by Alice Quinn
Luxury is something you have to get used to gradually. At least for some of us. Because I was OK, thank you very much. I’d gotten used to it right away.
Thursday: Fairy Tales Really Do Exist
16
The alarm clock sounded. I went through my daily routine. Except I didn’t just have a hangover—it felt like the DTs. I downed three espressos. Why deprive yourself?
A tune ran through my head assuring me I would be loved forever. As long as the stars were above my head, I should not doubt it. Thanks, Mom—message received one hundred percent. Love you too. She’d moved on to the Beach Boys, another of her favorites. Especially “God Only Knows.”
At eight o’clock, under a fine rain, we headed off for school, the tune repeating in my mind.
The first stop was daycare, where I left the stroller. Then the elementary school, where I gave everyone the cold shoulder. I was actually on time. Nobody would be able to say a word to me today.
When I got home, I realized I’d hauled ass around town with my raincoat on inside out. What a hot look.
It was nine o’clock. I took a moment to have a good look at myself in the mirror, and I wasn’t too pleased with what I saw. In fact, that was why I hadn’t done so earlier. I’d have quite a job trying to cover up the effects of the previous night.
I pulled out my cosmetics bag and got down to applying my colors. My lips coated in ruby red, eyelashes in purple mascara, eyelids in mauve and silver eye shadow, cheeks with orange blush, and a little bit—well, a layer or two—of concealer. The music continued in my head. I felt somewhat better, though my appearance wasn’t what was really bothering me.
I hung up my raincoat. I wouldn’t be able to put it back on now, since the inside was wet. I’d have to wear my old fluorescent-pink jacket. Not the most suitable thing for a visit with the cops. I decided I’d go to the store later and buy myself a coat, jacket, and new raincoat.
I made more coffee and turned on Chérie FM, the type of station that might play today’s song. I painted my nails while waiting for the coffee. Sure enough, the Beach Boys came on.
It was their song “At My Window.” They sang about the birds flying up and down and around, and a little bird coming to the window . . .
Wherever Mom was, she was managing to control the radio to impart something important. I’d have to make sure I decoded the message, though I didn’t know how to go about it. The messages were pretty contradictory today.
I heard a car engine. A knock at the door. I looked at my Swatch. Ten o’clock exactly. I quickly swallowed the dregs at the bottom of my cup and stepped outside. “You’re on time. That’s cool.”
The boss looked exasperated and raised his eyebrows. I didn’t know what this guy’s problem was. It seemed I couldn’t open my mouth without pissing him off. It had become a knee-jerk reaction.
Jérôme gave me a quick wink, but he didn’t say a word. I think he was too scared I’d make fun of him. He was just as cute as ever. He opened the rear door for me. Nobody spoke during the ride over.
When we arrived at the police station, they gave me a plastic cup of water and asked me to wait, offering me a seat outside an office.
After what felt like ages, I finally went into the corridor and shouted, “So, are we doing this today or what?”
Just then, some guy dressed to the nines stepped out of the elevator. He threw me an appreciative glance and came toward me. “What’s going on? Is someone taking care of you?” At my shake of the head, he boomed, “Borelli!”
A door opened and Jérôme’s boss appeared.
“I believe this young woman is waiting for you.”
Borelli stammered, “Yes, Commissioner.” As he stepped in front of me to get to his office, he shot a quick glance at his boss and muttered under his breath “dumbass,” then said in a clear, loud voice, “If you want to follow me, Miss Maldonne.”
I gave the commissioner a dazzling smile as I stepped into the office, reserving a more tight-lipped yet triumphant smile for Borelli. It was then that I remembered why I was there. I flopped down into a seat. It’s terrible how easily we can forget the gravity of things.
I couldn’t hold back any longer. “What is it you wanted to show me? You—”
Borelli cut me off. “Cool it. We need to start over. Let me remind you of procedure here. I’m the one who asks the questions. Is that understood?” So we started over. “Surname? First name? Age?” And so on.
He opened a drawer, and with a pair of large tongs he pulled out a pile of transparent plastic bags. Pierre’s things.
Right away I recognized the little boy’s bib overalls, tiny sandals, favorite stuffed toy—an old, dirty, yellow rabbit.
As Borelli asked me if each of the objects belonged to Pierre, I nodded. He continued asking a whole bunch of questions. Useless questions in my book. Most of all, he wanted to know about the famous Alexandre.
I asked him why they weren’t looking into Véro’s ex. It was obvious he was a total nut job. At one point, he’d cut up her couch into a million strips. But Borelli told me to keep out of it, that he was doing his job, and that I didn’t have to worry. No stone would be left unturned when it came to tracking down Pierre. He also wanted to know if I’d ever heard of a man called Djaïd Allaoui. They had no clue what he did for a living, but he’d been known to sleep in the yard of the daycare.
I didn’t know him.
Borelli gave me back my cell phone and thanked me. They’d made a copy of all the messages and numbers stored in its memory. They didn’t need it anymore.
