The Adventures of Mademoiselle Mac 2-Book Bundle (7 page)

I woke to the loudest sound I'd ever heard. My turret room vibrated wildly, the windows shaking in their frames, the lamp dancing on the table. It took me a moment to realize that what I was hearing was music, but then I threw my clothes on and climbed down to Rudee's. A note on the kitchen table told me to follow the passageway at the top of the stairs and through the skinny door at the end. He'd added a
shh!
, but I could've screamed “Fire!” and someone standing beside me wouldn't have heard a thing.

I followed the note's instructions and, if possible, the music got even louder. As I opened the door at the end of the passage, the power of the wind alone made me hold on to the doorframe. I looked along the balcony of the Église Russe at the majestic gold pipes of the huge church organ. They gleamed blindingly in the Sunday morning light streaming through the stained glass windows. Behind the middle section of the organ, I saw hands flying above layers of keyboards then a familiar sight — the coil of Rudee's hair bouncing happily.

The music stopped abruptly, and I heard murmuring from below, first a single voice, then many voices chanting in unison. I looked over the balcony and saw that the early morning service was underway. Rudee caught my eye, grinned, and waved me over, indicating that I should keep my head down. I sat beside him on his bench as he whispered to me, pointing out the details of the enormous instrument he was in charge of. On the top of the middle section, perfect gold carved angels seemed to be dancing the shimmy. Rudee was obviously following the proceedings below, because at one point, he motioned me to one side and started to play something appropriately solemn. As the piece went along, he became more and more animated and ran his elbow the length of the keyboard in a mad flourish, shooting me a goofy grin. My shoulders started to shake, and I could feel the laughter escaping from my nose in little puffs. If only the congregation could appreciate this part of the service!

Rudee was in his element and started playing backwards, facing me with his hands behind his back. I started to lose control when he held one long, high, piercing note using his nose, and I knew I would have to escape. I crawled down the balcony and barely managed to get behind the passage door before exploding with laughter just as the music stopped. They must have heard me, I thought, and there was no way I was going back in for Rudee's next big number.

I quickly grabbed a crusty piece of bread (saving it from “death by beets”) and some juice and decided to enjoy the day. Here I was in the most beautiful city in the world, so people said, and I felt like I hadn't stopped to look at it or really appreciate it. I knew that Sashay and Rudee were right. There was nothing I could do to change the fate of Paris. I might as well enjoy it before I had to go back to California, and I was going to have to account for my time to my parents. I still had some time to kill before meeting up with the tour at Notre Dame, the architectural wonder
du jour
. I was happily anticipating seeing the legendary cathedral, and I'd be glad if no one had tried removing or destroying part of it. I wandered over to the Parc Monceau, just around the corner from the Russian church, and entered through magnificent golden gates. It was filled with strollers, joggers, kids on blades and scooters, lovers kissing on benches under chestnut trees, and old folks sitting as still as the statues watching over the passing parade.

A light rain began to fall, so I opened my trusty duck's head umbrella, scaring a pigeon on the path beside me into a major flap. This amused me so much that I began opening my umbrella at every pigeon in sight, until I tired of the joke, well after the pigeons had, I'm sure. Gusts of wind lifted me slightly off the ground. For some reason, I remembered standing with Penelope at the bus stop one day when it started to rain. I guess she hadn't rinsed her hair too well, because bubbles started foaming on the top of her head until she looked as if she would float away. I was laughing so hard, I couldn't tell her what was so funny, and she just kept giving me that snotty look of hers until the bubbles began to fly all around her head and she finally figured out what was happening. Was I actually missing hanging out with Penelope?

I wandered without thinking about where I was going and found myself in a street market packed with people and food. A vendor's voice called out, “
Ohhh-ranges ... trois pour deux
!”

A little furball on a leash was sniffing for tidbits, which were plentiful under the stalls. Furball's owner teetered on high heels in full makeup and shades, long ruby nails picking over cherry tomatoes and radishes, baguette waving from a leopard print shoulder bag.

Trays of shrimp and crabs and clams looked like they had just washed up in front of the fish shop, while a giant swordfish presided over all, jagged jaw propped open. I moved on through a sea of faces and colours and smells — coffee, fresh bread, cheese, spices.

My rambling took me past the Place de la Concorde and the Roue de Paris Ferris wheel, which didn't seem so scary by day, into the beautiful Tuileries Gardens. The light rain continued on and off as I passed the old wooden carrousel and kids bouncing gleefully on the trampolines. A week ago, I would have been first in line for a good bounce, but today my heart wasn't in it. I wondered if I was, in some strange way, not a kid any more. I hadn't swallowed one raindrop today. I'd been admiring the reflections of the old buildings and shimmering trees in the puddles but hadn't even been tempted to jump into one.

As I wandered through the glorious gardens, the sky changed back and forth from black and blue clouds chasing each other across the sky to fistfuls of sunlight being hurled down upon the city. I realized that Paris was both a “city of light” and a dark and stormy place; it didn't have to be one thing or the other. At one point a cloudburst soaked everything while the sun continued to shine cheerfully, waiting for its chance to dry us all off again.

As I approached a circular pond with tiny sailboats scudding around in it, I saw another tacky emblem of the “Lighten Up” campaign. A fake beach had been constructed beside the pond with a row of beach chairs, each with a sun-shaped balloon attached. A wonky volleyball net sagged unused to one side, and instead of playing in the sand, the kids seemed to be happier kicking it into the water or at each other. A woeful looking character wearing a sandwich board that said
MONSIEUR LE DUDE
in glittery letters wasn't having much luck peddling sunscreen.

