Second Fiddle

by Rosanne Parry

  We gathered up our backpacks and instruments and started to walk down the sidewalk that went along the Seine. The first bridge had a smooth pale yellow stone arch very low over the water. There was only enough room underneath for the sidewalk, with no cozy camping spot up under the roadbed like you get with American bridges. We walked to the next bridge, and it was exactly the same, but this one had statues on top. The one after that was identical but with flowers all along the railing.

  “Don’t these people know how to make any other kind of bridge?” Giselle said, pulling her cello along to the fourth bridge in four blocks. “What do homeless people do around here?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Maybe we could just find a bum and secretly follow him around and figure out where he sleeps.”

  “I bet they keep the bums pretty far from that,” Vivian said, pointing across the river to the Cathedral of Notre Dame.

  It looked exactly like all the posters, with square towers in front and spider-leg buttresses in the back. We turned south away from the river and headed back toward the Sorbonne because a university seemed like a logical place to look for bums. We turned onto a street called Saint Jacques. On the corner was a little green fountain with four cast-iron ladies holding up a basin of water. There were two trees with benches going all the way around the trunk and a bookstore with green windows and a sign that said SHAKESPEARE AND COMPANY in yellow and green letters.

  “Hey, look, it’s in English,” Vivian said.

  It’s funny how your own language jumps out at you when you’re in another country.

  “Oh my gosh,” Giselle said. “I’ve heard of this place.”

  “Me too,” I said. “I think it was in the Stars and Stripes newspaper.”

  “This is perfect,” Giselle whispered. “Come here quick!” She tugged us around the corner. “It’s an American bookshop, and it’s run by this really old guy who’s a little crazy. He has beds in the shop, and anyone can stay for free as long as they are a writer.”

  “Okay,” I said. “That would be perfect—if we were writers.”

  “We’re liars, aren’t we?” Giselle said. “What’s the difference?”

  “Um, the lack of actual writing.”

  “Oh, come on, Jody,” Giselle said. “Have some imagination. Everybody writes. You don’t have to have a book.”

  “We’re going to have to look older,” Vivian said, already on board.

  “Yeah, and let’s write some books while we’re at it. I’ll just get started now.”

  “Don’t be lame, Jody,” Vivian said. “You write music, remember? ‘Canon for Three Friends.’ ”

  Giselle began to sing the cello line of my composition. Vivi chimed in with her violin part on the fourth measure. They remembered my music! And we’d only performed it once! I could have hugged them both.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’m in. So how do we look older?”

  “We just have to fool an old guy, right?” Vivi said.

  “No problem,” Giselle said. “First, we can’t all wear jeans. I’ll change back into my skirt and blouse from the contest. Vivi, I think you should keep the T-shirt you have on, because it’s nice-looking, and it doesn’t have any words on it, but you should put your skirt back on. What are we going to do about Jody? Because we can’t all wear the same black skirt, either.”

  “Definitely lose the ponytail,” Vivian said. She looked at me with a critical eye. “I think if she puts on her white blouse and wears nice shoes with the jeans, she’ll be fine.”

  “So where are we going to change?” Giselle said. “Because I am not lugging my cello all the way back to the train station to find a clean bathroom.”

  “There’s a church over there,” I said, pointing to a square steeple with a triangle roof on top. “It looks like it’s just a block away. It’s Saturday afternoon, so most churches will be open for confessions before evening Mass.”

  “Are you serious?” Giselle said. “We can just walk in and use the confessional?”

  “Yeah, I guess. You just have to say some sins, and how hard will that be—lying, kidnapping, treason. I bet you’ll be able to think of something. It’s not scary, Giselle. I’ve been doing it since I was seven.”

  “Seven? Are you crazy?” Vivian said. “Seven-year-olds don’t sin.”

  “You don’t babysit very much, do you?”

  “Well, I don’t think I can go to confession. It’s not my religion.”

  “Giselle,” I said, reaching up to put my arm around her shoulder, “it’s not about God. It’s about clothes.” I steered her down the street toward the steeple.

