The Adventures of Mademoiselle Mac 2-Book Bundle

by Christopher Ward

  The singer was singing, “Shaaaade ... quit giving me shade, baby.”

  The back-up singers did one final cake-mixer spin and landed in front of their mikes, singing, “You’re raining on my parade,” as the music abruptly halted.

  The dancers produced twirling umbrellas that spun to a blur, lifting them off the stage into the afternoon for a dazzling crowd-pleasing finish.

  The singer remained on stage, and as the applause faded, he announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, mesdames et messieurs, please give a warm, and I mean warm welcome to the prefect of Paris, Luc Fiat!”

  A man bounced up the steps, took the microphone, and waved to the cheering crowd. He wore a dazzling white suit with a golden sun emblazoned on the shoulders and rays extending down the back and sleeves. He wore silver cowboy boots and mirrored sunglasses in the shape of little suns. He smiled a long, thin, crescent smile that looked like it had drawstrings at the corners.

  “Yessss. Ouiiiii. Merccci!”

  He stretched out the words and nodded approvingly at the crowd.

  “Today is a special day for all Parisians. Today we say ‘non’ to the grey clouds and ‘pooh’ to the rain. We will borrow a cup of California and a hint of Hawaii to scare away the grey. Today, my fellow citizens, we lighten up!”

  At this, a screen unfurled behind him showing the Seine and one of the tourist boats, the bateau mouche. The crowd ooo’d as the dancers from the band sailed by on orange water-skis, waving, smiling, still holding their little parasols.

  At the other end of the Champs Élysées, in the Place de la Concorde, fireworks went off in the shape of a giant happy face. A small plane was busily spelling out the words “Lighten Up.” The crowd seemed enthralled as Luc Fiat pointed toward the happy face that was melting to the ground and shouted, “It’s up to you, mes amis, to lighten up old Paris.”

  He bounded off the stage as quickly as he had arrived, down a set of stairs toward the backstage area. I noticed, almost hidden behind the screen, two identical characters in long black trench coats, faces hidden by their fedora hats with the glow of cigarettes the only sign of life. The coats seemed to billow like smoke as they parted a backstage curtain to allow Luc Fiat to exit before they followed right behind. Curious, I eased through the dispersing crowd and pushed apart a couple of wooden barriers. I peeked inside a large tent. At that precise moment, Fiat turned to look back and briefly caught my eye. He registered surprise but quickly disappeared into the folds of heavy grey material. Then I heard a voice that sounded like it came from a barrel.

  “Nice work, Monsieur Fiat, you got the touch,” followed by a deep laugh.

  A thin voice hissed in reply, “Oh shut up, Scar, and help me down.”

  I tried to slow my pounding heart as I heard a scraping, accompanied by a damp, fishy smell. The voices echoed then suddenly stopped. I eased around a tent flap and into the back as my eyes got used to the dark. Nothing. No one. How could that be? There was only one way out. I walked around, and all I saw was a couple of cigarette butts ground out beside a manhole cover.

  “Can I help you?” a man asked, putting his hand on my shoulder, making me jump about a foot in the air. He was carrying a broom and wearing a “City of Paris LIGHTEN UP!” sweatshirt.

  “No,” I replied, wondering what I was doing there anyway. “I just wanted to meet Monsieur Fiat, that’s all,” I blurted.

  He smiled and nodded. “Let me help you find your way out, mademoiselle. I don’t think anyone actually meets Luc Fiat, at least not with those two giant bookends that always follow him around standing in the way.”

  On my way back to Rudee’s, I thought I’d sample a guacamole croissant at one of the stands set up on the Champs Élysées. It wasn’t very good. Or maybe I wasn’t very hungry.

  Six

  Back at the Russian church, Rudee was in his room, stirring something purple and foamy on his little burner. Nearby sat an open jar of pickled herring and a fork. He wiped the corner of his mouth. “Hungry, little one?”

  “No,” I lied. The walk home had made me realize how famished I was, but then the aroma of Rudee’s room quickly took care of that. I told him about the rally. He brightened and said, “Now, this is what we need. I tried to drive by, but I couldn’t get close; I saw the happy head firecracker. You know, Paris has been looking darker to me lately, and anything that can polish our eyes is good.”

