by Annie Bryant
In the end, it seemed as if my peanut butter-and-cracker idea was an overall hit. Philippe and a girl named Aimée asked for seconds, so I made them little peanut butter and cracker sandwiches.
“Okay, mes amis, time to pack up your things and go,” announced Madame de Robein just before the hour was up. “Merci beaucoup, Charlotte, for all that you’ve shared. It was so nice to see you again.”
“Thanks for having me,” I said. “It’s good to be back.”
7
Les Temps S’écoule Comme de L’eau
TIME IS LIKE A RIVER
I smelled the Seine before I saw it—an exotic blend of freshness and fishiness at once exhilarating and foul. Sophie and I walked from school toward the water to begin our search for Orangina. I rushed forward to the end of the street to catch a glimpse of the river I once called home. On this overcast, windless day, the river lay like a ribbon of silver threading its way under bridges and curving through the oldest part of Paris.
My breath caught in my chest when I saw our old houseboat. I wanted to run down the quay and jump aboard…but I knew it was not my home anymore. I wondered with a pang if Orangina, wherever he was, felt the same way.
Most people instantly picture the Eiffel Tower when they think of Paris. I think of the Seine. A little motorboat slowly putted by, and I could imagine how the houseboat would rock as the wake set it moving. The tin chandelier over the kitchen table would still be swinging five minutes after the boat was out of earshot. I could hear our neighbor Monsieur Duprée shouting in French about those “stupides bateaux”—stupid boats.
When we moved in to the houseboat, it was fully equipped with pots, pans, and china. I loved the country feel to the place—it was very rustic and lived-in and felt almost like camping in the middle of one of the most beautiful cities in the world. The kitchen stove usually needed to be coaxed to work…the kitchen in Sophie’s apartment was a modern marvel in comparison.
And then there was the mud—oh, the mud! There was always mud after the water rose and receded. No matter how often Dad and I wiped our feet, one of us always managed to track mud through the entire houseboat.
Parisian life revolves around the Seine and I love every bit of it: couples walking hand-in-hand along the cobblestone quay in the early evening, the rowing club passing by in the morning, even the bellowing squawk of the herons. There was always barge traffic from the sightseeing boats. Once I awoke to a tapping at my window and was surprised to look out and be face to face with a swan.
To me, the Seine was the essence of Paris. Orangina felt as connected to the river as I did. He loved watching birds flit from branch to branch on the trees that hung low over the water. And his favorite thing to do was prowl the banks for hours on end.
“Most people instantly picture the Eiffel Tower when they think of Paris. I think of the Seine.”
~ pg. 84
“You see the quay right here under this bridge?” Sophie motioned, pointing. “This is where I saw Orangina, I promise. It was definitely him; there is no doubt in my mind. He turned when I called his name. For a moment I thought he would come to me, but I took only one tiny step forward and he scampered away. In a flash, he was gone. Just like that.”
I couldn’t help laughing at Sophie. Her hands were going a mile a minute, making little cat scampering motions. I looked at the place she had pointed to and suddenly felt a wave of disappointment. From the moment Sophie e-mailed me, I imagined coming to Paris and finding Orangina exactly where Sophie had spotted him. I’d expected him to jump in my arms.
“Charlotte, you look tired.”
“I’m just worried, Sophie. I know it’s kind of silly, but I wanted so much to find him right here waiting for us. Where should we look next?”
“Come, I know the way to revive your spirits,” Sophie said with a smile.
I followed her across Pont Louis-Philippe down rue St-Louis-en-l’Ile. As I walked, I breathed in the moist smell of the river air. Overhead, I could see a “V” of geese in the gray sky above La Cathédrale de Notre Dame.
Through the bare branches of the trees, I could see every detail on the old buildings. Ile St-Louis was like a step back in time. I always felt that once I crossed the bridge, I’d slipped back to another century—maybe the 1600s or 1700s. I almost expected to see a horse-drawn carriage clopping down the street. Instead, a moped sped past me and brought me abruptly back to the twenty-first century.
