The Adventures of Mademoiselle Mac 2-Book Bundle

by Christopher Ward

  “My little Mac, you are not so little it seems. Fifteen now?”

  I smiled and nodded. “Congratulations, Sashay, I’m so happy for you and Rudee. He really is the sweetest man in the world.”

  “As long as he avoids those peasant vegetables, ma cherie.” Her eyes twinkled. “Yes, my Rudee is sweet. Today he called me his little cabbage cake. So romantic.”

  “Speaking of romantic, I hear that you and Rudee are going on a Mediterranean cruise for your honeymoon.”

  “Yes, I’ve always wanted to see Capri, Sorrento, Napoli.” Her eyes closed with the delight of it all. “Rudee had proposed a visit to the Dobinska Ice Caves in Slovakia, but I didn’t want him to spoil me too much.”

  “I guess a girl wants to save something to dream about.”

  “Oui, c’est ça.”

  We both scanned the room, simultaneously spotting two ridiculous sights. Rudee and my dad, arms overlapped, were both playing furious accompaniment to “Stinkbomb Serenade” and laughing uncontrollably like a couple of adult children. Almost as absurd was the scene on the dance floor where Dizzy and my mom were doing a pas de deux tree-style, looking like the twelve-armed Indian dancers. Ewww! Sashay began to imitate them, and before long, we were holding on to each other, shaking with laughter. They spotted us, came over, and we all found a table.

  “Mom, this Sashay.”

  “Oh Sashay, enchanté. That’s the right word, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, of course, and I’m charmed to meet you as well. I have such a place in my heart for your remarkable daughter.”

  I tried to shoot her the Yikes. Danger. Go no further look, but it ended well.

  “She has such a sophisticated appreciation for French culture.”

  “Merci,” my mom replied a bit awkwardly. “Well, I guess she’ll be getting even more immersed, thanks to François.”

  Oh, it’s François now that Dizzy’s in full charm offensive mode. What’s up here? I wondered. My mom gave me that glazed “oh to be young again” expression.

  “Mac, what a wonderful opportunity to see the picturesque countryside in the south of France on the auto rally. Oh, the charming little villages, stopping to pick blueberries, girls on bicyclettes with baguettes in their baskets ... oh.”

  I was speechless through this recitation as Dizzy, or François, maintained a look of angelic innocence until Sashay interrupted.

  “Are you talking about the New Year’s taxi rally? It’s a crazy —”

  Dizzy cut in abruptly. “Yes, I agree, Mac would be crazy to miss it.”

  Sashay looked perplexed. “But the driving is wild —”

  “Oh, I know how wild about the drivers people become,” said Dizzy, winking at me. Sashay just shook her head.

  I shot daggers at him but realized that now my mom had been sold, I couldn’t unsell her and ruin Rudee and Sashay’s honeymoon. Could I?

  The Hacks took a break and Rudee and my dad joined us, basking in the praise for their impromptu duet. At that moment a very serious Magritte approached our table, bowler hat in hand and customary umbrella tucked under his arm.

  “Mesdames, messieurs, it is with regret that I must leave you to your celebration. A serious crime of utmost cultural significance has been committed.”

  Cultural crime? Was someone caught not rolling their r’s on French television? Did the pastry maker at Ladurée sell unflaky croissants? We all waited for Magritte to provide details.

  “It has been discovered that the Mona Lisa is a fake.” The silence at our table was monumental. “Yes, da Vinci’s masterwork, La Joconde, or the portrait of Lisa Gherardini, the wife of Francesco del Giocondo, has been identified as a counterfeit, albeit a very good one that captures the enigmatic expression of the subject in the original with a close approximation of the creator’s use of sfumato.” Magritte nodded at the stunned expression on his little audience and looked away pensively. “Sfumato, of course, refers not only to da Vinci’s brilliant brush stroke technique, but also to the seemingly conflicting notion of contemplating two opposing ideas simultaneously.”

  The O of Rudee’s mouth could have accom­modated a pineapple ring. “But Magritte, how long has the phoney Mona been dangling in the Louvre?”

  Good question, if a little strangely put, I thought.