  I felt like I was starting to understand him. I tried to tell him about Luc Fiat’s bodyguards and his odd disappearance, but Rudee seemed more interested in the contents of his pot. I climbed the staircase to my attic room and was watching the sun ease down over the chimneys and church spires, changing everything into rosy silhouettes when Rudee called up to me, “Hey, American shrimplette, do you want to come with me to take Sashay to the club?”

  I didn’t have time to ask who or where, because he was heading loudly down the stairs. As I grabbed my sweatshirt, it occurred to me that Rudee seemed to have forgotten about sending me back to my school group. Penelope would be more than curious as to where I was, but I knew she’d cover for me. I followed him through the church garden to the shed where his cab was waiting. We backed down the vine-covered alley and into the cobblestone street. Rudee changed the lighting in his cab from purple to a soft gold and was fishing through a box of tapes under the seat as he navigated the traffic. He muttered to himself till he found what he was looking for.

  “Rudee?” I felt like I was interrupting some ritual.

  “Sorry, little one, I forgot you were here.”

  “Who’s Sashay?”

  He slowly turned his head to stare at me, wordlessly at first. His normally pointy brow seemed to arch out even further from his face, making his eyes look like they were staring out at me from inside a pair of caves. “Didn’t your daddy tell you anything? Sashay D’Or, la reine des rêves, the queen of dreams, the most enchanting woman in all of Parisian nightlife, you know nothing about? Ah, Sashay....”

  Rudee seemed to glaze over for a moment, with a distant, almost sad expression. “Sorry, Mac, where was I? Sashay, of course. She knows ways of taking people away with that swirly girl dance of hers. You remember things ...” his voice trailed off before the fire in it returned, “… she was the toast of all Paris. Now she works for people who don’t appreciate her. No one does ... like I do.”

  At this moment the radio cut in with a burst of static. “Fifty-two. Cinquante-deux. Are you there?”

  Rudee grabbed his microphone. “Oui, I’m here after all.”

  “Rudee, you little cockroach, ça va?” A crusty female voice came from the speaker.

  “Yes, oui, Madeleine, you old sea hag, ça va.”

  A cackling laugh, part static, part cough, shot back, “I’ve got a new recipe for curing baldness, mon ami.”

  “Really?” Rudee sounded cautious but interested.

  “Listen, take equal parts goose liver and very ripe brie and let it sit beside your bed for one month. Then spread it on your head and sit under a lamp for six hours, and do not move.”

  Rudee was taking notes while driving.

  “And the next morning, my shiny-domed driver, you’ll have a full head of hair.”

  “That’s it?” Rudee couldn’t hide the hope in his voice.

  “Oh, just one last thing. You need ... one very gullible bald cabbie.”

  A chorus of laughter echoed over the radio. Rudee turned the colour of his beet stew and slammed down the handset.

  At this point we swung into a narrow street and stopped in front of a darkened storefront that read “Musée D’Écharpe.” I’d never heard of a scarf museum. Could Erik Satie’s place be smaller than this? On the floor above, a curtain parted slightly then closed, and the lights went out. Rudee jumped out of the cab, opened the back door, and stood waiting while a woman whisked from between the buildings and into the back seat. I turned to get my first look at the “queen of dreams.” I could barely focus on her face for the wild profusion of hair and scarves in
the dim golden glow of Rudee’s cab.

  “Sashay, this is ...” began Rudee.

  “Mac,” she said in a whisper, “enchanté,” and extended a hand contained in a silky glove that travelled far up her sleeve.

  “Hi,” was all I could manage as her eyes, located deep beneath waxy lashes, found mine.

  Before we could go any further, Rudee hit the gas and pulled away, pushing “play” and filling the cab with the sound of a velvety male singer. In the mirror, Sashay looked like she was somewhere else. Rudee said nothing, so I thought I’d better do the same. We eased through the streets of St. Germain till we approached a cluster of cars and people standing in groups dressed for a night on the town, laughing and talking happily. On one side of a narrow passage, I could see the lights of the club gleaming on the polished steel and stone exterior. The sign read MOULIN D’OR and below it was a poster of Sashay surrounded by lights looking like she had just emerged from a silver cloud. The groups parted as we slowly drove past the entrance then stopped in front of an alley leading to the side of the building. Above a dimly lit doorway, I could just make out a sign that read STAGE DOOR. Sashay departed without a word and went in.

