by Colin Meloy
Michiko sighed. “Let me know next time. That guy was so slick with cologne it was starting to make me gag.”
Then, before the band could strike up another tune, Michiko announced, regally, that really, Charlie, all this dancing was quite giving her the vapors. Maybe what she needed was a glass of punch. Ever a gentleman, Charlie led her by the hand out of the pavilion and toward the Palais doors.
As they were heading up the steps, they saw Jackie being courted by four young gentlemen; she was laughing at some joke one of them had told, perhaps too loudly. “Excuse me,” she said to her admirers, “I believe my date is here.” With that, she spun around and threaded her hand into Charlie’s free arm, saying, “How boring men can be.”
And suddenly, Charlie Fisher, twelve years old and never been kissed, was accompanying two beautiful young women into a lavish soiree in an empress’s former palace. What’s more, they were his friends and confederates in an elaborate enterprise to shake the pillars of society, bringing a modicum of equality to a rigged system that so clearly favored the wealthy, the moneyed and landed gentry over the working poor of the world. He was a modern-day folk hero; he was Robin Hood in a tuxedo. He’d never felt so alive.
A pair of servants stood at the door to the palace and bowed to the three of them with a deference one would expect of royal handlers; they were ushered into the magnificent ground-floor ballroom. Massive glittering chandeliers hung over the checkerboard floor like a visitation of crystalline UFOs; a crowd of impeccably dressed grown-ups milled about the parquet with champagne glasses in their hands and thousands of francs’ worth of cash and jewelry littering their bodies. Several of the women wore actual crowns; some of the men wore suits draped with shining medals and badges. Servants darted here and there, handing out food and drink to partygoers.
“Incredible,” whispered Charlie.
And then Sembene and Fatour were before them, their arms cradling trays of oysters, their pockets looking like overly stuffed Christmas stockings. “Where’s Molly?” asked Sembene desperately.
“I feel like I’ve got all the hardware of a work site shoved into my underwear,” said Fatour.
Charlie had to stop himself from laughing. “I saw her over by the bandstand, in the gardens,” he said. “Look there.”
The two boys scurried away, careful not to shake the contents of their pockets onto the floor. Another band was playing off to the side of the massive room, though no one seemed to be dancing. The crowd was intent on one another’s company, on conversations that sounded as if the fate of nations were bound to them, hushed admissions and gossip that could bring down entire families. Charlie had heard such voices before, at the functions he’d been forced to attend with his father, but never in this great of a number. It was like the scions of the great families of Europe were gathered, here, in this giant glowing room, and were now deciding how the rest of the twentieth century would unfold.
The three of them walked across the floor, soaking in the aroma of this conversation, eavesdroppers to the global body politic. They found Pluto standing by an enormous crystal punch bowl set at the center of a long table that was placed against the palace’s north-facing windows. The Mediterranean, bathed in the glow of the evening’s twilight, could be seen just beyond; the glimmering lights of the boats in the harbor and the windows of the overlooking buildings provided a kind of winking backdrop to the party. The one-eyed boy was sipping at a glass of cordial and looking very serious.
His prats, unlike those of the rest of the pickpockets, were empty.
Jackie and Michiko let go of Charlie’s arms, and the three of them backed up against the table alongside Pluto, joining him in his contemplation of the crowd.
“How goes the tip?” asked Charlie finally. He found Pluto’s silence curious.
Pluto took a drink from his glass before answering, “This ain’t no pea soup press, Charlie. We’re not in this one for the sling and the slum.”
“Oh?”
“There’s a jug touch to be had, Charlie. The Big Score. And I intend to be the one to bing it.”
Charlie looked over the crowd. From this casual distance, he could see many items that might, in his estimation, be considered a Big Score: he saw brooches the size of fists, medals that were so heavy in gold that they challenged the strength of whatever fastener was holding them to the fabric they’d been pinned to. He saw glittering tiaras and strings of pearls—bead rope, in the argot—that were so long and carried so many of the opaline orbs that they circled the neck of their wearer perhaps four or five times.