  “This is difficult to ascertain, mon ami. During war times she has been taken to safety in various locations, and of course she was stolen in 1911 and missing for two years, thanks to a mad Italian motivated by a disturbed form of patriotism. But there are aspects to the matter which must remain classified for the moment.”

  We all began talking at once in hushed tones. “So, how did they figure out that it’s not the real Mona Lisa?” I asked Magritte.

  “Ah, mademoiselle, that is the heart of the matter. You see, La Joconde has acquired, unexpectedly, an accessory, most modern. But I must investigate at the scene.”

  “Let me take you to the Louvre,” said Rudee, “that is, if my wife approves.” He beamed at Sashay, who wordlessly nodded. “With all the partypoppers not driving, you couldn’t find a cab for all the china on the map.”

  “Merci, Rudee,” said Magritte.

  “Could I come with you?” Nothing ventured, nothing tried, as Rudee once said. I looked to my mom and dad but they seemed too astounded to object.

  Magritte steepled his fingers contemplatively and after a lengthy pause said, “Pourquoi pas? Why not? Have you ever seen the Mona Lisa?”

  When I said no, Magritte replied, “I believe we could use a set of fresh eyes on this brazen crime. Allons-y.”

  Four

  I held my breath more than once as Rudee negotiated the pretzel-like streets of Montmartre, around the beautiful Sacre Coeur church on the hill, and careened toward the rue de Rivoli, where the Louvre was located. Magritte sat in meditative silence in the back seat so we didn’t speak, but I could hear the agitation in Rudee’s breathing. We approached the museum through the Carousel de Louvre, past the posh shops, now closed, that lined the way.

  A mere nod from Magritte eased us past the museum security and various other authorities on the way to the second floor. The policeman’s leisurely pace allowed me to check out the extraordinary art as we passed, but it was the vastness of the place that awed me. I knew from French class that it had been a fortress, once housing royalty and all their wigs and stuff, but you could comfortably play Quidditch in the high-ceilinged halls.

  As we approached the Denon wing of the museum and the room that had been Mona Lisa’s home for many years, I could feel the tension rising. We were greeted by the director of the Louvre, Blaise Roquefort, a small, intense man in an elegant black suit wearing a scowl that would make Mona stop smiling if she were there. He nodded to Magritte, eyed Rudee with suspicion, and treated me to the briefest of lip curls, as only the French can do.

  He spoke through clenched teeth. “This is supposed to be impossible, Magritte. I don’t have to tell you the level of security that surrounds this cursed masterpiece. She is protected like the Crown Jewels or the American president. She’s never alone.”

  Magritte nodded sagely as they approached the famous painting.

  “When I took over, this great institution was a mess under DeFaux. There was a strike, the windows of the pyramid were filthy. And they were serving Belgian wine — no offence, Magritte — in the cafeteria. Belgian!”

  Magritte arched a sympathetic eyebrow. Roquefort was trembling now. “The flaw ... the alteration ... this distortion was discovered by a ...” His nose twitched like he’d discovered something stinky in the back of the fridge, “… a teenager.”

  He didn’t say “no offence” to me. Oh well. I found myself reacting like I was seeing the original, not a supreme fake. It’s so small; she’s not really smiling; what’s going on behind her — the usual observations. At this point Monsieur Roquefort crumbled like a delicate blue cheese.

  “Magritte, I will be crucified by the art world. I have had this job less than three mon
ths. It is my life’s dream. Arghhh.” With this, the director buried his head in his hands and wept uncontrollably.

  Rudee and I looked at each other uncomfortably, and he shrugged. Magritte approached the case, still guarded by a pair of expressionless guards, and extracted a magnifying glass. He was having a Sherlock moment.

  A series of mmm’s, ahh’s, and ooo’s were followed by a couple of ah ha’s and one prominent “Zut alors!” An astounded “Mon Dieu!” finished off Magritte’s observations.

  “Incroyable! Mes amis, come and have a look.”

  Roquefort continued sniffling in the background as we huddled around phoney Mona.

  “What is it, Monsieur Magritte?” I whispered, aware of the seriousness of the moment.

  “Look at La Joconde’s right wrist. What do you see emerging from the sleeve of her garment?”

  “Her arm, Magritte!” Rudee said excitedly, before his expression clouded. “But what else would it be?”