  The sign outside the church said it was Saint Séverin. I guess the main thing with churches in Paris was to choose saints no one has ever heard of. Inside it was cool and quiet. There was a forest of stone columns that spread ribs across the ceiling like the branches of palm trees. There were chairs instead of pews in the middle of the church. We took our places on the right, beside the confessional doors. There were a few tourists walking around the edges and some grandmas with scarves tied over their hair sitting in the chairs. We watched the old ladies go in and out of the first confessional, but no one went into the second one.

  “That one’s empty,” I said. “Watch the door for me.”

  I slid my violin under the chair and took my backpack in with me. It was dark inside the confessional except for a shaft of deep blue and amber light from the stained-glass window behind me. It was only a little bit bigger than a bathroom stall, with a kneeler, a dozen boxes of votive candles stacked in the corner, and a layer of dust on the armrest. I changed as quickly as I could without making any noise and slipped back outside.

  Giselle went in, and I started praying out of habit. I asked forgiveness for changing in the confessional, just in case it was a sin, and then I confessed ahead of time about lying to the bookstore owner, but that didn’t seem like much of a sin to me, either. Not compared to stealing from your friends—from someone who saved your life. I thought about Arvo lying on the ground spitting up river water, hiding under the bridge, all bruised and bloody, and sneaking around on the train because of the spy guy.

  What if he was lying about his family in Estonia? Maybe he just hated the Soviet army and would say anything to get away. What if he was going to be all alone and homeless when we went back to Berlin? I bet he thought we were just another pack of rich Americans, even me. He probably thought it wasn’t wrong to steal from rich people, like I think it’s not wrong to lie for a good reason.

  Giselle came out of the confessional in her black skirt and white blouse, and Vivian went in. I got up and walked around the edge of the church to look for a statue or window of Saint Cecilia, because she’s the patron saint of musicians, but she wasn’t in this church, so I went to the back where there was a nice statue of Jesus and Mary and a table with votive candles on it. I wanted to light one. I couldn’t even say if I wanted to light it for me or for Arvo. But I didn’t have any money to pay for the candle, so I just lit a match and held it up and watched it burn out in my hand. I closed my eyes, and I could see Arvo sitting beside me singing. I couldn’t believe I’d showed him my music. Why had I trusted him? Was it just because he’d listened and acted like he cared? I’d never see him again.

  I opened my eyes. There was Mary with a tender look on her face I hadn’t noticed before, and then I had to look away because I suddenly wanted my mom. I wanted to sit on the sofa with her and her stupid-looking sweats and fluffy socks. I wanted to have cake with tea and talk, maybe not talk about this, but just talk. I wanted to be home.

  Vivian came out of the confessional wearing her black skirt and pink T-shirt and sparkly belt. She did look older, maybe not like a grown-up but sixteen or seventeen at least. We went outside to the narrow alley on the left side of the church under a row of skinny-necked gargoyles, and Vivian took out her makeup case and got to work. I walked out of the alley fifteen minutes later feeling at least thirty years old. We went back up the Rue de la Bûch
erie, and I tried to project myself as tall and fierce as Giselle and as pretty as Vivi. Thank goodness I wasn’t doing this alone. We turned the corner to the bookshop. Vivi stopped me. She wet her hands in the green fountain and smoothed the flyaways in the French twist she’d done in my hair.

  “Perfect,” she said.

  We pulled open the green door and walked into Shakespeare and Company. There was an ancient cash register on a counter to the right of the door and a table stacked with sale books to the left. Every wall was books from floor to ceiling. A shabby upholstered armchair was tucked into a corner. The middle-aged woman sitting in it had dozed off ten pages into a paperback that she held open on her lap. There were dozens of tourists with backpacks, and a man with a baby in a front carrier who rocked from side to side as he browsed vintage books. A tall man with a whole stack of gray hair and a big nose was moving books from a box on the floor to a shelf up by the ceiling. No one was standing at the cash register. Giselle started to look for the owner, but her cello kept bumping into people.