  There was a man in a long black coat in the shadows by the door, standing very still. I might not have noticed him if it weren’t for the glow of the cigarette under the brim of his hat.

  Seven

  “There goes the most beautiful woman to have ever taken the stage in Paris or anywhere with curtains,” sighed Rudee as we drove away, “you can have your Coco LaFoie, your Tipi Chaussette.”

  My mind was still on the smoking man by the stage door, but I could see that this was not the moment to mention it to Rudee. Another set of rain-slicked cobblestone streets later, we arrived at a café. Every car outside, all parked at odd angles to the curb, was a taxi. The blinking sign in the window of the smoky room said CAF TA; then I saw that with the burned-out letters lit up, it would have spelled CAFE TAXI. It was packed, bright, and very loud, and the smell of coffee and fresh pastry ruled. In one corner, someone was getting a shave and a haircut. Card playing, arm wrestling, and arguing contributed to the chaos. As Rudee looked for a table, he was spotted by some friends.

  “Hey, Rudee, I’ve got some goose liver for you.”

  “Did you bring the brie?”

  The laughter was punctuated by more voices. “Hey, who’s that? Have you given up on the most beautiful woman to have ever taken the stage?”

  “Business slow, Monsieur Rudee? Doing a little babysitting on the side?”

  That was it for me. I stood up on a chair and shouted above the crowd, “He’s not my babysitter. Rudee’s my friend!”

  This was greeted by some good-natured “ooolalas” and “wellwellwells,” and the crowd moved back to their drinks and on to other matters. Rudee looked the most surprised of all by my outburst. A tall, thin driver with a mop of hair escaping from a pork pie hat and a nose that looked like it could slice bread was waving at us and pointing to a couple of empty chairs. We sat down, and Rudee introduced me to François Caboche.

  “Friend of Rudee’s is a friend of mine.” He grinned through a wispy moustache that hung like a curtain over his mouth. “Call me Dizzy.”

  He saw my expression and went on. “No, it’s not a balance problem; my mom was in love with Dizzy Bluebird, and when he toured here with his hot half dozen, she was at every gig. She put a mini trombone into my hands when I was in the crib.” Dizzy tilted his head at Rudee. “Your pal Rudee’s a heckuva fine organist, you know. We jam on Saturdays upstairs; you want to come by?” Rudee didn’t jump in, so I just smiled.

  I said my dad had told me all about Rudee’s talents. “He played me the Pipeline Tour tapes. He said Rudee’s solo in ‘Strange Glove’ should be studied by every kid who wants to call himself an organist.”

  Rudee couldn’t hide his pride and asked if I’d heard my dad’s vocal on “Transatlantic Train.” I didn’t tell him it just sounded totally weird to me.

  “Listen, Rudee.” Dizzy lowered his voice so it could barely be heard above the din of CAFTA and leaned toward his friend. “I’ve been thinking about what you said about the city getting darker, and I’m sorry that I laughed at you, mon ami. I know the theft of the cross from the Église Russe bothers you a lot, and I figured that’s what was getting to you. Anyway, I was picking up my usual fare on Rue Bonaparte, and I realized that I couldn’t read the building numbers. There was no fog, the lamps were on, but it seemed a bit darker to me. Maybe we’re both crazy.”

  “That’s it, slideman,” Rudee burst in excitedly then quickly glanced around the room to see if anyone was paying attention before continuing. “I know it’s true. Paris is getting darker by the day. Hardly but slowly. A driver in the Métro drove past the Pigalle station and two hundred passengers on the platform yesterday.”

  Rudee paid for the drinks and the warm chocolate croissants that had magically appeared and quickly disappeared, and we all headed into the street. We waved to Dizzy, who got into a very low-slung cab with exhaust pipes that looked like trombones. His cab belched blue smoke, and Rudee shook his head. “Only bohemians would travel like this.”

  The café door swung open, and a driver wider than the doorway squeezed out to spit in the street. Spotting us, he lumbered over.

