The Adventures of Mademoiselle Mac 2-Book Bundle (16 page)

By the dim light in the cool of the ancient wine cellar, a trim, grey-haired man in his mid-sixties navigated his way past rack upon rack of some of the finest vintage wines in the country. They were arranged by the glorious regions of France and the individual vineyards that had produced the grapes, from the Loire, Alsace, and the mighty B's, Bordeaux, Burgundy, and Beaujolais. Pausing to be sure he was alone, he shifted a crate of Rhone Rosé, now filled with empty bottles, to one side. What appeared to be a wall of ancient brick concealed something else, and as he pressed just the right spot, the bricks swivelled just enough to allow him to slip around them and into a darkened room. Replacing the brick facade, he left behind the dusty and dank wine cellar and entered a cool room with a tomb-like silence. If there was any smell, it was the slight odour of paint and chemicals that greeted the nose. The lights revealed an immaculate, tastefully decorated apartment that could easily have been found overlooking the Champs des Mars in the seventh arrondissement of Paris, where in fact the furnishings had, until very recently, been found. He carefully hung up his spotless, white, double-breasted jacket and poured himself a tiny drink from a bottle on a mahogany side table, put on a favourite recording of Eric Satie, and settled into his customary Louis XVI armchair.

The TV reception wasn't the best, but given the location, what could one expect? The news report was crystal clear, though: a Christmas Day discovery by a Portuguese concierge named Maria at the Musée D'Orsay revealed that the Van Gogh masterpiece,
Bedroom in Arles
, had been altered, or more likely replaced by an almost identical copy, save for one crucial detail, which the police were not at liberty to discuss. The camera found a reporter with perfectly windswept hair holding a microphone in front of a stern-looking man in a bowler hat and suit.

“Inspector Magritte, all of Paris and art lovers around the world want to know what is happening to our treasured masterpieces. First the
Mona Lisa
, and now the Van Gogh bedroom. Do you have any clues?”

“
Merci
, Louise. It's too early to say, but never too soon for concern,” he said mystifyingly.

The reporter nodded, pretending to understand, as Magritte continued. “An offence against artistic expression, whether it be an alteration to the
Mona Lisa
or singing the ‘Marseillaise' out of tune must not be taken lightly.”

“
Mon Dieu
, they are even more stupid than I could have imagined,” said the grey-haired man, peering in disbelief at his television.

“But Inspector, what methods of detection do the police have in these situations?”

Magritte appeared to be deep in thought as an awkward silence followed. “Louise, we must rise above the landscape of uncertainty and soar beyond the horizon of doubt on the wings of the possible.”

“Good heavens, this is utter madness.” The little man could no longer remain seated and fought back laughter as he stepped closer to the screen in disbelief.

Louise's bewildered expression was obvious and Magritte seemed to take pity on her. “Considering that Van Gogh used colours as feelings, perhaps we must apply an emotional logic to our investigation,
non
?”

Switching off his TV and downing the last drops of his drink, the man snorted, muttering to himself. “Fools. They look but they don't see. I must bring this closer to home for Monsieur Magritte.”

Refreshing his drink, he made his way into a large workroom and flicked a switch that flooded the room with light, revealing canvases of various sizes on easels, all carefully draped with cloth. Everywhere were the artist's tools: brushes, palettes, sponges, glazes, knives, and varnish. He slipped on a smock and beret and removed the cloth from a small canvas. On a nearby easel sat a photograph of an almost identical work, both depicting an old pair of boots that strangely morphed into a pair of bare feet. The photo and the painting were stunningly alike, with one strange exception. He smiled at his handiwork, took a sip, and began humming a little tune as he picked up a brush and palette.

“That was a little too close,” said Dizzy, pulling his cab out of the airport drop-off zone and heading back toward the city.

“Rudee's face looked like a hothouse tomato when he picked up the luggage,” I said. “How much can Sashay's suitcase of scarves weigh?”