“I am sure you have been dreaming of this place, Charlotte,” Sophie remarked. “I don’t know how you survived this long without it.”
Sophie didn’t seem to notice the beautiful scene before her as she chattered and walked with a purpose. I knew just where she was headed. There it was just a block away: the green-and-white-striped canopy of Berthillon, the most famous—and yummiest!—ice cream parlor in the city.
In the summer, the line stretches down the street and around the corner. Even on this overcast day, there was still a line for the best sorbet and ice cream on the European continent. They have the most exotic flavors, ones I haven’t yet found in Boston: blood-orange, prune, fig, and armaganac. I didn’t have to look at the list. I knew exactly what I wanted…chocolate hazelnut. C’est délicieux!
In Paris, like in most cities, there are lines for everything, but the French wait as elegantly as they do everything else. They don’t whine or complain if the lines are excruciatingly long…they just accept it as a part of life and enjoy the moment of peace.
While Sophie and I waited, my messenger bag started to feel really heavy. I took it off and held it to my side, accidentally brushing against a passerby. “Excusez moi,” I said more than once, unable to stay out of the way in the growing crowd of people.
“There it was just a block away—the green-and-white-striped canopy of Berthillon, the most famous—and yummiest!—ice cream parlor in the city.”
~ pg. 87
I filled Sophie in on my shopping expedition with her mother. “She was so generous, Sophie…I don’t know how to thank her. I absolutely love my new coat, it’s wicked nice!”
Sophie burst out laughing. “Wicked nice?” she mocked me gently. “That is your new American way of speaking, no?”
I blushed slightly and laughed. “I think I picked it up from Avery. It must be a Boston thing, though, because Isabel, who’s from Detroit, always laughs when Avery says ‘wicked’ too.”
“You teach me so much, Charlotte! I am sure Maman enjoyed her time with you this morning. She loves to shop. She’s always bringing home new things for me to try on. She has a good eye for color…that purple coat is perfect on you,” Sophie added, touching the sleeve.
Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the dark shape of a man in a blue-and-white striped raincoat and hat. He was waiting at the back of the line. I did a double take. Had I seen this man before? I couldn’t see his whole face because he had turned in the other direction, but something about the shape of his shoulders, his size, seemed familiar. Of course, on a day like today, there were hundreds of older Parisian men wearing raincoats and hats. But there was something about the way he reached up and smoothed his mustache. The movement was so familiar. It couldn’t be…or could it? Could it be Mr. Peckham? What were the odds that I would run into him again in a city of seven million? I put my bag on the ground for a second and craned my neck to try to get a better view, but the man seemed to have vanished into thin air. I turned back to Sophie and slung my bag over my shoulder one more time.
“There was a man back there that looked just like Mr. Peckham…you know, the older man I told you about from the plane? He’s gone now though…one second he was there, and the next second he wasn’t,” I explained to Sophie, getting some euros out of my wallet as we inched closer to the front of the line.
“He must not love ice cream as much as we do,” Sophie said.
It was getting chilly as the evening approached, so Sophie and I chose to sit inside by the window and people-watch as we ate our ice cream
. All over the city, hundreds of Parisians were doing the same. Half the fun of being in Paris is to observe passers-by. The French love cafés and strolling arm in arm. They chatter furiously, using their hands as punctuation marks. Everyone looks like they just stepped out of a movie. It’s almost like watching one, but better.
We slowly savored our ice cream…my chocolate hazelnut and Sophie’s fig. When I had scraped the last mouthful out of the paper cup, I reached for my messenger bag and found…nothing.
“Sophie! My bag…it’s gone!” I scrambled out of my seat, looking in all different directions.
Sophie jumped up as well. “Are you sure you brought it with you? Perhaps you left it at school. We can walk right back there and look for it.”
“No. Yes. I mean no, I didn’t leave it at school. I’m sure I brought it here with me. I remember I had it in line…I kept hitting people with it by mistake. Then when we sat down, I put it right here next to me. Near the door.”
