by Alice Quinn
I tried my hardest to explain. The thing is, I only took three years of English in school. Unless you count the additional years when I had to repeat my final year three times.
“Um. There is a plan, hmm . . . a map . . . you voir. Hmm. It is hotel. Carlton Hotel. The bedroom, but there is four bedrooms, we appelle a suite. On plan, we can voir some micros and some cameras. And aussi we can voir . . . Hey, Tony, how do you say voir in English? I have no clue.”
Either Trashed or Lashed whispered, “See,” like si in French.
He was right. I went on.
“We can see some hours, comme the time, and plein plein of lists with the names.”
“Oh my God! Please hold on!”
How does she know my name? Did she say Maldonne? These Americans sure know what they’re doing!
I could hear them mumbling at the other end of the line.
“Could you please tell me some names on the list?”
After I asked for this to be repeated slowly about ten times, I finally managed to understand what she was asking. I told her a few of the names. I tried to spell them out. I heard a guy scream in the background, “Oh my God! Don’t move! We’ll be there in two minutes!”
The two dopes at the bar gave Tony a knowing nod. They downed their drinks in one gulp and stood up to dash out of there.
I decided to make a run for it too. “See ya, Tony!”
“Wait! What am I supposed to say to these Feds when they show up?”
“Say whatever the heck you like! Tell them the truth! Just don’t mention my name, got it?”
And there I found myself again, back outdoors in the biting wind. I had to get my head around my own issues—a far cry from what I saw on my favorite American TV series!
I had to find a way out of the mess I was in.
I wandered the streets of the city, passing a quick eye over any trash cans in sight, checking for envelopes. You never know! Mind you, that kind of crazy stroke of luck doesn’t come around twice.
Trash cans are like manna from heaven for me. Not long ago, I’d found thousands of euros hidden in trash cans around the city. So digging around in them had become a habit. A potentially life-changing habit!
As a general rule, I’m often found staring at garbage cans. It worked once, so it’s become a psychological thing, like that Pavlov doggy experiment. Whenever I see any type of trash container, I drool. You see, I respect trash now. I love trash. I idolize trash. Trash is, like, my best friend. Oh, and I like washers and dryers too, FYI!
My feet took me as far as the bus station—quite a sinister spot and windy as hell. It has a glass cover on it, so I was protected from the rain a little. Three frozen people sat waiting for a bus. They were like giant ice pops. Who knew what polar destination they were headed for?
At the back of the bus station, there was a tiny waiting room, and inside, a station employee sat in what looked like a giant fish tank. I guess it was supposed to be his office. A few greasy bits of paper were blowing around the corners of his tank. He was selling bus tickets, kept alive by a crappy little electric heater and smoking like an anxious father-to-be.
I decided to wait inside this grimy room to get out of the cold for a while. A display board on the far side wall caught my eye. It was full of classifieds flapping in the draft.
This was a lightbulb moment for me. After all, if you’re hunting for work, what better place to find it than the classifieds, right? Let’s hear it for the classifieds!
I bounded over and started to read. Within a few seconds I began to get the idea. At least three-quarters of the ads were selling stuff. Any old crap. Cars, furniture, bikes, engines, spare parts, stamps . . . You name it. There were even some ads from people hoping to buy and sell gold. I had no clue people even did that. Imagine! Selling gold from a board at the bus station!
I thought about it some. It made me think of my grandmother Ruth who’d given me a little gold chain with a heart pendant when I was a small girl. It was all worn around the edges these days. Actually, it had been awhile since I’d last seen it. I must have tidied it away some place. Maybe at the back of a cupboard or in a makeup case or plastic bag . . . When I say “tidied away,” it’s just a figure of speech.
I didn’t want to sell it, but maybe I could take it down to the pawn shop. The only other thing I could take down there was my old toaster, and I couldn’t imagine getting much for that. If I couldn’t do better on the job front (and I really had to), I’d have to hunt down my precious little necklace.
The other ads were job offers, though not too many, or notices from people looking for work. All in all, there wasn’t much there for me. I had to find some other options. I was just about to set off when . . .
6
Ta daaaaa . . .
A man sauntered into this supercreepy, depressing, and miserable little room and the whole atmosphere changed.
Ultrastylish, in his forties, a bit of the George Clooney about him with silver-fox temples and an old-fashioned trench coat in a classy fabric like alpaca or some shit. I don’t even know what alpaca is. I just know that it’s the sort of thing James Bond would wear if he was dressing up for a night on the tiles. These people have to wear something different, don’t they? I mean, they don’t want to go about the place in the same getup as the rest of us mere mortals. It was as if he’d just stepped off a Hollywood film set. An A-lister, the ideal lover . . . Everything I needed. Everything I’d been lacking in my life. A touch of romance.
My heart stopped. Yes, I know, it’s not really my style, all that love stuff, but that’s the exact reaction I had when I looked at him. Just like in the movies. Then it sped up like mad. My heart that is. I had images running through my mind. Sunsets on the beach, sitting under the shade of the palm trees, gondolas in Venice, the whole deal.
