by Jim Hanas
Finally, there was the possibility that the man would say no, he did not want to put it between Sylvie's tits or sniff cocaine off her ass. That is what the actor said, and Marco knew he was lying. "You do not think she is beautiful?" Marco asked, his voice cracking into a shrill arc. "You deny that the women of France are the most beautiful, most desirable women in the world. Tout le monde?!?"
The actor did not turn pale immediately, but panic glowed inside him. One out of ten men in this situation got up and left. Marco let them go, a reward for having resisted—on this single occasion—their depravity. The rest, like Marco's actor, tried to reason. He attempted to explain that of course French women were beautiful and, yes, France was unquestionably beautiful; he just wasn't interested in what Marco proposed. But Marco would not be consoled. He pounded on the bar and knocked over his stool. The women to their right turned and looked at the actor and suddenly realized who he was, while the actor put his finger to his lips and tried to quiet Marco as he imagined that the paparazzi would arrive at such a spectacle in an instant. Behind them the crowd parted and the music died. But while Marco expected to see cameras, coming to claim his mark, instead he saw Ludolf, who grabbed Marco with his giant paws—sticky with fudge and rainbow sprinkles—and hustled him through the crowd, onto the patio, and out to the hotel's manicured driveway.
"I told you to wait," Ludolf mumbled as they broke into the night air, flashbulbs popping like firecrackers behind them. Ludolf's beefy arm hung over Marco's shoulder, pushing the bill of the baseball cap down over his eyes. Marco stumbled along until he found himself tripping on cobblestones and, at last, being pressed into the passenger seat of his own Land Rover. The bodyguard circled to the driver's side and tossed his linen jacket past the steering wheel and told Marco to cover his face.
"You couldn't wait."
Marco turned to see the Algerian in the backseat, shaking his head like a disappointed father.
"Wait for what?" Marco asked.
Ludolf plucked a tabloid off the dashboard and slapped it on Marco's lap. Marco read the story, in which a woman described being mugged by someone who sounded very much like Marco. Ludolf put the car in reverse and poked a finger at the page, drawing his attention to the crude sketch that captured Marco perfectly—bandana, bunny ears, and all.
"I didn't know she was anyone," Marco said as Ludolf steered the Land Rover onto the Croisette. He recognized the picture of the woman in the paper from earlier in the week, from between the Arab Bank and the Gucci store. It had been easy, like always. She dropped her purse and ran.
"She's Mlle. S_______'s girlfriend, from rehab," Ludolf said. "Now they want a picture of you."
"People ask my why I never allow myself to be photographed," the Algerian said as Marco slumped down in his seat and pulled Ludolf's jacket over his eyes, breathing through his mouth to avoid the scent of sea air and sweat. "It isn't to avoid detection. The police know where I am. They come by and I give them lunch. I serve champagne."
Ludolf navigated the car east on the Croisette, headed toward the Martinez amid the dense festival week traffic of Citreons, mopeds, and limousines.
"I stay out of sight because it's part of the unspoken rules," the Algerian said. "Some people see and some are seen. Which is better? Both are good. But one can't be both. None of us can."
Ludolf turned off the Croisette onto the Rue Latour Maubourg and veered down the alley behind the Martinez where the Algerian had first treated Marco to lunch. Marco pulled Ludolf's coat away from his face in time to see a flashbulb explode in his eyes, as a bright as a thousand neon signs. The hair-dryer purr of a moped engine raced and Marco staggered out of the car and tried to give chase, but it was no use. He heard Sylvie's laugh and made out the knots in her long spine as she sped away, her arms laced around the chest of an unseen paparazzo.
Marco cursed and walked back toward the Land Rover. As he approached, it rolled away. He walked faster, but Ludolf accelerated. He ran, and the car went faster still until it turned the corner and disappeared. Out of breath, Marco put his hands on his knees and gulped at the damp evening air.
From the same author on Feedbooks
Single: Two Stories (2006) "Single" contains two previously published short stories: "Miss Tennessee" and "The Cryerer," which first appeared in The Land-Grant College Review and One Story, respectively. Both appear in "Why They Cried," my full-length story collection, now available as a Joyland eBook from ECW Press. Enjoy the sample and visit whytheycried.com for more information about the collection.
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Food for the mind