Constant is Change
Written for Waen.
Fix skulked silently along the walk in front of the houses of Saville Row. He had never been there before, and any man looking out of his window through the early morning's light smog would have raised his eyebrows at the strange fellow slinking back and forth with his collar turned up and his hands jammed in his pockets. Whether meaning to or not, Fix looked quite a bit like the detective in the illustrations of a cheap mystery novel. Regardless, he continued to sidle along, stopping occasionally to pull his collar up higher or jam his hands lower.
Some ninety minutes later, the door of one of the houses opened and a man stepped out, peering up at the cloudy sky reproachfully. He was a man of medium height, with light brown hair and a cheerful face, dressed well but plainly, wearing no topcoat.
Immediately Fix sidled up to him. "Monsieur Jean Passepartout?" he asked in a quiet, stern voice, which he had been perfecting for a few years now.
"Oui, Monsieur. Bonjour," said Passepartout genially, touching his hand to a hat that wasn't there. "But who are you, Monsieur?"
"Fix."
"Monsieur Fix?" Passepartout's blue eyes widened in surprise, making him look quite silly. Fix chose to ignore it. "I remember you! And you remembered me!"
"I remember you very well, and every bruise you gave me."
"Rightly so, Monsieur Fix. You certainly deserved them."
Fix pursed his lips in annoyance and didn't speak.
"But that was a long time ago! Why are you here?"
"I wondered if you were still living here with Mr. Fogg."
"Of course," said Passepartout proudly. "As if I'd leave him. Mr. Fogg is the best master a man might have, and, Monsieur Fix," he glanced at Fix coldly, "one of the most honourable."
"I don't doubt it."
"You did."
"And I admit I was wrong."
"Nine years later!" Passepartout cried indignantly.
"And at the time when I first realised my mistake. I'm sure you remember."
"Of course! Mr. Fogg was splendid. I'd no idea he could use his fists that way."
"Mm," said Fix feelingly, rubbing his jaw.
"Well," Passepartout asked, "but what brings you back again? Surely you can't have more of the same absurd ideas!" He smiled a little.
"I just hoped to look up an acquaintance while I was in London. After all, there was a time when we were friends."
Suddenly very reserved and very polite, Passepartout said, "We were."
"I wonder, Jean--we might have a drink some time this afternoon for old times' sake?" Using Passepartout's Christian name was a gamble, but Fix wondered if it would make him more inclined to accept. It seemed more friendly, more trust-worthy, the use of the first name.
"I don't know, Monsieur Fix, if I'd feel entirely safe having a drink with you. That is to say, after the last time I did--"
Fix sighed and looked hurt. He was very proud of his hurt look. "That was because of a misunderstanding. If you absolutely must knock me down again to be satisfied, then by all means, knock me down. I apologise for my conduct nine years ago."
Passepartout widened his eyes again. "Well! That's decent of you."
"Thank you."
"You can't mean it, of course," he added curiously.
"Of course I mean it! I don't apologise for myself lightly."
"Oh, yes! Englishmen and their pride and their duels!" Passepartout laughed, as though he weren't fiercely proud of anything and thought men foolish if they were.
At the laugh, Fix became at his ease. Now there was a chance. "So, do you accept my apology?"
"Yes, Monsieur."
"And my invitation...?"
"I suppose I do."
"Good," said Fix, and, once more skulking with the utmost care, he started down the steps and back to the street.
"Wait a moment, Monsieur Fix!" Passepartout called after him. "Where shall we meet?"
"The Silver Lamb," Fix announced after a second of hesitation. "At four o'clock!" And with that he skulked down the street and hailed a cab. Passepartout watched him go, with his eyes widening yet again at the skulking, then shrugged his shoulders, grinned, and went back into the house to request the afternoon off from Mr. Fogg.
~~~
Mr. Fogg, since his marriage to Aouda, had softened a little. It was only a very, very little, but enough that Passepartout did dare to ask for an afternoon off. Before then, he would never have expected it. In fact, he would have expected to be let go if he ever made such an outrageous request; but now he could mention an old acquaintance whom he'd just encountered and who might only be staying in London a short time, and receive no more admonishment than a Look from Mr. Fogg's pale brown eyes.
Smiling his broad, happy smile at the Look, Passepartout once again touched his fingers to his imaginary hat, and went about his business until four.
~~~
Fix had changed.
He saw that as he skulked down the steps, and reflected on it as he rode in the cab. Passepartout seemed just the same, with the same messy brown hair, the same speckles on his nose even at nearly forty, and the same silly sense of humour and mad loyalty.
But he himself, he had changed quite a lot. The greatcoat, for one thing, was very new--it went with the several different looks he'd been perfecting, and the voice he'd mastered to change according to the scenario he wanted.
Of course, he'd been dismissed from his place with the London office nine years ago. One didn't make such a mistake as his and expect to keep one's situation. After that, however, he'd tried to get a job with several smaller police forces or investigative firms. He went in and out of those places almost yearly, through some small mistake on his part or some misunderstanding on someone else's.
