by Colin Meloy
“I think so?” said Charlie. He phrased it as a question. The woman scraped the change across the counter and dumped it into her hand. Charlie smiled and shifted on his stool. He tapped his fingers impatiently on the counter and glanced down at the soldier. The man’s date still hadn’t arrived, and his nervousness seemed heightened with every minute that passed. Charlie tried not to stare too much, but it became apparent that the man was so preoccupied that Charlie could’ve thrown an ice cube at his forehead and he wouldn’t have so much as blinked.
Finally, the door to the café swung open; both Charlie and the soldier turned expectantly to see who had arrived. The soldier frowned; it was only a boy wearing a pink shirt and a wry expression, the white antenna of a lollipop stick jutting from his lips. Some kind of exchange transpired between the soldier and Amir, though try as he might, Charlie could not make out their conversation. It ended happily with the soldier smiling and shaking Amir’s hand. Amir, in turn, gave him a respectful salute and returned to the stool next to Charlie.
“What did you do?” asked Charlie, glaring at his compatriot.
Amir ignored the question. He handed Charlie a lollipop, enshrouded in waxed paper. “I got one of these for you.”
“You went to a candy shop?” asked Charlie incredulously.
“Mm-hmm,” said Amir, from behind the lollipop. He took it out of his mouth and studied the sticky green globe at the end of the stick.
“What are you up to?” asked Charlie.
“A classic sneak job,” said Amir. “Introductory, really.” A glint of gold on Amir’s pinkie finger just beneath the bar gave Charlie enough information to realize that the boy had stolen the soldier’s ring.
“How did you—” began Charlie. “It was in a box, though.”
“And now it’s out.”
Charlie glanced back at the soldier in time to see him, once again, pat the top left breast of his jacket, unaware of the heist. “What, you put the box back?”
“He’ll never be the wiser. Oh—hold up. Here comes our gal.” Amir indicated the front door with his lollipop stick. Charlie looked; the door had swung open again to reveal a young lady, perhaps eighteen years old, wearing a modest blue shift. She had her brown hair tied back with a ribbon that circled the crown of her head like a halo.
The soldier beamed when he saw her. He stood up abruptly from his place at the bar and ironed out his uniform with the palms of his hands. The two sweethearts greeted each other warmly, trading quick kisses on each cheek, and the soldier ushered the girl over to a nearby table. So engrossed were they with each other’s company that they did not see Amir as he grabbed Charlie and dragged him over to sit at the neighboring table.
Charlie, caught up in the maelstrom, undid the waxed paper on his sucker and popped it in his mouth.
Amorous words were clearly being exchanged at the table next to Charlie and Amir’s, as the two lovers, the soldier and the girl, had their heads lowered and were gazing fixedly into each other’s eyes like two bulls about to charge. Their lips pronounced words, in French, that well outstripped Charlie’s comprehension. A Johnny Hallyday song pealed from the jukebox in the corner of the café.
As if the music served as some sort of magnetizing force, the couple leaned in closer to each other. The soldier reached into his coat pit and retrieved the black jewelry box. The girl tittered and held her fingers to her lips. Amir winked at Charlie.
The soldier held the box outward and opened the clamshell hinge. The girl’s face fell. The box clattered from the soldier’s fingers; the box’s contents spilled out onto the wooden tabletop: a plastic ring with a bright red candy ruby in place of a diamond.
Pop went Amir’s sucker from between his lips.
The girl reached over and slapped the soldier soundly upside his cheek. She then shoved the table out from the bench, the edge hitting the soldier squarely in the chest, and stormed out of the café. Amir stifled a laugh; the soldier was too befuddled to notice. He stared in absolute disbelief at the candy ring on the table before him.
“Qu-quelle . . . ,” he stuttered breathlessly, before overturning his chair and racing after his fleeing would-be fiancée. Amir burst into laughter.
“Did you see that?” cackled Amir. “Looks like he made a bad choice in jewelry. Girls can be so very picky, you know.”
Charlie was stunned. “That was not right,” he managed.
“Not right? That was brilliant! One of my better moves.”
“That man’s whole life was on the line. And you ruined it,” said Charlie. He could feel the blood rising in his face.