“Don’t be so serious, Pluto,” chided Jackie. “There’s plenty to go around.”
“Charlie and I had a lovely turn around the dance floor,” said Michiko.
“It was very productive,” said Charlie.
“Really, Pluto. Do try and enjoy yourself,” said Jackie. She snaked her arm into Charlie’s. “Come on,” she said, playing the supportive party guest. “Let’s take a little walk around the room, see if we know anyone.”
Michiko fell in with Pluto, and the four pickpockets pushed off from their mooring at the table. They began to wander back toward the crush of aristocracy in the center of the room. Charlie could feel the strength in Jackie’s arm as they walked; she was the sort of girl who would not blithely hang on a guy’s arm, that much was clear, but would actually do the leading—and Charlie found something admirable in that. He allowed her to be the captain, the navigator, of their voyage about the crowded ballroom. That way, he decided, he was better able to focus more closely on the potential bings to be had, to fan the loaded marks in the room.
This was precisely what he was doing, eyeing some general’s medal of the Legion of Honor and deciding how best to undo the dipsy that was the medal’s fastener, when he heard his name being said, very loudly, just behind him.
“Charlie!”
He froze. Time seemed to stop. His brain began processing the timbre of the voice that had just announced his birth-given name when it came, regretfully, again.
“Charlie Fisher!”
The added two syllables gave enough information to the flashing synapses in Charlie’s mind to piece together who was saying his name. And the answer was very, very unfortunate.
It was his father.
“What are you doing here?” the voice said again as Charlie, in seeming slow motion, felt Jackie’s hand guide him full circle to face the man who’d asked the question. And then Charles Fisher Sr., American consul general to Marseille and career diplomat, came into Charlie’s vision like some great planet rounding the cosmos to eclipse the light of the sun. There he was, all five foot eleven of him, in black tie and jacket, brown, pomaded hair, graying at the temples, little mustache, Brut cologne. There was no denying it.
“I’m,” said Charlie, and that was all he could manage. He tried again. “I’m.” He couldn’t seem to convince his mouth to provide the amount of saliva it needed to utter more than a single syllable.
And then the strangest thing happened. A smile broke across Charles Sr.’s face and he reached in with both arms, collapsing Charlie into his chest with a thundering embrace. “Well, I’m quite over the moon,” said Charles after he’d stepped back from the hug and was surveying his son with a proud eye. “So you planned on coming after all!”
Charlie tried to command words, but his faculties again failed him. He hoped a simple nod would suffice.
“I really should’ve known it, you getting your tuxedo readied and pressed.” Charles Sr. then eyed the boy’s ill-fitting attire. “We will have to get you a new one, you know,” he said. “This old monkey suit will simply not do. But I am so glad that you’ve decided to come to the party. And are these your friends? The ones I’ve heard so much about?”
The shock of seeing his father, the crashing of his two lives coming together like football players in a midfield collision, had all but made Charlie forget that he was standing arm in arm with Jackie and that Pluto and Michiko remained close by on
either side of him.
“Very nice to meet you, sir,” prompted Jackie, aware that Charlie had lost his ability to speak. “We’ve heard so much about you.”
“Well, I hope all of it is good,” said Charles Sr., winking gamely at his son. “And I’ve heard so much about you all, as well. Charlie speaks so highly of you.”
“Oh, Charlie,” hammed Michiko, nudging Charlie. “You’re really too kind.”
Charles’s attention fell on Pluto. “You must be Clark,” he said.
“Clark?” asked Pluto, confused.
“Clark Kent. The one who was orphaned in South Africa, raised by Pygmies, I was told,” said Charles.
“Oh yes,” said Pluto. “That’s me. Clark. Clark Kent.” He then fell into his role with command: “I thank God for those Pygmies every day, sir. Saved my life. Taught me everything I know.”
Charles nodded sagely. “Yes, I can only imagine. And you ladies?”
“Aren’t you going to introduce us, Charlie?” asked Michiko.
“How very rude of you, Charlie,” added Jackie.