“Oh, I imagine Rudee is smuggling beets aboard. You can't see him going a whole week without the king of vegetables, can you?”

“No, I suppose not,” I said, curling my nose at the memory of Rudee's pungent lunchtime favourite.

“Sooo,” said Dizzy slowly, “I took the liberty of suggesting a day trip to Versailles for your parents tomorrow.” I was immediately suspicious. “This just happens to coordinate nicely with the rally training session at CAFTA.”

“Ah, so the Christmas festivities are over so soon,” I said.

“I'm sure there will be lots of
buche de Noël
served with the hot cider tomorrow,” said Dizzy with a smile.

The thought of those weighty chocolate logs made me sleepy and happy. “I love how they put the sugar on top to look like snow.”

Dizzy glanced at me with a grin and I knew he was thinking what a child I was. So what, it was Christmas. Bring on the chocolate, whipped cream, and fizzy sodas!

The next morning, the parents headed to Versailles to discover the gaudy palace of the sun king, Louis XIV, while I went to a café in Montmartre to get together with a bunch of cabbies to learn as much as possible about road rallying in one go. Maurice and Henri Rocquette, the brothers who played in Rudee's band, The Hacks, were bringing things to order, never an easy task at the Café Taxi, where arm wrestling, card playing, and impromptu singing, sometimes all at once, were the norm.

“Attention, my fellow Parisiennes and winners of last year's taxi rally challenge….” Maurice paused, grinning, to allow the inevitable roar of approval. “Yes, we know the rules, the opponents, and what's at stake, but this year there will be new drivers and navigators.”

At this point Henri jumped in. “And substituting for Rudee Daroo, who of course is on his honeymoon,” here the drivers let out a collective
oooo
, “on a cruise ship in the Mediterranean,” Henri paused dramatically to allow a group
ohhhh
, “is our favourite California girl, Mademoiselle Mac!”

The room erupted in a cheer, and I blushed. Is there any way to stop a blush? I think my mom imagines people in their underwear so she doesn't feel embarrassed. Yech! Maurice got down to business.

“For the drivers we've got new simulators to create the feeling of bumpy country roads in the south of France, and for the navigators detailed maps of the south and sample riddles to solve.
Allons-y, mes amis
!”

An instant din filled the room before Henri shouted, “One more thing. Madeleine has the new team shirts to hand out. What do you think?”

Madeleine, in her wheelchair at the front of the room, held up a shirt with the image of a grinning gargoyle, like the ones on the roof of the Notre Dame cathedral, at the wheel of a taxi. Cheers greeted her as she wove through the room.

“Leee-oooohhh.” A gravelly voice that rattled dishes, woke sleeping pets in nearby towns, and terrified all who breathed, roared down the hall to a closed bedroom door. Behind the door a guitar was being gently strummed.

“
Oui, Maman
,” a gentle voice replied.

“Come for breakfast now, and quit playing that infernal instrument or I'll use it for firewood.”

“
Oui, Maman
.”

A slender young man with a cascade of sandy brown curls falling over one eye emerged, barefoot with guitar, and sat down in the kitchen. “
Bonjour, Maman
.” Leo smiled sleepily at his mother and put his guitar in his lap.

“It's a
‘jour
,' yes, how ‘
bon
' it is I'm not sure,” Margot Mallard grunted. She was a squat woman with thick legs, thick, tattooed arms, and no neck that was visible. What teeth remained didn't appear too happy about being left behind, and her forehead was deeply lined from a lifetime of scowling disapproval at all she surveyed. The lone exception was her son.

“Oh
Maman
, it's a beautiful morning. The rain sounds like distant bells, and the thought of a bowl of your porridge makes me glad to be alive.”

