Queen of the Masquerade (Rosie Maldonne's World Book 3)

by Alice Quinn

  I was interested in what sort of advice she gave, how she went about her job, so I settled down into her comfy office chair, put my feet up on her desk, and watched away.

  The guy was in pretty good shape and wore a black turtleneck sweater, jeans, and Nikes. He had a square jaw and piercing black eyes. Even though he was on the couch, I could tell he was fairly tall. He wore glasses, like the intellectual type, and seemed a gentle soul. But what did I know?

  His name and the date of the session appeared at the bottom of the screen. Alexandre Laroche. His voice lacked energy. It was meek and irritating. He went on and on and on about how terrible he was at everything, how his life was one big failure. He moaned that he had no friends, no girlfriend, and nobody ever wanted to do anything with him. This went on for a half hour, but it could have been summed up in just one sentence: “I can’t pick up women.” And there was something about nights at the Carlton, a big five-star hotel on the coast.

  What was that all about? I fast-forwarded a little and figured out he worked in some sort of Internet thing. He’d created a company and it was a big deal and he was a hotshot. He had lots of clients and organized swingers’ nights for them, or sex parties . . . I didn’t quite get it. Was that really a good way of winning new contracts? Probably. Anyway, despite all the sex, he dreamed of true love.

  The session came to an abrupt end, the image froze, and then Rachel Amar’s face appeared on-screen. Great! Just what I wanted to see.

  Rachel had a closed face and a timid expression. She seemed reserved. Her hair was cut in a straight bob. She had an orderly style, a professional way about her, but with a soft look in her eyes.

  She spoke directly to the camera in a serious tone. “Alexandre is currently blocked in an oppositional regressive phase and is suffering from suicidal tendencies. This anally retentive stage, in my opinion, will take a few years before it’s finally dealt with. Unless he actually makes an attempt.”

  I let out a whistle. There were no two ways about it. This broad knew her stuff. She’d got it in one. Respect. It was a pity that everything she said wasn’t going to actually help the kid any.

  It was then that I figured something out. Rachel Amar, with all her brain-box knowledge, had a problem of her own.

  The practicalities of it all.

  I mean, once she’d deciphered what was wrong with someone, then what? With this guy, she was so sure of what she was saying and was obviously committed to him, but she wasn’t providing any actual help. She wasn’t intervening in any way. She was leaving him to talk too long, letting him do too much griping and bellyaching—hours and hours of it, by the looks of things. She didn’t want to tell him what to actually do.

  When he’d gone home and she was all on her own, filming her thoughts . . . Sure, she was great at what she did. No question. But with her patients? She was as good as useless.

  I delved into her collection to see what other videos I could watch. It was the same old, same old with each film. One after another. Each one was someone with problems in life. They were people a lot like me and my friends—just the loaded versions of us. Rich whiners. Nothing like the screwball delinquents she had to work with in the court system. Nothing like the deranged criminals she talked about in her books.

  I suppose she had to make a living, and dealing with rich whiners was the best option.

  My stomach gurgled. I glanced at the time and realized I was running out of time! I’d have to find something to eat real quick and then scrub and polish the floor in the office before heading off to collect my chickadees from school.

  Madame Gangrene (or whatever the heck her name was) was still yammering on and on with Gaston. They were also reading those middle-aged poems out loud. They’d underlined certain lines on Gaston’s copies, highlighted some of the verses, and crossed words out here, there, and everywhere.

  “We have to make the most dramatic passages really sing,” she crooned.

  My, my, my! Gaston had found himself a willing participant for his big opera project.

  I pulled them out of their dreamworld so we could all grab a bite to eat. We finished off some leftovers from the fridge.

  As we ate, Gaston read aloud the first poem they’d selected together. I had to repeat each line after him. He wanted me to start learning that shit already. This whole episode totally ruined my meal, let me tell you. I didn’t enjoy a bite.

  “I am the queen of weavers,

  I am the queen of the weavers of peace.

