Redemption (6 page)

I was surprised at how she beelined for the electric guitars—something I had seen my fair share of while looking down on Crescent Street. The one she examined was flashy purple. She picked it up and handled it, dancing subtly to a tune in her head.

I peered around, self-conscious, when I realized that the way I stared at her from the doorway was bound to attract more attention than I wanted, so I walked over to the pianos, never really taking my eyes off her. I fingered the ivory keys of a baby grand while watching the store employee return. The keys were smooth under my fingers and suddenly I yearned to play again in earnest. Not like I had for most of the past centuries, but the way I had for Marguerite, the way I had played on the organ in Notre Dame Cathedral before Odette de Rouen, the first de Rouen I had known, found me.

7

Aude

The dude helping me disappears, and right away I go see her. The violet burst Gibson Les Paul Goddess. She’s like an old friend, and I wouldn’t dare come in here without visiting her. I dread the day I’ll come here to find her sold. It will happen one day, no doubt, since she’s discontinued and all. The real shame is that she’s not even that expensive compared to some of the other Les Pauls, but more than I can shell out on my retail salary. I pick her up, so lightweight I could hold her all day. I run my fingers along her fretboard, enjoying the feeling under my fingers. With my eyes closed, I pretend I’m performing “You Can Buy Me Diamonds.”

When I realize I’ve been dancing around to music that’s playing only inside of my head, I look around self-consciously. One dude by the pianos is looking at me but no one else, so at least I haven’t made too much of a fool out of myself. The infatuated employee comes back, and I reluctantly put the Goddess back on her stand.

“One day you will be mine,” I whisper to her.

I could swear the guy at the piano smirks. I shrug and go see what the salesguy has for me.

He hands me a piece of paper, it’s a pamphlet for a workshop conducted by Concordia University’s Centre for Native Education. I look it over, and wonder what this has to do with what I asked him. Then I realize that the list of workshops include one for drumming with water drums, right below the one for making dreamcatchers. These workshops are available to everyone to raise awareness of the university’s new First Peoples Studies Major.

This is promising. If I call them, they should be able to tell me where I can buy a drum. I thank the flirty salesguy with a smile. He was a big help, and he didn’t give me any attitude for speaking English even though he had a mega-French accent.

I walk out of the store and squint with the sun in my eyes. I rustle through my purse to find my shades and continue down the road toward work. My eyes are focused on the pamphlet instead of where I’m going. I almost run into some girl in a jogging outfit, while I notice the flirty salesguy actually handwrote his number on the pamphlet.

Yeah right, buddy, so not going to call you.

I fold the piece of paper and place it in my pocket.

This part of Ste-Catherine is where all the strip clubs are. It’s wild at night but right now it’s empty, except for the guy walking toward me. He smiles widely and the gap-toothed grin makes him look crazy. Deep creases in his face drag it down. Where it should remind me of old worn leather, instead I think of terra cotta—hard, unyielding, and weathered. He walks straight for me, and I fear we’ll collide. I shift to the side trying to avoid him, and he shifts at the same time. Something about this freaks me out. Yet, it’s the same awkward, sidewalk dance people do all the time. In principle there’s nothing menacing about it, at least not until he actually walks into me. I try to regain my balance, his arm wraps around my neck and he drags me into the alley.

My first instinct is to panic, but I know better. I call on what I’ve learned in the self-defense classes Mom always made me attend. With both hands, I grab his arm and drop to one knee. I lean forward with all of my body weight but just hang there like a limp puppet.

“What do you want from me?” I ask.

I don’t expect an answer, so I’m surprised when I get one, “You can force the prophecy.”

“What?” What is he talking about?

I concentrate on getting away and go through the steps in my head again. Lean forward, let yourself drop using all of your body weight. I’ve got this. I’ve practiced it too often in class to fail now. So, again, I lean forward and before I have time to even think through the next steps, I just let my weight fall. I gasp as his hold momentarily tightens, choking me, but this time, his weight works against him. He is thrown off balance and gets propelled over my shoulder. Right onto the ground.

He’s big and should take some time to get up so I begin to run for the mouth of the alley. But somehow, he’s already mobile and he maneuvers to block me. His movements are slow, sluggish even. Like he’s exhausted and can hardly even drag himself. I should have no problem escaping. But he extends his hand and grabs my arm, squeezing so tightly, I’m sure I’ll bruise even through all the extra padding of my winter jacket. I struggle uselessly against him.

Then, at the sound of footsteps in the alley, he drops me and drags himself away in the opposite direction. Away from the newcomer.

I glance up to express my gratitude to my rescuer, but words get stuck in my throat. For a moment, I swear I’m staring at the guy from the metro, but then he offers me his hand and I notice the clean clothing and well-groomed appearance. This can’t be the same guy.

“Is everything all right?” he asks.

His accent is neither completely French nor English, but definitely posh. Of course, now his voice also makes me tingle with fear or excitement since I associate it with the attack from a couple nights ago. Was it that recent? It seems like a million years ago.

“Everything is fine.” I can’t keep the suspicion out of my voice. I do feel bad about it. It’s not his fault I’m going crazy. But I’m not imagining the attacks. I rub my sore arm.

“What happened exactly?”

I shrug my shoulders. I appreciate his help, but I can’t just stand around and talk about it with a stranger. Anyways, I’ll be late for work.

Before I discuss it with anyone, I need to figure it out on my own. It’s not like I can talk about the drums and the chanting. Or the fact I keep getting attacked by people with strange vacant expressions.

