by Alice Quinn
We got there two minutes early. The little ones at the Little School and the biggie at the Big School. The schools were right next to each other. Thank God! It made a big difference from last year, when they were far apart.
I ruffled their hair, gave them all moochio smoochios, and sent them in. That’s when I heard the horn of Gaston’s Jag. Beep beep. But haughtier than that.
He was waving to get my attention. I sauntered over to his stunning ride and bounced into the passenger seat, and we headed back to my trailer.
He was feeling frustrated that he’d missed the trip to school and offered to help me with the cleaning at Véro’s therapist’s place.
“What do you mean? Help me how?”
“Oh, just tell me what to do and I’ll do it. It’s as simple as that. There’s not a chance I want to miss out on another exciting drama like the last time you had a job, Rosie!”
“Cricri!”
He knows I hate being called Rosie, but the poor guy can forget at times. “Sorry! Cricri!” replied Gaston as he pulled in front of the trailer.
“Listen up! It’s not my fault if my last boss went and kicked the bucket, is it? There’s no reason it’ll happen again, knock on wood. Oh, why did you go and mention it, Gaston? You’ll bring me bad luck!”
“It’s just that I want to fill you in on my idea.”
I ran into the trailer to change into a better work outfit. I slipped on a pair of flowery shorts, the lowest heels I could find, and one hell of an ugly T-shirt that covered all my assets. I didn’t want to go causing any permanent damage to my good clothes. My good clothes are the super sexy pieces I get from Mimi as soon as she’s done with them. And she’s a real fashionista!
Before setting off, I made the most of having wheels by heading up to the fountain and filling as many plastic bottles as I had. I liked knowing that my trailer was all stocked up.
After putting all of Véro’s boss’s books in a big plastic bag, we set off to my new job—to Rachel Amar’s place!
The cricket started chirping again. It was Mimi calling from the hospital.
“Hello? Yes? . . . Don’t worry, I got it. Loud and clear. Class finishes at four p.m. . . . Sure. I’ll keep you in the know, OK? Don’t worry about a thing. Chin up, OK? You need your strength and all that for the operating table! Fine! See you then!”
Gaston stared at me quizzically. I didn’t really have the energy for it, but I explained the whole deal.
“It’s Émilie. She fell. Broken wrist. She’s going under the knife tomorrow. Her back’s all messed up too. Smithereens. She was supposed to have her kid, Léo, over. But now he’s coming to my place until we know how things are.”
“But your home isn’t suitable! Your place is much too small, Cricri!”
“Too small? Are you kidding me or what? You should know more than anyone else that I have the biggest trailer in France! It was built for a traveling Gypsy king, Gaston!”
“That may well be the case, but I bet the Gypsy king didn’t have as many kids as you! Why don’t you come and spend a few days with me?”
“At the sleepy magic castle? Oh, I’d love to do that, but you know I hate taking advantage of people, Gaston!”
He sulked for about ten seconds and then launched into a lecture.
“Listen now, Cricri. I’ve had the most amazing idea. I’m going to make you famous. You’re going to be a big famous singing sensation. Even bigger than that what’s-her-face who made me as rich as Croesus. What do you say to that?”
“What do I say to that? I’d say that was mega-exciting,” I replied sarcastically. “And how exactly are you going to go about it?”
“I’ve written a collection of poetry. I drew inspiration from a medieval Icelandic saga, and what I’d like to do next is make an opera based on my poems, you see? Your voice is every bit as good as Colette Magny’s. Oh! We’ll make a killing!”
Colette Magny? Like anyone outside of France or under the age of 106 has ever heard of her.
“You know,” he continued, “I used to play guitar a little when I was a young buck! It’ll be enough to get started. Enough to play a few chords and get a rhythm going at the beginning. We’ll compose the tune together, and then we’ll get a real musician.”
“Hmm, great,” I moaned, not the slightest bit convinced.
