In the Fanmaker's Shop (Tag: Jehan)

[CHRISTOPHE FEUILLY]

The hours, like paint, blended together into a grey blur. Feuilly was sometimes bored by his work, but he had learned long ago to let his mind wander elsewhere even while his hands continued to paint and assemble the fans. The patterns tended to be repeated, and after so many years of doing the same thing he found that even the painting could be done almost without thought. Could, but not always was—Feuilly liked the chance to express himself, if only a little, in the images that sprawled across the fans.

He worked, at least for now, in silence. For months he had shared this workbench, and they had talked sometimes as they worked. Mostly about completely innocuous things—women, paints, the everyday gossip of the Parisian working class. Did you hear about the floods in another neighborhood? There's good prices on only slightly stale bread down the street... But sometimes conversation ran in other directions, and then they would clap him on the shoulder and tell him he thought too much, that learning to read had addled his brains.

Of course, none of them had known him before he could. Paris was still a new place for Feuilly, and there were no familiar faces in the workshop from his days in a similar shop in Marseille. It had been there, after all, that he had learned to read and to write. To be literate, to take a first step toward being educated. The thought made him smile even now, even though it had been years and still he did the same work he ever had. Probably always would, though he still dreamed of a different world. Of some chance to change it for the better, not just for himself or for France but for everyone. Everyone deserved to be free.

Today they were all silent, the mood of the workshop somehow oppressed. He couldn't place the reasons, but it was clear that everyone felt it. The boss was in a foul mood, perhaps—the scowl on his face as he came in and out through the door hinted at that—and all of them knew it wouldn't do to provoke him. Nothing good ever came of provoking people like him, not if you were someone like them.

Feuilly longed for a an open window to stare out of. It might distract him from his work, and he supposed that—along with the obvious expense—was much of why there were no windows in the back part of the shop. It made the place terribly stuff, and despite the relative lack of physical exertion required by their work (compared to other tasks men of their class might fulfill, at least) they all would begin to sweat when the temperature outside rose even a little.

The first third of the shop had large glass display windows, because it was in that portion of it that the fans—along with an assortment of other small, trivial things—were actually sold. But they did not extend back into the workshop. The front room was a completely different world from the one the workers inhabited, and one Feuilly had rarely even stepped into. He and the other workers entered the shop from the back, never having to bother the perfumed, well-dressed customers with their disheveled, sometimes rough-tongued presence.

[JEAN ALEXIS PROUVAIRE]

[style=font-family: times; font-size: 12px; letter-spacing: 1px; text-transform: lowercase; color: #989898; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;]743 WORDS FOR FEUILLY No notes at present. MEETINGS [/style]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=width,450,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: #6d6d6d;] [style=padding: 10px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 10px; height: 475px; overflow: auto; color: #1e1e1e;]Jean Prouvaire strolled lazily down a quiet avenue in Paris. It was a nice morning in late May, and the weather could not have possibly been more beautiful if he had painted it with a brush. The weather was so lovely that he'd taken off his jacket and was holding it folded over his arm as he walked, the sun soaking through his waistcoat and shirt pleasantly. He'd finished his last class of the day not horribly long ago and had left the Latin Quarter accordingly, strolling up and down various avenues and enjoying the spring breeze which ruffled his hair just gently from time to time. As he walked along, he was silently composing a poem in his head, though as of yet it wasn't anything great - just a few lines about the pleasure of fine spring weather and the warm days that come with the change of the spring season. It was when he was halfway down a street when he saw a store front which advertised handmade painted fans. He grinned. These would make good souvenirs for Élise, Victoire and Simone - he loved sending his sisters little trinkets from Paris to let them know he was thinking of them. He tried to send them something every month and a letter every week. He knew that's what he'd want if they had moved far away, and tried to oblige. Often, his present was sweets the likes of which they'd never seen from confectionaries, or clothes from boutiques, or even sweet bread from the boulangerie. This month, he had a feeling it was going to be fans. He grinned as he entered the shop, causing a string to pull a bell above the door which clinged daintily to let the store owner know that he had a customer. Jehan waved at him slightly shyly as he began to wander about the shop looking at the different fans available. Some of them, he realized, had distinctive patterns that seemed to show they were made by the same fanmaker. He found that interesting - liked how they all had their own distinctive little touches. He was particularly fond of one artist's work who was very gifted with doing colours. He smiled slightly as he lifted a fan down from one of the shelves. It ws black with a pattern of white and pink cherry blossoms and what looked to be a Geisha painted on it. This artist, he noticed, liked painting exotic things like might come out of books and stories. He grinned. "I'll take this one, but only if I can meet the man who painted it." He said finally to the owner. "Eh?" Said the man, looking at him with an oddly askance expression. "Well.. I guess people don't ask for that much.. but.. I want to meet the man who created this - it's a masterpiece. I insist, Monsieur. I won't take it unless I can meet him." Another askance glare and, for one horrible moment, Jehan thought he would refuse and he'd have to leave empty-handed - for he was a man of his word, and he'd made up his mind he wasn't taking the fan unless he could thank its maker personally. The store owner grunted and sized up the customer before heading slowly to the back part of the shop, the heat wafting out at him as he opened the door. Only early summer and it was already sweltering hot back there. "Feuilly! GET OVER HERE!" He bawled, reaching for the man by the back of his neck and grabbing him and pulling him near. "There's a man outside who wants to see you. Buying one of your fans. Don't you even -think- about going in the shop and bothering the customers. You can meet him outside in back. Where you'll be for the rest of the day. Come back when you can work rather than carry on making idle chatter with strangers! No pay today. Not that your miserable three Francs a day is helping you much. Go." He shoved him forward. His glare dared anyone in the room to question him. No one did. He knew he was being unfair, but he didn't care. He couldn't take out his wasted time and money on the man who was purchasing the fan, so he'd take it out on the worker. Back outside, Jehan paced, admiring the treasure he'd purchased and unaware of what had transpired. [/style]