  Vivian was about to go into the next room when the gray-haired man turned around and said, “Mademoiselle, s’il vous plaît.” He set his books down and came over to us. “Mesdemoiselles,” he said, looking very annoyed.

  “Oui, monsieur,” Vivi said in her most diplomatic tone. “May we help you?”

  “Now see here,” he said smoothly, switching to no-accent English. “I did not book an orchestra. If you must bring an instrument into my bookshop, please make it a harmonica.”

  “You’re Mr. Whitman, right?” Giselle said. “Well, Mr. Whitman, we’re writers, and we need a place to stay tonight.”

  “Funny, you look a lot like musicians to me.”

  “We write music,” I said. “Or at least I do.” I could tell he was not impressed. “Writing music is still writing, isn’t it?”

  “Show me a composition.”

  “Oh.” I looked at the floor. “My music notebook was sort of stolen this morning, and all of our money, otherwise we wouldn’t be bothering you.”

  “Nice try, but I’ve heard this story before, earlier today, in fact. If you need help, call the police or visit the American consulate.”

  “I’m not lying. I am a composer. I’ll show you.”

  I saw a stack of papers on the checkout counter announcing a poetry reading. I turned one of the pages over and drew lines for music. As I wrote, Vivian explained that she was technically an illustrator, and did he want to look at her portfolio? Mr. Whitman began his no-thank-yous right away, but it took him three tries before Vivi agreed not to show him her drawings. Time enough for me to scribble out the first eight measures of my piece.

  “I’m the one who writes novels,” Giselle said firmly. “They are contemporary and very hip. They’ve got lots of sex and death in them.”

  “Ew!” Vivi turned to Giselle. “That’s so gross!”

  Giselle kicked her in the shins.

  “Ow!”

  “It’s true,” I said to cover up. “I especially like the, um, dead parts.”

  There was a pause, and Mr. Whitman gave us a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me look.

  “Here’s my composition,” I said quickly, sliding it along the counter to him. “This is just eight bars of the intro, but I put all three parts down.” Mr. Whitman picked up the page, and I could see him make the music in his head as he read through each part.

  “Is there no viola part?”

  “Well, no,” Giselle said. “Because then it would be ‘Canon for Four Friends.’ ”

  “I can write a viola part for you,” I said. “Do you play? If you let me and my friends stay here tonight, I’ll do it.”

  “So you can compose just like that in one night? Are you so talented?” Mr. Whitman asked. He looked at me hard, and it’s tricky to tell when a man’s face is mostly eyebrows and wrinkles whether he’s mad at you or not.

  “I’m not so talented. I’m just going to work at it really hard and not give up until I get it right, because my friends need a place to stay, and the song is about being friends and sticking up for each other.…” I was going to say more, but I got a little choked up because Arvo ran out on me, but Giselle and Vivian never would.

  look, a kitty!” Vivian said.

  A striped cat came in the front door and walked along the wall behind the sales counter. He jumped onto the counter and walked toward the sunlight that spilled in from the window. He made a circle of his body in the square patch of light and turned his face away from us.

  “Kitty, kitty,” Vivian crooned. She reached out to pet him. Vivi would cuddle a scorpion if it had fur.

  “Do you like my cat?” Mr. Whitman said.

  Vivian nodded. “What’s his name?”

  “William.”

  “William Shakespeare?” she said.

  “Exactly.”

  Vivian stroked William’s head lightly. He turned to her and snarled. There was a dark red stripe of blood on the side of his face from his ear down to the white patch on his chest that was the exact shape of Spain.

  “Have you been playing with the neighbors?” Mr. Whitman said. He ran a hand along the cat’s back. “Didn’t I warn you about that?” His hand came away with blood and dirt on it. “A German girl took the apartment across the street. She calls her cats Hans und Fritz, but we call them the Huns!”

  “Poor Will,” I said. “Do you need a bath?”

  Mr. Whitman wiped his hand on his baggy corduroy pants.

  “If we give your cat a bath, can we stay the night, Mr. Whitman?” I said.

