The Adventures of Mademoiselle Mac 2-Book Bundle

by Christopher Ward

  The sun had set on the beautiful hills of Provence. In the streetlight outside the Café de la Place, the old men played boules, which looked a bit like lawn bowling without the pins and without the lawn. On the other side of the square was an inn with a blue and yellow sign that read “La Colombe D’Or,” with a painting of a golden dove flying over rolling blue hills. The words of my art teacher, Madame Ventighem, came back to me: “There is a small inn in the hills above Nice that houses a breathtaking collection of twentieth-century French art, given to the owner over the years in exchange for room and board.” I recall she got quite misty-eyed at this point, saying, “And I only dream of going there someday.” The rest of the class was, as I recall, given over to us attempting to create mosaics using little pieces of coloured paper that some of the boys treated like confetti, while Madame Ventighem looked dreamily out the window.

  The terrace was filled with tables decked in white tablecloths and gleaming crystal, lit by candles. The wall separating the café from the town featured a dazzling ceramic mural of exotic women and a giant parrot, in golds and reds, tucked into the ivy.

  “Léger,” said Leo with a tone of respect, “a painter, sculptor, filmmaker.”

  The drivers headed straight for the tiny bar while the others sat where they could find a place, inside or out. I’d eaten enough pastry in town that dinner seemed unnecessary. Leo and I wandered into the dining room, which was more like an art gallery that served food. Miro, Matisse, Picasso; they all had a place on the walls.

  In the bar, laughter, shouting, backslapping, and of course, wine drinking were in full swing. Leo and I tucked ourselves into an unoccupied window seat, seemingly invisible in the crowd. Henri and Félix of the Marauders were clinking glasses and discussing the differences between rallies of the past, like the Alpenfahrt in Austria and the Netherlands Tulip Rally.

  “That Austrian nightmare has been going for over a century,” said Henri.

  “Much like yourself, you old toad,” laughed Félix.

  Maurice and Baptiste heatedly discussed driving techniques.

  “I don’t believe in double clutching,” declared Baptiste, “it’s for the ladies, present company excepted, of course.” He glanced over uneasily at Margot, but she was engaged in an intense conversation with Blag.

  “You’re crazy,” said Maurice. “The heel and toe technique is a noble and artistic means of changing gears.” Baptiste rolled his eyes as Maurice continued, “Led Zeppelin drummer, the late John Bonham, used it to great effect in one of their signature songs, ‘Good Times Bad Times,’ no, Mink?”

  “When you hit the kick, it’s a Scandinavian flick,” said Mink, coolly.

  “Mon Dieu, what does a Swedish film have to do with it?” said Baptiste, waving to order another round.

  In addition to a very busy waitress, the bartender was serving drinks rapid-fire. As I watched him go about his work in the whirlwind of action around him, he looked familiar, but I couldn’t say why, just something about his elegant expression, his reserved manner in contrast to the craziness all around him, and his hands, like those of an artist, with long, slender fingers that gestured like a symphony conductor.

  Blag and Margot spotted us and Leo cowered. “Uh-oh, here comes trouble, a lecture for sure, just wait.”

  “Cavorting with the enemy, my little prince?” growled Margot, but then she broke out one of her ragged grins.

  “I see you two are getting cozy,” said Blag, annoyingly. “Hey, you can settle something for us, Monsieur guitar dude.”

  Leo looked suspicious and I couldn’t imagine what this was about.

  “Oui, mon fils,” said Margot, “answer very carefully. If Bloodjun and Tonnage were doing a double bill at the Olympia, who would be the headliner?”

  Blag, from behind Margot’s shoulders, mouthed “Bloodjun” while Margot mimed carrying something heavy, suggesting “Tonnage.”

  “Think carefully, little string man,” said Blag.

  “Navigate wisely, my little angel,” said Margot.

  “Well,” said Leo hesitantly, “do you mean if the concert was held today, or back in the mists of history, when anyone cared about heavy metal music?”

  “Hey, hold on,” said Blag, and I giggled.

  “And if being the headliner meant that the audience saved their most rotten tomatoes to throw at the stage….” I liked Leo better and better.

  “Watch it, little wiseman,” said Margot, sounding more than a little like Rudee at the moment. “Do you want to navigate from the trunk tomorrow?”

  “Oh no, Maman, because we want to win, n’est-ce pas?” The rest of the drivers were starting to pay attention to the debate, and I could see money changing hands.

  “Please remind me which band had a guitarist who played with his teeth.”

  Margot couldn’t hide her excitement. “Tonnage, bien sûr, my sweet boy. That was Claude Hopper, the three-stringed madman.”

  “Well, then I think the headliner would be,” Leo paused and the drivers leaned in to hear the result as Margot put her hairy arm over Leo’s shoulders, “Bloodjun.”

  Margot looked stunned.

  “Because no one should do that to a guitar.”

  “Yes!” exclaimed Blag, starting up a chant, taken up lustily by the Partypoppers, “Blood-jun. Blood-jun!”

  In the noise I couldn’t hear Leo, but he seemed to be justifying his choice to a stricken maman.