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[CHRISTOPHE FEUILLY]

Feuilly cringed as the man suddenly grabbed him by the shirtcollar and hauled him out, confused and frowning. He'd been doing his work just fine; there was no need to get so forceful about directing him around. It was frustrating, and he wanted to tell the man to cut it out and treat him with some respect—but that was not his place. Usually he wasn't this rough with his workers, but it happened sometimes. Feuilly was almost surprised that he didn't smell alcohol on him.

It wasn't as if he'd asked to have 'idle conversations with strangers.' Why some stranger would even want to talk to him was beyond his comprehension; he'd done nothing to get in trouble with the police, had paid what rent he owed, didn't have any enemies in Paris—at least not that he knew about. He couldn't even think of any enemies in Marseille, let alone any that would come this far to drag him out of work.

He stumbled forward out the shop's back door when the man released him, a mumbled 'yes sir' under his breath. When the man had disappeared back inside, he cast a glare at the closing door. It could have been worse, of course—it seemed he still had a job, even if not for the rest of the day. He'd eaten that morning, so the lost wages wouldn't send him out in the world with a completely empty stomach. He crossed his arms in front of him, feeling somewhat uncharacteristically hostile and ill-disposed toward this stranger.

And the figure that stood outside was very much a stranger. He looked wealthy, which wasn't particularly surprising. Feuilly assumed he'd purchased the fan for some girl, though it was still completely beyond him why he would want to talk to him about it. The oddity of it made him worried, and he felt suspicious of the man. He stood where he was, regarding him cautiously.

It was better in these situations to wait to speak until spoken to. He didn't know what the stranger wanted, and though he didn't look particularly given to violence, sometimes those things were difficult to tell. Really, he looked more like a student, but in the frustration of what had just happened Feuilly uncharacteristically held that almost as a mark against him.

[JEAN ALEXIS PROUVAIRE]

[style=font-family: times; font-size: 12px; letter-spacing: 1px; text-transform: lowercase; color: #989898; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;]633 WORDS FOR Feuilly No notes at present. MEETINGS [/style]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=width,450,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: #6d6d6d;] [style=padding: 10px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 10px; height: 475px; overflow: auto; color: #1e1e1e;]Jean clutched the treasured he'd purchased close. The storemaster had carefully wrapped it in tissue paper for a couple of layers, and then a few more layers of heavy brown store paper as parcels were usually wrapped in when you bought them at the store, and he'd tied the whole thing up with a bit of twine. It felt light as air as the poet hugged the present against his chest. He thought vaguely that it would suit Simone well. She liked reading about adventures in far away places while Victoire was more interested in things happening here at home and keeping her nose in her decorum lessons. At times, she could be a little boring, really. But Jean understood with a quiet aweareness that the other sisters seemed not to possess that Victoire's quiet adherence to rules and her insistence on doing everything exactly by the book likely stemmed from a quiet lack of self confidence and wanting to having something to call her very own - as often happened to middle children - neither the oldest out doing exciting things - nor the youngest able to be coddled (nor wanting to be - at least aloud). Truly, there were four Prouvaire children, but, really, one could hardly count Jean given that he was so much older than his sisters. By the time they'd even been old enough to remember, he'd been off to Paris to the Sorbonne. He'd have to find Victoire a special gift that would bring out her uniqueness; he'd keep looking, but at least he had one in the bag. He didn't have much more time for idle thought, however, as the manager of the shop, somewhat roughly to his mind, shoved an irritated looking worker out the back door. Jean eyed him thoughtfully. The regular, untrained eye, would have seen him as a sweaty looking man dressed in little more than rags and dark hair. Nothing special. Jean, however, was looking at him with the eyes of a poet, and in him he saw possibilities - great ones. There was something about the perturbed, turbulent look in the man's eyes when he was shoved somewhat roughly and without much care into the world about the shop and, again, something about how he screwed his eyes up - blinking in the light of day. And even more, something about how he picked his posture up and folded his arms over his chest almost as if he was annoyed with Jean for having him brought out here. Well, Jean couldn't fault him for it. He supposed he'd be annoyed to be dragged away from his work to make chatter with a perfect stranger in a back alleyway behind a fanmaking shop in Paris. Then again... it was rather quaint - good material for a poem, perhaps. "Bon Jour" He said simply, offering the slightly irritated looking man a warm smile. He extended his hand to shake with the man slightly awkwardly. "Jean Prouvaire... but you can call me Jehan.. if you want.. everyone does." He smirked slightly, one eyebrow arching and the corner of his lips turning up. "I bought your fan.." He suddenly realized there was no need to unwrap it and show him, for the man would like as not remember painting it, so he settled for a description. "The one with the Geisha." He paused, smiling again. "That's a world from here.. where did you learn about things like that?" Jean frowned at himself at the question. It hadn't come out sounding the way he wanted. It sounded like he was suggesting that the worker was insolent to paint things he could never hope to experience - and that had definitely -not- been his intent. "... I don't mean it badly..." He added, a bit lamely. [/style]