  My thread is held tight for the warrior that falls,

  My thread is a shower of blood,

  My thread is the thrown javelin.

  I am the queen of weavers,

  And I will weave a red thread.

  Lances watered with blood are my trade,

  My needles are blades,

  I weave with arrows on the cloth of peace.

  This needle rustles when swords are drawn.

  Shields will crack,

  The axe will dance,

  The helmet will yield.

  I weave with arrows on the cloth of peace.

  I will move forward,

  I will enter the fray when our friends gather,

  I weave with arrows on the cloth of peace.

  Our warriors will look upon shields of blood, broken skulls, dismembered bodies.

  I weave with arrows on the cloth of peace,

  There where floats the banner of the brave!”

  So that’s the poem?

  I had to tell him, “It doesn’t even rhyme, Gaston. You have no business going around calling that poetry. Even less business calling it a song. Get real.”

  I think I upset him.

  “Yes, I thought it over for a long time,” he said, “and finally decided on a poem that doesn’t rhyme. We’ll add the rhythm it needs once we have the music.”

  I continued reading the text aloud just to please him, but I knew he was on course to fail with this humdinger. Weaving women and rustling needles were no way to get views on YouTube.

  After we’d all finished munching, I said, “I have some odds and ends to finish up with before I’m out of here.”

  I cleared away the plates and cups into the dishwasher and scrubbed down the office floor. I took the fifty that Amar had left Véro and we all skedaddled.

  The depressed journalist had a bit of a bounce in her step! She’d reloaded her batteries. Recharged them? Whatever the phrase was. She waved warmly at us as she left the elevator. We went all the way down to the parking lot.

  We had to get a move on.

  11

  After we picked up the girlios, I asked Gaston to drop us off at the supermarket so I could buy a few things. I was expecting a teenage boy on top of all the other human and feline mouths I already had to feed. That meant a whole load of food.

  Before I stepped out of the car, Gaston slipped a photocopy into my purse. “I’m going to ask that you recite this to me tomorrow,” he whispered, giving me an encouraging wink.

  Oh, easy peasy lemon squeezy, I’m sure. It’s not like I have anything else to do.

  It was the wrong time of day to be grocery shopping. School was out, people had just finished work. I’d never seen crowds like it. There were kids everywhere—and not just mine. Sabrina was sticking close to me, helping push the cart. She had a very serious and grown-up attitude. I liked it.

  My twinniebobs were running around like headless chickens. They couldn’t have been more delighted. We don’t often go to the big supermarket, and they love the place! They play hide-and-seek or hopscotch in the aisles, jumping around and hiding behind shelves. They adore the bright colors and the strange labels. There’s nothing they don’t like about it.

  I grabbed what I needed to make refried beans and rice, and I threw it all into the cart. It’s an incredible Haitian recipe that my good buddy Ismène taught me. I also threw in some pasta, dried beans, chickpeas, lentils, potatoes, flour, cans of tuna, and eggs. I didn’t have much in the way of fruits an
d vegetables, but this was food to fill the belly. Food to stop us from starving. Food that didn’t break the bank. I also had to get cleaning shit for Amar. I mean, that’s what the money was for, right?

  Checkout number four seemed the least busy. As I waited, I read some of the headlines on the newspaper rack. The kids caught up and joined me in line. There was a large photo of a rocker type on the front page of one of the local papers. He was pretty hot, with nice stubble and Johnny Hallyday eyes. The caption read: “The upcoming trial of Victor Falso, aka the Full Moon Pyromaniac, is set to begin.”

  I whispered, “It’s that Full Moon Pyromaniac again!”

  Sabrina grabbed me by the sleeve and cried out, “Thow me, Mommy! Thow me!”

  She was hopping around. I gave her the paper just to calm her down, and she snatched it eagerly. She reads quite well these days, even if she doesn’t always understand the meanings of the words. She sometimes reads the beginning of the word and invents the end. But I think it’s kind of cute to do your own thing.

