Charlotte in Paris (8 page)

LITTLE BOAT

G
irls, we are going out to a little, charming dinner this evening,” Madame Morel announced shortly after we arrived back at the apartment. We had just filled Madame in on the missing bag, and she was very sympathetic. She gave me a warm hug and
la bise
. “This is a terrible welcome back!” she declared sympathetically.

I shrugged. “It was all so wonderful up until now. What am I going to do about my passport?” I was almost in tears. “I need that! Security is so tight these days, they’ll never let me back home again.”

“Now don’t worry, Charlotte. It will all work out, I promise. We’ll go to the U.S. Embassy tomorrow and straighten it out. This happens all the time,” Monsieur Morel reassured me.

“Where are we going for dinner,
Maman
?” Sophie changed the subject quickly. I saw her glance at me and knew she was trying to take my mind off things. But
more French food was the last thing on my mind.

“We will walk to Petit Navire,” Madame said. “You girls should be ready to go in about twenty minutes.”

I went into the bathroom to wash my face and brush my hair. I changed into a light purple sweater, put on my new shoes and buttoned up my dark purple coat, glancing in Sophie’s full-length mirror. My new outfit was perfect for a night on the town. I felt so grown up and sophisticated in it.
I’d feel even better if I only had my bag
, I thought with a sigh.

Sophie had changed into black pants, pointy black shoes with low heels, and a light blue sweater. She buttoned up her long black coat, and then we linked arms and walked down the hall to the living room. She always looked so stylish. It must be genetic, I thought—this ability to accessorize so cleverly.

“You girls look
très belles
,” Monsieur Morel said. “Let me take a picture of you.”

Sophie and I stepped in front of the fireplace and smiled for the camera, and then the four of us walked out the door and down the long staircase to the street.

I had never been so stuffed in my entire life. We started our meal with scruptillious (that’s my word for amazingly scrumptious)
escargots à la bourguignonne
—snails stuffed with a buttery mixture of mushrooms and parsley. I had to close my eyes, though…they tasted awesome, but they were slimy-looking things. After the appetizer, Madame encouraged us all to order soup. I had
la soupe aux oignions
. It was amazing—an onion soup that
was salty, cheesy, and comforting all at the same time. I am going to put this on my list of French food to make for the BSG, I thought.

For my entrée, I chose
les moules au diable
…mussels in a spicy sauce. Of course, Monsieur Morel insisted upon the cheese course. After sampling
Brie
, Münster,
Tome de Savoie
, and
Cantal
, we took our time deciding on dessert. I ordered the Charlotte
russe
cake (no, it wasn’t named after me, but I wish it were!) with pudding.

All throughout the delicious dinner, I kept forgetting and then remembering again the upsetting events of the day. At first, I was disappointed about not finding Orangina where I pictured her. Who would have thought it could get much worse? I just couldn’t believe that someone would think my bag was theirs…it was one of a kind. Would I ever see my things again? And how would I get home?

When we got back to the Morels’ apartment, Sophie and I went to her room to check our e-mail and plan what we would do the next day.

While Sophie was on the computer, I wrote down all the things Madame Morel had taught me about fashion that day in my notebook. I was still freaked out about losing my bag, and writing about something else calmed me down a bit. I decided not to tell Dad about the missing bag quite yet. Sophie tried to convince me that it might be returned, but I knew the chances were slim. Even if a nice person took it by mistake, there was nothing inside the bag that would connect me to the Morels.

Sophie opened a bunch of e-mails from her classmates.
Philippe had come up with the idea that they should have a party for me before I went back home to the States.

“How about Pizza Pino on Friday night?
Très américain, n’est-ce pas
?” Sophie asked. “It’s a very popular place for our class to go.”

It sounded like a great idea to me. I really wanted the chance to catch up with everybody. How fun!

“And we will be able to celebrate our wonderful week together in Paris—and hopefully the return of Orangina—before you must say
au revoir
,” Sophie decided before e-mailing everyone that Friday night would be perfect.

“Did you notice the way Philippe was looking at you today?” Sophie asked as we got ready for bed and turned the lights out.

“No way!” I said, my cheeks feeling warm.

“Can you blame him? You looked
très chouette
in your new coat and shoes. And the hat was
magnifique
!”

“I have your mother to thank for that.”

“Yes, she has what you call the eye, does she not?” Sophie commented.