Sophie glanced around. “Perhaps someone accidentally picked it up. Let’s go out to the sidewalk right away and look at the people nearby.”
I looked out at the mixture of tourists and locals walking around and felt overwhelmed. There were a million different directions that someone carrying the bag could have gone. “I don’t know, Soph…How could someone have thought the bag was theirs? It has that patch that Katani sewed on for me. No one else has the same bag. It’s a Kgirl original…my favorite bag of all time. It’s irreplaceable!” I could feel tears starting to well up.
“What was in it?” Sophie asked, sitting back down at the table.
“Everything,” I said, checking to make sure my notebook and pen were still in my back pocket. “My ski jacket, my running shoes…um, the rest of the jar of peanut butter…the disposable camera that Katani gave me. I even took all these pictures for her this morning. My wallet. Thank goodness I left Chelsea’s digital camera at home. And I took out the Picasso coloring book before we left this morning, too. Oh no! My passport was in there! How can I get back into the U.S. without my passport?”
“Try not to panic, Charlotte. I’m sure that people lose their passports all the time. We can ask my father what to do. Come, Charlotte. Let’s leave your name and our telephone number with the people working at the counter. Perhaps whoever picked the bag up will bring it back.”
Charlotte’s Journal
I am very upset. I don’t understand why someone would have taken my bag. It’s not like I look rich or anything…and how much money do kids usually even carry with them? I guess it could have happened by accident, but it seems weird…there were no other tables between ours and the door. Why would someone think they had left their bag right in that exact spot? I guess I should be grateful that Chelsea’s digital camera didn’t get stolen. I would have been so embarrassed to tell her that her nice, expensive camera was GONE. I’m trying to put the whole thing in perspective…my dad uses that phrase a lot. Sophie says we’ll go back to Berthillon’s tomorrow to check and see if someone found it. I’m keeping my fingers crossed, but I can’t help being frustrated. My trip was going along so perfectly before…why did this have to happen?
8
Le Petit Navir
LITTLE BOAT
Girls, we are going out to a little, charming dinner this evening,” Madame Morel announced shortly after we arrived back at the apartment. We had just filled Madame in on the missing bag, and she was very sympathetic. She gave me a warm hug and la bise. “This is a terrible welcome back!” she declared sympathetically.
I shrugged. “It was all so wonderful up until now. What am I going to do about my passport?” I was almost in tears. “I need that! Security is so tight these days, they’ll never let me back home again.”
“Now don’t worry, Charlotte. It will all work out, I promise. We’ll go to the U.S. Embassy tomorrow and straighten it out. This happens all the time,” Monsieur Morel reassured me.
“Where are we going for dinner, Maman?” Sophie changed the subject quickly. I saw her glance at me and knew she was trying to take my mind off things. But more French food was the last thing on my mind.
“We will walk to Petit Navire,” Madame said. “You girls should be ready to go in about twenty minutes.”
I went into the bathroom to wash my face and brush my hair. I changed into a light purple sweater, put on my new shoes and buttoned up my dark purple coat, glancing in Sophie’s full-length mirror. My new outfit was perfect for a night on the town. I felt so grown up and sophisticated in it. I’d feel even better if I only had my bag, I thought with a sigh.
Sophie had changed into black pants, pointy black shoes with low heels, and a light blue sweater. She buttoned up her long black coat, and then we linked arms and walked down the hall to the living room. She always looked so stylish. It must be genetic, I thought—this ability to accessorize so cleverly.
“You girls look très belles,” Monsieur Morel said. “Let me take a picture of you.”
Sophie and I stepped in front of the fireplace and smiled for the camera, and then the four of us walked out the door and down the long staircase to the street.
I had never been so stuffed in my entire life. We started our meal with scruptillious (that’s my word for amazingly scrumptious) escargots à la bourguignonne—snails stuffed with a buttery mixture of mushrooms and parsley. I had to close my eyes, though…they tasted awesome, but they were slimy-looking things. After the appetizer, Madame encouraged us all to order soup. I had la soupe aux oignions. It was amazing—an onion soup that was salty, cheesy, and comforting all at the same time. I am going to put this on my list of French food to make for the BSG, I thought.