The greatcoat had come last year, inspired by some book he'd read or perhaps by the voices he could use. The hat was only six months old. Fix was feverishly trying to be a proper detective, and everything influenced him, even things he knew were stupid. He wanted people to believe he knew what he was doing, and if that meant dressing up like the picture in their heads, he did it.
What luck Passepartout had, staying the same.
~~~
At four o'clock, Passepartout turned up outside the Silver Lamb. His hair was still badly combed and tumbled about his shoulders, and he wore the plain clothes he'd worn earlier. He'd apparently seen no reason to attempt to smarten himself up for the meeting.
Fix was wearing his greatcoat, but with a great effort, he was trying to wear it the way a normal man would--with the collar turned down and the back dipping down a little because it sat on his shoulders loosely. He'd left his hat home.
"Hallo, Jean," he said, taking another chance.
Passepartout smiled and made his familiar motion of fingers to non-existent hat.
They found a table inside, and Fix sat down, taking care to sweep his coat out from under him, so that it fell on either side of the back of the chair. Passepartout remained standing.
"Isn't that hot?"
"What?" Fix looked up.
"Well, it's July. Isn't your coat hot, Monsieur Fix?"
"I suppose it is."
"Mr. Fogg goes to a very good tailor. I remember the address, Monsieur; you might get a topcoat."
"I'm afraid not. Incidentally," said Fix, giving Passepartout a sideways glance, "my name is Stephen. Do sit. They have reasonably good wine here. You won't be poisoned."
Passepartout sat obediently, but after that he began to cast malevolent looks at Fix's coat.
"Well, Jean, how have you fared all this time?" Things weren't going as Fix had hoped. Perhaps he was overusing the valuable first name. But when Passepartout went from saying 'Monsieur Fix' to just plain 'Monsieur', something was going wrong. "Have you a family?"
"No need," Passepartout replied, shrugging. "I'm happy as I am."
"Ah. I--"
"You, Monsieur?"
"I, too, am on my own. Unfortunately--Yes, Eleanor, we'd like a bottle of whatever's good," Fix told the girl who came to the table. "Thank you--unfortunately, I don't even have an employer."
"Ah! I see!" Passepartout suddenly became animated, and Fix felt a surge of relief. "Is that what prevents you from a new coat?"
"I fear so."
"I might give you one of mine. You know, Monsieur Fix, that no man should have to walk around London in July in a heavy coat! It's the very devil!"
"It's very hot," Fix admitted.
"There!" said Passepartout triumphantly. "It's a fate I wouldn't wish on anyone. Things are much better in France. I shall give you one of mine immediately."
"No, thank you. --Thank you," as Eleanor set the bottle and glasses on the table. "But no, thank you, Jean."
"Why not?" demanded Passepartout.
"Because," said Fix carefully, "I don't wish to impose; I don't know that we could wear the same size of coats (I'm much taller, you know); and I do not mean--"
"It's not charity, Monsieur Fix! You pig-headed English!"
"Something of the sort," Fix said affably.
"Bah!" Passepartout cried in disgust, and took his glass gingerly.
"It's not as though I've done anything to it. It was opium before, at any rate, not the wine." Fix watched Passepartout, touching the stem of his own glass almost anxiously until his companion drank. "There, you see?"
"Yes, yes. But you know, Monsieur Fix, you'd be much better off with a new coat, and it wouldn't be any trouble for me."
"No, thank you."
"Why must you be so stubborn? Just accept!"
"Damn it, man, can't you see I've got to wear it? I'm a detective, and people want me to look like one! I left my hat at home for your sake, and wearing my coat the way I am now isn't easy, I'll have you know!"
Passepartout stared at him. "Is that all? You'll discomfort yourself for that?"
"Yes! For that!" said Fix.
"Then Monsieur Fix will pardon my saying so, but he has absolutely lost his sanity."
"I imagine that's true."
"Let me give you a coat. You can wear it when you're not working." Passepartout's voice became coaxing, and he put his hand on Fix's shoulder. "When you're just walking about, or when you're going to have a 'drink for old times' sake', you'll need an ordinary coat, and that is what I'll give you."
"If it means that much to you," said Fix, with an exasperated look, "then very well. I'll accept one of your coats, provided it's one you don't want any longer." The exasperation was at least partly feigned. He was easily persuaded by Passepartout's tone of voice and comforting hand.
"Good!" Passepartout said, and he raised his glass with a smile and drank.
Fix paused. "Jean--"
"Oui, Monsieur Fix?"
"It's very kind of you to do this. I mean to say, all the trouble you've gone to, just to get a obstinate fool to save himself a little discomfort."
"Oh," said Passepartout, with a laugh, "you're making too much of it. I've just asked you to take one of my old coats because you need one, and you've agreed."
"True," Fix said carefully.
"It's quite all right. When we've finished our drink, you'll come back home with me, and I'll give it to you then."
Fix nodded. There was something about Passepartout that was completely disarming. Perhaps it was his good-natured way of forcing a man into agreeing with him, or perhaps it was just the messy hair and smile, but at any rate, ten minutes later, Fix was allowing himself to be lead along the street towards Saville Row.