He’d come up with yet another silly plan for me to learn something new. And honestly! Has he lost his marbles? Medieval shit? Iceland? A killing? Doubtful.
“Hey! We’re here!” I said, relieved I could change the subject. I didn’t want to disappoint him, but I could hardly see the pair of us composing an opera together!
He continued, anyway. “Hear me, now, when I say ‘opera,’ we’re not talking La Traviata, you understand? We’re not talking Benjamin Britten either. I mean one of those big in-your-face pieces you’d see on Broadway in New York or the Strand in London. A bit like Andrew Lloyd Webber. Can you see what I mean? Huge audiences. Very popular. You’re going to love it!”
What in the world? What was he on? I realized this was what my mother had been trying to tell me that morning with her song about the crazies! I think she was warning me that Gaston had lost it. Dippy for feeling so lonely . . . Either he was feeling lonely and was going to go all screwy on me, or he was going to drive me nuts with this opera business! Whichever came first, I supposed.
7
As Gaston pulled up outside Véro’s boss’s place, the conversation was forced to an abrupt end.
We read the copper plaque outside: “Rachel Amar. Psychiatrist and Psychoanalyst.” It was glistening. Véro obviously did a good job here!
The building had an underground parking lot. Practical. Once we’d parked, we took the elevator to the fifth floor.
Opening the door was like entering another world. Just like Narnia.
There was an entrance hall with gorgeous waxed parquet flooring leading up to a humongous living room with a view over the winding roads of the old town, the Vieux-Port, the region’s famous palm trees, and the neighboring islands. Wow. White walls. Next to no furniture. Two big sofas, two armchairs, a large coffee table, and one big-ass blue painting with nothing on it. All blue. Nothing even a bit abstracty. Nope. Nada. Only blue. What a load of crud! Whoever painted that thing was the King of Swindlers!
Gaston sat down in front of it and just gasped. I left him there while I went to explore the rest of the apartment.
A long corridor had a whole ton of doors coming off it. On one side were a shitload of bedrooms, each with its own bathroom like at a hotel. The corridor all looped around and you wound up in the same living area again.
I plodded past Gaston. The living area had an integrated dining space with a high-tech white open kitchen at the far end. I ventured back into the hallway. The other side boasted views onto a calm courtyard with a cherry tree in the center. There was what appeared to be some kind of waiting room with lots of magazines on a table and an office off to the side.
The office.
The sanctuary.
A white leather divan. Two gray armchairs in front of a heavy table made of waxed wood and covered in files. There was a statue thing on there the same color as the ridiculous painting in the living room. Except that this was something. A headless woman. She also didn’t have any legs. Or arms. OK, so it wasn’t much. Poor Rachel Amar. It didn’t seem like she was too sharp, paying good money for crap like that. Why was everything the color of Smurfs in this place, anyway?
I tried to mimic Gaston. I sat down in front of the blue statue woman just to see what would happen. If anything. And something did.
Despite the cold, god-awful color scheme, there was something so calming about the room. It was inviting and relaxing. Maybe it was all the books everywhere.
I mean, they really were everywhere. Weighing down the shelves, spilling all over the place, in piles on the floor. In the middle of one of the shelves I noticed a huge plasma screen. Then I saw that some of the books were actually DVDs.
There was also a laptop computer. I recognized what it was because it had one of those apples that someone’s taken a chomp out of. It was open and a cable linked it to the big TV.
I was attracted to it like a magnet, but rather than give in to my desperate need to watch a movie, I headed off to hunt down a vacuum cleaner. That’s why I was there, after all.
On my way out, I noticed that a bowl of candy bars had been left on the table in the middle of the waiting room. The wrappers were the only splash of color in there. I tidied a couple of them away . . . by eating them . . . And whoosh—there go some in my purse for the babas. The bowl was really full and looked a bit messy. That’s the excuse I was sticking to, anyway.