17
I returned to my trailer at two o’clock. I was starving. I scarfed down the leftover rice and chicken from the night before without even bothering to heat it up. I ate standing . . . and thinking.
Then I remembered I needed to buy a few things, maybe even a new phone. Mine was really old and unfashionable. I’d have to keep the SIM card if I wanted the same number. I just hoped I wouldn’t lose too many numbers from the cell’s memory.
When I got back from the store, I found a folded piece of paper stuffed into the lock on the door. It was a letter, beautifully handwritten in black ink on expensive notepaper. But whoever had left it couldn’t have been too smart. It was pouring rain, and some of the ink had smudged.
I called on you. I don’t know what’s going on with me at the moment, but I’ve felt the need for some company over the last couple of days. I usually like to keep to myself. I’m a bit of a loner, as they say.
But recently, I’ve grown tired of dining alone. How would you feel about sharing a meal with an old fellow like me? You are, by far, the most interesting person I’ve met in some time.
I find your home to be quite charming. It suits you perfectly, my dear. We could go to a restaurant. Of course your children would require a babysitter—or we could take them along. Or maybe I could rustle something up at my place? My spicy spaghetti is to die for. What do you think?
Yours truly,
Gaston
What could I say to that? The old-timer was certainly an oddball. What was he rambling on about now?
I called Véro. No answer. I imagined all kinds of scenarios. That Michel, her ex, had come looking for Pierre and made off with him. That Véro had tracked them down and threatened him with Alexandre’s shotgun, causing Michel to flee again.
Then again, maybe that mysterious Djaïd had something to do with it all. And what about Alexandre? Why were the cops asking me questions about him?
I picked up the children and we meandered home, pausing at a square with a big fountain. The imps loved this spot. We stopped in at a bakery to buy pains au chocolat and gobbled them down in the square.
“How come we get to eat all the delithiouth thingth now, Mom?” Sabrina asked.
“Because I won the lottery, sweetie pie.”
When they heard this, the children
embarked on a celebratory song and dance. They lined up one behind the other, each holding on to the waist of the kid in front.
When they danced past me on their third trip around the fountain, I managed to catch the words to their song:
The little train,
Caca Pudding,
is the winner,
picking its nose!
The big lottery!
The big cookies!
Huh. That was certainly . . . original.
Sabrina ran around with her lunchbox. It was only supposed to hold a few snacks, but she’d packed it with all her precious odds and ends: dolls, clothes, princess jewelry, and pirate treasure.
I let myself unwind for a few seconds and observed what might have resembled happiness.
Although getting used to luxury is easy, the same can’t be said for happiness. We’re always afraid to fully let it in. We always feel something bad must be lurking around the corner.
My headache had gone. My belly was full. The children continued to play. I wasn’t troubled in any way about our immediate future.
By some horrible and selfish miracle, I’d forgotten about Pierre and the sad sight of his tiny yellow rabbit in the transparent plastic bag.
I sighed with contentment. We all headed home, carefree.
As we neared the trailer, I saw something was desperately wrong. Sabrina yelled, “Mommy, the witch found uth! She bwoke ouw doow!”
Sons of bitches. The trailer door had been forced and was gaping open. The windows had been smashed into a thousand pieces. Inside, everything had been turned upside down.
All the closet doors had been pulled off their hinges and we had to step over what (few) contents had been inside. We could hardly move. The cushions had been ripped open, the beds pulled out, the storage cupboards emptied, the dishes broken, and our furniture smashed.
I slowly turned full circle in the middle of this bomb site. My heart pounded like crazy.
The song echoed in my head: the birds still flying up and down and around, and a little bird came to my window . . .
Somebody had been here looking for something. Who? As for what—I had an idea, of course.
Sabrina yelled, “My tapeth! My bookth! My dwawingth! My dollth!”
Simon watched her, interested as always in her hysterics. The twins looked like they were having tons of fun in the midst of all this chaos.
Pastis, his fur on edge, was perched up high on top of a wobbly closet, hissing.
I sat on the floor in the middle of all the piles and started to cry.
It must’ve been shock, on top of all the other emotions I’d gone through that day.
I heard the sound of an engine approaching, then footsteps crunching over the gravel. I was terrified they’d come back. I swallowed my tears and rushed outside. I couldn’t stay trapped inside the trailer.
But it was Jérôme Gallo, all chilled-out and smiling. He’d come on a motorbike.
“Hi there! I was just passing and wondered if you’d like to come have a bite to eat with me.” He saw the look on my face and quickly added, “With the children, of course.”
This guy obviously had his head screwed on.
I had no clue why, but I was pretty relieved he’d shown up, and I fell into his arms, weeping.
I couldn’t believe it. What was happening to me? I wasn’t turning all sugar and spice now, was I?
18
He placed his arms around me and spoke in a gentle voice, like a father comforting a child. At first, I took enormous solace from this. I loved it. Then it began to annoy me.
Who was he to be acting all paternal? Maybe my reaction was a bit unfair, but I had good reason for taking it out on him. I couldn’t stand feeling weak. I’d cracked. I’d clung to this guy just because he was there. That’s all there was to it.