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[CHRISTOPHE FEUILLY]

Feuilly regarded the man for a moment longer, expecting some sort of trap. It was quite obvious he absolutely did not understand what the consequences of dragging him away from his workbench could have been. He had worked through illness and injury and hunger and exhaustion—and it was obvious from looking at this schoolboy that he likely had never known a moment of any of that in his life. Not in earnest. And Feuilly could have lost his job over it, been sent out into the streets to make his way as best he could. There were not unlimited free positions for a fanmaker even in Paris. Losing this would send him into the ranks of the destitute, push him into working as a general laborer or at best a house painter.

Somewhat begrudgingly, he uncrossed his arms to shake hands with the man. His hand was surprisingly soft, cool to the touch. Feuilly supposed he probably should have wiped his own paint-marked hand off on his shirt before shaking hands, but it was too late now. If the man—Prouvaire—took offense he would just have to deal with that as it came. He seemed too amiable, too interested in putting him at ease. “...Feuilly.” He said his own name cautiously, as if it would be used against him. He shook his hand quickly, then crossed his arms again—though more loosely this time.

What did he want? He'd had him dragged out of work to... shake hands and introduce himself? Why would it matter to some bourgeois student who had made the fan, as long as it pleased whatever young lady he intended it for?

“A geisha?” A hint of curiosity betrayed itself in Feuilly's voice, flitted across his face. He wasn't familiar with the word—foreign-sounding, strange. He could guess which fan it must have been based purely on that, and very hurriedly pretended he knew what he was talking about. Especially with the condescending way in which the man's words could be interpreted. “A book.” The apologetic addition Prouvaire had added to his sentence made Feuilly look at him suspiciously, but he had begun—slightly--to relax.

It had come from a book, but it would probably surprise the student. After all, what kind of fanmaker could read? Feuilly himself, and a few others scattered here and there. Like most of them, he had no formal education—no one had ever bothered to teach any of them to decipher the curling script on a page. This was Feuilly's great victory in life, his first plunge toward his own deliverance. To teach himself what no one else would ever bother to show him.

The book the image had come from had been far too expensive for the young worker to buy, but he had looked through it anyway under the stern, suspicious glare of the old man who ran the bookshop. Feuilly was sure he had been an incoherence walking into the decided bourgeois shop, dressed in a worker's plain shirt and trousers and a worn-out jacket, a cap crooked on his head. He had hurriedly removed the cap on coming inside, afraid he'd be driven out as somehow uncivilized. Not that the presence or absence of a hat would determine that.

He had left that shop penniless and hungry, but with a cheaply-bound volume of stories. A different sort of nourishment, and one he found himself yearning after. The little book was far from the finely illustrated, leatherbound beauty in which he had seen the image he imitated for the fan—but it had pleased him and lay hidden among his few belongings, treasured still even now that he had read it through more than once.

[JEAN ALEXIS PROUVAIRE]

[style=font-family: times; font-size: 12px; letter-spacing: 1px; text-transform: lowercase; color: #989898; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;]387 WORDS FOR Feuilly No notes at present. MEETINGS [/style]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=width,450,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: #6d6d6d;] [style=padding: 10px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 10px; height: 475px; overflow: auto; color: #1e1e1e;]Jean had the feeling that, for some reason, the man was not happy to see him. In fact, he could tell that he was thoroughly unimpressed. From the expression on his pale face - one of extreme disgruntlement, up to his defensive posture and his crossed arms and his initial resistence to shake hands. He couldn't figure out what he had possibly done to offend him or make him not want to meet him when they didn't even know each other and he'd just bought one of the man's most expensive creations and just wanted to meet him to thank him. He didn't even wipe the paint off his hands before he reached out to shake with Jean though, all things considered, at least he -was- shaking hands with him.. he could have refused even that. It could have been worse. He could stop thinking about it for a little while now, perhaps, as the man had given him other things to consider - including, very sispiciously, his surname. He looked like he couldn't understand the situation. It was like he'd walked into another world he didn't understand and was cautiously exploring it for the first time hardly able to believe that it was all real and true. He was still staring aggravatedly at Jean when he finally announced that he'd learned about Geisha from books. For a moment, Jean thought that the word didn't seem familiar due to the look on Feuilly's face, but just as quickly he recovered himself and said from a book. A book? That was a rarity then.. most of the working class were illiterate. And though the making and painting of fans was hardly much better than menial laboring tasks, it was surprising that this man apparently knew how to read. But if he didn't, then why lie about - it wasn't exactly an uncommon thing. Perhaps, then, he just didn't know the terminology - maybe he'd been looking at pictures in the book? "You can read then?" Jean tried not to sound too surprised. "Not that that's a bad thing, it's just that most people who work at things like fanmaking.. can't.. I think it's really great that you can." Jean's face flushed pink with earnest desire to get his point across and not offend. "Who taught you to read?" [/style]