“Listen,” I say, “I have to go.” I don’t wait for his reaction. I just turn my back to him and walk away.

Work—one of those trendy downtown boutiques where things are ridiculously overpriced—is the last place I want to be right now. And I convinced myself a thousand times along the way here that I should take the day off. Yet, somehow, here I am. I have just taken my jacket off when an annoyed Rochelle greets me. I’m stuck working with her on busy days. It sucks and I’m so not in the mood to deal with her today.

“Yes, I know I’m a whole five minutes late.”

“Aude, you need to start being more responsible with this job.”

I roll my eyes at her. This is only my second time being late. Rochelle often doesn’t even bother to show up. So who is the irresponsible one? I want to scream at her that I was attacked, but I can’t imagine that conversation would go well. She’d probably just make fun of me.

I shake my head at her and make my way to the counter. Behind it, I drop down on a chair, prop my feet up, and open my book.

I can’t concentrate on what I’m reading. Instead the scenarios repeat themselves over and over again in my head. It doesn’t matter how much I scrutinize them, they make no sense. They no longer feel real at all.

It may be minutes or hours later, I’ve lost complete track of time, but when Rochelle begins repetitively clearing her throat, I realize that my limbs are still trembling.

I’m about to flash an annoyed look her way, but notice the guy standing there. The one who saved me—if just showing up can constitute saving someone—earlier today. I’m not sure if I’m more surprised to see him there or at Rochelle’s behavior. It’s not like her to be so inconspicuous as to clear her throat. She should spout off some snarky comment or something. I glance at her. From the way she’s staring at the guy, it becomes obvious she thinks he’s hot. I bring my attention back to him without really looking at him.

“Are you stalking me?” I try to sound bored, but the words send my heart rate soaring. Why else would he be here? He’s with the attacker. He wasn’t actually going to save me after all.

I try to be inconspicuous as I take a few deep breaths to calm myself down. I have no reason to believe this of him. This sort of paranoia will just feed my suddenly abundant mental issues.

8

Guillaume

“Why would you think that? I’m as surprised to see you here as you are to see me. Is everything okay? You seemed like you were in trouble.”

“No, no trouble. Everything was under control. But thanks. You helped.”

“What happened?”

“Look, it isn’t really any of your business.” Her abrasive tone seemed false on her tongue. She had something on her mind and I needed to know what it was. “Is there something I can do for you? Are you here for a reason?”

“I was wondering if I could get some help choosing some—” I should have taken a better inventory of the store beforehand. I looked around trying to see what I would need help with and my eyes focused on the eyewear display case, “Sunglasses.”

She looked at me with her brows furrowed. She shook her head in confusion. Before I knew it, the other salesgirl was assisting me. She was pretty; long, dark, wavy hair, olive skinned, large brown eyes, and she smiled at me, flashing perfect white teeth.

The pretty salesgirl nodded at me to follow her. I backed away from odd-girl, and complied.

“I’m Rochelle,” the salesgirl introduced herself.

“Hi.” I probably should have returned the introduction but I was distracted. She unlocked the glass case and I picked a pair of sunglasses at random. I tried them on and looked in the mirror.

“Maybe not those,” I said.

“No, no. I think they look great on you,” she said.

That was good enough for me. When it came to dressing myself, I didn’t really know or care about how to proceed.

Odd-girl looked up from her book. I needed to talk to her.

“All right, thank you.” I tried to make my way to the cash register, but she was still talking to me.

“Well, if you aren’t sure, you can always try these on. I bet they would look hot on you.”

I wasn’t certain I wanted to appear hot or if my appearance was of any consequences whatsoever, and regardless, I only wanted to make my way to the cash register. She continued in her attempt to have me reconsider my decision and I wondered what strange tactics salespeople employed these days.

“No, these are fine,” I told her.

Salesgirl Rochelle rushed ahead of me on the way to the cash register. “I’ll see you at the cash then.”

She was nice but she held no interest for me, just an insignificant mortal. I had an important purpose.

“She looks like she should be able to handle it.” I pointed to my girl, the one I followed.

“Oh, I’m sure she could, but I should be the one to do it … It’s a store policy … putting in our own commissions and such … ”

So that is what this has all been about: her commission.

“I need your phone number to enter into our system so that—”

I cut her off before she wasted too much of our time. “I don’t have a phone number.”

Salesgirl Rochelle looked at me with annoyance and Odd-girl covered her mouth as if to hide amusement. It seemed that not having a telephone number was something uncommon or amusing.

Odd-girl lowered her hand and apologized to me, perhaps for laughing at me.

“Do you have a phone number?” I tried to determine the cause of her amusement.

“Yes,” she said.

This was something else to remember about her, I needed to get as much information from her as I could. “So you work here every day?”

“No, only weekends and a couple of weeknights, what with school and all.”

School. Yes, she would go to school.

“Right. What school do you go to?” This sort of information would be very practical to help me keep track of her.

Her expression closed up; she had no intention of telling me. Had I crossed a line somewhere?

“What school do
you
go to?” she asked me in return.

It was an odd thing to ask me a question she refused to answer about herself. How frustrating.

“I don’t go to school.”

“You don’t go to school?”

“Homeschooled.” I remembered our old excuse.

“Okay, well, thanks for your business.” She was dismissing me.

“Don’t mention it.” I remained polite.

“Okay I won’t, then.”

What an amusing girl.

I grinned, I couldn’t resist, but I didn’t know what it meant. Confused, I started to turn away, but paused when I noticed the corners of her mouth rising in something that came very close to a smile of her own.