The Adventures of Mademoiselle Mac 2-Book Bundle

by Christopher Ward

  “I stand for those masters!” he thundered. “For they can no longer be heard. Their work should speak for them, but what it says is lost in the clamour of idiots with cell phones, mall dwellers, and café intellectuals alike with their collections of limited edition teddy bears, their trays of hundreds of shades of nail polish, and their smug little book clubs where no one gets past page thirty-five!”

  Louise subtly placed her hands in her lap and looked at the camera. “We’ll be right back after these messages.”

  A break that included a gauzy ad for skin cream that would take decades off your face was followed by a commercial for a new mini “smarter than smart” car that could fit into a space the size of a fire hydrant, and a promo for a hot new daytime soap opera that revealed the petty jealousies and secret loves of a family-run cheese factory in Toulouse.

  After the break, it was a flustered Louise who appeared alone on TV screens all over France. “I ... uh ... we ... excuse me, I mean there’s been a last minute change ... a rather, uh ... unexpected programming, uh ... turn of events.” The hiss of urgent voices could be heard in the background. “Monsieur Réplique, as he wished to be known, not his real name of course, disappeared from our studios during the break. I don’t think he will return, since he left something behind. Perhaps he felt he had said all he needed, or maybe he feared for his safety, given the extremely controversial nature of his actions.”

  Someone off-camera handed Louise a black envelope with ornate silver script that read, To be revealed only by Mlle Lafontaine to the people of France. As she opened the envelope, Louise said, “I want you to know that we are seeing this for the first time and the network cannot be held responsible for its contents or the actions of its author.” She seemed to be reading from a teleprompter. “It’s called ‘An Artifesto: Five principles by which we may learn to see again.’”

  “1. Art must be ‘with the people.’ It cannot be the exclusive domain of airless mausoleums masquerading as museums. Witness the location of a beautiful Léger mural in the courtyard, or the Calder mobile poolside at La Colombe d’Or in Saint-Paul de Vence.

  “2. Art must be ‘about the people.’ Is the beauty of a peasant woman kneading bread or the way a blanket drying on the line plays with the wind not as exquisite as so-called fine art?

  “3. Art must be ‘for the people.’ Is the pompous prime minister who poses and pays for art the one for whom the greats should toil in order to afford their canvases and paint? Let the artist receive that fat government cheque each month.

  “4. Art must be ‘by the people.’ Why not celebrate the creations of the seamstress, the florist, the weaver whose works beautify life very day?

  “5. Art must be ‘of the people.’ Do we need another portrait of a pasty, preening, overfed secretary of state? Let us see the milkmaid, the delivery boy, the café waitress at work.”

  “These must be met or the so-called masterpieces will disappear forever!

  Sincerely,

  René Réplique”

  Louise looked up from reading the “Artifesto” and simply stared at the camera.

  A strange thing happened. It started with one letter to the editor of a small weekly paper in Brittany, in the north of France, and slowly gathered momentum. Some, not all of course, of what the art attacker said made sense to people. They were tired of not being able to afford access to the great works. Or if they did visit, fighting through a throng of shorts and sneakers-wearing loudmouths, arguing over whether Venus de Milo lost her arm in a tragic fencing accident or was born that way. The idea of art displayed in public appealed to a rebellious side of the French populace. One by one, major art institutions began an “art à la maison” movement with Monet and Caillebotte rubbing shoulders with pop star posters and calendars from the local boulangerie. Starting with the smaller museums, like the Jeu de Palme in Paris, the art of the people was given a viewing on Sundays. Even the tradition-bound Louvre, with Blaise Roquefort gagging and grinding his teeth all the way, agreed to an exhibition of finger painting by a particularly talented group of five-year-olds from a nearby school. The mysterious art attacker was triumphant.

  Fifteen

  It was not a festive gathering. The Partypoppers hunched over stale croissants, cold coffee, and mouldy cheese in a drafty corner of our Marseille hotel’s restaurant. A spider dangled over the cracked sugar bowl, daring anyone to lift the lid, and tuneless music droned from a speaker above the door to the kitchen. Did I mention that it was six thirty in the morning, an hour I was seeing far too much of lately? No one spoke until Dizzy banged his fist on the table.