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[CHRISTOPHE FEUILLY]

“Yes,” Feuilly replied almost tersely, hesitation still in his voice. Of course he could read, why else would he have gone through the trouble of looking at a book for long enough to find an illustration of such a thing? The student's compliments about his ability to read were almost offensive to him, though in the back of his mind he knew that this Prouvaire likely did not really mean any insult or harm. The man was blushing, and Feuilly felt almost embarrassed on his behalf as well. Still, he was irritated and did not particularly want him to know this. “I taught myself.”

There was so much naivete in that question that Feuilly almost couldn't believe it. Things like fanmaking, eh? What did this one do, read love poems and talk about the plight of the working class while sleeping on a featherbed? It was getting more difficult for Feuilly to assume the worst about him as he calmed from being dragged outside, and he took another look at the student. He'd missed his chance to see him objectively, he realized, because now that he was embarrassed he was hardly likely to act like himself. Still feeling affronted and confused, Feuilly's pride would not let him apologize for taking such a hostile stance at first.

He could have explained why he'd taught himself, but that seemed like offering too much to a man who could have made him starve. It was unfair that the shop's owner had dismissed him for the day over this, but in the same breath he could have dismissed him forever. Feuilly was skilled at what he did, but that didn't mean it was so easy to find work as a fanmaker even in Paris. He might be pushed into some other sort of labor, likely something for which he did not have the same talent and training.

So what had been so important to Jean Prouvaire to bring him to ask Feuilly about the fan he'd made? One of many in the shop. Feuilly could not help but feel pleased with himself that his work had caught someone's eye, but it still didn't make any sense. “You're a student?” he asked quickly, trying the story together. The man might just as well have stepped down from another world, with his fine clothes and polished speech.

[JEAN ALEXIS PROUVAIRE]

[style=font-family: times; font-size: 12px; letter-spacing: 1px; text-transform: lowercase; color: #989898; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;]620 WORDS FOR Feuilly No notes at present. MEETINGS [/style]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=width,450,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: #6d6d6d;] [style=padding: 10px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 10px; height: 475px; overflow: auto; color: #1e1e1e;]Jean was, by this point, literally sweating beneath the brim of his fancy grey hat. Sometimes, when he was feeling like more of an artist, he wore a little beret, but today he'd come from school where tophat and tails were usually expected and in good form. He sighed and resisted the urge to run his hand across his forehead to remove the sheen of sweat which was gathering there and becoming less fine as time passed and the man didn't back off. He was starting to think that this whole thing had clearly been a very bad idea. The man was surly and clearly did not want to be talking to him and clearly had some kind of issue with him or something he had done. He could not imagine what he'd done to cause such extreme offense, in fact. But clearly he had done -something-! Being rather shy to begin with and extremly embarrassed and wrong footed, at this point it made Jean simply want to flee the situation and never look back, running as fast as he could. However, he also didn't want to be seen as a scaredy cat or a coward, so he held his ground, forcing himself to plant his heels more squarely against the cobblestones, knowing that if he did not, the desire to flee might become too overwhelming to resist for long at all. And he needed to stay and finish what he'd clearly been foolish enough to start. Neverthless, he wished - no longed - for his warm bed in his flat with the windows that overlooked the Latin Quarter. He took a deep breath as he listened to the man respond in an almost hostile tone that he had taught himself. The gaze in his eyes was.. Jean couldn't explain it. Almost a loathing. He didn't understand why the man hated him so much without even knowing him? He understood it had been presumptuous to be surprised about his literacy.. but.. almost everyone who worked in that kind of career was illiterate, he hadn't meant it in a bad way. ".... Yeah.. I'm a student. But I'm starting to think this was an extremely, extremely bad idea. I shouldn't have ever talked to you. Clearly you have something against me or I did something to offend you, and for that I'm truly sorry." His cheeks flushed red - this time in frustrated anger, his eyes shining bright. "But what I'm even more sorry for.. is you.. Not because you don't have money or need pity, but because you want to shove away someone who would like to be your friend. I thought we might have some things in common. You make presumptions about people. You assume because I'm rich and a student that.. I have something against you or.. that I meant to be rude when I was honestly surprised you could read, and, more than that.. I was interested in it. I'm sorry for you because you think you have to paint everyone who has money with the same damn brush and assume we're all the same. If you didn't maybe you'd know that we're NOT all like that. I care about the workers.. I care about ... about.. Republican ideals.. some of the time.. and.. about doing what's right. But you decided to hate me for what? Because I asked to talk to you so I could compliment you for this -beautiful- piece of art? So I could maybe find someone I had something in common with?" Jean shook his head angrily and embarrassed. "Here. Take it. I don't want it anymore." He exclaimed, shoving the box into Feuilly's chest and heading away down the sidewalk, head bowed. [/style]