  “Deal,” he said briskly. “The bathroom is at the top of the stairs. Use a pot from the kitchen—third door to the right. Annalies will help if you need anything. You’ll find her typing in the dining room—orange hair, soul of a poet. Welcome to Shakespeare and Company, girls.” He gave a nod in the direction of the stairs and went back to his shelving.

  “William, come on, William,” Vivian said, picking the cat up around the middle. He hissed and scratched her arm and writhed out of her grasp.

  “Let’s try this,” I said.

  I took a faded denim shirt from the back of the chair by the cash register. I dropped it over William’s back and swaddled him in it, claws and all, like he was a baby brother. I scooped him up, and he glared at me like he was thinking hard about what bribe he might give me to leave him alone. I decided not to use the word “bath” in his hearing. Vivi followed me up the stairs, carting my violin and backpack along with hers. Giselle turned her cello sideways and held it in front of her like a dance partner to get it up the narrow staircase. We walked down a dim hallway with rooms full of books on either side. Some of the rooms had couches or beds in them. One had a desk where someone was working, and the clack of a typewriter could be heard from down the hall. The bathroom was the size of a phone booth, with a prehistoric toilet and a sink not even big enough to bathe a gerbil.

  “Right,” Giselle said, surveying the miniature sink. “Brilliant idea, Jody. I’ll just let you two animal lovers wash the cat. I’m going to find a place to put our stuff.” She disappeared down the hall.

  Vivi collected a pot, warm water, and dish soap from the kitchen. I shifted William to my left arm and opened the cabinet, thinking I could find a ratty towel that no one would mind if I used on the cat. They were all ratty towels. I took the one that was already gray and draped it over my shoulder. Vivi balanced the cooking pot on top of the sink and said, “Have you ever given a cat a bath before?”

  I shook my head. “We had a gray kitten once, but Dad made us give it away before we moved to Germany.”

  “Yeah, me too. Mom always says we travel too much to have pets. Besides, they are constantly entertaining a zillion dignitaries. Pets would just get in the way.”

  “You hold him, and I’ll get the soap.”

  I unwrapped William, and Vivi grabbed him around the middle and held him over the water. She started to dip him in, back legs first. William curled his feet up and yowled like we
were torturing him with boiling oil. He twisted his body around and climbed right up Vivian’s arm and perched on her shoulder. He dug his front claws into the top of her head.

  “Ow! Ow! Ow! Jody, make him stop!”

  William glared at me with intense hatred and said bad cat swears to me in French. Sleeping on the sidewalk was starting to look inviting.

  “Hey, sweet William,” I said. “We aren’t going to hurt you. Don’t you want to be clean?”

  William shared his views on personal hygiene.

  “Oh man, you must be the new girls. I heard about you.”

  I spun around to see a woman with all-black clothes, a bright orange Mohawk, and a safety pin through her nose. A man with an Einstein haircut and a plaid flannel shirt stood behind her.

  “You must have really pissed off the old man if he’s making you wash the cat,” she said.

  “Bonne chance, ducklings,” the man in plaid said, and he giggled as the two of them went downstairs.

  “All right, Mr. Shakespeare,” I said. “You are getting wet whether you like it or not.”

  I grabbed all the loose skin from his shoulders and the back of his neck. I lifted him straight up. Vivi gave a muffled squeak as his claws came free of her scalp and raked through her hair. I grabbed his back end with my other hand, lifted him off Vivian’s shoulder, and began to lower him into the water.

  William’s legs immediately telescoped out to three times their normal length. He straddled the cooking pot and clung to the rim with all four paws. No wonder it took Mom an hour to give my brothers a bath. What is it with boys and soap?

  “In you get, you silly cat,” Vivi said. She pulled his back legs from the edge of the pot and lowered him into the water. William let out the most pathetic, you’ve-betrayed-me meow I’ve ever heard. I only put him halfway into the water and let him keep his front paws on the edge. Vivi scooped water up over William’s shoulders and chest and front legs. In thirty seconds the water was black.

  “Yuck! I don’t think this poor cat has had a bath in a long time,” I said.