“This . . . ,” Charlie managed finally. “This is Jackie and this is Michiko. This is my father, Charles Fisher Sr. And . . .” He looked at Pluto, his face feeling as if it had been sucked dry of all of its color. “And Clark you’ve met.”
“A pleasure,” said Michiko, extending her hand.
Charles Sr. took her palm and raised it to his lips, saying, “Enchanté.”
In doing so, Charles’s gold Rolex watch appeared from beneath the sleeve of his jacket. Charlie let out a quiet wheeze. Before the watch could be disappeared, he abruptly grabbed Michiko’s wrist and yanked it away from his father’s grasp.
“Hey!” said Michiko.
“Perhaps I was being too forward,” said Charlie’s father, looking at his son with surprise.
“No, nothing,” said Charlie. “It’s just that, well, we’ve all met, haven’t we? I don’t see why we go to all the trouble of shaking hands. Seems so, you know, formal.”
Michiko smiled mischievously.
“Well,” Charlie said suddenly. “We were just about to be going, so . . .”
“What?” asked Jackie. “Shush, Charlie. Why, we just got here!”
“Nonsense, Charlie,” said his father. He then turned to Charlie’s compatriots and said, “I’ve been trying to get Charlie to one of these functions for months. Meet some of the movers and shakers of the European political stage, be a witness to history! But he’s kept begging off, running around with you lot.”
“Oh, we know, Mr. Fisher,” said Jackie coyly. “Charlie can be such a spoilsport.”
“And we’re very sorry,” added Michiko, “for having so commandeered his time.”
“Indeed,” said Charles Sr. “Well, I don’t know whose idea it was to come tonight, but I’m just gobsmacked, really. You’ve honestly made my night. My month! My year!”
Charlie stared at his friends pleadingly. They were offering no help. “I don’t know that I feel well,” he said.
“Oh, come on, Charlie,” said Jackie, wrapping her arm closer around his. “The night is young! You don’t want to disappoint your father, do you?”
Charlie found himself in a cul-de-sac of his own making, with no clear means of escape. “I suppose,” he said, gulping loudly, “that we could stay a few minutes more.”
“Fantastic,” said Charles Sr. He extended his arm and took a look at his watch, which was, thankfully, still there on his wrist. “Speaking of which,” he said, “I don’t suppose you kids would like to see history transpire, right before your eyes?”
Before Charlie had a chance to respond, Pluto said, “We’d love to, sir.”
Chapter
SEVENTEEN
“This is not okay,” hissed Charlie. Jackie was still at his side, staring straight ahead as Charles Sr. led the four well-dressed pickpockets, his son among them, across the ballroom floor.
“What’s not okay, Charlie?” she asked. She was smiling ingratiatingly to the various aristocrats they were passing, shining in her role as companion to the consul general’s son. “Just go with it.”
“I can’t go with it. The tip is off. We’ve given up our kissers. We’ve beefed the gun. It’s time to nash it, Jackie, time to get out of here.” Charlie was forced to whisper this harangue while smiling and nodding to the passersby. Their progress was agonizingly slow going across the parquet floor of the room, as Charles Sr. was intent on introducing Charlie and his charming friends to every well-heeled colleague and notable personality they passed. In turn, Charlie found himself in the awkward position of trying to thwart his friends’ attempts at lifting valuables from these newfound acquaintances. “No handshakes,” was Charlie’s refrain. “Really not necessary. She’s got a bit of a cold. Hate for you to catch it. Oh, Pluto—I mean Clark—stick with us here. No need to walk behind the gentleman there.”
This charade had left him exhausted by the time they’d arrived at a pair of double doors on the far side of the ballroom, where two bulky security personnel stood guard. The two men stepped forward to stop Charles Sr. as he approached.
“It’s all right,” said Charlie’s father. “They’re with me. I’m Charles Fisher, American consul general. The queen is expecting me.”
“Queen?” spouted Charlie involuntarily. By now, it seemed there was no blood left in his face. He felt like a walking bedsheet, freshly laundered.
“Queen,” he heard Michiko say, just behind him.
“You know,” Charlie said to his father, “we could just wait out here. We really don’t want to impose.”