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[CHRISTOPHE FEUILLY]

Feuilly stood for a moment, fan in his hands, staring at the retreating figure of the student. He wasn't moving that fast, and Feuilly could see his path easily enough. He clenched his fingers around the carefully wrapped fan, habit preventing him from grasping it hard enough to crush it. He glanced at the ground, thought to toss it down onto the dirty stones. He couldn't bring himself to do it. He looked back up at the retreating figure again, a mixture of envy and disgust and sheer pity rushing through him.

He felt himself blushing. He had absolutely never intended to scare the young man off, hadn't even thought he was capable of it—there were men who could do that with a glance or a strong word, but Feuilly had never known himself to be among them. He was too small, too slight of build, spoke in too soft a tone of voice. His fingers were suited to the delicate work of making and decorating fans, not to violence—though he had been adept with throwing small stones at various targets as a boy. It would be easy to hit the grey-hatted figure in the back with one even now, or perhaps even to knock that presumptuous, upper-class thing off his head with it. The trouble would be the police, the consequences that would come after that.

Feuilly caught himself in the middle of the ridiculous fantasy. What good would removing the student's hat do? Prove that Feuilly was capable of violence, reinforce the idea that he could not doubt Prouvaire shared about the uncivilized nature of working class people. Just like what they thought of the other side of the world, violent and uncivilized and completely untrustworthy. Needing to be controlled, to be beaten, to be subjugated... Realizing that he was glaring with his lip almost curled like some sort of starving street dog, Feuilly made up his mind. His own feelings were hurt, but he'd obviously hurt the feelings of the student, too. Whether he was being honest when he said he cared or not, he was still a fellow human being.

If he threw away the fan, it was a waste of work. If his boss discovered it, he might be out of work for longer than one day. But Jean Prouvaire had purchased the fan, and although Feuilly could scarcely conceive of a life that might allow a person to throw away something that cost so much, he knew enough to realize that young men did not buy fans for themselves. Whoever it was intended for would not want her present to be lost to such a stupid, meaningless spat.

Feuilly broke into a run. It felt good to stretch his legs a bit, after sitting so cramped up in the shop all day. He caught up before Prouvaire had a chance to turn the corner, breathing fast as he tried head him off without threatening him worse. He didn't want a fight, nor to have the police shouted for—the well-dressed bourgeois would always, always be the one to be believed in situations like this. They would even accuse him of stealing the fan from Prouvaire if it got to that.

“Maybe you don't want it,” Feuilly said in a clear enough voice that he hoped he would get this outright petulant student's attention without insulting him, “But whoever you bought it for probably does. Here.” He offered it back toward the man, stopping in front of him and hoping he wouldn't brush past. “And maybe I wouldn't paint you all with the same damn brush if you didn't do it to me.” He tried, fighting every inclination within himself, to look him in the eyes. He couldn't manage it for more than an instant before he dropped his gaze back toward the proffered fan and, in turn, his own scuffed and worn shoes. “....Please, just take it.” He pushed it toward the man again. There was a note of misery in his voice that he hadn't intended to be there.

[JEAN ALEXIS PROUVAIRE]