  “Attention!” he said. “In one hour, we start the rally de taxi and we all need to be in the game.”

  “Oui, oui, but navigating on an empty stomach ...” Maurice trailed off with a classic Parisian shrug and a glance at the cheese tragedy.

  “All night long I heard a dripping tap. Man, I sure could use a nap,” Mink rhymed half-heartedly.

  “My heat didn’t work and the hotel said they were out of blankets,” Henri moaned.

  Blag sat with his eyes closed in silence; only his flaring nostrils told us he was still awake.

  “And someone was playing the banjo above me at midnight,” I said.

  Maurice’s eyes wandered around the room as Dizzy shot him a look of pure disgust.

  “Mes amis,” Dizzy said, quietly at first, pausing until he had everyone’s attention. “We are the Parisians. We are the reigning champions of the taxi rally.” His voice built in intensity as the group straightened in response. “Perhaps we should concede because there’s something growing on our cheese today.” He jabbed a knife into the ancient fromage and we all watched the handle wobble back and forth. The drivers smiled for the first time all morning.

  “If we can’t survive a dripping tap or a cold hotel room,” he continued, waving his hands dramatically, “or a little midnight banjo concert,” Maurice grinned sheepishly at me, “then how will we deal with the nastiness that is certain to be raining down upon us for the next two days?”

  “Oui, bien sûr, you’re right of course, Dizzy,” said Maurice.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll be there in fighting form,” said Henri.

  “Oh, and by the way, what would Rudee say?” Mink added.

  “We are the Partypoppers!” Everyone chanted loudly, Blag perhaps a bit sarcastically.

  “Absolument,” said Dizzy. “I’ll see you all in the parking area. Don’t forget your team jerseys for the opening ceremony. We have to do Madeleine proud!”

  Dawn squinted over the harbour, but Marseille was anything but sleepy this morning. A crisp chill in the salty air added a tang to the morning that made the nose twitch, and everywhere were the smells of fish and wet twine. Families clutching hot drinks moved quickly toward rue Paradis, the site of the rally launch. The teams, with three cars each, were pulling into their designated rows, separated by ropes and signs. The Champagne Supernovas, led by Anatole Belmondo, were all about style, their matching silver one-piece uniforms snapped like shrinkwrap into place on their svelte bodies. A bubble motif on their helmets completed the ensemble but led to some unfortunate jokes at their expense.

  Next to them, the Bordeaux Bombes featured shapeless camouflage outfits, and the teammates as a whole looked like they would rather be elsewhere. The six Lestrade brothers, who looked nothing alike, whispered nervously and eyed the boisterous crowd with suspicion.

  I don’t know if it was a result of Dizzy’s pep talk, the biting morning air, or the presence of the increasingly hostile crowd, but the Partypoppers were pumped by the time we got to our station. Blag had customized his T-shirt, cutting off the sleeves to reveal his new tattoo, a stylized T that became a woman’s stiletto-heeled shoe, no doubt in honour of his girlfriend Tawdry. Maurice and Henri had slicked back their hair to look like it was soaked in motor oil, and Dizzy was sporting a variation on his usual pork pie hat. The chapeau du jour was gold with flames on the sides and only slightly ridicul
ous. Mink had aviator glasses and day-glo orange driving gloves, even though he was Dizzy’s navigator. His rhyming had taken on a distinct hip-hop flavour.

  “Hands on the wheel, you know I’ve got the touch, check it out baby while I double clutch.”

  I had my hair tied back purposefully, and Penelope’s bracelet was polished to help me appear as threatening as I was ever going to get. I think the pink denim jacket may have undercut my menace.

  The Marauders had yet to show up when a recording of the “Marseillaise” brought the crowd to its feet. Seagulls squawked along. As per the rally tradition, the Grandmaster, an ancient mariner in woolly navy garb, read the rules, which everyone except me knew well.