"Here! I do think it's a waste of money, taking a cab, since it's such a pleasant walk," said Passepartout cheerfully, and Fix nodded again.
He'd thought before that Passepartout had stayed the same, and it seemed clear that, even during the long time it'd been since he'd seen him, it was certain the good fellow hadn't changed at all. Evidentally he'd settled down, but apart from that, nothing was different. The more that became apparent to Fix, the more he felt envious. Seeing how unchanged Passepartout was only made him see how changed he had become.
Bah! he thought, and smiled to himself. Of course that was something Passepartout said. If he picked up more of Passepartout's habits, perhaps he'd change for the better.
"But Monsieur Fix, you've told me nothing of yourself!" said Passepartout suddenly. "Where are you living now? Where have you been the last nine years?"
"I've been all over England, and a little in France. They had no use for me in France, however, and no real use for me in England either. At present I'm boarding somewhere, but I can't tell you where exactly, as all the signs seem to have rotted away or fallen off. I can't stay anywhere better, I'm afraid."
Passepartout frowned. He seemed to be trying to think of a solution for that, too.
Fix prevented him--rather neatly, he thought. "But that's just for now, of course, because I think I've found a fellow who'll employ me--a Rev. Brown who's faced some strange disappearances lately of church artefacts--so if all goes well, I'll be moving somewhere else shortly."
"Ah," said Passepartout, relieved.
"So between that and the coat you've offered me, I consider myself rather well off."
"Yes," Passepartout smiled.
Several minutes and some unimportant conversation later, they stood before No. 7, Saville Row. Passepartout was quick to invite Fix inside, and upon meeting Mr. Fogg in the hall, he brightly explained that he was lending his friend a coat and Stephen must come inside to see which one fit him best.
If Fix was surprised to hear Passepartout finally refer to him as Stephen, Mr. Fogg was astonished to recognise Passepartout's friend as the detective who had arrested him nine years ago.
However, he nodded--albeit somewhat brusquely--and said good afternoon, and Fix returned the nod and quickly escaped after Passepartout.
"He knew who I was," said Fix, narrowing his eyes, once they were safe inside the pleasant little room that served as servant's quarters.
"Of course he did," Passepartout said mildly, rifling through his closet.
"Well?"
"It's my choice who are my acquaintances. He won't say anything, but if he minds, he'll be rather cold for the next three days. It's quite all right. Here! I think this will fit you."
And so Fix found himself standing docilely while Passepartout tried several coats on him. He was rather bemused, but certainly not displeased. When he expressed particular interest in one of the four coats, Passepartout laid it on the bed without hesitation.
"I believe you are quite right. It will suit you excellently," he said, and Fix laughed a little.
"My dear Jean, you sound like a sales clerk if I ever heard one."
"Nonsense," declared Passepartout. "I should like to think myself proprietor of the shop at the very least. Sales clerk is a petty position."
"Quite so," Fix agreed. He smiled, rather amused, and then, without warning, he caught Passepartout's hand and pressed it warmly. "You know, Jean, that you are a very good man." He had made a decision.
"Bah!"
"Jean, I have something to tell you. You are going to think me an utter fool, and you'll probably be right--"
"You're talking nonsense again, Monsieur Fix."
"And you must stop calling me Monsieur. My name is Stephen; I've told you so before."
Passepartout gave him a funny, arch little grin, and murmured, "I suppose Monsieur has."
"Indeed." Fix ran a hand through his hair and shook his head. "Well. What I want to tell you is, I suppose you think I've gone rather insane since you saw me last. You may be right. This detective business, and the absurd argument we had over my coat--well. I wasn't like this before. But I have every intention of trying seriously to get a steady occupation and leave off this nonsense. And when that is done, I hope we may be friends."
At that, Passepartout looked at him innocently. "I must say, Monsieur Fix, that I had hoped we could be friends whether or not you left off this nonsense." He ignored Fix muttering quietly that they would never be friends at all if he could not start calling him Stephen. "You may need someone to knock sense into your head every now and then."
Then Fix laughed. "You're too right." With a little shrug, he took Passepartout's hand and pressed it again. "Jean, for God's sake. I'm fond of you. I missed you--can you believe me?--for nine years, and I went and looked you up to see if I might find you again. Damn it, I'm very fond of you, and I want to know--" Fix realised he was becoming ridiculously flustered, and he gave up and just kissed Passepartout, trying not to let him know how worried he was.
Passepartout made a small noise of surprise, but he returned the kiss. "Parbleu!" he exclaimed a moment later, when it ended. "Ah, Monsieur Fix--were you afraid I should think you an utter fool over this?" Fix discovered suddenly that Passepartout's fingers were tangled in his hair. "Then we are two of the same kind of fool, and I hope you won't trouble yourself about that any longer." And the usual good-natured grin crossed Passepartout's face before he kissed Fix, tangling his fingers further.
That was when Fix realised--Passepartout had not stayed the same as always. Passepartout had changed, too. That sudden knowledge made him unreasonably pleased, and he smiled around the kiss.
"Stephen," he reminded gently. "You must call me Stephen."
"Oui, of course, Monsieur Fix," Passepartout agreed happily.
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