“Ohhh, Leo.” Margot shook her head slowly, but the roar had softened to a motherly growl, not without affection. “You're too sweet for the world, certainly for Marseille. But this year we're going to toughen you up, my little Ferdinand. You will be my navigator in the taxi rally and together we will honour the memory of your father by beating those five-course, cheese-nibbling, manicured, poodle-fancying, boot-licking dandies from Paris.” As her voice built, spit flew and she punctuated this outburst by slamming her fist on the counter, causing the porridge to leap from the bowl.

“
Oui
, but
Maman,
I get so sleepy in the car.”

“Noooo, Leoooh, you will not get sleepy this year.”

“But
Maman
, I lose my way so easily.”

“Noooo, Leoooh, you will not lose your way this year.”

“But
Maman
, I have to practice for my show on New Year's Day.”

“Noooo, Leoooh, you do not need to practice. You are ready now.”

“But
Maman
—”

“No, Leo.”

“But —”

“Lee. Oh.”

“
D'accord, Maman
.”

She smiled and picked at her teeth while scratching her armpit with a hairbrush.

Leo asked shyly, “Would you like to hear my new song,
Maman
?”

“Of course,
mon petit
.” Margot couldn't hide her pride.

Leo strummed and sang in a whispery voice with a sweet vibrato.

“
There's a lady known as Margot

She comes from old Marseille

She'll take you where you want to go

As long as you can pay —
”

Margot's eyes closed involuntarily and she rocked from side to side by the stove as Leo continued.

“
Margot drives her taxi

So fast it makes you spin

Soon you'll see if you're like me

You'll be sorry you got in.
”

Margot's eyes popped open and she bellowed, “What!”

Leo leapt up from the table and raced down the hall with his guitar, laughing, while Margot chased him waving the hairbrush. He slammed and locked the door. “
Je t'aime, Maman
.”

“
She's a taxi girl/All she wants to do is grab a cab
.”

I reached across the pillow in the dark, knocking my brand new ultra-cool phone to the floor of the hotel room.

“
She's a taxi girl/Flag 'em down fast and jump in the back
.”

“Hello,” I whispered under the pillow, expecting that Penelope had forgotten what time it was in Paris. On the other side of the room there was some restless movement.

“Mademoiselle, it's Bertrand the doorman.”

“Uh-huh,” I answered curtly.

“You have a visitor who asked me to call you on this number.”

“Who is it?”

“He doesn't give a name,” Bertrand paused, sounding sheepish. “Just to say it's a joke.”

I smiled to myself. “Big guy, really big, looks like he could play Magwitch in
Great Expectations
?”

“
Oui, il est très grand
….” Bertrand replied, sounding nervous.

“Please tell him I'll be right down.”

I left a note on the bathroom mirror, grabbed a banana from the fruit basket, and eased into the hotel hallway. What would Blag be doing at my hotel at four thirty in the morning?

“Hey Mac,” he grunted when I spotted him pacing in the street beside his cab. I shrugged and waved at Bertrand, who retreated to the safety of the lobby. I gave Blag an awkward but sincere hug. Have you ever tried to hug a truck or a small office building? Blag was built like a low-lying mountain range, with a shaved head and a permanent five o'clock shadow to go with his gruff demeanour and intense gaze. I've seen people cross the street to avoid passing him on the sidewalk, and not just because he's a one-man crowd. What they don't know, and what took me a while to discover, is that underneath is one of the best people you'll ever meet. I would have been in a world of trouble — I mean more trouble — if Blag hadn't had my back during last summer's adventures. Oh, by the way, in French a
blague
is a joke, so you can understand the doorman's confusion.

“Blag, it's good to see you, but it would've been just as good if we'd waited until at least sunup.”

“We have work to do,” he said tersely, walking purposefully to the cab, “partner.” He shot me as much of a smile as I would ever get from him, which wasn't much. I figured that part two of my rally training was about to begin.

