then, how about Pierre Arche? It’s short and easy to remember.”
Jörg rolled the fake name around in his mouth several times before the Count patted him lightly on the back and said, “All right, go on. Enjoy yourself. Don’t worry about things here.”
“Do I open the door myself?”
“If you don’t, then the twin designs won’t interlock.”
“Where in Paris will I come out?”
“Directly in front of the Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel.”
“What about lodgings?”
“Either find a place to stay over there or spend the night at a brothel. If there are no good options, you can always come back here.”
“I don’t know my way around Paris.”
“The simulacrum will take you somewhere.”
“But I don’t even have a map.”
“It will guide you.”
Jörg opened the door, revealing a darkness that seemed to suck in his soul. He clutched the handle tightly, hesitant to take that first step, and when he finally tried to move forward, his legs wouldn’t budge.
“Always needing me to give you a hand,” the Count muttered exasperatedly, before pushing Jörg firmly between the shoulder blades with his fist.
The ground beneath Jörg’s feet instantly disappeared, just like when he’d leaped from the German trenches to Verdun. He instinctively shut his eyes, and a pitiful scream escaped his lungs. He wasn’t about to enter another person’s body, so he waited for his feet to touch down on solid ground.
Soon enough, he felt himself standing on cobblestones.
Jörg opened his eyes and turned to look around.
The air was dry, and a faint breeze carried the scent of vegetation.
A giant stone arch loomed before him. It wasn’t the entrance to a building, however—just an arch.
The Count had said he would emerge directly in front of the Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel, meaning this must be it. With a name like the “Triumphal Arch,” Jörg assumed armies must pass through it when they returned home victorious after a war. He stood in awe for a while, watching the sunlight bathe the blocky sand-colored arch, before coming to his senses and realizing that the area around him stood deathly quiet. In the middle of the day during such a pleasant time of the year, a place like this should be crowded. But very few people were around.
Jörg left the arch and walked down the boulevard. Tall buildings flanked the wide street, giving the entire city a brilliant white glow. They looked nothing like the black-timber-frame and plaster-wall homes of Jörg’s hometown.
He wandered through Paris, making his way down roads lined with chestnut and plane trees. The sensation beneath his feet was almost as if he were floating. It made him think of a small stone skipping low over the surface of a pond, creating ripples in its wake. Right now, he was that stone, his own will overpowered by the movements of the simulacrum.
Horse-drawn carriages passed frequently, as did quite a few automobiles. The lights that ran down the streets weren’t gas but the electric ones he’d heard about.
He saw hardly any working-aged men. Many people had prosthetic arms or legs replacing a lost limb, and some wore face coverings like he did. Others wore a piece of cloth that hung from their noses all the way down to their necks, their wounds so severe that not even a mask could conceal them.
Jörg went past countless women wearing mourning dresses. Every time he did, a chill went down the back of his neck. The newspapers on the stands covered the continued fighting at Verdun; the German Army’s onslaught kept pushing the French back, but the outcome was still uncertain.
Not a single person turned to look at him, so he knew they must see him as a Frenchman.
But what if something caused the magic to fade? A German in the middle of Paris would attract a crowd eager to beat him to death. The simulacrum wouldn’t die, but Jörg shuddered, remembering the pain he’d felt when Johann died at Verdun. He winced at the thought of having to go through that again.
His knees were trembling slightly, but Jörg was already here, so he had no choice but to continue. If anyone discovered his real identity, he’d just run away as fast as he could, and the simulacrum should lead him to a portal home.
Walking grew tiresome, so he stopped in at a café. There, he checked the wallet the Count had given him. Jörg didn’t know the first thing about French money, but the simulacrum’s knowledge came to him almost immediately. Bills and notes, franks and centimes—there were several different denominations of each. The wallet contained some 1,000-franc and 500-franc notes, along with a little loose change. He could break the notes if needed.
Jörg picked out a table and sat down. His simulacrum called over a waiter and ordered a glass of red wine and a piece of spinach-and-bacon quiche. He cut a bit off with a fork and put it in his mouth, the firm base and soft filling crumbling on top of his tongue. The egg and butter melted together with the bacon fat and the bitterness of the spinach to create an incredible flavor. He used to eat something similar back in his hometown, with onion instead of spinach.
Thoughts of home made him long for a beer. However, the knowledge within his simulacrum informed Jörg that France didn’t have beer right now. The red wine paired well with the quiche, but each sip only made him miss beer more.
As he drank his wine, Jörg thought back over Lila’s reaction from the other day.
He wasn’t disappointed that she had rejected the idea of him as her bodyguard; considering her history, that was a natural reaction for her to have. What bothered him was the Count’s carelessness at bringing Lila and him together. He’d done so despite knowing how the young girl felt, and Jörg couldn’t tell whether it was just the cruel trick of a monster or an experiment of some sort. The Count remained as inscrutable as always.
Lila had a very mature way of looking at things. She was small but might not be as young as she looked. Had the inn stopped her from aging outwardly? Or had she matured faster than kids in human society because she’d been raised by a monster?
She wasn’t Belgian, so her fury at the razing of the Leuven library must be because she loved books. Maybe reading a book on fashion together might bring them a little closer to understanding one another.