The Adventures of Mademoiselle Mac 2-Book Bundle

by Christopher Ward

  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 tol
d 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?

  “Ah, Mac, even if I could, I’m not sure this would be a good idea. But I see that you’re serious about this. I have a thought. Do you remember Jerome, the bouquiniste you met when you first arrived?” I nodded and smiled when I thought of that bushy face and my first impressions of Paris. “Let’s go and pay him a visit, shall we?”

  Nineteen

  Sashay had a different set of scarves for the outside world, but the look was still all hers. She wrapped me in one the colour of the inky clouds that had been passing overhead all day, and we started walking through the Marais. The narrow streets were filled with couples, families, and tourists, sitting in cafes, wandering in and out of the shops, all at a slow Sunday pace. After crossing three small bridges in succession and passing over the tip of Isle St. Louis, we walked past the rows of bouquinistes lining the river. Smiles of recognition were exchanged between Sashay and many of the vendors, but we didn’t pause to browse the books or pass the time of day. As we came to the last set of stalls near the Pont Neuf, I recognized Jerome, deep in conversation with a couple of customers over some dusty book of black-and-white photographs. He caught Sashay’s eye and wrapped up the book for its new owners.

  “Madame D’Or. What a pleasant surprise.”

  They exchanged a whirlwind series of little air kisses. When it was just the three of us, she leaned in close to Jerome’s bearded face and whispered a few things that I couldn’t hear. He nodded seriously and looked back and forth between her and me. “For you, Sashay, of course. We river rats know all the ins and outs around here, don’t we?” He turned to me. “So, life above ground not exciting enough for you, little one?”

  I shrugged and smiled, not sure how much she had told him about my mission. “There is a way that I know, but it’s very difficult to get in.” He looked me over and added, “You might be just small enough to fit through a sewer grate, but it would be quite uncomfortable, you know.”

  I didn’t bother saying that I had a pretty good idea of just how uncomfortable it was. I just continued smiling. “I’ll close up early and take you there myself. It’s best that way. Always good to see you, ma reine.”

  Another flurry of cheek pecking took place, and Sashay leaned close to me. “I’ll cover for you with Rudee, but please be careful. I could never forgive myself if ... this scarf, by the way, could be helpful if you wish not to be seen.”

  She hugged me and swished away as only Sashay can. I watched people watching her as she passed. Jerome finished bolting down his book stall and said, “Allons-y, let’s go, ma petite. It’s a bit of a walk.”

  We took the steps down from the Quai so that we were walking right alongside the river. As they waved and shouted greetings, it occurred to me that Jerome knew a whole other type of Parisian than I had met so far. He spoke to sun-cracked men and women on boats, coiling ropes or washing down decks, crusty toothless card players at wobbly tables with a label-less bottle in the middle being passed around as play went on, and assorted other “river rats,” as he called them. He was the perfect tour guide, mixing in bits of history of the Seine with colourful stories of life by the river. He also told me about the supposed underground Paris.

  “I’ve never seen it myself, but I’m certain that it exists. These people you call the Shadows are no doubt the ones who were born in the tunnels under Paris and have lived their whole lives there. It’s said their eyes are so sensitive that they can never be exposed to natural light without being temporarily blinded, and that their skin is unnaturally young for their whole lives. But I don’t know any of these things for certain.”

  It sounded like a pretty good description of the characters I’d encountered at the club. We stopped under one of the bridges. I wasn’t sure which one, because we’d been walking and talking for a while. Jerome gestured toward a grate in the wall. No problem, I thought. Compared to my last sewer experience, this was like the doors of a department store.

  “I don’t know why you’d want to be looking underground when you’ve got all of Paris to explore, but that’s up to you,” he said.

  He put his hand on my shoulder and added seriously, “Watch yourself, now. I don’t think these Shadow types are your kind of people. And if you get in trouble, look for one of the river rats. They’ll always help someone out if they can. I guess you won’t be needing this tonight. Would you like me to take care of it for you?”

  He smiled and indicated the duck’s head umbrella. I laughed and handed it to him. “Thanks, Jerome. I’m sure everything will be fine.”

  As he made his way back along the riverside, I waved and hoped it was true.

  Twenty

  Of course, it was more of a squeeze than I’d thought, but I soon found myself on the top rung of a ladder with a deep darkness rising from below. I took a couple of breaths and got settled, not knowing what awaited me at the end of my climb down toward a rumble of indistinct voices and activity. After about five minutes of descent, I could make out the cold stone surface that the ladder was attached to and sensed that I was close to the sounds that were echoing upwards. As I peered past my feet, the darkness seemed to be changing shape. Swirls of light moved like cream floating on a cup of coffee. The blackness gave way to shades of grey, and buildings emerged from the stones below. I fought off nausea as the stench of the sewer rose to meet me. I stopped for a breath and leaned back as far as I dared, looking over one shoulder then the other. The rumble was the sound of human activity.

  What lay below me was the underground city that Jerome had spoken of. I realized I was climbing down a wall between two buildings
that looked out onto a sort of street. I say “sort of” because it wound snake-like with passages shooting off in odd directions. The light was the same harsh metallic blue that I’d seen in the workshop on my last trip underground, and it began to illuminate the world below. What at first resembled wisps of smoke became people passing each other. Long, thin vehicles like tiny Métro trains without tracks rumbled and rolled by. Piles of rubble were scattered around, and drilling was going on in a couple of places I couldn’t see. Buildings had been carved roughly out of the stones, and the light that slipped through the cracks suggested a cave dwelling type of existence. Who would live here? What went on in a place like this? Did they eat mushrooms for breakfast? I’d soon find out.

  As I touched down, I was grateful that my climb was over. I’m not afraid of heights, but you can only spend so much time suspended above the ground without some unease. The sense of relief passed quickly as I realized I had no plan, no clue where I was, and no one to help me figure it out. In a place of permanent midnight, you can’t wait for dark, so I took a deep breath and moved slowly toward the street. Strange people passed each other without speaking or even noticing each other’s existence, but I’d seen that above ground, so it didn’t seem so odd.

  A clattering sound of wheels on stone warned me of an approaching mini Métro train, and I ducked behind a convenient pile of smashed-up rocks to watch it go by. The windows were tinted to make visibility impossible. A band of light where you might expect a bumper seemed to guide it down the stony street. Exploring as best I could without being noticed, I looked in slits of windows to observe the workings of this weird place. I was starting to get oriented and found I could fairly easily slip from one hiding place to another. I had no idea what anyone would do if they saw me, but I didn’t want to chance it. Certain passages were quieter and had odd-shaped doors with numbers that suggested homes to me. The streets the trains went through were a little wider, noisier, and there was more activity inside and out of the buildings. Curious as I was to see a Shadow shop, it wasn’t the time or place for souvenir hunting. A siren sounded and a horn blasted repeatedly until a mechanical voice came over a loudspeaker.