“It's a lot easier getting around the city at this time of day,” he said, handing me a grease-stained map of Paris and a few squares of paper with handwriting on them. “Okay, nana, you're the navigator, start navigating.” He hit the sound system and an angry, siren-like guitar filled the car. As the thunderous drums kicked in, Blag began pounding the steering wheel and nodding in time to the music. A row of Viking action figures bounced on the dash along with the bass drum.

“What's the first clue say?” he shouted over the music as he tore away from the curb into the mercifully empty street. I shrank in my seat and held up the first piece of paper in the pile. It was written in an elegant, if spidery, hand. Blag read my mind.

“Yeah, Tawdry made up the clues. I couldn't think of any.”

“Oh, cool,” I said, “how is she? You guys looked great at the wedding, sorry you couldn't make it to the party.”

“Yeah, well, I can only handle so much of the Daroo crew. And that carnival crap they play, ugh.” Blag banged the dash in time to something called “Death Hurts.” “Not like Malade, this is music.”

I chose not to mention my dad's part in the music-making at the party. I flattened out the map on my lap as we sailed down Faubourg St. Honoré and read the first clue.

Like a belt it holds us in/This is where your day begins.

Blag chuckled as I stared at the map and thought out loud.

“A belt. A belt has notches and ... it goes through loops. Maybe it's an overpass.… No ... they don't have those in Paris, do they?”

“
Death hurts/It's a drag …
”

Blag's singing wasn't helping.

“
But happiness/Makes me gag …
”

I looked up as we approached rue Royale and caught a glimpse of the Madeleine church. What would Madeleine do in her little tower in Montmartre, from where she managed the world of Paris taxis with her giant map of the city? I closed my eyes, and there it was! The road that surrounded the city ... like a belt!

“It's the
périphérique
, Blag!”

“Nice work, short stuff, so how do we get there?”

Good question. “Okay, so let's stay on Saint-Honoré, right past the Palais Royale and head across the Pont Neuf.”

“Sure, if it wasn't one-way the other way.” Blag glanced over at me, grinning, and ran a yellow light.

I had to choose. “Rue de Rivoli,” I suggested uncertainly.

“One way. Wrong way,” he shouted as “Death Hurts” crescendoed.

“Okay, okay.” I tried to keep my cool, already feeling over my head in my new role. “Then let's turn here up to Berger, past the Centre Pompidou, up to Francs Bourgeois, right on Turenne, left on St. Antoine, and around the Bastille.”

“You got it, nav.” Blag accelerated, thrusting me back into my seat, grateful for the empty pre-dawn streets.

I peered at the map but couldn't read it in the dim light, then I remembered that my new phone could be a flashlight. “Okay, I've got it,” I shouted excitedly. “Stay on St. Antoine and circle Nation and take Cours de Vincennes all the way to the
périphérique
at Porte de Vincennes.” This was one of the gates to the city that separated Paris from the suburbs on the other side of the
périphérique
. Relief was short-lived as Blag careened past a terrified vendor opening his newsstand, toward our first destination.

I unfolded the next clue.

See if you can find the star/The river means you've gone too far
.

I didn't know where Johnny Depp's apartment was. “The star.” Was there a telescope in Paris? I wondered.

Blag couldn't resist. “How's your French, kid?”

“Why?” I asked, “Oh, wait, star is
l'étoile
in French.” I practically bounced in my seat.
L'étoile
is the name the locals give the Place Charles de Gaulle that circles the Arc de Triomphe. The streets radiate in all directions, making it look like a star from above. “Let's take the
périphérique
, now that we're here, all the way to avenue Victor Hugo, and then straight to L'étoile!” I celebrated by picking up one of Blag's Vikings and making it do a little dance on the dashboard.

“I'm Eric the Red and I'm going to L'étoile,” I chirped happily, until Blag grabbed it and placed it, gently for him, back in its spot in an arrangement of brawny guys in capes and helmets.

“That's Leif Eriksson, Eric the Red's father. Don't you know anything important? What's next?”

Guess I was put in my place. I'd have to work on my barbarian studies. I read clue number three.

