The Adventures of Mademoiselle Mac 2-Book Bundle (6 page)

Rudee and I, with Dizzy following close behind, ran red lights from Montmartre to the Bastille. It came to me that the Bastille was today's major destination for my school group. I closed my eyes a lot on the way and was very glad when we joined a growing cluster of cars near the square. This time we were relative latecomers, since a crush of locals had gathered to stare at the now-naked column. The number of news trucks told us that this was going to receive much more notice than the previous thefts. A barrier was being set up, and the square was being taped off. Rudee charged past and ripped through the tape.

We spotted the bowler hat and tailored black coat of Inspector Magritte near a small group of official-looking men. “Rudee,
mademoiselle, monsieur
.” He nodded solemnly as the three of us approached. “This is outrageous, of course.”

“
Oui
, but Magritte, have you any idea who is responsible?” demanded Rudee.

At this point the inspector made a little steeple with his fingers, sucked in his breath, and narrowed his eyes in deep contemplation. “I have some suspicions and a couple of theories, but no clues and precious few leads. I'm considering every possibility.”

Rudee looked like he couldn't decide whether to laugh or cry, but he asked the obvious question instead. “But how? How do you lift a statue from the Place de la Bastille and erase it with people all around?”

“Right now we can only say when,
mon ami
,” answered Magritte as he nodded calmly and lit his pipe before continuing. “At a certain time every day in this part of the city, as the sun drops low on the boulevards, casting what I think of as a surreal glow over the city, the glare is such that it causes a few moments of blindness. Pedestrians stop and shield their eyes. It's why there are so many late afternoon accidents in the Place de la Bastille, you see.”

I wanted to add that it might have something to do with the terrible drivers, but I didn't want Rudee and Dizzy to take it personally.

“If you will excuse me, I wish to consult with my technicians; they're dusting for fingerprints in the bistros surrounding the square.”

As Magritte departed, Dizzy was already impersonating him, steepling his fingers and saying, “I'm considering every possibility.”

Rudee was too disgusted to be amused. They were exchanging theories when I saw a small group of girls surrounding a woman waving her hands like she was fighting off a swarm of bees. Mademoiselle Lesage! I pushed through the group and put my arm over our sobbing tour guide's shoulders. She looked up long enough to register who was consoling her as Penelope fired off a half-dozen photos.

“Ah, Mac, I thought we'd lost you. I am so distraught. The golden figure represents the spirit of freedom, and the Bastille is the most sacred of historical locations in all of Paris because of its connection to the Revolution....” At this, she broke down and was unable to continue.

“Yes, Mademoiselle Lesage, I share your moment of misery, but we must soldier on in these trying times.” Penelope gave a mock serious salute over Mademoiselle Lesage's shoulder. “Perhaps it would be best for us to return to the residence to contemplate in solitude this devastating loss.”

Mme Lesage nodded sadly and half-heartedly gathered up the girls. Penelope came over and said quietly, “Well done, Mac. We'll probably head for Café de Flore in St. Germain once Lesage is safely out of sight. We used the fire escape last night. Any chance of you joining us for a
chocolate chaude
? The
clafouti
is
magnifique.
No almonds in sight.”

“I'll definitely try,” I replied, but Penelope wasn't buying it. “Look, if you can cover for me, I'll make it up to you, I promise.”

“
D'accord
, ‘Mystery Girl,' but this better be worth it, or you owe me a lifetime of tea parties, teen fashion shows, and pastry-making classes.”

I nodded reluctantly. “Maybe we'll even play princesses like we used to,” she added with a little too much enthusiasm. “Just kidding. Okay, get out of here before Lesage retires that handkerchief.”

I eased back into the crowd, noticing lights and a TV camera, and made my way closer. I was stunned to see our favourite windblown reporter interviewing Luc Fiat. “But Monsieur Fiat, aren't these symbols of all that is light and right with Paris? How will this affect the mayor's campaign?”

He was slick, I had to give him that. With a little shrug and a patronizing smile, he oozed confidence. “You know, Louise ... and by the way, I love what you've done with your hair, it's so natural and windblown ... we Parisians are not so easily disheartened. The sun will come up tomorrow, hopefully, and we will carry on as we have always done. Yes, it's true, the loss of these beautiful golden symbols does take some of the glow from our hearts, but isn't that what electric lights are for?”

He chuckled greasily, and Louise seemed uncertain how to take this. Fiat went on, “But,
seriousement
, you know the smiles will be just as warm and the fireworks just as bright on Bastille Day, won't they? So, lighten up!”

She seemed glad to let the interview conclude naturally on this odd note and thanked him before returning to a recap of the crime for what was undoubtedly the hundredth time that evening.

Fiat stood with a frozen smile as she wrapped up. Suddenly his eyes caught mine when the camera lights switched off. “You ...
la petite
... where do I know you from?”