“Oh, come on, Charlie. It was just a joke.” Amir pulled the actual ring from his pocket and, setting it on the table, admired it. “He does have very good taste.”
Charlie lunged out with his hand. He managed to grab the ring before Amir could steal it away. Amir grabbed Charlie’s clenched hand; Charlie threw his other hand over Amir’s. They sat there, hands locked together, as they stared at each other across the table.
“You’ll have to learn to lighten up a bit, Charlie,” said Amir, “if you’re going to be on the whiz.”
“Robbing lawyers is one thing,” said Charlie. “This isn’t right. You know it.”
“I wasn’t going to keep it,” replied Amir.
“Oh?”
“There is more to the hustle. But you will have to trust me. You will have to give it to me.”
Charlie held fast.
Amir persisted: “Charlie, time is running out if you wish me to finish this job.” He arched his eyebrow.
Perhaps because the better angels of his nature were taking a typical Provençal siesta, Charlie let the ring fall to the wooden tabletop. Amir snapped it back into his hand. “Really, Charlie,” he said. “Leave this to the professionals.” He snaked out of the bench, around the table, and headed for the door. Charlie followed.
Outside the café, the soldier had managed to collar his sweetheart at the busy intersection where the Canebière met Cours Belsunce. He was in the process of pleading his case. A few curious onlookers had stopped to spectate, watching this timeless drama unfold before their eyes. Charlie, arriving at the scene just behind Amir, managed to parse a few of the hurled accusations: the soldier, whose name apparently was Felix, was un blagueur and un cochon. He didn’t, and never would, take their romance sérieusement. A few of the female spectators shouted encouragement to the wronged woman, while the few men who had stopped stroked their chins contemplatively and urged the soldier courage. Such a mob was an ideal cover for Amir and Charlie as they made their way through the crowd. Charlie saw Amir brush by the woman, notably the woman’s pink leather purse, and continue on through the thicket of waving arms and gesticulating hands. Having crawled free, Amir and Charlie rendezvoused at the fringe of the crowd. Amir waved something in Charlie’s face. It was a monogrammed tissue.
“You stole her pocket handkerchief,” observed Charlie. “So you’ve added insult to injury. I just don’t get—”
Amir was quick to interrupt him. “Quiet, Charlie. Watch.” He pointed back to the crowd.
Through the tangle of spectators, Charlie could see the girl in the blue dress crying, her face buried in her hands, while the soldier continued to make his plea. She abruptly turned away from him and reached into her purse, presumably to retrieve her handkerchief. To her dismay, it was not there. While rummaging for the missing item, her face betrayed the fact that her hand had fallen on something else, something entirely unexpected, in the depths of her purse.
She pulled out her hand; she was holding the diamond ring.
The crowd instantly hushed. The soldier seemed as dumbfounded as any of the onlookers. Whether out of complete shock or some sort of well-honed military instinct, the soldier dropped down to one knee and, in a breaking voice, proposed marriage.
A wide smile spread across the girl’s face and she punched the soldier angrily, once, in the chest, before throwing herself into his arms, laughing through her tears.
; “Oui!” she cried. “Oui, bien sûr, mon amour!”
The soldier, shell-shocked and smiling, ran his hand through her hair and kissed her brow. The crowd gave a happy cheer, while the soldier gamely accepted the responsibility for what appeared to be, after all, a very clever and romantic ruse.
Charlie laughed and slapped Amir on the arm. “Brilliant!” he shouted. “That was the plan? All along? You’re a crafty devil, Amir.”
“Well,” said Amir, hemming, “maybe not ‘all along,’ but it did serve a purpose. You see, Charlie? There is always a story. There is always a tale to follow.” Amir put his arm around Charlie’s shoulder and the two boys strolled away from the scene of their crime, laughing and reconstructing the day’s events as they went.
Perhaps this would be the end of this story. Here, on this crowded afternoon thoroughfare, with that ever-present scent that perfumes the Marseillais air—a kind of mélange of sewage and soap—clinging to one’s nostrils; with the roar of the street traffic and the chatter of the pedestrians and the barking of the street vendors, hawking scarves and trinkets and shoes. Here, between the high walls of the apartment blocks and storefronts, bleached white by the high Mediterranean sun. It would be a tidy story. But no. Here, it is just beginning.
