A French Girl In New York

by Anna Adams

  Unfortunately, it was Maude’s first encounter with a French public administration and what she thought would be a matter of minutes actually turned out to be a matter of hours.

  Her appointment was at 2:00 p.m., but she had arrived at 1:00 p.m. thinking she would leave sooner. She had no idea, poor thing that 1:00 p.m was these workers’ second hour of lunch break.

  When the clock finally struck two, Maude had only begun her second hour of waiting. As time went by, she began to worry. She had to be at the TV studio for 5:00 p.m. to check the acoustics and do her makeup and hair.

  But she couldn’t miss, this chance, her only chance to retrieve her box.

  Tick-tock went the clock.

  Tick-tock went Maude’s brain, and just as she was about to despair, she was finally called in by a middle-aged woman, Mrs. Rotonde, who looked like she wanted to be anywhere else than where she was. Discontent is one of the prerequisites to work in the French administration.

  In Maude’s eyes the woman appeared to be a plump middle-aged Messiah with the key to Maude’s identity. Maude followed her religiously to her office and recorded every moment in her mind.

  “Your name is Maude Laurent,” she let out in a lazy, unconcerned drawl.

  “Yes,” Maude answered as if a pale, floating halo could be seen over the woman’s head.

  “Can I see some ID?” she asked as if Maude was the dumbest person she’d ever encountered.

  “Of course,” Maude stammered, hurriedly rummaging through her bag. “I’m sorry, I’m terribly nervous because I’m finally—”

  “That’s nice,” she interrupted. “Just give me the ID.”

  She checked the ID then left the room. When she came back a few minutes later, she was carrying the treasured box she thrust into Maude’s hands.

  It was nothing like Maude imagined. In the girl’s imagination, she’d picture a chest more than an actual box. The box she held in her hand was a medium-sized, wooden box with tooled leather on the lid adorned with exquisite fan motifs. The box was locked with a wrought-iron clasp. Maude searched for the key, but there was none to be seen.

  “I’m guessing the key’s in here,” Mrs. Rotonde indicated, waving a sealed envelope.

  Mrs. Rotonde’s usual apathy was starting to wane as she looked at the carved box with keen interest. Mothers rarely ever left objects for their children. Letters, documents, yes. Beautifully carved boxes were never among the things she handed to people searching for their biological mother. Mothers who gave birth anonymously in France were often poor, abandoned young women having nothing left but their own selves. No family, no husband, no friend. They surrendered their unknown, unnamed child to be brought up by a better family, in hopes of giving their child a better chance in life. She almost wished the wide-eyed girl would open the box in front of her and sighed in disappointment when she made a movement to leave.

  “Thank you so much, Mrs. Rotonde,” Maude whispered hoarsely.

  She certainly had no intention whatsoever of opening her box hurriedly in front of a complete stranger. Besides, she had to leave right away if she wanted to make it in time for her live performance.

  “You’re all set, Mademoiselle Laurent,” Stephanie said. “Nervous?” she asked, kindly.

  Stephanie had just finished Maude’s makeup, and they had talked a mile a minute as if they had known each other forever.

  “A little,” she admitted. “It’s a good kind of nervous though. The rehearsal and acoustics went well, so everything should be fine.”

  “Nagui, the host is very kind, funny, and beloved. I’ll let you rest now. Don’t ruin your makeup, but break a leg!” Stephanie called out as she left the room.

  Once alone, Maude removed the wooden box from her bag and caressed it fondly. Never had she felt closer to her mother than she did at that very moment.

  She ripped open the sealed envelope, took out the key, and proceeded to unlatch the box.

  Clic went the clasp, and the carved lid was lifted.

  There was a letter.

  Maude closed her eyes for a second and reopened them as she steadied her breath. Her hand trembled slightly as she took the piece of paper, yellowed by time and read.

  My dear Maude,

  If you are reading this letter, it means your father and I are no longer of this world and that my dear friends Robert and Marie-Antoinette Ruchet have raised you.