The craziness of this kept echoing in my head as I walked alongside the river, admiring the views that I'd seen in so many movies, books, and postcards — the beautiful bridges and historic buildings and, of course, the glory of the Cathedral Notre Dame. Waiting for Mademoiselle Lesage and my classmates to arrive, I stood in awe of its ancient stones, the beautiful rose window, the incredible spire, and the wonderful flying buttresses that looked like praying mantis legs, holding up the walls of the cathedral. Spotting my classmates, I slid into the group a little guiltily, catching Penelope's usual expression of disapproval. While Mademoiselle Lesage regaled us with the rambling history of the building and its architectural details, Penelope told me that our guide had shown a whole new permissive side last night and had taken the girls to a jazz club in St. Germain called Le Bilbouquet, where, according to Mademoiselle Lesage, a combo that was
la bombe
had been playing. I, unfortunately, had apparently been too tired to join this expedition into the world of Paris nighttime cool. Just then something in our guide's portrait of Notre Dame caught my ear.

“... and although they were originally designed to divert water from the sides of buildings, these grotesque mythical creatures also came to be seen as images of evil. The gargoyles can take many forms — goats, monkeys, lions, and dogs ...”

A chill came over me and I heard Scar's words in my head:
Did you remember to feed the gargoyles?

Instantly I knew there were some things I had to find out. I made yet another excuse to Penelope, seriously stretching the bonds of our friendship. She shrugged as if she was expecting this, and I eased out of Notre Dame and over the Pont Saint Louis toward the Marais and Sashay's place.

I approached the scarf museum and peered in the window. Busts of famous scarf wearers filled the small room, each wrapped stylishly in a swirl of silk or chiffon of different colours and patterns. A cravat section at the back featured dandies of the past with pencil-thin moustaches and berets. In the window, a bust that dominated them all featured a cascade of white material and a little plaque that read
Gift of Sashay D'Or, La Reine Des Rêves.
I smiled at the bust, which looked nothing like her to me, and decided to see if she was in. I rang, and her voice answered, distant and small. When I said it was me, she let me in right away.

The same red candles were burning and the familiar music played as Sashay led me into her apartment. It seemed to require an effort for her to smile at me, and there was a weariness about her that filled the room. She offered me tea and some powdery madeleine cookies and asked what I'd been doing today. I enthusiastically described my ramble around the city, but she wasn't really listening, just nodding in all the right places. I said I hoped I wasn't disturbing her or keeping her from something important, and a thin smile passed over her face. “No, little girl, I have nowhere to be, nothing to demand my time. I'm glad to see your happy face, because I'm afraid there isn't much happiness here today.”

As she sighed deeply, I tried not to fidget, waiting to hear the story I was sure was coming, if I was patient enough. She fussed with the swan teapot, trimmed a couple of her candles, and looked out her window, almost forgetting I was there, it seemed. “I suppose I always knew one day I would have to fold up my scarves and put them into the trunk for the last time.”

Her shoulders sagged under the weight of her latest sigh, and I was beginning to feel deflated myself. She looked at me from under her waxy lashes. “I suppose you would not know that tomorrow is my last night at the club. They're closing it for renovations then reopening it as the Moulin Noir. I don't fit the new look of the club, and I doubt I would want to, from what I've heard.”

Rumours of an “Underground” theme were circulating, with stacks of fake bones and a cave-like feeling to the architecture. “Rudee tells me that he'll help me find another place to dance, but I don't think he realizes how impossible that would be. People don't want the same things when they go out now. Everything has to be loud and blindingly bright, so you can't hear or think or feel anything at all.”

I told her that we have places in America like that. They're called malls.

She smiled and said, “Last night was my first time at Rudee's apartment in almost ten years.” Her nose curled a bit in recollection. “The time before that, he had broken his leg falling off the church organ; that's still something of a mystery to me.”

It was my turn to smile as I recalled this morning's spectacle. “Sashay?” I started slowly. “There's something I've been curious about.”

That knowing look came over her serene face. “How does your dance work? I mean, how do you make people feel like I did, like I was a young kid on the beach again?”

Sashay nodded, and I had the sense that she was considering how much she could explain. She refilled our teacups and seemed to be looking at something that wasn't there. “I guess I have my mother to thank for most of who I am. She came to France with a family of gypsies, part of a religious group called the Dervishes. They danced a special swirling dance together that sent all who took part into a kind of trance.” She looked at me to see how this was being received. I was fascinated.

“My father belonged to a new group of mystic French magicians, and two people like my parents were probably destined to meet. My mother taught me the ancient dance of the scarves and how it takes people back to places they've loved.” Here she paused and arched a painted brow before continuing. “My father showed me how the perfect scent, the mood of the lighting, and the mystery of the music helped prepare the audience to be taken away from the everyday world.” Sashay allowed a quiet calm to pass between us before adding in a happier tone, “Maybe I will show you the dance sometime. Would you be interested,
ma cherie
? I have no one to give this to. And you look very good wrapped in the scarves!”

We both laughed, and I realized how good it was being with Sashay. I felt like I could tell her anything. I took a deep breath and told her that I thought Fiat and his gang were going to do something terrible, very soon. I didn't know what it was, but if they could steal monuments and maybe make Paris darker by the day, it could be pretty bad. I just didn't believe that the police, if Magritte was any example, had a chance of preventing anything from happening. Not that I did, by myself, but if I could find out something definite, well maybe somebody powerful could prevent them, somehow. I told her that I wanted to go back underground to where the Shadows did their dirty work and take a look. Could she get me there, I wondered?