For my entrée, I chose les moules au diable…mussels in a spicy sauce. Of course, Monsieur Morel insisted upon the cheese course. After sampling Brie, Münster, Tome de Savoie, and Cantal, we took our time deciding on dessert. I ordered the Charlotte russe cake (no, it wasn’t named after me, but I wish it were!) with pudding.
All throughout the delicious dinner, I kept forgetting and then remembering again the upsetting events of the day. At first, I was disappointed about not finding Orangina where I pictured her. Who would have thought it could get much worse? I just couldn’t believe that someone would think my bag was theirs…it was one of a kind. Would I ever see my things again? And how would I get home?
When we got back to the Morels’ apartment, Sophie and I went to her room to check our e-mail and plan what we would do the next day.
While Sophie was on the computer, I wrote down all the things Madame Morel had taught me about fashion that day in my notebook. I was still freaked out about losing my bag, and writing about something else calmed me down a bit. I decided not to tell Dad about the missing bag quite yet. Sophie tried to convince me that it might be returned, but I knew the chances were slim. Even if a nice person took it by mistake, there was nothing inside the bag that would connect me to the Morels.
Sophie opened a bunch of e-mails from her classmates. Philippe had come up with the idea that they should have a party for me before I went back home to the States.
“How about Pizza Pino on Friday night? Très américain, n’est-ce pas?” Sophie asked. “It’s a very popular place for our class to go.”
It sounded like a great idea to me. I really wanted the chance to catch up with everybody. How fun!
“And we will be able to celebrate our wonderful week together in Paris—and hopefully the return of Orangina—before you must say au revoir,” Sophie decided before e-mailing everyone that Friday night would be perfect.
“Did you notice the way Philippe was looking at you today?” Sophie asked as we got ready for bed and turned the lights out.
“No way!” I said, my cheeks feeling warm.
“Can you blame him? You looked très chouette in your new coat and shoes. And the hat was magnifique!”
“I have your mother to thank for that.”
“Yes, she has what you call the eye, does she not?” Sophie comm
ented.
“You do too, Sophie,” I reassured my friend.
At that moment, I felt that familiar pang of sadness, realizing that I’d never gone and would never go on special shopping trips with my own mother. But I knew I was lucky to have someone like Mrs. Morel in my life. All mothers have their own special tips and advice to offer, and my morning with Sophie’s mom had been a lot of fun. Then again, I’m not just here to have fun, I reminded myself. I’m supposed to be looking for Orangina.
“I’ve been here over twenty-four hours and I’ve barely even begun to search for Orangina,” I told Sophie remorsefully. “I feel like I’ve let him down already.”
“We will start tomorrow. You needed a day to get used to the city again. Don’t worry, Charlotte…we will find Orangina. That cat belongs with you. Bonne nuit,” Sophie said. Moments later, her breath grew slower, more rhythmic, and I knew she was asleep.
To: Avery, Katani, Maeve, Isabel
From: Charlotte
Subject: English Class
Bonjour mes amies!
I visited my old school today—the English teacher made me answer questions so the students could practice their English conversation. They think we all live in NYC and know movie stars. I brought some peanut butter for them to try…they thought it was weird to eat, but some of them liked it…except the Chuchoteurs, of course. My Paris friends are planning a pizza party for me on Friday. A year ago I was just a regular kid, and now I’m an American celebrity. LOL! Still no sign of Orangina, but we haven’t spent much time looking for him yet. Tomorrow we’ll have all day.
Keep your fingers crossed.
Miss all of u!
Gros, gros bisous—Big, big kisses,
Charlotte
To: Dad
From: Charlotte
Subject: Miss You
Dear Dad,
Things are going well here…it’s so much fun to be back in Paris! Thanks again for letting me come here…I promise I’m being careful. The Morels really liked the gift basket from Montoya’s. We haven’t found Orangina yet, but I hope, hope, hope we have better luck tomorrow. Give Marty a paw-five for me.