“Amir!” came a girl’s voice, cutting through the clutter of city noise, just as the boys were making their way back down to the Quai des Belges. The voice made Amir stop cold.
“Oh boy,” he whispered.
Charlie looked at Amir, alarmed. “What?”
“Amir!” the voice called again. It was remarkable not only in its volume and authority, but also by the fact that Charlie could tell, with the one word uttered, that it was American. Charlie searched for its source.
“Who is that?” Charlie asked Amir.
“Jackie,” said Amir. “It’s Jackie.”
“Who’s Jackie?”
“Oh, you’ll meet Jackie,” said Amir, and the boy’s spark, once so bright, seemed to Charlie to be extinguished for the first time that day.
Chapter
SIX
It didn’t take long for the owner of the loud, commanding American voice to appear. She was a girl who looked to be just on the other side of puberty, a young teenager, and she was wearing a simple white blouse and a green skirt, printed with a cornucopia of tropical fruits. She had her dusty blond hair pulled back in a ponytail; it was tied with a white ribbon at the nape of her neck.
“Did you make a friend, Amir?” asked the girl. She smiled brightly, if somewhat archly. The sentence she’d spoken was long enough to give Charlie the idea that she was from the Southern states. Her voice sounded like honeysuckle.
“Hello, Jackie,” said Amir. “This is Charlie. Charlie, Jackie. She’s a cannon.”
“Charlie,” said Jackie, “are you straight?”
“Pardon?”
Amir began to answer, but Jackie shushed him. “Are you on the whiz or aren’t you?” she pressed.
“Well . . .”
“He’s straight,” said Amir. “Though I was showing him a few touches. Just a few.”
“Fascinating,” said Jackie. “But why on earth are you teaching a chump anything, Amir? Chumps are to be hustled, not taught.”
“I did a bit of hustling myself,” Charlie said daringly. “I ran a stall. Put up my . . . my hump. Just a bit ago.”
Jackie stared Charlie down as if he’d just crawled from the pit toilet of a public latrine. She was only a few inches taller than Charlie, and yet she seemed to tower above him. “Did it speak?” she asked Amir.
“Ah, c’mon, Jackie,” said Amir. “We were just fooling about, yeah?”
Jackie seemed to ignore this. “You’re late for the meet, Amir.”
“Am I?” he asked. “What time is it?”
“Quarter of six,” answered Charlie, looking at his watch. Considering present company, he was somewhat surprised it was still there.
“Oh yeah. Say, Charlie. I’ve got to scram, yeah? Been a good time.”
“Wait, wait,” said Jackie. “It’s really darling that we’ve got a chump here who thinks he’s a cannon. Come on, Charlie, show me a touch.”
“A touch?”
“I’ve got something in my pit.” She pointed to a small pocket in her skirt. “Take it from me.”
Amir protested, “Jackie, c’mon. We’ve got to make the meet. We don’t have time for this.”
“No, they can wait,” said Jackie. “You were turning out a real cannon. I want to see his work.”
Charlie bit his lip and studied the girl’s pocket. His heart was racing. It was one thing to perform these actions on an unsuspecting victim, quite another thing to attempt one on a professional. While under pressure, no less. He tried to remember Amir’s instructions. Misdirection. Steering attention. The mark’s eyes are two spotlights; work in the dark around their shine. Taking a deep breath, Charlie moved his left hand toward the girl’s pocket.
But before he’d even reached the fabric of her skirt, Jackie slapped his hand down. “Never mind,” she said, scowling. “I guess some folks just have the whiz know, some don’t.”
Charlie let his hand fall to his side, chastened. He could feel his shoulders sag as Amir gave him a pained look. “It’s all right, Charlie,” said Amir quietly. He patted Charlie on the arm. “Maybe see you around, yeah?”