I pushed him back, opened the trailer door, and spat out, “Look! Happy now?”
He stared at me, puzzled, then had a quick scan inside. “What the hell . . .”
I stood there, my mind racing. If we grabbed dinner, maybe I could coax some info out of him. Try and find out who the hell Djaïd was. And whether they were after Alexandre. With some clues, maybe I could locate little Pierre myself.
At the same time, images of sunsets and romantic walks ran through my head.
Right. Not after the scene I just made. I began to wonder how I was going to make up for being so aggressive, but I couldn’t see how. Discouraged, I sat down on the steps, pulled out an old handkerchief from my bag, and blew my nose.
Meanwhile, Jérôme was inspecting the trailer. He talked to the kids, asking them heaps of questions. I heard Sabrina say, “Thank goodneth I had my pwintheth with me!”
After a few minutes he came back outside and sat down next to me. He seemed to hesitate over whether to put his arm around my shoulders, and then he put his hands in his pockets. At first he said nothing, and then, “I don’t get it.”
“Do you think it might have been burglars?” I asked, my voice soft, as if I hadn’t recently screamed at him like a banshee.
He looked relieved. “You told us everything you know about Pierre, right? You haven’t got something here that could compromise someone, have you? Maybe they came to pick it up? Or it could be something unrelated. Have you had a fight with anyone?”
I tried to look as innocent as possible. “No. I’ve told you everything. What am I going to do? Where will we sleep tonight?”
“Actually, I was just going to suggest . . .”
At that moment, a shiny bronze Jaguar pulled up in front of us. Gaston stepped out, wearing a cream linen suit and a Panama hat. He was all smiles, and it felt good to see someone with no connection to this whole sorry business with Pierre.
I know that sounds selfish, but I never said I was Superwoman or Mother Teresa, did I? That’s just the way I am. Although I felt a huge amount of pain and outrage, and a furious desire for revenge because of what could have happened to Pierre, at the same time, I was relieved to see a door opening to possible oblivion—if only momentarily.
“Ah! You’re all here?” Gaston exclaimed. “Marvelous. Is everyone coming to dinner?”
He wasn’t lying about how sociable he was feeling.
“Ummm . . .” stammered Jérôme.
“Have you seen what they did to me?” I asked, pointing to the trailer door.
After a few minutes of silence while he contemplated the damage, he cried out indignantly, “But who could do this to you? And why? When did this happen?”
“Who? No idea. Why? I have a vague idea. And when? Somewhere between collecting the kiddos from school and bringing them home.”
“A vague idea?” asked Jérôme. “What do you mean? Why didn’t you say so?”
“You didn’t ask.”
“So, why?” they both replied in chorus.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t tell anyone.”
They exchanged a glance, each probably thinking I’d have spilled the beans if I were alone without the other one, but they were both wrong. I wasn’t going to tell them I thought it had something to do with the shitload of cash I’d found, and I certainly wasn’t going to say anything about having kept it all, either.
19
The twins decided just then would be the right time to start howling. I picked the two of them up. It’s the only thing that ever works when they’re both crying for no good reason. I’ve worked out an effective technique. I hold the pair of them in my right arm, because I have no strength at all in my left. When I do this, it’s like carrying one giant chubby baby. And they just love it. They snuggle into each other and calm right down.
I walked around the place, pacing.
Sabrina was still weeping. She followed me everywhere, pulling on the bottom of my skirt. Simon sat in the middle of it all, keeping an eye on everything while pul
ling the cat’s ears and tail. Pastis seemed delighted about it.
When he’s taking a break from being the world’s most intelligent cat, Pastis likes to think he’s Rin Tin Can, the Daltons’ good-natured but dumb dog from the Lucky Luke comics. Just then, he seemed sure that Simon’s main purpose in life was to give him cuddles. So he let himself be tortured, loving every second of it.
“Where will you sleep?” Gaston asked.
“And eat?” I said.
“We’ve figured out where you’ll eat. You’re coming with me,” Gaston said.
“I still haven’t decided.”
If Gaston was upset, he didn’t show it.
“That’s what I wanted to say to you earlier,” added Jérôme.
“What?”
“That you could all come sleep at my place.”
“How many rooms do you have?”
“Two. I have a guest room. It’ll be perfect for the kids.”
I gave him a piercing stare. “What about me?”
His face turned scarlet. Wiseass. He’d obviously imagined we’d be sharing a bed. And he wasn’t wrong. Because if I had to spend a night under the same roof with him . . . it wouldn’t take long.
Of course, he couldn’t say it without completely compromising his plan. Sometimes a little naive charm works wonders on me.
“You’ll take my room, and I’ll sleep on the couch in the living room?” he answered in a hopeful tone.
“No, we can’t have that,” Gaston interrupted. “There are two other possibilities. Firstly, she could come to my place. I happen to have a very large house. It’s a bit old and not particularly comfortable, but you’re used to that, aren’t you, Rose?”
I protested, “That’s right. I live like a hobo.”