  “Oui, but look again. There is the hint of something shiny on her arm.”

  We all leaned in together, noses pressed to the glass protecting the painting.

  “Cool!” I said before realizing the complete inappropriateness of this observation. “She’s wearing a watch.”

  “So, Mona Lisa was not timeless,” said Rudee, sounding very pleased with himself and rendering my comment forgettable.

  “Ah, but the wristwatch did not exist in Renaissance Italy.” Magritte raised his eyebrows. “A Swiss invention, I believe, a Monsieur Patek Philippe in the late nineteenth century. Although the French, typically, have disputed this claim, preferring to point to a Louis Cartier, who developed a watch for an associate who was working in the early aviation industry.” Rudee looked ready to go Vesuvius on Magritte, who continued his droning aside. “Of course, even if Leonardo is credited with inventing the first clock with separate hour and minute mechanisms, using springs rather than weights, the wristwatch, which I should mention was only for women at the time, came a good four hundred years after da Vinci created the exquisite wrist of La Joconde.”

  He’d totally lost me, so I turned my focus to Mona’s four-hundred-year-old wrist. “A Fossil!” I observed, a little loudly.

  “No, ma petite,” Magritte chuckled patronizingly, “although I admire your interest in palaeontology, a fossil would customarily be remains that had been around for at least ten thousand years, and this bauble is considerably more recent.”

  “No, I mean a Fossil watch, a Stella mini. They’re really cool right now, or chouette as you guys say; my friend Penelope is really hoping to get one for her birthday.”

  Monsieur Roquefort did one of those wet, snuffling sobs with a little squeak at the end. It echoed off the walls of Room 6. We ignored him and continued to stare at Mona’s new bling.

  Magritte pursed his lips in deep contemplation and Rudee shook his head, confused. “Well, for flying out cloud.”

  Five

  In the days following the Mona discovery, the press had a field day. CRIME TIME blared the Le Devoir newspaper in bold letters. MONA BALOGNA said Le Figaro, and in an exclusive interview with Art World, the former director of the Louvre, Raoul DeFaux, recently replaced in a power struggle, hastened to point out that this heinous assault on beauty and history would never have occurred while he was director. “Not on my watch,” said the saucy quote! Speculation on the motive for the theft, as much as on the identity of the perpetrator, ran wild in Paris. Every Métro car rumbling between stations, every park bench decorated by pigeons, every café steaming with witty conversation was abuzz with the subject. Christmas came a distant second.

  Except in a certain hotel room at the Hôtel Costes. I’d been so energized by the wedding, the party, and especially the trip to the Louvre, that I couldn’t sleep, so in Penelope’s honour I cut out paper angels and hung them across the room. After a festive and extremely cream-filled holiday breakfast, my mom and dad were in a serious post-pastry pre-nap stupor. I was getting restless, all that sugar having had the opposite effect on me, when my brand new, ultra-cool cell phone rang with my signature tune, “Taxi Girl” by Zen Garage. It was too early to be Penelope, who was no doubt deep asleep in Lower Mandeville nine time zones away.

  “Joyeux Noël, Mademoiselle Mac!” Rudee sang out. “Did Snappy Claus come to your hotel room with his eight tiny oxen last night?”

  I laughed and mouthed “Rudee” to the ’rents, who were rapidly losing the eyelid wars.

  “Don’t you and Sashay have to be on your way to Nice soon?” I asked, taking an opportunity to check the time on my new phone.

  “Yes, that’s why I’m calling you, little Mac. Dizzy wants you to see us off at the air salon.”

  “Hang on, Rudee.” I gave the bed a little shake. “Rudee wants to know if I can see them off. Dizzy’s driving.”

  “Sure, honey,” my mom mumbled, “say au revoir for me.”

  “And bon appetit,” my dad managed before passing out.

  I hung up and grabbed my new and also ultra- cool pink denim jacket and Penelope’s bracelet, reasoning that the colour would lessen my fashion crime in her eyes. Waving to two sets of sleeping feet, I closed the door gently and headed for the street, wondering why the hallway of our totally chic hotel had to look like an abandoned tunnel.