The two pickpockets, Jackie and Amir, then swiftly turned heel and dissipated into the sea of passersby on La Canebière. Charlie remained where he was, staring at his shoes. He was wearing white leather loafers with tassels. He suddenly was overcome by a feeling of disgust for his shoes. He was deeply ashamed of them, these stupid white things. More to the point, he loathed the person inside those shoes, this stupid, naive American rich kid who thought he could run with the quick thinkers, the darers, and the riskers. That he could keep pace with that irrepressible stream of ingenuity that runs beneath everything, that subverts the phoniness of the world. No—instead, he was a part of that phoniness. He, Charlie Fisher, was a fraud. He could feel himself beginning to cry.
Before any tears fell, however, he quickly wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt and began walking toward the tram stop on the Quai des Belges. He caught the five fifteen back to Avenue du Prado. This time, he paid for his ticket.
Arriving home, Charlie tried to quietly slink upstairs to his room without anyone noticing, but a voice rang out just as his feet touched the second riser of the grand staircase in the house’s foyer. “Charlie!” The voice resounded off the marble tiles of the floor and the high vaulted ceiling. It was coming from the atrium, just off the foyer. It was, without a doubt, the sonorous voice of Charlie’s father.
“Yes, sir?” asked Charlie.
“Come in here, please,” replied Charles Sr.
Bathed in the evening’s last winks of sunlight, Charles Sr. was standing on the tiled floor of the glassed atrium. He was wearing an apron over his work wear—his worsted three-piece suit—and was tending to a forest of ferns. The bridge of his reading glasses was clinging to the tip of his nose as he, with a red-handled pair of clippers, pruned away the dead or dying fronds. The air felt junglelike; Charlie stepped into the room like a tourist lost in some Malaysian rain forest. Charles Sr. didn’t look up from his labors.
“Your mother called,” said Charles Sr.
“Oh?”
“She’s in Toronto. She wished you a happy birthday.”
“My birthday was two weeks ago.”
“Exactly,” said Charles Sr., glancing up from the tomato vine he was currently inspecting. “I told her as much. Perhaps she’ll get it right next year.”
“Did she have anything else to say?”
“Not much,” said Charles, snipping a grayish vine away from the otherwise healthy plant. “She’s ‘finding herself,’ she said. She’s even getting some film work up there. I wished her the best of luck. She said she’d try to phone back when you were home.”
“Ah, okay.” Charlie was famil
iar with this sort of promise; they would likely not hear from his mother for another six months.
“Yes,” said Charles, guessing Charlie’s thoughts. “We should not wait up for it.” He set down his clippers and removed the bifocals from his eyes. “I am so sorry, Charlie,” he said. “So very sorry. She’s just—”
“No need, Father,” said Charlie. Seeing his father become emotional was always very uncomfortable for him. “I do like it here. With you. Instead.” Somehow the words, as they came out, didn’t sound very convincing.
“Do you?” asked Charles. “I’m glad of that.”
Charlie nodded. The conversation seemed to have reached its logical end point for the two Fishers. He turned to leave.
“Oh, and Charlie. The Päffgens are coming for dinner tonight. Do you remember them? They have three boys. I think one may be your age. Nice fellows,” Charlie Sr. said. “In any case, you’ll want your dinner jacket and trousers.”
“Very well. Thank you, Father,” said Charlie.
Upstairs, in the safety of his room, Charlie threw himself onto his bed and buried his head in the pillows. He briefly tried to recall his mother’s face to his mind’s eye; he found the job to be exceedingly difficult. In its place, he saw a head shot she’d had framed on their mantel in Georgetown, taken long before he was born. Defeated, he grabbed his book—Treasure Island—from his nightstand but it did not distract. He stood up and paced the floor, visualizing each touch that Amir had taught him. His fingers moved in front of him as he walked; he mimed Amir’s easy gait and gestures. He was still stung by his failed test with the girl, Jackie. He knew that if he had a second chance, he could’ve succeeded. He just needed a little more practice. Finally, after some time had passed, a knock came at the door.
“Charlie, sir?” came a voice.
“Yes?”
“I have your dinner jacket and trousers, freshly cleaned and pressed.”
“Okay, bring them in.”
The door opened and in walked André, the assistant butler. He had Charlie’s black jacket and pants folded neatly over his arm. André waited while Charlie undressed down to his underwear; he laid the outfit out on the bed before taking the clothes Charlie had shed. As he was leaving the room, however, he paused at the threshold.