  As she spoke, the twinnipats followed her every word. She started chanting, “Pirate Anorak! Pirate Anorak! He’th a pirate with a fanthy coat! It’th a big coat they wear in the north! Gathton hath one for hith tripth to Ithland and Greenland! Pirate Anorak!” The little ones joined in. “Pirate Anorak! Pirate Anorak!”

  They went on and on for what seemed like forever. All three of my kids have a thing about inventing songs. They’ve all got a gift for it too!

  I quickly understood why the checkout line wasn’t all that long. The young Asian girl sitting behind the counter was in tears. She was supposed to be swiping and smiling, not blubbering like a loon! She sniffed and wailed, and whoever noticed moved away to join another line.

  I listened in on her conversation with the customer at the front. The woman had a cart full to bursting, and it was taking ages. What it all boiled down to was some hopeless love story with a guy and she missed her family. She wanted to go back to South Korea, but her heart was breaking at the same time.

  She was rabbiting on about all this between sniffles. Every couple of minutes, she’d get out a tissue from her pocket and blow her nose loudly. There were a few people waiting behind me now because the other lines had gotten too long. I noticed a little guy, a skinny, runty type who hadn’t seen a razor for a good couple of days, with a rocker-style bandanna on his head and a few hairs remaining up top but nothing to write home about. He was rooting around in his cart, totaling the number of six-packs of beer he was buying. Something about him rang a bell. He kept giving me disapproving glowers. That’s why I’d first noticed him.

  Sabrina couldn’t take her eyes off him either.

  But then all my attention was drawn once again to the checkout girl. I really wanted to butt in, to reassure her, if only to get the line moving.

  “It’s normal to have lovers’ quarrels at your age! Don’t worry!”

  But this just made the tears come faster. She cried out louder than any of us was comfortable with.

  “Me Mathieu want me marry!”

  I must have looked like I didn’t have the foggiest, because Sabrina translated. “Mathieu wanth to marry her, Mommy.”

  Well, that cleared things up. Sabrina knows how to translate from any language. As long as the speaker is saying something emotional, she knows what they mean. She must have some sort of built-in software plugged into her heart.

  So the girl’s big worry was that some fella called Mathieu wanted to marry her?

  “Hey! That’s fabulous news!” I exclaimed.

  12

  The checkout girl told me her whole life story. I didn’t understand much of it, though, because of all the bawling . . .

  So my Sabrina explained, giving us all a running commentary.

  “Her father thayth the’th a traitor to her people and that the’ll end up being a hooker in Gangnam. What’th a hooker, Mommy?”

  Whoa, there! I really didn’t like that. First off, I don’t like my kids using bad language. Secondly, how was I supposed to explain this particular profession to my little girl? I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to tell Sabrina the family secret—how Grandmommy Ruth went on the game after she managed to escape being hunted down by the Nazis during World War II.

  “It’s a bit like a nurse, sweetiepops. Or a nanny, you know? But for grown-ups. And Gangnam . . .” It would have been easier if you’d just asked about Gangnam!

  “I know about it already. It’th in that thong! Tho, why doethn’t her popth want her to become a nanny? A Gangnam-thtyle nanny?”

  “Well, she didn’t come all the way to France and learn French just to go back to her own country and be a babysitter!”

  She seemed satisfied enough with this response. I turned back to the checkout girl.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Saejin, pearl of universe.”

  “Thaejin, which meanth ‘Pearl of the Univerth,’” repeated Sabrina.

  “Yeah, I understood this time, sweetie.” I turned to Saejin. “Listen, OK? Your daddy’s just jealous, that’s all!”

  “Yes, but other problem? I pregnant.”

  By some miracle, I’d understood again. I think everyone in the line had understood, actually. The woman in front of me, as well as the customers behind, were all captivated. They had been following this conversation as if we were in the latest episode of some daytime soap opera—some were even making comments and giving their opinions.