  Paris hadn’t been able to manage a white Christmas, but the pearly grey rain didn’t dampen the dreamy beauty of the rue Faubourg St. Honoré. A few flaneurs, as the French refer to their aimless strollers, ambled past the holiday windows of the shops. The spell was broken by the arrival of Dizzy’s cab in front of the hotel. Bertrand, the doorman, pretended not to notice the trombone-shaped exhaust pipes as he held the door for me.

  Sashay and Rudee were cuddling in the back and Dizzy and I exchanged bemused looks.

  “Well, well, well,” said Dizzy with a raised eyebrow, “the famous Hôtel Costes. Does the thirty-euro croissant amande taste better?”

  “Not sure about that, but it’s definitely cool. Johnny Depp was in the bar last night surrounded by a herd of towering model types. I couldn’t actually see him but I did take a photo on my new phone of the place where he was standing last night. Look!”

  “No talking about pirates, please,” said Rudee, “we’re going to be sailing on a cruise control ship for a week, and you know the stories.”

  I could never be sure if Rudee was aware of his wacky Rudee-isms or not, but I had to admit they were making more and more sense to me. Was this a good thing?

  “I have one ‘au revoir’ and one ‘bon appetit,’ which I think was supposed to be a ‘bon voyage,’ to deliver. Oh yes, and a ‘bonne Noël’ from me.”

  “Merci, Mac,” said Sashay, “and I have un petit cadeau for you.” She handed me a slender silver package with a bow tied to resemble a rose. The French certainly know about presentation, I thought. Inside was a delicate scarf, also in silver, with a wing-like pattern in rose that went perfectly with my outfit du jour. Good heavens, listen to me. When did clothing become an “outfit”? I was sounding way too much like Penelope. Next I’d be scanning the sidewalks and cafés for tousle-haired garçons.

  “Bonjour, mes chauffeurs!” Madeleine’s crusty voice crackled through the taxi radio, sounding not at all like her normally cheery self. “I have distressing news. Another of our national treasures has been discovered to be a fake. There is a swarm of flies at the D’Orsay investigating. Mon Dieu. What next, mes amis?” With a tone of exasperation, she signed off. “Try to have a joyeux Noël.”

  “Dizzy,” Rudee said forcefully, “we must see for our own selves.”

  “But what can we do?” said Dizzy. “And what about your flight?” He glanced at Sashay in the rear-view mirror, hoping to appeal to her good sense. She pursed her lips in the famous French “moue,” as they called it, her good sense telling her that it was useless to oppose Rudee at this moment. I sat in silence in the passenger seat, knowing where this was going, and more than a little curious to see the Musée D’Ors
ay, which I’d missed on my last trip to Paris.

  “No sweating, Dizzy,” said Rudee, “take rue de Rivoli all the way. It’s empty like a bird’s nest on Christmas Day.”

  “Sweet. We could drive by the Louvre, right?” Dizzy glared at me. “I love the I.M. Pei pyramid!”

  “That’s right, Mac.” Rudee beamed with pride at my taxi drivers’ knowledge of Paris. “You see, Dizz, how she will steer Blag in the rally.”

  “Hmmm, yes, I hope. Might I mention that the Orly airport is in the opposite direction?” Dizzy tried to get Rudee’s attention but was ignored, so he shrugged and hit the accelerator, sending a twin blast of exhaust into the quiet Paris morning.

  The Musée D’Orsay, a former train station, is a beautiful Left Bank landmark, across the river from the Tuileries Gardens and an éclair’s throw from the Eiffel Tower. The third floor of the museum houses the world’s most amazing collection of Impressionist paintings — Cezannes and Monets rub shoulders with Toulouse-Lautrec’s and the portrait of Whistler’s mom. Is my French art appreciation class showing? Something told me that this was where we were heading, and I felt excitement at seeing it mixed with dread at the thought of what a thief might have made off with.

  Rudee avoided the growing scrum in front of the main entrance and confidently guided us toward a rear door. Inside, the great hall of the old train station was empty, but it was easy to imagine it filled with travellers at the beginning of the twentieth century. Now it held an incredible collection of sculpture by Rodin, the guy who created The Thinker and others. A lone gendarme stood at the bottom of the stairs to the upper floors. He met Rudee with a stony expression.