“Nonsense,” replied Charles Sr. “You shouldn’t pass up an opportunity like this, Charlie. To meet royalty! I’m sure your friends would be interested.”
“Oh yes,” said Pluto. “We definitely are.”
“See, Charlie?” said Charles, beaming at the pickpockets. “I think we have a gaggle of budding diplomats on our hands!”
And before Charlie could utter another objection, the doors had been thrown open and the five of them were ushered into the corridor beyond.
Now, the Palais du Pharo was, at this time, mostly used as a medical school—but it took very little doing to get it back to its old imperial self. The organizers of this fete were certainly keen to do just this and had brought a kind of regal glory back to the interior of the building by festooning its walls with all the trappings of royal decoration. This sensibility carried over into the receiving chamber into which Charlie and his confederates were led. A dais had been erected on one side of the room, where a princely-looking chair, painted gold for the occasion, had been placed. Tapestries showing frolicking satyrs, nymphs, and unicorns covered the walls. Ornate ceramic urns had been placed around the room, and a red carpet led to the chair in the center of the dais. Two men dressed in some kind of uncomfortable-looking traditional garb stood on either side of the chair, looking as if they had been drop-kicked from the fifteenth century. To top it off, they each held very real-looking halberds and were staring indifferently into the middle distance. An older man, dressed perhaps less anachronistically in a proper three-piece suit, approached Charles Sr., and the two of them engaged in a short, quiet conversation. The pickpockets surrounding Charlie remained ominously silent.
Charles Sr.’s conversation with the man drew to a close and the consul general turned to his son and nodded, smiling. The man with whom he’d been speaking climbed the dais and retreated through an ornate wooden door just behind the chair. Silence pervaded the room; Jackie cleared her throat, once, and apologized quietly for doing so.
Finally, the door behind the chair opened and the man in the suit reentered, taking up a position to one side of the chair. “Announcing,” he said in a loud, sonorous voice, “Her Royal Highness, the Lady Nancy Drubetskaya Chertof, Exalted Queen of Lumiravia, Protector of the Fesselden Steppe, Carrier of the Flame of Krepswald.” The two men in traditional garb standing to either side of the chair abruptly revealed that they had
been hiding twin bugles beneath the burgundy velvet draping of their sleeves and blatted out a triumphal melody that made Charlie’s stomach leap into his throat.
At that signal, an elderly woman in a jewel-bedecked gown appeared from the doorway and walked out onto the dais. She nodded perfunctorily to her announcer before sitting down in the gilded chair that served as her throne, looking relieved to be finally sitting. She was wearing an immense necklace of glittering jewels that hung down the front of her chest like a lei of bright flowers; a diamond-studded crown was perched heavily on the silver hair of her head. Rings the size of walnuts littered the frail twigs of her fingers; golden thread lined every seam of her gown.
Charlie glanced at his compatriots warily and saw they were each, to an individual, staring at the queen’s adornments with the greed and excitement of a half-starved dog awaiting its dinner. Charlie’s look then fell on his father, and he saw something he’d never seen before in the elder Fisher, this pillar of confidence and strength: genuine nervousness. Looking back at the Mobbies, he tried to get their attention, to whisper, “Don’t you dare,” but it was as if they were on another planet and he was earthbound, tapping out Morse code to some distant star.
Charles Fisher Sr. bowed deeply; Jackie, Pluto, Michiko, and Charlie followed his lead and bowed as well.
“Hello, Mr. Fisher,” said the queen. “We are very pleased to see you well.” She spoke in a deep, lilting way, filtered as it was through a kind of indistinguishable German-Slavic accent.
“Your Highness,” said Charles. “It is my greatest pleasure to see you again.” To the casual bystander, there might seem nothing unusual in the way the consul general spoke, but Charlie knew his father well enough to recognize that this was no typical meeting. Charlie had never heard his father speak so deferentially. There was a slight, almost imperceptible tremble in the elder Fisher’s voice.
The queen then gestured to the assembled guests in the room. “Whom do we have the honor of addressing?”
