The Adventures of Mademoiselle Mac 2-Book Bundle

by Christopher Ward

  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.”

  Ten

  “Why do you bring the guitar, Leo? It looks like your girlfriend the way you caress it and keep it beside you all the time.”

  Margot cackled at her own hilarity.

  “I’m an artiste, Maman,” said Leo, lagging behind his mother as she puffed up the steeply angled street, leading away from their apartment in the Le Pannier district of Marseille, tucked in behind the old port. He took in the azure colour of the shutters, the elegant shape of the old street lamps, and the simple beauty of the laundry hanging between the buildings in the narrow alleyways as they passed.

  “Artiste!” Margot spat in the gutter. “Is that what they call lazy daydreamers who sleep till noon with a guitar on the pillow beside them?”

  “Hi, Leo.” The daughter of the seafood shop owner ran into the street and waved flirtatiously as they continued up the hill.

  “Leo, will you play me a song?” a pretty waitress called from the doorway of a café with multi-coloured chairs on the sidewalk. Margot pretended not to notice when the girl blew Leo a kiss. She tried to pick up the pace but was now puffing furiously.

  A girl in a raspberry beret passed on a bicycle with a basket of flowers. “See you tonight, Leo?” She tossed him a daisy, which he tucked into his lapel.

  Margot held the railing with chest heaving as she arrived at her parking garage. “So, Leo, you have many fans in the neighbourhood, no?” When no answer came, she turned to see Leo far behind, patting a little black-and-white dog. She was exasperated with her son as always, but he managed to melt her heart nevertheless.

  “Leee-oh, we have work to do!”

  “Oui, Maman.”

  When they arrived at the auto body shop, a cluster of white Marseille cabs lined the curb.

  “Armand, ça va?” Margot called out to a reed-thin man in overalls with a wedge-shaped head and a tiny moustache.

  “Allo, Margot, everyone is here.” He held his breath during the obligatory air kissing. “I see you brought some entertainment.” He flashed a yellowy grin and looked at Leo with amusement.

  “This year we’ll make a top-notch navigator out of my son,” Margot said, “and a winner out of the Marauders.”

  A group of rough-looking men got up from a table at the rear of the shop, abandoning cider and food to greet Margot and Leo.

  “Bravo, Margot.”

  “I like the sound of ‘winner.’”

  “Welcome, Leo.”

  “Leo, you remember Pépin, Baptis
te, and Félix,” Margot said as her son was greeted with back-slapping and crunchy handshakes. “He’s my boy, but be tough with him.”

  “You can count on us,” said Félix in a tone that suggested a rough ride for Leo.

  “So, Margot,” said Armand, getting everyone’s attention, “this year I have brought in an expert to help us with our ... strategy.” He grinned maliciously and the others nodded in agreement. “He’s from Paris.” A sarcastic “oooooh” followed this announcement. “But he was born nearby in the Bouches-du-Rhône, and believe me, his heart is with us. Meet Dr. Etienne Brouillard.”

  The lone straggler at the table in the back of the auto body shop stood up, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. He had jet-black, slicked-back hair, a quiz show host’s tan, and a food-stained lab coat. Margot eyed Dr. Brouillard with suspicion as he passed his sleeve across his mouth again and flashed a gooey smile, with bits of ox tongue and gravy protruding from it.

  “A doctor of what,” she asked, “gluttony?”

  “Enchanté, Madame Mallard,” the doctor oozed. “I am a practitioner of mayhem, madness, and malevolence. If I understand my old friend Armand, this is what you require for the upcoming taxi auto rally, no?”

  “Oui, Monsieur le docteur,” said Margot, “that is exactly what we need to show those Parisian milquetoasts who rules the road.”

  “Very good, Madame, then allow me to demonstrate some of my techniques for achieving that noble goal. Please, everyone have a seat.”

  As the drivers found their places, Leo sat on a pile of tires, strumming his guitar with his eyes closed. The doctor took this briefest of interludes to drain the plate of the sauce beneath the ox tongue.

  “Extraordinaire, Armand. This is not the usual accompaniment to this exquisite dish, is it?”

  “No,” Armand replied, glancing around the auto body shop, “but we like things very greasy around here.” This brought a round of snide laughter. “So we use poutine, a French Canadian specialty with fries, cheese curds, and gravy. If the ox still had his tongue, he would love it!”

  The doctor laughed, belched into his hand, and ran it though his hair. “So, mes amis, to defeat the Partypoppers from Paris, a name whose origins escape me, an aggressive approach will be required. They are more resourceful than they at first appear and will be determined to defend their title.” A general grumbling greeted this remark. “We must employ your detailed knowledge of the terrain, superior driving skills, and some completely illegal and totally nasty dirty tricks.”

  “Bravo,” said Pépin, “the dirtier and nastier, the better.”

  The doctor pulled down a map of the route, which hadn’t been released to any of the teams yet. The Maurauders were already impressed.

  “Did I mention that their secret weapon is a fifteen-year-old girl from California?” At this Leo stopped strumming and looked up. The doctor continued, “How sad is that?”

  The group laughed as one and the doctor gagged with amusement.

  “We have our own secret weapon, Doctor,” said Margot. “My son, Leo. He is a brilliant strategist and will be my navigator this year.” She shot him her broken fence smile and Leo looked like he wanted to disappear.

  “Formidable, Madame,” said Dr. Brouillard patronizingly. “Alright, let’s begin with some elementary evasive tactics, like sign swapping, fake roadblocks, and construction sites, and then move on to basic impersonation of officers of the law and emergency medical personnel. You’d be surprised how effective these simple manouevres can be.”