[style=font-family: times; font-size: 12px; letter-spacing: 1px; text-transform: lowercase; color: #989898; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;]502 WORDS FOR Feuilly No notes at present. MEETINGS [/style]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=width,450,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: #6d6d6d;] [style=padding: 10px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 10px; height: 475px; overflow: auto; color: #1e1e1e;] Jean could hear the sounds, unbelievably, of what seemed like someone - presumably the fan painter running behind him, presumably trying to catch up with him. He wasn't sure if that was what he had wanted, but it was certainly not what he had expected. He hadn't been walking particularly fast, so it's not as if it would take the other man that long to catch up with him. A part of him did want to ensure that that was who was racing along behind him, because if it wasn't and it was a thief or a mugger then he would be in very desperate straits indeed gamboling along like a man out for a Sunday afternoon stroll. Jean was, after all, not exactly built for wrestling, boxing, or fighting off thugs. He was more of the type to be able to debate famously or quip words with others in a banter and casual exchange. His gifts simply did not lie in physical feats - for the most part. He was a gifted swimmer, but that didn't count for much on land with potential would-be thieves. He tried, however, to remind himself that the fanmaker didn't seem all that particularly thievish even if he had managed to half anger/startle/frighten Jean off from conversation with him. Finally, he heard the man's steps grow nearly level with his own just as he reached the corner which would have lef him out of the alley and away from the shop. When he did turn around it was, indeed, the face of the fan painter which met his eyes. And, to Jean's surprise, he was still holding the box which contained the geisha fan which he then thrust in Jean's direction claiming that maybe he didn't want it, but the girl whom he'd bought it for did. Jean was surprised to hear a strange note in the man's voice which he couldn't for sure place but which sounded something like... abject misery? He couln't figure out what had made the man so upset considering not so long ago it had been he who had been being so stand offish and seemingly unwilling to be communicative - and know he wanted Jean to talk to him? What sense did that even make? But he supposed if the man was so broken up about it.. he would at least be willing to take the fan. And, really, he knew he was being prideful to have just taken off like that - only thinking of himself, not considering anything about why the man had reacted the way he did. Perhaps there'd been a reason? Jean wasn't sure what it was but.. perhaps there had been. Slowly he reached his hand out for the fan and took the box back, inspecting it carefully for outward signs of damage, but he saw none. "Fine.. I'll take back the fan on the condition that you'll go to dinner with me at a cafe. Surely you're allowed a dinner break are you not?" [/style]

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[CHRISTOPHE FEUILLY]

The fanmaker looked at the student for a moment in absolute silence. What was that supposed to mean? There were places in Paris intended for workingmen to take their meals, and Feuilly was perfectly familiar with these—but there was certainly no doubt that Prouvaire's suggested cafe would not be one of them. Oh, Feuilly had seen some daring young members of the bourgeoisie venture through their doors from time to time, even if he never quite understood why. They never stayed long, apparently finding the company and the atmosphere unpleasant—or, at least, not intended for them. They had their own cafes, filled no doubt with fancier dishes and the company of their own kind.

Feuilly could hardly afford to take a meal at such a cafe even on the best of days, and certainly not when he was going unpaid for one day at least. There would be a certain amount of luck required if he was going to be paid anything close to the normal amount the rest of the week, either; the boss was known to experience quite prevailing fits of rage when the mood struck him. Eventually he would forgive, but Feuilly did not anticipate an easy life for a while at least. It was difficult enough to keep himself fed, clothed, and sheltered on the three francs he could normally make.

“You bought it, sir,” he reminded Prouvaire in a somewhat weak voice. “It's yours regardless.” He shouldn't have to beg him to take back something he had already paid for, but for whatever reason this student seemed determined to make that happen. Maybe he wanted to see Feuilly beg him, maybe it made him feel powerful if he was rebelling against some tyrannical father or something of the sort. Feuilly didn't want to dignify that with much of a response. It burnt him, made him yet again more suspicious. Some pale student who went about buying fans and then abandoning him would hardly be the first person in the orphan's life to try to humiliate him. He did not, at least, seem to have any impulse toward violence. Feuilly was almost disgusted with himself for the amount of energy he had put into getting the man to take his fan.

He realized then that he could have simply walked away, resold the fan at the market and perhaps made enough to feed himself. If he was lucky, he might have even been able to make more than he would have on a normally paid day. The trouble was that not only did he dislike the dirty feeling of dishonesty that seemed to cling to him at even entertaining the thought, but that the risks could add up to far more than the value of the fan or even a meal he couldn't afford should the student decide to tell the police that the slightly ragged-looking worker had stolen his fan. He could not bring himself to put such a lie past the student, not from what he had so often seen done to others of his own ilk.

That same threat continued to lurk around every decision he could make, like some fanged beast from a fairytale. He glanced skittishly at his surroundings, imagination playing tricks on him and showing him flashes of government uniforms around every corner. He knew he had do no wrong—but this was the very definition of injustice, and it crept under his skin and irritated him. The whims of other, richer men had sent him out into the street for the afternoon, and such whims could just as easily send him to jail with the help of a touch of the petulance it seemed this specimen had already begun to exhibit in his insistence at trying to return the fan the first time.

“I can't afford that,” Feuilly finally responded in a clipped tone. “In fact, I don't think I will be eating at all today, and that's your fault.” The act of acknowledging it broke the restraints he had forced down on his frustration, and he fixed his eyes on the man with a confidence inspired by frustrated anger. The fear of the police was suddenly insufficient to keep him from expressing it. “You're all playing these stupid games with me, and I've had enough. You've got your fan,” some uncharacteristically vengeful bit of him wished the student hadn't taken it back at all, so that he could seize it and throw it to the ground. As it was, he kept his hands well away from him. “You come in, get me pulled away from my work, make me lose my pay for the day—and almost my job!--and then you want me to go with you to some fancy cafe I can't afford, because maybe it'll soothe your feelings? Is that what it is?”