  “Daroo, you lunatic, how do you afford gas with all your freeloading friends?” He snorted like a pit bull and tilted his face close to mine. When he spoke, his breath could’ve been used as rust remover. “Past your bedtime, isn’t it, nana?”

  Rudee stepped between us. “Her name is Mac, sewer lips. Isn’t it time for your big flea bath?”

  This gross chunk of man lifted Rudee off the ground with one hand and dangled him like a dirty sock. “I think you need a new hinge for that hairdo of yours, beet breath. Sorry you’ll miss the show at the club tonight.”

  Rudee’s eyes seemed to recede under his mighty brow, but he said nothing. His assailant dropped him to the pavement and strode off, laughing to himself and spitting like a broken faucet.

  Once he was out of sight, Rudee gathered himself and said, “Blag LeBoeuf. I’ve known him since we were knee high to fire hydrants.

  “Our families knew each other from the old country. Then we went apelove for the same girl, don’t you know.” He shrugged, and a small smile emerged. “He lost the girl to me, and it’s been like this ever since.”

  I wanted to know more about Blag, but as soon as we settled into Rudee’s cab and he adjusted the lights and music to his liking, the radio squawked, and Madeleine’s voice cut through. “Bonsoir, everyone. Just thought you all should know that the cross from the domed church has been stolen. Incroyable, non? Let me know if you hear something, and I’ll pass it along to the others.”

  “The domed church. That’s Les Invalides,” said Rudee in an awed tone. “That’s where Napoleon is boxed. The church with the golden dome is one of Paris’ most shining monuments. But how could someone ...”

  He yanked the wheel of the cab to the left, and I fell onto his shoulder. He threaded the needle across six lanes of cars as he madly circled the Arc de Triomphe. “Sorry,” he muttered. “I must see this for my ownself.”

  Eight

  When we slammed to a stop outside the domed church, a TV crew was setting up hastily, uncoiling cables and mounting a camera on a tripod. A reporter was fixing her make-up and throwing her hair back for that windblown look. A small collection of blue-and-white police cars was gathered at the entrance, and official looking people were trying to appear busy. Rudee spotted someone, and they exchanged greetings.

  “Magritte, ça va?” Rudee said to a well-tanned policeman in a bowler hat and tailored black coat smoking a pipe and pulling on a pair of gloves.

  “Ah, my old friend,” and tipping his hat at me, “mademoiselle, enchanté. Rudee, I cannot thank you enough for delivering the Picasso thief to me.”

  “He refused to pay the oversized baggage charge and ...” Rudee shrugged.
<
br />   “Still, we are grateful ... now, tonight is a theft of another kind.”

  “Magritte, I can’t believe it. First the cross of the Église Russe, and now this.” Rudee looked like he would cry any second. “And not only the cross, but the dome, the beautiful frosted dome, painted black.”

  It was true; the freshly cropped dome was drenched in what looked like a bad paint job, still sticky and dripping on the windows below.

  “Oui, I know, it is a travesty,” Magritte said coolly, “and they chose matte instead of glossy, which serves to de-emphasize the Baroque influence of the concave flying buttresses....”

  Rudee’s impatience with this tangent was obvious. “But who, who, Magritte, and why?” he interrupted.

  “Who, yes. Myself, I suspect a group of militant atheists from Montparnasse. But how, mon ami, that is the question. It was, if you will excuse a small joke, an outside job, because the entire building was locked and still is.” Magritte shrugged, and we all looked up to where the magnificent dome now blended in with the night sky, with only a silhouette to distinguish it. “I must begin my investigation. If you’d like to walk with me….”

  Rudee nodded, and we followed as Inspector Magritte dusted doors and windows with fingerprint powder, shone a flashlight into shrubs and down stairways that led to locked doors. He held a magnifying glass close to read the inscription on an ancient turquoise cannon as Rudee chatted with him. While they talked about the weight of crosses and discussed various theories as to how one could be raised and transported, I stared at the perfect crescent moon that lit up the immaculately designed gardens. The moonlight caught something shiny, so I walked over to a row of trees and picked up a pair of mirrored glasses. A chill ran from my hand to my spine.