I know I should've just smiled sweetly, and the moment would have passed, but I just couldn't. Instead I held his oily gaze and said, “Califorrrniiiaaa,” before quickly slipping back into the crowd. Before I disappeared, I did see his perfectly waxed expression fail and change to something darker. I didn't want to stick around to see what came next. I heard Rudee calling my name over the hubbub of the crowd and the growing chorus of car horns, and we hurried to the cab.

“I have to take Sashay to the club. Do you want to come, or should I get Dizzy to take you back to the church?”

I said I'd rather go with him, and we said goodbye to Dizzy. Sashay was watching out of her window when we pulled up, and soon we were speeding toward St. Germain. They wouldn't listen to my repeated requests to assist Michelle, the cigarette girl, and I didn't mention my little confrontation with Luc or Louche at La Bastille. I had to beg to go in with Sashay and promise to stay behind the curtains while I was there.

I met Michelle. She thanked me for subbing for her and offered to pay me. I said no thanks, the experience was good enough for me. We chatted throughout the evening when she came backstage to refill her tray. It seemed that the Shadows were drinking and smoking even more than usual. Michelle thought they were celebrating something, maybe somebody's birthday. I had other suspicions but kept them to myself. The lights dimmed for Sashay's show, and the strange, hypnotic music began to seep into the club, along with the dry ice. I was finding a space where I could watch through the curtains when a voice whispered from the darkness, “Hey,
gamine
, you're blocking the way, move back here.”

“Excuse me,” I said, and was moving toward the voice that I thought must belong to the club manager when a pair of bony hands clamped my shoulders, lifting me up like I was weightless, and carried me quickly down a darkened hallway. I suppose I should have yelled or at least tried to kick my way free, but I was totally caught by surprise and I didn't want to destroy the mood at the start of Sashay's show. And yes, I was scared to death.

Before I had time to exhale, never mind scream, I found myself between two billowing black coats, being slid into the back seat of a long, low car with darkly tinted windows. The seat was soft and cushiony. In the back of my mind, I recognized this as the part in those black-and-white movies my parents love, where the private eye gets taken for a ride and warned to keep his nose out of somebody's business, or else, then he goes back to his office and completely ignores them. I waited for my warning from the bookends at my sides, but no one spoke, and not having anything to contribute, I sat in silence.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught glimpses of them in the dull light of passing street lamps. They both had wispy silver hair and oddly unlined faces with that ghostly bluish tint to the skin. One was the scarred shadow with the bony hands, the other no doubt his pal Phlegm. The coal-coloured eyes staring straight ahead were cold and fixed. The steady streams of cigarette smoke and the little evergreen tree hanging from the mirror failed to disguise the slight rotting smell that clung to these two. I couldn't see the driver at all, just the shape of his shoulders and identical hat; he seemed to know where he was going. We moved smoothly along Boulevard St. Germain and across the Pont de la Concorde until we stopped just down the sidewalk from the giant “Roue De Paris” millennium Ferris wheel that lit up the square.

Once out of the car, they silently whisked me past a line-up that stretched in both directions from the ticket booths, right up to the platform where giddy Saturday night couples were piling into the waiting compartments. Someone entered from the other side of the car I was being led toward, and I climbed up and into the opposite seat as the doors were locked shut.

“There's no smoking in here, Monsieur Fiat.” I attempted to reduce the tension for my own sake. He just stared at me until I wanted to take a shower.

“Yesss,” he finally said, “you are a child, aren't you, after all.” Our car jerked once, twice, as we started our climb. “What you know, my little flea, does not concern me. Paris is a city where things are easily forgotten. Old love affairs, people, places ... and sometimes that is as it should be.”

He had a hazy expression as he looked over the city and down the length of the Champs Élysées. I flashed back to the rally where I had first seen him, and the moment seemed completely unreal.

“This used to be a beautiful city, you know, dark and beautiful. A city that respected its past. The little neighbourhoods, the narrow streets, the tiny houses huddled together; a place where you could discover passages that all but the rats had forgotten, lose yourself and hide your cares, not seeing the sun for days at a time.”

This was all sounding chillingly claustrophobic to me, but he was just warming up, I could see. “Now, some fool builds a Ferris wheel to look down on the spot where Marie Antoinette lost her head.”

He shot me a look that I think was designed to inspire terror. It worked. “One hundred and fifty years ago, the prefect of Paris, a man named Georges Haussmann, with the approval of that little worm Napoleon the Third, ripped this city apart. In a fever of demolition, they tore down all that held people's lives together and sold off the pieces to the highest bidder. Pushing these big boulevards from one side of Paris to the other, they ripped the soul out of the city in the process.”