It kind of felt good it get it off his chest, though to be fair Prouvaire had never really said it would be a fancy cafe. Feuilly couldn't bring himself to care. He took another breath, calming himself a bit and wiping the sweat from his hands onto his trousers, suddenly aware he had been clenching his fists and his jaw. “Look. I don't know what you think you're doing, but whatever it is, it's not some game for you to play.” For an instant, fear flooded him that the student would thrust the fan back at him again and walk away. He thought for a moment of fleeing, but there was no sense in that. His eyes dropped again. He began to fidget again with the hem of his jacket, then removed his cap nervously and fidgeted with that instead. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he expected to feel a blow for his impertinence.

Astonishingly, the student was still there. Looking at him as if he'd sprouted wings, but Feuilly supposed he was something of a wonder in that moment. Working-class boys weren't supposed to raise their voices with wealthy students, and if they did... well, there were consequences for that and Feuilly could only pray that this man wasn't going to use that privilege to get him punished. He took another breath, meeting his eyes again. Whatever was going to happen was going to happen. “It's not fair.”

Maybe they were right. Maybe he did think too much.

[JEAN ALEXIS PROUVAIRE]

[style=font-family: times; font-size: 12px; letter-spacing: 1px; text-transform: lowercase; color: #989898; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;]549 WORDS FOR Feuilly No notes at present. MEETINGS [/style]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=width,450,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: #6d6d6d;] [style=padding: 10px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 10px; height: 475px; overflow: auto; color: #1e1e1e;] Jean Prouvaire looked at the fanmaker with his mouth very near to being agape as he listened to the rant which was cast down upon him like, he thought, judgment from heaven itself. One thing for certain, he thought, if God or St. Peter standing at the pearly gates ever needed a rest scolding people, they could have easily employed Feuilly for the afternoon. He felt as if he was being in some way judged for every sin he'd ever committed in front of this young worker. Most of the things the worker accused him of, he'd never once considered doing let alone actually done and, yet... yet he was being accussed of them, publicly shamed and embarrassed and treated like every other rich young student on the street. He sighed. Why couldn't the other man just give it a rest? Why did he had to stereotype him like that, make him out to be a monster who was like every other man. Make him out to be something that he wasn't. He was both hurt and offended by the words and the far flung accusations. But he wasn't going to run away again like a scared little dog with its tail between his legs. No. This time he was going to stay a fight. Not with his fists because he wouldn't be good at that - but with his word. It was his good reputation on the line here. And he -still- wasn't sure that he wanted the fan, but its maker's voice seemed to taunt him - reminding him that his sister would still want it even if he did not. It was only remembering this that kept him from flinging the thing down again as hard as he possibly could - his bruised ego encouraging him to be more manly and do it anyway. But he resisted. His tone was clipped and short - irritated, blaming, accusing. "Done yet?" Jean asked, giving him a slightly hurt, angry, and incredulous look. "I don't know how it works where you're from. But where I'm from an invitation to lunch is an invitation to pay. Unless you're too proud. Furthermore, t's not my fault that you apparently got into this .. mess. I had no idea that your boss was unreasonable. I asked to speak to you for five minutes. That's all. And all it was was supposed to be to tell you I liked your work. Don't throw rocks at someone who's fault it's not. That was all I wanted. I thought you might be someone I'd get along with well - even be friends with. Clearly that was wrong. I don't like to be friends with people who accuse me of all manner of nasty things that aren't true before they even get to know me. The -only- thing I could -possibly- have done to offend you was be a little surprised you can read.. and that's not -that- offensive considering it was good surprise rather than bad. Everything else your boss either caused or you assumed about me without bothering to ask. Thanks. I'm glad to know you're so open minded." Jean responded churlishly. He knew perhaps he'd been too harsh, but he was hurt and angry. He crossed his arms and stared at the fanmaker. [/style]

TABLE BY CALIFORNIA DREAMING @ CAUTION 2.0

[CHRISTOPHE FEUILLY]

So he had offended him, and somehow it seemed almost laughable that he was so deeply offended by being seen as typical of his class. Feuilly wondered how much was the sensitive feelings he might have expected of someone raised in the lap of luxury and how much was, perhaps, even justified. Either way, Feuilly looked for a seed of pity somewhere to feel for him. More than once in his boyhood had the fanmaker found himself nearly on the verge of tears in response to some particularly enthusiastic scolding, even when it didn't come to blows.

It was completely irrational, though—Prouvaire considered it perfectly normal that he had assumed Feuilly to be an illiterate, as that was in line with his class. But then he was offended by Feuilly's assumption that he similarly carried the prejudices and views of his class? Feuilly wasn't sure if it was better to laugh at himself or at this wealthy student who seemed unaware of anything but the content of his own mind. There wasn't really any humor in any of it.

“It's always safer to assume they're unreasonable,” he finally mumbled under his breath. “We're not people to them—and not to most of you, either.” He met Prouvaire's eyes again, seeing there little but the remains of his offense. He had clearly hurt his feelings. Maybe it was unfair to assume that all upper-class bourgeois boys would be cruel or at least disrespectful, and of course they were just as human as he was himself—but it only took a few actual, physical rocks thrown at him to learn it was better to be wary. The books he treasured so much had mostly been written by men of this student's class, but books were very different from people. “Maybe you're different—you're right, I don't know you. But usually the rule goes like this: people like you don't want to be friends with people like me.”