  “Mesdames et Messieurs,” he said in a voice that sounded like it needed oiling, “and mademoiselle,” he added drily with a nod in my direction, “four teams, three cars each, two days, and one glorious goal! To complete the journey from Marseille to Saint-Paul de Vence and back, arriving at each of the eight control points precisely every two hours, where the navigator will be presented with an envelope containing a clue that will lead them to their next destination.”

  The crowd, likely trying to stay warm, applauded this formality robustly.

  “A reminder that all the rules of the Automobile Club de Marseille et Provence must be strictly followed in the interest of fairness, courtesy, and the dignity of the grand institution of driving a taxi cab in France.”

  The crowd roared with laughter and I thought that the Grandmaster smirked, but it could have been gas.

  “There will be no diversions, no falsification of the route records, no obstruction of opponents of any kind, and no naughty words.”

  The audience howled.

  “If we could have the captains of each team on the podium, please.”

  The Marauders chose this moment to make their grand entrance, horns blazing, the drumbeat from “We Will Rock You” blasting at deafening level and a team of dancers in sailor suits doing cartwheels alongside the Marauders’ cabs. It was impressive, and the crowd loved it. A fishnet carpet was rolled out as Margot Mallard emerged from the lead taxi, a tank-like vehicle in freshly painted battleship grey with porthole illustrations on the doors. Margot shot a stream of spit through the considerable gap in her teeth and waved to the adoring crowd. She turned back and hissed something to the car’s other occupant, who appeared reluctantly from the passenger side.

  A boy of about fifteen or sixteen with what can only be described as a tousled look (Penelope, are you paying attention?) emerged in a blue- and white-striped shirt, red neckerchief, and yes ... an eye patch! He slowly joined Margot, who grabbed his hand possessively and dragged him to the podium. Her son? Must be. Cute? Might be. Lose the scarf and the eye patch and you’d really have something, I thought.

  The crowd chanted “Mar-got!” as she clumped up the steps to the stage. Anatole Belmondo couldn’t hide his disgust, his nose curling at the sight of her; Marcel Lestrade couldn’t hide his fear as he visibly recoiled. Dizzy took the high road, bowing his head slightly in deference and removing his hat. Margot scratched herself vigorously and then, to my surprise, looked down from the stage, pointed a yellowed finger at Blag and made the sign of the horns, which he cheerfully returned.

  “You know her?” I asked, surprised.

  “She’s Margot Mallard, kiddo, everyone knows her in the taxicab world,” he said with a tone of respect. “She’d force you off the road and throw you to the sharks before breakfast just for a laugh if you gave her the chance.”

  Charming, I thought, before asking as casually as I could, “So who’s that with her?”

  “The old guy? Oh, he’s the grandmaster of the rally. It’s an honorary position, whatever that’s worth, and they choose someone different every year. I think he used to be the mayor, either that or a famous ex-con who owns a couple of shipyards, I can’t remember.”

  “No, the younger one.”

  “No idea, why?”

  “Oh, just curious, you know. He looks a little young to drive a cab.”

  “A little young for an eyepatch too, I’d say,” muttered Blag.

  Onstage, a barrel was wheeled out and the grandmaster announced that it was time to choose the lead taxi team. Belmondo rolled his eyes so dramatically you could hear them across the square. Lestrade sank into his camouflage and Dizzy smiled indulgently at the obvious farce taking place. A drum roll and a cymbal crash led to the grandmaster pulling a placard out of the barrel with MARAUDERS written boldly on it. The crowd went crazy as he held the sign up for them to see, revealing a fish hanging from a line that dangled below.

  Margot leaned into the mike, cleared her throat of about a decade’s worth of phlegm, and shouted, “Turbot powered!” referring to that favourite French fish. The “Mar-got” chant began again, and I noticed the boy backing away, preparing to disappear from the rear of the stage before she grabbed his sleeve.

  “Merci, Marseille. We will not disappoint you, mes amis. Allow me to present to you my son Leo, my navigator extraordinaire!” Leo looked like he was wishing for an invisibility cloak.

  The placards belonging to the Supernovas and the Bombes followed, and as expected, the Parisian team came last. We got in our cabs for the kickoff.

  “Okay, kid, this is it,” said Blag. “Got your maps?”