I forgot everything. Why was I there in the first place? I was on cloud five, or whatever number it is. Higher than five. I was on cloud twelve. Right next to the sun.
He made his way over to the notice board and pinned a piece of paper to it. Then he turned his back and darted off at a brisk pace. I watched him with my mouth hanging open like my jaw had dislocated. I stood there staring for some time. Lost.
Things slowly started to come back into focus, the noises around me returned, voices, smells, the freezing temperature. I shook myself back to reality and moseyed over to take a peek at the notice he’d put up.
Just as I’d hoped, it was a job offer: “Seeking retired lady with references, for a few hours of housework and companionship for an elderly gentleman.”
Bingo.
This was my ad! Got it in one. There was no way I was letting anyone else get ahold of this number. I got out my pretty cell phone, typed in the number, went to borrow a pen off Smokyo Fish-Tank Man, and headed back to the ad to change a few of the numbers in the contact details. I know that was a teensy-weensy bit mean, but at least this way I was sure nobody else would call to ask about the job. I’d have zero competition. On every level.
As for references, I thought I’d give Gaston’s name and maybe Ismène’s too, and together we’d see what we could make of it all.
7
I needed to find a quiet spot, away from all this goddamn rain, and make the call from my cell. But I didn’t want to get my lovely little cricket-friend all wet. He didn’t like that! Sometimes I talk about my telephone like it’s a real live thing. I’m that impressed with it.
I found a covered passageway between two small streets. The rain was having more trouble getting into this place than elsewhere, even though it was bucketing down by this point. I shook out my umbrella and leaned back against the wall. My nose was running like crazy. I had to get all that crap out of there before I called this guy.
When he picked up, his voice was soft, warm, and attractive. Great! No voicemail this time! It was the real live him!
“Hello.”
I put on a nice voice like one of the telephone operators in Mad Men. “Yes, hello. I
’m calling about your ad . . .”
“Which one?”
“The one at the bus station. It mentioned you were hoping to employ someone to do some housework and keep an elderly person company?”
“Yes, of course, please excuse me. It’s just that I put up a lot of ads online, and I couldn’t be sure which one you were talking about. I’d say you are a little too young. I did mention in my ad that I wanted someone of retirement age, didn’t I? I don’t think my father could cope with a youngster.”
We’d gotten straight to the point on this one. I really wasn’t expecting him to be so matter-of-fact about the whole thing.
“Well, that’s fine for you to say,” I said, “but you haven’t even asked him. I am in fact kind of retired. It’s just that instead of retirement coming after many years of hard slog, mine’s come before. What’s the big whoop? What’s up with your dad, anyway? Does he have Alzheimer’s?”
“No, not at all. He has all his faculties. He’s started to lose his sight a little, that’s all, and we decided that it might be nice for him to enjoy some company . . . someone to read to him. Do you read?”
“Read? I love reading! I spend hours and hours down at the library! My place is too small to keep a whole load of books, though! That’s what libraries are for, right? They don’t make them to just stand there looking pretty. I could bring him tons of books! Anything he wants. All you have to do is give me a list!”
I hoped he wouldn’t ask me what I like to read. It’s true I like to read—that wasn’t a lie—but it’s mostly comics and I mostly look at the pictures. I know this isn’t what people call “loving to read,” but were we in a job interview or not?
“That’s incredibly sweet of you, but he has his own library. He’s erudite.”
“Is that his name? I’ve never heard the name Erudite before. Is it Greek?”
He snorted. This got me so mad. He made me feel like I’d said something stupid. At the same time, I suppose I’d rather make someone laugh than cry. Still, I was pissed that he seemed to be making fun of me in some way.
“OK! I seem to be having some weird effect on you. Did I say something funny?”
“No, not at all. I apologize. I have a frog in my throat, that’s all.”
Well, get a load of this one, he has some balls! He really thinks I’m falling for that bull?
“So let’s get back to what we were talking about. What are we doing then?” I answered moodily.
“Please listen, Mademoiselle. I don’t think you’re the right person for the job. There’s no point wasting any more precious time on this. I’m going to wait until I’ve heard back from a few more people. I’ve only just placed the ad after all. If nobody else gets back to me, and if you so wish, I’ll call you. What do you say to that? Please note that whatever happens, all this will have to be finalized before tomorrow evening. I’m moving quickly on this one.”
This got me even more hopping mad.
“Listen up, Monsieur. It’s up to you. Like you said, there’s no use in the two of us wasting our time if you’ve already decided you’d never hire me anyway. You do whatever the heck you want. You have my number. It’ll be there on your little screen. Call me when you’ve made up your mind. If I’m still available, then maybe I’ll consider your proposal.”
And I hung up on the snooty bastard—he clearly thought he was made of better stuff than me. If that was the guy I’d seen at the station, his voice certainly matched the vibe he’d been giving off.
Oh dear. I think that’s what made him so charming. I have a thing for bastards . . .
8
My eyes glazed over. The same image of a beach at sunset floated over the dirty damp alleyway that surrounded me. He was skipping off into the horizon, into a line of stunning pink flamingos, in his gorgeous alpaca coat . . . They were flying off into the far distance, farther and farther away, leaving me standing there like a tiny dot on the surface of the earth.