There were, of course, exceptions to every rule—but it was dangerous to count on having found one of those exceptions. For every offer of kindness he had encountered from the Parisian bourgeois, there had been a dozen disdainful looks and hard words, a few blows and other abuses. The girls he had worked with had more to fear from men like this than he ever would, but that did not mean there were not risks even for a man.

The promise of a meal was tempting, but he still could not bring himself to trust the man. Nor did he want to throw himself on his largesse, imbue him with some unwelcome sense of noblesse oblige when Feuilly was perfectly capable of looking after himself. The orphan had learned that, even before he had decided—almost consciously—to adopt the peoples of the world.

[JEAN ALEXIS PROUVAIRE]

[style=font-family: times; font-size: 12px; letter-spacing: 1px; text-transform: lowercase; color: #989898; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;]335 WORDS FOR Feuilly No notes at present. MEETINGS [/style]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=width,450,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: #6d6d6d;] [style=padding: 10px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 10px; height: 475px; overflow: auto; color: #1e1e1e;]Jean scuffed the toe of his boot against the cobblestones as he listened to what Feuilly was telling him. He got the feeling still that Feuilly didn't understand what he'd told him. Prejudices were a mental thing, you had to decide whether to have them or get rid of them. Having the opportunity to learn to read or not wasn't quite the same. You either had that opportunity or you weren't lucky enough to. It was more of a physical opportunity than a mental or conscience decision the way prejudice could be. At least that was how Jean saw it, but he didn't quite think that Feuilly understood what he was getting at. He seemed, from everything he'd said, to see well.. Jean supposed that made sense too.. that if Jean himself didn't want someone prejudice against him he shouldn't be prejudice against that person. He hadn't seen it that way himself, though. And so he was considering all the ways in which Feuilly very clearly did not understand and scuffing his toe as the fanmaker continued. He knew it was bad manners and not very thoughtful to overthink instead of listen, but sometimes he just couldn'thelp that. "You're a person to me just like everyone else is." Jean tacked on once Feuilly had finished talking, perhaps a tiny bit too quick, but there wasn't much harm in that really. He was simply in earnest for the man to understand he wasn't like the others. His suspected that his voice was maybe still a little harsh, so he did his best to rein it back in, swallowing finally and consenting mentally to give up his battle for why their assumptions had been different. There was no point in being stubborn now. "And maybe I'm the exception to the rule." It ws hard for him to be gracious with wounded pride, but he managed to add. "You seem interesting enough. Maybe we could get to know each other. Start fresh. Come on. Supper?" He inquired again. [/style]

TABLE BY CALIFORNIA DREAMING @ CAUTION 2.0

[CHRISTOPHE FEUILLY]

“I am a person,” Feuilly affirmed, not sure whether he should be firm or apologetic. If this Jean Prouvaire was being honest, if he really was different from the others, then he had no need to grovel before him. But then, if it was true—he also had no need to deal with him as a possible threat, just waiting for the chance to land a blow on his back or fling a rock in his direction. “You might be the exception, but how was I supposed to know that?” He hoped he would see the earnestness in his voice.

It was difficult, he supposed, for people like him to understand what could build such mistrust in him. If he could make him understand a little better, would that help anything? If he really was so different, then Feuilly could hope that he would never find himself in a situation that would force him to understand. “I guess you probably grew up with servants,” he observed, still uncertain. “Which... I'm not going to carry your coat,” he dared to offer him a small smile, hoping he could take the joke. “Or whatever else it is you have your servants do for you.” Any possible friendship would have to be founded upon seeing one another as men and equals.

“I'll go with you...” Feuilly took another look at the student, trying to allay his suspicions. “Please don't take me somewhere too... fancy,” he finally added, trying to keep a note of pleading out of his voice. He did not welcome the idea of unfriendly eyes fixing on his paint-marked workers' clothing. “You may not be the same as the others—but that does not mean that men like what I feared you might be do not exist.” If they went somewhere that forced Prouvaire to appear as his protector or patron, Feuilly did not think he would be able to bring himself to enjoy even the food.

He took a breath, rolling his shoulders to try to work out the kink in his neck. What was there to talk about with a student? With another workingman, he might have complained about the shopkeeper's unfair treatment of him, he might have talked about people familiar to them both or about the daily tasks and trials that would trouble them both. But what did he have in common with this man? His thoughts ran through the things he had read recently, the current events of the world that he traced as best he could.

“Have you been following the situation in Poland?” He finally offered. “It's uncons...ionable to divide a country up like that.” His face flushed at how he had gotten caught on one of the words. “I don't know how they can expect any country to just... disappear like that, and not fight about it. It's the same with the Greeks, or even the Romanians... you can't turn them into Turks just because you draw the boundaries different.”