  After a few more exchanges and a couple of Sabrina’s translations, I felt I was in a position to give some good advice to this poor girl.

  The crowd was all hanging on my every word. The weirdo guy behind us was starting to lose patience, though. He was muttering. I think he thought I couldn’t hear. But I’ve got great hearing.

  “Is this some kind of joke? A hidden-camera gag? Are we all going to have to spend the night here or what? She’s giving consultations here now! That way, she doesn’t have to put it on the books. The tax man doesn’t find out and the rest of us pay for it! Wow. Doesn’t anyone earn an honest living these days?”

  What was this jerk-off blabbering on about? Another one escaped from the asylum.

  The woman he was talking to stared wide-eyed at him, eyebrows almost reaching her hairline. He was getting angrier by the second.

  “Come on! Get your ass into gear, Amar! There’s shit waiting for you outside. Your destiny! Get a move on! You’re toast. Joan of Arc toast. The butcher’s waiting for you.”

  He guffawed and the people around him said, “Shhhh.” I wondered why he was talking about Amar. Was it a coincidence, or did he really know Rachel Amar? Did he think I was Amar? And what was the Joan of Arc talk all about?

  People were sighing and tsking, but it was just getting him more rattled.

  “That girl’s been holding up this whole line for the last hour! I’m not making that up, right? She ought to just go back to Nam—then she wouldn’t be having any more of her so-called problems!”

  Everyone appeared outraged.

  A woman screamed in his face, “She’s Korean, not Vietnamese!”

  Then it seemed like everyone got involved.

  “Just hush up! How is she supposed to think clearly?”

  “If you’re in a hurry, change lines! Holy cow!”

  He rolled his eyes and looked wigged out.

  My turn in line had come by this point, and once the girl had scanned all the items, I realized the total went over my budget. I had to put a couple of cans back. It really wasn’t a big deal. My welfare check was due any day, and I was going to earn quite a little windfall with all this housework at the therapist’s place. Just in the nick.

  I left Saejin with some encouraging words as I put my groceries in a big plastic bag. Once the conversation had come to a natural conclusion, I flounced out of there with my three babachicks hot on my heels.

  Sabrina was asking me heaps more questions, but they didn’t seem particularly important. I was only half listening. I wa
s more concerned about the rice-and-beans recipe.

  “Mommy, why did the man leave all hith thopping in hith cart without paying?”

  “I don’t know, darling.”

  “Well, I’m going to athk him, then.”

  “Girls, you know we don’t talk to strangers, right? Especially if they offer you candy.”

  “Yeth, we know, Mommy.”

  “Candy! Candy!” the twins started to shout.

  They’re always a little bit behind Sabrina. Only a couple of seconds or so, but still. They’re little. They don’t always get it.

  “What’s with the hubbub, bubs? We’ve left the store now, kiddies. Listen to me now! We’ve got other things to be getting on with. Come on! Let’s go!”

  The two youngest ran ahead of me. Every now and again, they’d stop to scrutinize something on the ground, singing their little heads off as they did so.

  Sabrina held on to my wrist. My hand was gripping our groceries, so my wrist was her only option.

  “Mommy,” she said, “I don’t want you to worry, OK? You know I’m good when it comth to bad guyth, right? You jutht let me know if you need my help.”

  “Yes, my sweet pea. Same here. I can totally help you out too if you need it,” I replied without really paying much attention. I was on autopilot.

  We’d left downtown and were now venturing into no-man’s-land, where my trailer is parked.

  I happened to spot the weird guy from the supermarket. He was whistling and carrying a purse thing with a shoulder strap. What a sad sack! What a rudo! He must have lived in the housing projects farther toward the outskirts of the city. He was totally giving us all the once-over as he sauntered past us. Who did he think he was? Just as I was about to say something, he darted face-first into a street lamp. I actually heard a metallic twang as he crumpled down onto the sidewalk. We all watched as a whole pile of odds and ends fell from his special man-bag.