The little sparrow and Chopin/Know this is the place to land.

“Isn't there a bird sanctuary near the city?”

“Not sure sparrows need protection, kiddo,” said Blag. “What do birds do?”

“Fly? Nest? Poop? Sing? Sing, that's it! My dad told me all about the little sparrow, Edith Piaf. And Chopin, it must be a musical reference, right? Like the
opéra,
or
cité de la musique
.”

Blag chuckled and turned up Malade. “Listen to this. Real music. Check this tune out, ‘Obliterate Me,' it's their big ballad.”

The speakers shook and I was having a hard time thinking.

“The Olympia Theatre. She made a record there. Did Chopin play there?”

Blag ignored me and headed into the sparse traffic at L'étoile. “Place to land”? The airport? Or the air salon, as Rudee called it.

“Hard to fly when you're dead,” said Blag, “and there wasn't a lot of commercial flying going on when Chopin was rocking the Nocturnes.”

I knew he was trying to help me, but I wasn't in the mood for sarcasm.

I looked at the map and noticed the big green patches, thinking that's where I would land if I were a bird. “Wait, the cemetery. That's land. Where is Chopin buried?”

“Père Lachaise,” said Blag, catching my eye.

Père Lachaise was a vast cemetery that held the remains of some of the most celebrated artists, philosophers, and leaders in French history. “That has to be it. Edith Piaf is there. My dad said they leave flowers on the little sparrow's grave every day.”

“Well, well, most of you Yankees figure the whole joint is dedicated to Jim Morrison of The Doors. Impressive. Okay, show me the way, kid.”

The map was looking like spaghetti to me with the tangle of streets between L'étoile and the cemetery making my head spin. It didn't help that Blag treated driving a cab like a game of bumper cars. Oh wait — I scratched at the map. That was spaghetti. Nice.

“Okay, Blag, let's take Friedland to Haussmann then right at Place St. Augustine, around the Madeleine, past the Opéra. I can't read the street names, they've got sauce on them.”

“No problem. Then what?”

“Then 4 septembre to Réaumur. What happened on September the fourth? Did Napoleon get his buttons polished?”

“Close. Nappy three got his butt handed to him by the Prussians so the third French Republic began. It was a big deal at the time, but, hey, let's just get to Père Lachaise, alright? Hint — stay on the boulevards, the small streets just mean that breakfast will come that much later.”

“Right. Then rue du Temple, around République, and straight to Père Lachaise. We don't have to actually go in the graveyard, do we?”

“What? Of course we do. I'll take a picture on your fancy new phone of you on Jim Morrison's grave.” Seeing my horrified expression, he added, “Kidding! Why don't you get busy with number four.”

“Okay, it says
Where the wheels come to rest/and the bean juice is the best
.

“Bean juice? That sounds gross. Wait. Ohhhh, bean juice — coffee,” I said triumphantly. “I know where that is. The wheels are on taxis, right?”

“You got it, Cal gal. I think Tawdry took pity on us and made the last one the easiest.”

We pulled up to the locked gate at Père Lachaise. The sun was just starting to come up and it cast long shadows in the ancient graveyard. I shuddered and Blag laughed.

“It's actually a pretty awesome place.” He could see that I wasn't convinced. “You know, if you like ghosts, zombies, the undead, that sort of thing.”

I directed Blag up Menilmontant to Belleville to Villette and into Montmartre at the top of the hill. Blag's cab seemed to be on autopilot as he pulled up in front of CAFTA, one of the few places open at this hour.

I would find out later just how much Blag was not telling me about the rally, but what good would it have done to know in advance about terror on the country roads in the south of France? Of course, I also found out later that Blag had never actually driven in the taxi rally, or navigated for that matter, another small detail that he conveniently neglected to mention. Something to do with the fact that no one would get in a car with him. My stomach was just starting to settle after this morning's ride.

“Alright, nav, let's eat.”