  “I’m ready,” I replied, but I didn’t feel ready. I knew my mom’s vision of the charming villages of the south and the blueberry picking wasn’t realistic, but I was getting a feeling that the going was about to get very fierce very soon. I focused my attention on my well-read maps; I’d studied all the possibilities and concluded that since Saint-Paul was the first day’s destination, we would likely not take the coast road toward Nice, since it would get us there far too soon. Everything pointed toward the A7, running north toward Aix, or some parallel route, but we still had to wait for the first clue. Right at that moment, the first envelope was handed to Margot Mallard and the gun went off, signalling the start of this year’s taxi rally. To everyone’s surprise, Margot swung her cab around on tiny rue Paradis, and instead of heading toward the autoroute, made for the harbour with the other two Maurauders cabs close behind. They soon disappeared from view.

  “Where do you think they’re going?” I asked Blag.

  “Can’t say, Mac, but you can bet that old sea hag knows something no one else does. They can’t fix the clues — the taxi federation prepares those — but the Marauders will go for any edge they can get.”

  “Blag, look!” I pointed to the harbour, where a barge was easing out into the open water with three taxis on board.

  “Perfect,” said a disgusted Blag as he spotted Margot fishing from the side of the barge. The other members of her crew were tucking into their first beers of the day, and I noticed her son Leo sitting beside her with his hair hanging in his eyes, strumming a guitar. Did I say the word “cute” out loud or did I just think it?

  “What are you smiling about, Yankee?”

  “Nothing, nothing at all.”

  Our first clue was handed to me through the window and a flag was waved in front of us. Blag shot up Canebière, the old main street of Marseille, and a good point of departure in any direction.

  “The mane road goes not to the right, but to the home of starry night,” I read aloud. Just as Blag came to a rolling stop at the first intersection, a stooped woman in a black shawl stepped right in front of our taxi. Blag stomped on the brake just in time to avoid flattening her. She swung around and gestured at him with her cane.

  “Watch it, sunny Jim. You almost hit a defenceless old lady.” She whacked the cane on the headlamp and stood glaring at Blag. I could feel precious time getting away.

  “Haul it, granny, or I’ll turn you into a hood ornament,” shouted Blag.

  “You mind your manners, young man. We fought the war for your sort.”

  Granny tried to kick the cab and lost her footing as a small but very angry crowd gathered. I leapt from the cab.


  “Oh, I’m so sorry, Madame,” I said in my most soothing tone. “My father is upset because ... his aunt is sick and ... he’s rushing to her side to ...” I caught a look of incredulity on Blag’s face, “… make her favourite dish for lunch ... cauliflower soufflé.”

  “Humph,” she snorted as I took her arm and led her to the curb, “your papa has a soufflé for a brain.”

  “Okay, let’s book it,” I said to Blag, back in the car.

  “Cauliflower soufflé?” he said, shaking his head.

  “Best I could come up with. Let’s focus on this clue. ‘Starry night’ must refer to the Van Gogh painting, right? But it’s in the Musée D’Orsay in Paris, no?”

  “Last time I checked,” said Blag, bouncing a trash can off his fender and enjoying it a little too much, “but I’m having trouble keeping track of the art in the city these days.” He looked contemplative, a rare moment. “But where did he paint it?”

  I ran through my limited Van Gogh knowledge and the image of a chocolate on the pillow of the fake “bedroom” painting kept coming to mind. “Hey!” I said excitedly. “The bedroom is in Arles, right? And Arles is about an hour from here.”

  “Sounds good to me,” said Blag. “Okay, let’s hit the A7, this is easy.”

  “But we’d be there too soon.”

  “Not if granny had anything to do with it. What do you think? A Marauder dirty trickster?”

  I hadn’t thought of that. “Maybe, would they ...”

  “With Margot, expect the worst and you won’t be surprised.”

  “So the first part of the clue says, ‘the mane road goes not to the right’ and they spelled ‘mane’ wrong.”

  “There are no mistakes in the clues, Cal gal, so let’s work it out.”

  “Mane could refer to someone with long hair. Joan of Arc before the bob.”

  “Or a horse’s mane,” said Blag.