I sighed.
Just thinking about him as he strutted his stuff across the bus-station waiting room made my knees wobble. I was melting. Seriously. Well, just because I think the guy is shit-hot doesn’t mean I should let him treat me like I’m a nobody. This isn’t the Middle Ages! He could wait as long as he liked. He wouldn’t be getting any more calls. Not with all those made-up numbers I’d put on his ad.
I began wondering whether this was in fact the job I’d been waiting for. I had this funny feeling that something wasn’t going to quite gel between him and me—apart from the whole physical-attraction thing (I was definitely gelling there). I don’t like it when the tides are against me like that. Don’t battle with the elements. That’s always been my rule.
This whole business had given me an idea about what I was going to be doing with my life career-wise. It wasn’t something I’d ever really given much thought to, and it was about time I did. I needed to put my own ad in the local rag. But those things are pretty steep and I couldn’t afford it. So I had two possible solutions: head back to the station and pin up my own scrap of paper, or go to the library and find one of those online classified sites. I think it’s called Greg’s List or something.
I remembered a documentary I’d seen one time at Sélect. People were making cash by picking up empty soda cans from the street and selling them. Maybe that’d be a quick and easy way of making a little something to get us by? Also, it’d be good for the environment! I’d be a kind of ecowarrior!
The only problem was, I didn’t have any clue where to go to sell them. Maybe I’d have to get online tomorrow and find out what the deal was with this whole aluminum business. I’d have a word with a few peeps at the bar too. It was incredible what some of those guys knew. They were all up-to-date with what was going on in the news. Actually, that’s all they ever did down there at Sélect. The TV was on 24/7, so no wonder the place was full of know-it-alls.
As soon as all my nippers were asleep, I washed the dishes, folded up the laundry, and put it away (without bothering to iron), then served myself a large drink. Before settling down for a well-deserved bit of me time, I remembered all about the gold-buying ad I’d seen earlier that day. I immediately began rooting around the place, trying to find the chain my grandmother had given me for my fourth birthday.
Eureka! There it was! Right at the bottom of an old makeup case. I hadn’t seen that thing for some time.
I examined it more closely and could see how bitten it was around the edges. I lay down on my little sofa, a glass in my right hand, with the necklace twisted around my fingers. Lost in my thoughts, I stirred the glass of punch I’d concocted—I’d used some homemade grog that Sabrina’s father had brought back from Cape Verde and added some dark cane sugar, but I didn’t have any fresh lemon to put in. It was going down quite nicely and adding a certain clarity to my general thought process.
Sleep found me easily that night. Off I sloped to the land of dreams . . . fully dressed, having not moved an inch.
The weight of Pastis on my ribcage woke me up. I shivered, Pastis stretched out, and I slid under my quilt, still fully clothed, with my little furry friend curled up beside me.
Tuesday: Megacatch
9
On Tuesday morning, our noses were no longer running, none of us were coughing, and my temperature had gone down some. The whole nightmare with the Christmas toys was still playing in my mind. These anxious thoughts were all mixed up with the lyrics from the song my mother had sent me during the night. It was Marilyn’s famous number “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend.”
Well, that wasn’t the most difficult of puzzles to solve, was it? Mom was being as straightforward as she could. She was talking about my big shiny rock. But she knew better than to mention it. It was a taboo subject. I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to find a solution to the problem anytime soon.
Thanks, Mom. I get it. I have no clue who wrote the song. I’m sure Marilyn didn’t write it herself. Is it from a movie? Unfortunately, things just aren’t moving
forward with the diamond at the moment . . . There’s nothing I can do right now, it’s not safe.
I had a megabusy day ahead. I had to drop off my ad at the bus station and get on that Greg’s List thing. That would mean heading to the library to type it up. I had to find out all about collecting tin cans and how to go about selling them. And I had to get rid of the garbage bags piled up outside the trailer. They were starting to stink.
A quick breakfast: tea made with thyme, what was left of the pasta, and a homeopathic treatment to make sure we were all back to our old selves. So far, so good.
It looked like the rain had stopped, so we were already on to a winner. The children were full of energy again. When I say that, I mean they’d totally trashed their bedrooms and were singing nursery rhymes (“Row, row, row your boat”) at the tops of their lungs with huge smiles plastered across their little faces.
We managed our morning routine OK—without me having to repeat the same instructions a thousand times and all four of them lined up in single file ready to step into the swamp outside (which had actually partly dried out by this point).
I locked the trailer door behind us and stuffed the garbage bags into the roomy basket under the stroller. Pastis watched us with a superior look in his eyes as we set off to take on whatever the day had to offer.
I made a quick detour to the trash cans, which weren’t exactly on the way to school. As I lifted the lid to throw the bags inside, I carefully studied the contents. Dream on . . .
Then one of my fantasy moments hit me, totally inspired by the trash. I pictured myself at a swanky ball in a princess gown with my Big Pink around my neck. After all, it was originally found in the trash. Maybe this vision had come to me because I was wearing the gold chain my grandmother had given me. It was like something clicked in my brain.