I wasn't even tempted to mention how cool it was that you could see the Arc de Triomphe from so far away. “Does your family matter to you, little one?” He stared into me. My mouth went dry, and I wanted to be able to give the right answer at this point. We had reached the top of the Ferris wheel, and our little car was swinging back and forth in the night sky. It was a long way down.

He went on without a reply from me. “My great-great-grandfather was a lamplighter at the time, and they snuffed out his job like extinguishing a lamp, tore down his family's home, and sold the pieces to scavengers who called themselves antique dealers. He died shortly after, selling postcards of the ‘
nouveau
Paris' to tourists in Montmartre. My great-great-grandmother whispered his story in my ear as a child at her one hundred and twentieth birthday party. I vowed to avenge him, and she died happily a few minutes later trying to blow out the candles on her cake.”

I swallowed hard and clenched my teeth, pushing the picture of granny collapsing into the icing from my mind. A chilly breeze from the Seine blowing into my face helped me maintain my composure. Fiat continued his story as though I weren't there.

“I grew to hate the light of day. I collected sunglasses, carried an umbrella to school on sunny days. I was always happiest at the end of the day, when my papa would return home and entertain me with shadow puppets of buzzards on my bedroom wall. My best memories are of him waking me up and taking me into the street during power failures to see the ‘true darkness,' as he called it, ‘the shadow of the city as it once was.'”

Despite the bizarre nature of Fiat's story, I felt sad and nervous at the same time, wondering how all this was going to end. Our car jolted forward then backward, and La Roue de Paris started its spin. My stomach was beginning its own journey. Fiat's eyes bore into mine.

“History has its spin too, little girl. The new becomes the old and back again. Haussmann is ancient history, and all that he accomplished can be rubble if fate wishes it. A new vision of Paris is set to descend on this shiny place.” Here, he took a pause that lasted too long for me. “And you won't get in the way of history, will you?”

I'm sure I was still shaking my head and whispering “No ... no” when the ride ended. Fiat evaporated into the night air, and I found myself being helped out of the car by a grinning attendant.

“A little dizzy,
mademoiselle
? Take your time down those steps. Thanks for riding with us tonight.”

There's often a wind rushing across the Place de la Concorde; it's wide open and exposed. Exposed. That's how I felt, blown by that wind, not necessarily where I wanted to go. It was like all the happy couples waiting to get on the Roue de Paris were laughing at me. No doubt I looked a little green, confused, not sure which way I was going. I gave my head a good old California hair toss and tried to look purposeful as I walked to the nearest cabstand. Maybe I'd see a familiar face there, and I wouldn't have to hide my fear or confusion.

It seemed like a long wait. I'm not sure how long, but it was Saturday night, after all. I couldn't expect an instant rescue after the mess that, to be honest, I'd gotten myself into. I tried to erase Fiat's face from my mind, but it was replaced by Rudee's, and I had a pretty good idea of how unhappy he was going to be. Eventually, I worked my way to the front of the line and slid into the back of a dirty black sedan with cracked seats and some kind of frantic music playing. The driver, who was built like a small mountain range, turned his head and leered at me with a nasty smirk.

“Where to, nana?”

“Blag?” I asked, but there was no mistaking the driver.

“Actually, my name is Antoine. Blag's a nickname I got at school, and it wasn't my idea, but you don't get to choose those things.”

I gulped, and too many thoughts came into my mind at once. Had he arranged to be here? Did he know where I had just been? I didn't ask, and I wasn't sure I wanted to know.

“This is rich,” he snorted. “Daroo's been spitting beet juice out of his ears looking for you, and I get to bring back the prize. There's been a full taxi search for you, little Yankee twerp.”

He couldn't contain his glee as he called in on his radio. “Madeleine, it's number 66; you can call off the hunt. I got the kid. I'll head for
CAFTA
now.”

“
Oui
, Blag,” came her answer. “Try to be pleasant to her. You can do it.”

Blag grunted and turned up the bass on his radio to minor earthquake level. I noticed a collection of what looked like Viking action figures on his dashboard. “Listen to this. ‘Clunque' by Malade. Now
this
is music. None of that lame nose-whistling stuff the Hacks play.”

I wanted to jump to the Hacks' defence but thought better of it. I was also thinking about the welcome that awaited me at
CAFTA
.

“Uh, Blag ... I mean Antoine.”

“What, nana, need to go to the
toilette
?” he laughed.

“No. So the cabbies have been looking for me?”

“Combing the streets is more like it, kid. The perfect chance for me to pick up some extra dough. Daroo's had his pantaloons in a twist since you disappeared from the club. What's the matter, Sashay's show too much for you?”

He suddenly accelerated and drove through a giant puddle at top speed, spraying a group of well-dressed diners coming out of a gleaming brasserie. He looked back at his handiwork in the mirror, waving a redheaded plastic Viking. I tried to hide my head in shame as he was gagging with amusement.