  I want you to know that your father and I love you very much. As I look at you sleeping in your crib next to me, I wonder if I will ever have the strength to leave you.

  I must be strong for I must go save your father if I can. I pray that our family be reunited soon. But my hope is waning every day that your father remains imprisoned in Africa.

  I am writing this letter to you my beautiful daughter to explain why I must leave for now.

  As Robert has probably explained, I, Danielle Laurent, was born in France while your father, Aaron Williams, was born in Nigeria in West Africa. His prominent family had to flee Nigeria in 1967 when the war began devastating the country.

  When the war ended and now a young man, he returned to Nigeria to fight for human rights and the advancement of democracy. He had to leave his family behind and was no longer in touch with them when I met him.

  We met and married in Nigeria in 1990.

  I have been a human rights lawyer for a couple of years now, and I have travelled all over the world. But the day I met your father was the most beautiful day of my life. As Robert has probably told you, it was love at first sight. Robert, who is my closest friend as well as the best human rights lawyer I have ever met, introduced us at a party given by International Amnesty. Although Robert returned to France a few months later, I decided to stay with your father.

  Since then, we have been inseparable. Through all the dangers and trials we have stayed together, fighting against corruption. Recently, we were trying to bring to trial an important official, one of the most corrupt Nigerian officials, Kunle Yetunde. He is also a friend of the current President of Nigeria. We were so close to finding tangible proof of his corruption that he felt threatened and ready to go to extreme lengths to silence us.

  A few months ago, I learnt I was pregnant. Aaron wanted me to be safe during the pregnancy so I came back to France three months ago. He was supposed to follow me a month later, but he was captured by Yetunde’s men and has been imprisoned for two months now.

  His men have been looking for me as well which is why I gave birth in anonymity and have given you my maiden name.

  I must return to save your father. I have connections in France and Nigeria and if we work together we should get him out of jail. In the meantime, you will stay with the Ruchets. I hope to be back in a couple of months, but if that proves impossible, Robert has promised me to care for you as he would his own and I have complete faith that he will. He will tell you how brave your parents were and how they fought to make this world a better place.

  I will save your father or will die trying.

  I would like to tell you so much more, but I haven’t much time and I must rest.

  I will just give you simple advice: follow your heart no matter what. That is the soundest piece of advice a mother can give her child.

  I have enclosed a few pictures in this wooden jewelry box handcrafted by your father himself.

  I love you so much it hurts.

  Your mother,

  Danielle Laurent Williams.

  Maude looked inside the box and took out the pictures trying to calm the soft tremor in her hand.

  The first picture was a picture of her parents, Danielle and Aaron. Aaron was a tall, dark-skinned man with a soft, serious smile aimed at the camera. He appeared calm, but his eyes betrayed his preoccupation as well as a constant sense of alertness. His arm was resting around Danielle’s shoulders in what appeared a lazy stance, although, as Maude peered closely at the picture, she saw his fingers fastened to Danielle’s shoulder in a protective manner. Danielle seemed happy, almo
st in a careless way, her arm wrapped around Aaron’s waist. She was a petite, brown-skinned woman, dressed stylishly in a bright red dress, wearing a shell necklace around her neck. She seemed assured, beaming happily at her husband, tugging at his shirt impatiently as if wanting to distract him from the camera.

  Maude tore her eyes away from the picture and met her ghastly reflection in the mirror. She could no longer recognize herself. Where was the girl, happy, content, and hopelessly optimistic about life? She was no longer there. She was gone to never come back.

  Murdered like her parents. Her parents had been murdered. They had died in a cell, mistreated, tortured. Their blood had been spilled. The Earth had drunk their blood. Rivers of blood had flowed from their lifeless bodies. They had been butchered like animals.

  Horrific images flashed through Maude’s brain as she envisioned her parents, Aaron and Danielle. They had names and faces now. She now understood why the Ruchets had been so reluctant to tell her the truth. How could she bare it?