“You do too, Sophie,” I reassured my friend.

At that moment, I felt that familiar pang of sadness, realizing that I’d never gone and would never go on special shopping trips with my own mother. But I knew I was lucky to have someone like Mrs. Morel in my life. All mothers have their own special tips and advice to offer, and my morning with Sophie’s mom had been a lot of fun.
Then again, I’m not just here to have fun
, I reminded myself.
I’m supposed to be looking for Orangina
.

“I’ve been here over twenty-four hours and I’ve barely even begun to search for Orangina,” I told Sophie remorsefully. “I feel like I’ve let him down already.”

“We will start tomorrow. You needed a day to get used to the city again. Don’t worry, Charlotte…we will find Orangina. That cat belongs with you.
Bonne nuit
,” Sophie said. Moments later, her breath grew slower, more rhythmic, and I knew she was asleep.

I purposely didn’t mention the coat or shoes to the BSG or Dad, and I definitely didn’t mention the lost bag. I wanted to surprise everyone with my new look when I got back, and I figured there was no use worrying Dad with
the missing passport and wallet until it was absolutely necessary.

I crawled into bed, covered myself with the big, pouffy comforter, but I still couldn’t get to sleep. I tossed and turned. A half hour later, I was still wide awake, staring out the window as the moon rose over the rooftops. Just as the ocean tides are affected by the pull of the moon, I felt torn between Boston and Paris. I wanted to know what was going on back home, but at the same time I also wanted to stay in Paris longer. I checked my watch. It was almost midnight here, but dinner time back in Boston.

I couldn’t help myself. I slipped out of bed to see if any of the BSG had checked their e-mail yet.

STEP BY STEP

T
he next morning, I was groggy from my lack of sleep, but the bright sunshine helped me get out of bed. Even though it was sunny, I crossed my fingers that it was still cold enough outside to wear my new coat and my Kgirl hat again. I walked over to the window, pushed it open wide, and shivered. The temperature was cool…perfect weather for wearing a coat and a hat.

I heard someone moving around in the kitchen so I threw on my clothes and tiptoed out the door, careful not to wake up Sophie. The night before, Monsieur Morel said that he would bring me to the U.S. Embassy first thing in the morning.

“
Bonjour,
Charlotte. Help yourself to some breakfast, and then we’ll head to the Embassy. We’ll get this straightened out right away,” Monsieur Morel assured me. He was a very comforting kind of dad. I had a sudden pang of missing Dad. I wondered if he was at the computer
writing—little Marty sitting comfortably on his lap.

I quickly drank a mug of hot chocolate and gobbled up a croissant, and soon we were out the door.

Thankfully, Monsieur Morel was able to act as my witness at the U.S. Embassy. He declared to the official that I was, in fact, Charlotte Elizabeth Ramsey, and not some crazy girl trying to bamboozle my way into getting a fake passport. The French official was acting very suspicious, but that was his job, after all. Luckily, my father had thought to fax Monsieur Morel a copy of my birth certificate just in case of an emergency.

It took quite a while to get my new passport photo taken, but we finally made our way back to the Fifth Arrondissement, with my brand-new passport safely stowed in the bag I borrowed from Sophie.

“Thanks so much for helping me, Monsieur Morel,” I said when we were in the elevator of the apartment building. “I feel so much better know.”

“You’re very welcome, Charlotte.” Monsieur Morel then opened up his wallet. “Here.” He handed me some euro bills. “You’ll need spending money for the rest of the week.”

He was right—I would need the money. I had no choice but to accept the bills. “That’s so nice of you, thank you, Monsieur Morel. I’ll pay you back as soon as I get home.”

“
Ce n’est pas nécessaire
, Charlotte,” he replied. “It’s not necessary—your father would do the very same for my little Sophie.”

I smiled gratefully. When we walked through the door,
Sophie was in the hallway getting her things together for our day in the city.

“Any luck with the passport?” she asked.

I gave her a thumbs-up.

“
Génial!
” Sophie exclaimed. “Let’s get going, then.”

Sophie and I decided the night before that we should start our search for Orangina along the river. After all, it was Orangina’s favorite place to hang around, with the many scraps of tasty fish. We planned to start and end our search at the houseboat—it had been home to Orangina for almost two years. He was bound to wander back there at some point.

We began our walk along the riverside just as the booksellers were setting up for the day.