“Why are you so mean, Blag?” I didn't bother to correct myself this time. “And why do you hate Rudee so much?”

“Ruuudeee Darooo.” He stretched out the words with obvious distaste. “I've been hearing that name since I was a kid. It's not even his real name. Ask him about it sometime, why don't you? You want to know why, I'll tell you. Our families arrived in Paris at the Gare St. Lazare on the same train, ready to start new lives in ‘The City of Light.' We both came from nothing, but my family did something, and my father built the Moulin D'Or from the ground up, while Daroo's parents taught kids like us in the basement of the Église Russe. And just because he could play the organ, he was the golden boy; but when they needed someone to knock down a wall or move some giant piece of furniture, it was, ‘Hey, Blag, give us a hand, will ya?'”

The resentment in his voice was heavy, and he paused before almost whispering, “I introduced him to Sashay. If we hadn't owned the club, she wouldn't have had anywhere to perform. Nobody buys that ‘Queen of Dreams' act any more.” He fell silent as we neared the lights of
CAFTA
.
But
he
still
buys
it, I thought.

“Thanks for the ride ... Antoine.” I tried to muster as much kindness in my voice as I could. I'd heard two tales of woe tonight, and I could've done without either of them. He just stared ahead, seeming to focus on the windshield wipers. I was glad he didn't come in with me to add to Rudee's stress level, and I needed a moment to collect my thoughts before heading inside.

As I walked into the bright light and warm oven smells of the café, the volume increased right away.

“Hey, it's the little runaway!”

“Rudee, your chick has returned to the nest.”

“Hey, little one, is Blag your new best friend?”

Rudee threaded his way through the laughing and shouting tables of cabbies, trying to look amused, but I could read his expression from across the room. The ridge of his brow looked like a plow heading in my direction as he made his way to the door. I froze. I'd never seen Rudee like this. When he reached me, he threw his arms around me and squeezed me like he wanted to wring me out. “Little Mac, for flying out cloud!” His voice was trembling. “I was so worried about you. Where ... what ... oh, don't tell me now, let's go.”

We rushed out the door to hooting from the drivers and into his car. As we drove to the church, the tension was awful, with Rudee shaking his head and muttering, “I was in a panic ...
mon dieu.
...” as I sat very still and very small in the back seat. It kind of reminded me of that time I fell out of the tree and sprained my knee in my secret grove in the canyon, and my mom and dad and the neighbours had to search until they found me. They're happy you're alive, but once they get over that, you know you're going to hear the expression “just worried sick” a few thousand times before the night is over. Rudee jumped out of the cab and hurried down the path to the side door of the church, his hair flapping with every step.

I could see that the lights were on in his room, and I heard him saying, “Here she is, thank the clouds.” Although I wondered who he was talking to, I was totally surprised to see Sashay sitting in Rudee's little kitchen. Her elegant swirl of scarves, skirts, and hair seemed so out of place in the bright little bare-bulb room with the lingering odour of overcooked vegetables. She swept me up in her lavender cloud and smiled calmly at me.

“This won't do,” she whispered, and proceeded to light some candles, switch off the overhead bulb, and clear a space on the tiny table.

“Tea, Rudee?” She seemed to be offering, but it was Rudee who scurried about, lighting the kettle and digging through drawers for some prehistoric tea bag. I wondered how long it had been since Sashay had been at Rudee's place.

After the emotion and relief at seeing both of them again, I was ready to tell my story. There was no way to downplay what had happened to me, so I didn't really try. Sashay and Rudee listened intently, and I could read their reactions as I gave them the details — alarm at me being scooped up backstage at the club, anger at the Shadows driving away with me, and astonishment at my terrifying turn around La Roue de Paris. They pressed me for everything I could recall about the Shadows' car and their appearances. My revelation about the dark side of Luc Fiat seemed to surprise them, but I had the feeling they believed me. I wanted to talk about his twisted plans for the city and just what he might do, but these questions were pushed aside quickly by a wave of Rudee's hand.

“Little Mac, none of this matters. Your adventures have curtains now. I promise to take all of this to Magritte. It's time to get you back to your friends and home to your family trees.” Rudee read my disappointment and tried to offer some consolation. “Don't worry, you have to come to the Bastille Day party. You must see the Hacks perform, of course, but then it's back to hundred-watt California for you, little one.”

Sashay gave me a sympathetic look. “You know, Rudee's right. Nothing will happen to our beautiful city, and it's not worth taking any chances with you,
ma cherie
.”

I knew that everything they said made sense. We drank our tea, and talk turned to the upcoming celebrations and plans. I found myself suddenly overcome with fatigue and just made it into my bed. I thanked the little wooden angels for looking out for me before tumbling into a deep sleep.