  Suddenly, she laughed a laugh she didn’t recognize. It resembled a savage growl.

  She felt like she hated her parents. How could they save the world and not save her? They had thrust her to their “friends”.

  Robert Ruchet was her mother’s best friend. How was this even possible? It didn’t make any sense. How could Robert be anyone’s friend let alone her mother’s? Maude stopped laughing. Her hands shook uncontrollably. She couldn’t stop shaking all over as if possessed.

  There was a light knock on the door, and Matt entered the dressing room. Instantly he knew something was wrong.

  “Maude, what’s going on?” he asked anxiously.

  She didn’t answer, couldn’t answer. She couldn’t speak, and she wanted her brain to shut down. Stop thinking brain, she told herself as she shook like a demented leaf.

  “Stop thinking,” she whispered hoarsely. “Stop thinking.”

  “Maude, what’s the matter? What’s this?” he asked, taking the letter that had fallen to the floor.

  He surveyed its content rapidly and dropped the letter in utter shock.

  “Maude,” he shook her lightly.

  “My parents are dead, Matt,” she whispered hoarsely. “My parents were murdered.”

  “Maude, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry,” he repeated. He had no idea what to say to her. He did the only thing he could think of.

  He took her in his arms. His warm embrace acted like a catalyst and Maude started crying, sobbing, wailing helplessly, limply against his chest. Her cries came from deep within, while he rocked her gently, stroking her hair, wrapping her frail body in his arms. When she finally lifted her head, her face, streaming with fresh tears, she looked calm though still in pain.

  “Your shirt,” she moaned pointing towards his mascara-stained shirt.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said, smiling softly at her. He handed her a handkerchief.

  “I’m a mess,” she observed miserably between sniffles.

  “You’re beautiful,” Matt replied.

  Maude couldn’t help but laugh, a guttural laugh.

  “Thank you, Matt. For everything.”

  “I’m not finished yet,” Matt said.

  Maude wiped her face and turned towards Matt quizzically.

  “I wasn’t by your side for Cenerentola, but I’m here now and I’ll help you get through this.”

  “I’m a wreck.”

  “You still have to play this evening,” Matt said gently.

  “Matt—”she started to protest.

  “You will play this evening, Maude,” Matt silenced her.

  Maude turned towards the mirror.

  “You will play for them,” he added softly. “Just like I play for my mother at every concert.”

  Maude looked at him, her eyes filled with sadness.

  “You will play beautifully for your parents because it will be the first time they hear you. They will be sitting in the front row. They’ll be looking at their daughter, their only daughter, and they will beam with pride.”

  She smiled wanly, but nodded slowly.

  “Look at these hands,” Matt said taking her hands in his. “Your hands are a gift. Your voice is a gift. Your parents will listen to you tonight. Do you hear me, Maude?”

  Maude nodded more firmly, a look of determination slowly replacing her distraught features.

  “I’ll play for them.”

  “For Aaron and Danielle,” he whispered, taking her face into his hands.

  She nodded, feeling his hands on her skin.

  “For Aaron and Danielle,” she echoed.

  The door opened wide, and Stephanie popped her head.

  “You’re up in five . . . ” her voice trailed off as she looked at Matt and Maude.

  He let go of her abruptly.

  “Umm, I was just leaving.”

  Stephanie looked past him.

  “What happened to your face?!” she shrieked.

  She hurried towards Maude to repair her makeup.

  Matt headed for the door but Maude stopped him.

  “Stay, please,” she asked, almost shyly.

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Stephanie huffed and puffed and fixed Maude’s makeup with a few expert strokes, whimpering that boyfriends should never be allowed into dressing rooms before concerts because they were always made girls cry and she had to repair the damage.

  “Okay, I’m done. Now hurry!” the makeup artist cried out. “You’re up in two minutes. Don’t you dare mess up your makeup again!”