Huge, dark green wooden boxes artistically lined the quay. Every morning
les bouquinistes
arrived to open their boxes and set out their secondhand books. Each stand was a jumble of everything you could possibly imagine, but it was beautiful in its own way. Dad and I used to love sifting through the stacks of secondhand books, maps, postcards, and old magazines to find treasures. Today, however, Sophie and I had more important things to do. I searched behind the dark green stalls, while Sophie showed the vendors my picture of Orangina. Most vendors took a peek at the picture, but no one had any recollection of seeing him. It seemed like everyone was too wrapped up in selling their goods to help us any further.

Sophie and I decided to cross over to l’Ile de la Cité via le Pont-Neuf, a beautiful white stone bridge with twelve
arches. When the sun shines, le Pont-Neuf glows, shimmering above the gray water. I could see the massive walls of Notre-Dame rising up behind the black branches of leafless trees. The walls gleamed like gold in the morning sun. I made a telescope with my hands to see if I could make out the famous gargoyles and flying buttresses.

“Sophie and I decided the night before that we should start our search for Orangina along the river.”
~ pg. 103

Sophie and I paused on the bridge, scanning the banks for a glimpse of orange fur. Instead, my eyes were drawn to a figure in a khaki raincoat on the other side of the river. He had been walking at our pace, but as soon as we stopped, he stopped too. When he noticed that I had seen him, he took a stutter-step before he continued on, as if he wanted to hide.

“
Regardez!
Look!” Sophie cried.

My heart almost skipped a beat. Thinking Sophie had spotted Orangina, I turned to look where she pointed, but saw nothing out of the ordinary.

“Sorry. I saw a flash of orange, but it’s only that little girl’s jacket.”

I shrugged. “It’s okay…we can’t expect to find him right away. Did you see—”

“
Qu’est-ce que j’ai vu?
Did I see what?” Sophie asked.

When I looked back to point out the man in the khaki raincoat, he was gone. I scanned all the people walking along the quay, but the man had completely disappeared. I just couldn’t even imagine that the man following us was Mr. Peckham. He was just too nice.

I shook my head, confused, and mumbled, “Never mind.” The mysterious man I’d seen was wearing a
different-colored raincoat every time…what was that all about? Maybe I was just seeing things. Maybe with the time change my imagination was going wild. There didn’t seem to be any other explanation for my strange sightings.

I used to think of the two islands—l’Ile de la Cité and l’Ile St-Louis—as two huge ships cruising through the heart of Paris. L’Ile de la Cité is studded with monuments and important buildings, the largest of all being la Cathédrale Notre-Dame. We crossed the windswept Paris plaza and stopped in front of the cathedral at a worn bronze plate set in the pavement. I was standing on le Point Zéro—the famous marker on the cobblestone from which all distances in France are measured.

In front of me, the massive walls of Notre-Dame stretched into the clear morning sky. I stared up at the huge rose window above the entrance. Though I’d seen it a hundred times before, I was still overwhelmed by its grandeur. I turned my attention to the gargoyles—scary, monster-like stone creatures near the top of the cathedral. Some people claim that the gargoyles were made to keep away evil spirits, but they’re actually used to drain water from the cathedral’s roof. I’d rather think that they were guarding Paris from evil.

Sophie looked at me and raised her eyebrows. “Ready?” she asked. I nodded and inhaled a big breath of air. Climbing Notre-Dame was a ritual of ours. We used to climb it at the beginning of every season.

“I turned my attention to the gargoyles—scary, monster-like creatures near the top of Notre-Dame.”
~ pg. 106

“Perhaps we will see Orangina from the top,” Sophie laughed as we started up the narrow tower stairs.

“We should have brought binoculars,” I said, wishing I had thought of that earlier.

It was 255 steps to the first level. When we were halfway up, the bells began to chime. The biggest ones sent out loud tones that I could feel echoing in the middle of my chest.

Huffing and puffing, we climbed 125 more steps to the top of the south tower. There we came face-to-face with the famous gargoyles. Their crazy eyes and snarly teeth gave me the shivers.

Sophie turned away. “Charlotte, look.” She threw up her hands. From high above, we had a spectacular view of l’Ile de la Cité and the Seine. All of Paris was before us.

“Maeve would fall in love with this view,” I told Sophie. “She’d be striking poses and begging me to take her picture.”