  “My sister-in-law is a meter maid,” said Baptiste. “I could get some blank parking tickets from her.” No one responded.

  “Rrrright,” said the doctor, “we’ll finish with some easy-to-execute dangerous road conditions and the coup de grâce, the patented Etienne Brouillard disappearing foliage diversion.”

  The group sat silent, nodding reverently, clearly with no idea what the visiting mayhem expert was talking about. Armand went for a fresh round of cider, cigarettes were lit, and all eyes were on the doctor, except for Leo’s. He strummed quietly on his guitar and sang to himself.

  “There’s a girl I want to know

  All the way from California

  When I look into her eyes

  I’ll tell her ‘I adore you.’”

  Eleven

  I was inhaling the best pain au chocolat that had ever been baked while Blag hoovered up an eggy train- wreck-on-a-plate when my phone buzzed. Okay, you know it’s the brand new ultra-cool one, etc.

  Hey Mac, it’s Rudee I’m on sail on the chip.

  I assumed that meant “ship” and texted him back.

  Hi Rudee how r u & Sashay?

  We are waving.

  This could mean many things. Was it auto correct or a Rudee-ism?

  At CAFTA with Blag, he says hi.

  Lying seemed so much more harmless in a text.

  Are you a navy gator?

  I thought about this for a minute. Navigator, it had to be.

  Yes!!! Blag is a gr8 trainer!

  Blag looked up from his breakfast.

  “It’s Rudee. He’s on the cruise ship.”

  “Did he bring his own beets?”

  “As a matter of fact …”

  The food is for birds so I give it to them. I brought my own.

  R u having fun?

  We went to Pompous yesterday. Big fire place!

  Pompeii. Cool!

  Yes. And bowling and playing with the cruise control band while Sashay reads for tunes.

  Fortunes, I figured. K Rudee <3 to Sashay

  Be cart full at the rally Mac!

  Yes, I’ll be very cart full, I thought.

  Twelve

  My mom and dad were waiting on the curb outside the Costes, obviously stoked to be zooming around Paris. My mom had on a funky little chapeau and scarf set and my dad was humming a French song titled “La Mer” and snapping his fingers like a possessed lounge singer. Fortunately, the risk of running into anyone from my school was microscopically tiny.

  “So, the Centre Pompidou has the George restaurant, which happens to have the most spectacular views of the city to go along with fabulous dining,” my mom bubbled, guidebook in hand.

  “And a wonderful collection of surrealist art, things you’ll never see at the Louvre or the D’Orsay,” said my dad.

  Dizzy dropped us off near the museum. “And don’t forget the Stravinsky Fountain, just beyond the square. A must-see!”

  “Wow, it looks like they forgot to put the walls on the building,” said my dad.

  “That’s modern architecture for you,” said Dizzy.

  “It reminds me of Bright Child,” said my mom. “Remember, honey, when I took you to that baby gym and we’d slide down those big tubes together?”

  I could see what she meant, and weirdly, it didn’t seem like that long ago. Is that what happens when you’re with your parents? Regression to childhood just a memory away? My mom took the escalator to the top floor and the breathtaking view while my dad and I went straight for the work of the surrealists like Miro, Dali, and Marcel Duchamp. Now, Marcel is a guy who submitted a toilet to an art exhibit and was surprised when he got turned down! You have to admire the nerve. He also did a version of the Mona Lisa with a moustache and a goatee. I wonder if her recent renovator was inspired by Marcel. My dad opted for the audio tour, which meant that he did a lot of unnecessary shouting, but at least I didn’t have to worry about a repeat performance of “La Mer” at the museum. With parents, you never know what to expect.

  It was here I fell in love with Magritte — René that is. The wacky Belgian with the raining men, the floating rock, and the guy in the raincoat and bowler hat with the apple in front of his face. Apple man kind of resembled the Magritte I knew. Wow! I could see where the inspector’s personal style came from. My immediate favourite painting was called The Red Model and it was bizarre and delightful. A pair of shoes turned into a pair of bare feet and I just kept looking at it, wondering why I w
as so fascinated, when my dad approached and pulled off one headphone.

  “So, you like Magritte?”

  “I love him, especially this one.” Then I realized where part of the fascination lay. The shoes, I mean the feet, were two left feet. When I pointed this out to my dad, he pulled off his other headphone and stared at the painting for a long time.

  “What?” I said.

  “Well,” he said hesitantly, “unless my memory has completely left the planet, this is wrong.”

  “Wrong?”

  “Very wrong. Magritte’s painting is identical to this one, but has one left foot and one right.”

  We looked at each other with what I’m sure was the same thought. Without saying anything, we raced down the hall to the book and gift shop and hastily looked up the painting. There it was — The Red Model — two boots turning into two feet, one left and one right. We looked at each other in silence and then rushed back to the painting, where visitors were taking it in with the rest of the surrealist art as if nothing was amiss.

  An hour later, the other Magritte, the living, breathing one, was doing that little steeple thing with his fingers, pursing his lips and nodding silently, while all around him people waited impatiently. The museum’s visitors had all been escorted from the crime scene. The Red Model still had two left feet, and everyone in the small gathering of employees and security personnel wondered, in whispers, how long it had been that way and why no one had noticed. It wasn’t long before our favourite reporter, sixties hair in place, swept down upon the scene, filled with breathless concern. She thrust a microphone in front of the inspector.

  “Inspector Magritte, is this meant as a personal message to you, and by association the authorities, this newest art attack on the work of René Magritte?”

  In a windowless underground apartment in the south of France, in the picturesque walled town of Saint-Paul de Vence, an immaculately dressed, grey-haired man took special pleasure in this moment.