  Maude ran out, keeping her hands away from her recently rouged cheeks, and Matt hurried behind her.

  She stood right behind the curtain and listened to the host’s cheerful voice, announcing her.

  “Now ladies and gentlemen, we have a new artist with us tonight. She’s spent her last six months in New York working on her first album. Her first single has been released and is a huge hit . . .”

  “Maude,” Matt whispered, tugging her sleeve.

  “Yes?” She looked back at him, smiling.

  “I just wanted to tell you . . . to let you know that you can always count on me.”

  “I know, Matt,” Maude smiled gratefully.

  “Her voice will take your breath away, her music is amazing . . . ”

  “No, I’m serious. Our friendship has had its ups and downs, but I don’t want it to be that way anymore.”

  Maude nodded.

  “I don’t care if you’re with Thomas Bradfield. As long as you’re happy, I’m happy.”

  Maude paused, puzzled. “What? Thomas Bradfield—”

  “Give a round of applause for Maude Laurent!” the host cried.

  “That’s your cue! Go!” Matt urged.

  Maude reluctantly turned away from Matt and hurried on stage.

  The blaring lights blinded her as she entered the stage and faced the cheering crowd. She had to restrain her impulse to shield her eyes and continued steadily towards the dark Steinway.

  She had played on it earlier but then, she hadn’t felt nervous. Her hands hadn’t been trembling, and her voice hadn’t been shaky. Maude sat on the piano stool and looked towards the crowd. They were all there.

  James and Victoria were holding hands and beaming like proud parents. Cynthia, dignified as always, was trying to keep Ben from falling off his seat while he was waving madly at Maude. Jazmine, hands clasped, was sending all the positive energy she could muster from her seat.

  Maude turned to the piano and sang her first song.

  She had played it many times before but this time was different. She had grown. Maude wasn’t the same person she’d been six months ago, and her performance wasn’t that of a mere teenager—it was that of a young woman who had looked at life in the eye and refused to bend her spine.

  She finished her first song and prepared herself for the second.

  She had planned to sing “Sunrise” from her debut album, but now she knew she couldn’t play that song, not after al
l she’d just been through.

  Maude dedicated her second song, John Legend’s “Coming Home,” to her parents.

  She took a deep breath and started singing:

  A father waits upon a son

  A mother prays for his return

  I just called to see

  If you still have a place for me

  We know that life took us apart

  But you’re still within my heart

  I go to sleep and feel your spirit next to me.

  As she played, she released the pain she had been holding back for years. Her parents were dead. They were gone forever, but she was still alive. Though her pain was severe, it also gave her strength. Strength to sing in a clear voice, strength to overcome her fears, strength to master her initially shaky fingers, and strength to let her notes reverberate through the audience.

  It may be long to get me there

  It feels like I’ve been everywhere

  But someday I’ll be coming home

  Round and round the world will spin

  Oh, the circle never ends

  So you know that I’ll be coming home.

  Her voice rang out as clear as water from a fountain and wavered with deep emotion as the song washed away her doubt, drowned her insecurities, and melted her pain into a beautiful, calm river of hope.

  Maude ended her song and carefully folded her hands on her knees.

  “I did it,” she muttered softly to herself.

  The crowd broke into thunderous applause. She could hear whistling and thumping. As she walked towards the host, she squinted her eyes to avoid the blaring lights and saw the crowd on its feet, cheering and calling her name.

  She smiled and greeted the host, a tall man with a prominent nose and a large, kind smile.

  “Wow, wow, wow,” he exclaimed. This host was known for his exuberance. But then, TV hosts are rarely known for being discreet. “That was incredible, Maude!”

  Maude laughed, relieved to be breathing at a normal pace again.

  “Just tell me, Maude,” he started in a conversational tone. “How does a sixteen-year-old teenager, raised in the north of France, end up spending six months in New York recording her debut album with the world’s hottest pop star?”