“Maeve is the red-haired one,
non
? The one who loves to sing and dance?”

I nodded. “She’s as glamorous as a movie star. She knows the dialogue of almost every movie she’s ever seen by heart. I need to find the perfect Paris gift for her.”

“Oh, for Maeve, your romantic friend, finding the perfect souvenir should not be too hard. After all, this is the City of Love.”

“Oh yes, Maeve will be easy. Avery is another story.”

“Avery is the little one?
Non?
”

“Yes. She loves sports—anything and everything that
has to do with sports. She’s a great soccer player. She never seems to get tired, no matter how long she’s been running and jumping all over the place. If Avery were here, she’d want to swing from the ropes of the church bells just like Quasimodo in
The Hunchback of Notre Dame
. She definitely wouldn’t like anything cutesy or touristy…she’s going to be very tricky.”

“Hmm. I see. That will require some thought. I will think about it,” Sophie promised.

From the high tower, we scanned the far edges of the island. There would be no way we could see Orangina from so far up, even if he was nearby. I did spot one cat not too far from the base of the cathedral, but it was a gray tabby…not the bright electric orange that made Orangina famous.

After our visit to Notre-Dame, we wandered through le Marché aux Fleurs—the flower market. Everyone in Paris went there to buy the freshest, most colorful flowers. I looked under daisies and behind huge pots of irises hoping to see Orangina’s familiar face peering out at me. Instead, I was greeted with wonderful smells and bright blossoms. Where was that cat? I had the strangest feeling he was lurking somewhere close by.

From le Marché aux Fleurs we wound through the streets of l’Ile de la Cité. We saw plenty of cats, but no Orangina. I got excited once when I spied what I thought was the tip of his tail. Orangina always walked holding his tail as straight and stiff as a flagpole. I saw this scraggly “thing” bobbing down a stone staircase. I ran to the base of the stairs and immediately felt foolish. What I’d
thought was a cat tail was actually a
baguette
sticking out of a woman’s shopping bag. I burst out laughing.

“What’s so funny,
mon amie
?” Sophie asked.

When I shared my case of mistaken cat identity with Sophie, she started laughing and couldn’t stop.

The woman with the
baguette
looked at us like we had lost our minds and marched off down the street.

By noon, we were ready for a break. We munched on
croque-monsieurs
, grilled ham and cheese—my favorite, and sipped on lemonade at Taverne Henry IV, a little bistro that was famous for its cheeses. It was one of Monsieur Morel’s favorites, and the owner was one of his good friends. They both liked to talk cheese. Sophie said it got kind of boring after a while.

After we refueled from our lunch break, we continued to the tip of l’Ile de la Cité. The far end of the island felt slightly removed from the rest of Paris. Traffic noise grew dimmer, and soon I could hear everything. The birds chirped in the trees and bocce balls tapped as older men, bundled up against the breeze, played their games under the low branches.

Sophie and I moved toward the fragile-looking spire of la Sainte-Chapelle. Once inside, the hushed interior of the cathedral soothed my jangled nerves. In the lower level, built for the servants, there were no fancy stained-glass windows, but the ceiling was painted with stars. I sat quietly and collected my thoughts as I gazed up at the stars. When I first moved to Brookline, I had thought that stars and books would be my only friends in my new home.
That was before I met the BSG. Gently, Sophie touched my knee and motioned that we should go. I smiled up at her, grateful that I now had good friends on both sides of the Atlantic Ocean.

I couldn’t leave la Sainte-Chapelle without going up the spiral staircase to peek into the upper chapel. We were surrounded by brilliant blues and vivid reds from the light that poured in through the stained-glass windows. Sophie and I spun around quietly with our arms outstretched, letting the colors whiz by us. I felt like I was at a fairy-tale ball.

After leaving la Sainte-Chapelle, we spent an hour exploring the shoreline. We walked along the island edge calling Orangina’s name. I hoped with all my might that he would appear beneath a low tree branch or pop out from behind a garbage can. We wound our way back through the streets of l’Ile de la Cité and across the bridge. The quay, which had been rather quiet this morning, was now full of fishermen, artists, fortune tellers, and tourists. An endless stream of people moved down the sidewalk, as if in a colorful march. We had been smart to talk to the booksellers earlier this morning before they were too busy bargaining with customers to pay attention to us.