On the kitchen counter I noticed a small notebook and a basket. There was a fifty in the basket. The first page of the notebook was filled with small, tight, beautiful handwriting signed by Rachel Amar. It was a list of stuff Véro was supposed to do or know about while her boss was away.
At the top she’d written: “FOR VÉRONIQUE—MEMORANDUM.”
As I informed you, I am embarking on a conference tour in the States.
My patients have all been informed of this via text and e-mail. However, please note that I have not had the time to verify whether everyone was in receipt of my messages. I will not always have full access to my e-mails while I am on tour, so please go ahead and read them from time to time, as I showed you. I have unblocked the password on my laptop and linked it to the television screen in my office. It is all very straightforward. I am counting on you to inform me via text of any emergency situations that may arise. Please explain to any patients who may present themselves for appointments that I am absent and will be in touch upon my return.
As far as the apartment is concerned, I have left some funds should you need to buy cleaning supplies and so on. There are some left in the cupboard. Please take the time during my absence to clean the whole apartment thoroughly—the windows, the curtains, the light switches, the doorknobs, behind the furniture, the back of the cupboards in the kitchen, etc.
The whole enchilada, right? I thought.
The note continued:
I have received a court summons from a lawyer on the “Full Moon Pyromaniac” case. Apparently, the defendant refuses to speak with anyone but me. If the lawyer calls, please explain that I am away on business and will see them as soon as I get back.
“Hey, that’s weird. That’s what they were talking about on the radio this morning.”
Gaston’s attention was drawn away from the blue painting when he heard me muttering. “What was that?”
“There’s some buffoon who’s been setting fire to libraries or something. It was on the radio that he’s keeping quiet. The whole no comment thing. He hasn’t said anything to anyone since he got arrested.”
“And?”
“I see here that Véro’s boss has written something about him wanting to talk to her.”
“Well, she really must be an expert in her field. If she’s the only person this man will communicate with, then not only does she know her science, but she inspires confidence!”
“Oh, yeah! She does! She’s weirdly on the ball! She writes fantabulous books. I love them.”
“You love them? Cricri! Wow! You never fail to astound me! You read psychoanalytical reviews? I thought you were more of a comic-strip kind of girl. I thought you enjoyed those funny videos on the YouTube program.”
“Well, sure, I like the psycho books too. I think they’re real good fun, but I can’t read them in the evening because they send me to Z-land in seconds flat. I can manage them during the day, though. Rachel Amar’s books are incredible. They’re like action films. It’s just a pity there aren’t any pictures.”
“What’s her area of expertise?”
“Criminals. Come on, let’s go check it out.”
We went into the office and picked up a book. There was an author biography on the last page.
Rachel Amar is a psychiatrist and psychoanalyst specializing in criminology. She teaches criminal psychology at the university level, and is often invited to give expert-witness statements in criminal trials, including the trial of the infamous Bratva Godfather. She is the author of several highly acclaimed works. Psychoanalysis and Criminality met with enormous success and won her the Freudian Psychoanalysis Academy Award.
“The word ‘Freudian’ means it’s about a man called Freud who was also into this mind-reading stuff,” I explained.
“Because you now know about Freud too, do you?” Gaston smirked.
I shrugged, not saying a word.
A newspaper article had been carefully cut out, neatly folded, and used as a bookmark. And there I saw my big Russian boss man from a previous big crazy adventure—handcuffed, with my buddies, Marco and Piotr, on either side of him, and all three were surrounded by a sea of cops as they made their way out of the courthouse. The godfather of the Russian Mafia was staring at the camera lens with pure hatred.
Under the photo was a caption: The Bratva Godfather claims he’s been framed, but Rachel Amar’s expert-witness statement sees him sent away.
“Look at that! It’s incredible! Rachel Amar helped bring down my big nemesisis? Nemesi? Nemeses? Do you recognize them, Gaston?”
“Of course I do!”
“We’re going to become fast friends, me and this Rachel Amar. We’re on the same side!”
“Gosh! They must have it in for her, though!” exclaimed Gaston.
“I know! It’s because of her that they’re all serving the max!” I added, then nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah. She’ll need to watch out with those guys. They don’t forget these things easily. I bet she has a contract out on her. Well, never mind all that. I need to get a move on.”
“I’ll help you out with the dusting in the office.”
“OK. Then we’ll look through the fridge for any leftovers. No point throwing stuff out. After that, we can split!”
“No, no! Before splitting, we can read through my collection together. I want you to decide which poem we start out with. Listen, I think the easiest thing would be if we just started at the very beginning. We’ll read it together and then you can take it with you and learn it by heart.”
“By h-heart?”
I could hardly get the words out. I was having difficulty not telling him what I really thought about the whole opera idea, but I didn’t want to hurt him.
“Um, Gaston, let’s go easy on this whole learning-things-by-heart crap, what do you say? I don’t have much of a memory!”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Gaston. “Don’t start all this up again, Cricri. I’ve had enough of you putting yourself down all the time. You have exactly the same memory capacity as everyone else. Take all those foolish pop singers out there! What about Petula Clark? If she can remember her words, then why the devil can’t you?”
Petula Clark? His references were getting more and more obscure. Even my mother had never sent me anything by Petula Clark!
“But—”
“No buts, I’m afraid. It’s learning it by heart or not at all.”
Well, that’s exactly it. I’d prefer the “not at all” option . . . But I’d never say something like that out loud to him.
“Do you think you can become a rich and famous star without learning your words? Come off it! Dream on, Cricri!”
When exactly did I say I wanted to become a rich and famous star? Never! What was going on with Gaston? I’d never seen him this excited about something.
“OK, OK . . . ,” I whispered. “I’ll do what I can, but don’t go expecting any miracles.”
He was satisfied with that answer. He took out a paperback from his pocket and started making copies of some of the pages using Rachel Amar’s photocopier.
I got out what Sabrina calls the thucky machine and the rest of us call the vacuum cleaner and gave the rugs in the main rooms the once-over.
I swept the parquet and the kitchen floor before serving myself a strong and sweet espres
so. I wanted to sit down and drink it with Gaston, but I didn’t even know if he wanted one.
As I headed back to the office, with its books, armchairs, TV screen, and all the modern comforts, I could hear a man’s voice. It was calm and collected and pretty chatty. I wondered who Gaston could possibly be speaking with. I hadn’t heard the phone ring or the doorbell. I pushed the door open.
Gaston was lying down on the sacred couch, watching one of the tapes from Rachel Amar’s private collection.
“Hey there, Gaston! Get a load of you! Is this what you call getting the dusting done?”
He gave me a wink while holding his finger to his lips.
“Shhhh.”
At least he seemed to have forgotten that whole idea of me learning a poem. For the moment.
8
Gaston pointed to the video. On the screen was a guy who was the spitting image of James Franco, but an intellectual version, sitting in what appeared to be a real comfortable chair as a journalist interviewed him. He was speaking in a soft voice about an assembly of . . . of students, maybe? Something like that?
He certainly didn’t speak very clearly. The female journalist was lapping up every word, though. She looked like she was just about ready to eat him up whole. She didn’t know how to hold herself properly. She was drinking in his words, coming across as a bit desperate, twisting her hair around her finger nervously, sticking her teeny boobs out as far as she could manage. I’d never seen such an obvious crush!
I was intrigued and moved farther into the room to get a better look. I sat down in Rachel Amar’s chair, behind her huge desk, and put down my little espresso cup.
The James Franco wannabe—tall, handsome, crew cut, cute glasses—appeared distracted, lost in his thoughts, indifferent to the sexual tension surrounding him. He just spoke about his ideas as if he were simply thinking out loud.
“He’s not a bad-looking fella, that one. But not my type. Doesn’t do a thing for me, really.”