  “Would you care for a beverage, mademoiselle?” A smooth voice spoke in my ear in the midst of the hilarity in the bar.

  “But I’m only fifteen,” I said.

  He arched his eyebrow as if to say, “Yes, and it’s a Tuesday.”

  “Orangina, merci.”

  I recognized the “it’s your funeral” expression as he turned to Leo.

  “Whatever mademoiselle is having.”

  The bar scene was soon too unruly, so Leo and I stepped outside on to the terrace. He strummed his guitar and I sipped my Orangina.

  “So you can go to a bar at fifteen?” I asked.

  “Oui, the laws are very relaxed, especially in the south,” he answered. “I saw a toy poodle driving a Smart car just the other day.”

  Okay, for one brutal second he had me and knew it. He snorted some Orangina through his nose and onto his guitar.

  “Serves you right.” But I was laughing too. “So why did you choose Blag’s band over your mom’s? It seemed like it wouldn’t matter much to you.”

  “You’re right,” he said, “but I had to get revenge for the eyepatch. I didn’t want to do this rally thing anyway, but that was too much.”

  “Aarghhh matey,” I said and Leo laughed. “So what’s with the heavy metal showdown between your mom and Blag?”

  “Oh, they became hard rock pals a few years ago. Legend has it that they were in the mosh pit at a Malade concert and my mom tried to climb on Blag’s back to see better. He supposedly flipped her onto the stage, where she started dancing with the band, and I’m just so glad I wasn’t there.”

  A giant raindrop splashed on Leo’s guitar. It was followed by others. “Guess we better go in. That can’t be good for a guitar.”

  “Oh, it’s okay, it’ll wash the Orangina off,” he said.

  The bar was even more crowded than before, so we hid under the eaves in a doorway at the back of the building. When it started to come down harder and began splashing back and soaking our clothing, I turned the doorknob and we stepped inside.

  “What’s this?” I asked Leo, as if he should know just because he’s from France.

  “Let’s see.”

  We found a light switch and followed the steps down into a large wine cellar. The sound of the partying and the rain faded. “Wow, this is almost as impressive as the art collection.” I said.

  “Almost.” He smiled and wandered off behind racks of dusty bottles. There wasn’t much to see in the dim light, no vintage Orangina as far as I knew.

  “Where are you?”

  “He
re.” He strummed his guitar. It sounded cool in the basement, I mean wine cellar. I couldn’t see Leo and it was getting darker the farther I went into the room. The boundaries of the room were invisible. It seemed to keep going and going.

  “Do you take requests?” I asked.

  “Maybe,” he said.

  “How about ‘Light ’Em Up,’” I laughed in the darkness.

  “Ha-ha,” was his reply. I felt along the wall to get my bearings. There had to be another light switch somewhere.

  “Whoa!” The bricks beneath my hand moved and a small opening appeared. “Leo, come here and check this out.”

  We squeezed through the opening into a totally posh underground apartment. “Incroyable!” he said, looking at the tastefully decorated, perfectly kept room. “If you could afford this stuff, why would you live underground?”

  Leo put his guitar down by the door and we ventured in, not touching anything. It was all impeccable: the furniture, the light fixtures, the full bookshelf, right down to the decanter and tiny glasses on the table.

  “Wow, this door is heavy,” said Leo as he continued exploring. I was feeling weird about being in someone’s place, fascinating as it was.

  “Let’s go back,” I said.

  “Not quite yet, Mac,” said Leo in a strange voice, “not till you see this.”

  I looked behind me nervously and followed his voice. What I saw was astonishing. A vast artist’s atelier with easels, paint, tools, and canvases. Once I could focus on the canvases, I was speechless. I felt a shiver run through my entire body. I looked at Leo and he just shook his head slowly in disbelief.

  “Is this real?” I asked, but somehow knew the answer. There was the left foot/right foot version of the defaced Magritte, Van Gogh’s Bedroom in Arles, without the complimentary chocolate on the pillow, and finally, in all her enigmatic glory, there she was, the crown jewel of the Louvre, the most famous painting in the world, the Mona Lisa, without her new wristwatch. We stood silently, in awe.

  “She truly is magnificent, isn’t she?” a genteel voice behind us said, almost sadly. “Without the crowds and their cell phones, making the same inane observations about her size, her smile, her true name ... she is indeed a masterpiece.” He sighed deeply. “You know, I actually heard one visitor wonder out loud which Italian designer created her dress. ‘Leonardo,’ I answered, hoping to make her laugh. ‘I don’t know his line,’ she replied, and I wanted to weep.”

  I recognized the bartender from La Colombe d’Or, but I also recognized him as someone else. He closed the door behind him and it sounded like the door of a plane when it’s sealed shut for takeoff.

  “Mademoiselle Mac, it’s nice to see you ... again.” Seeing my puzzlement, he continued in a low, husky tone, all the while eyeing me to get a reaction. “You have something for the little sparrow?” And then I knew. This was the same man who had pretended to be a guard at Père Lachaise. But who was he really?

  Leo had been inching closer to me and I was grateful for his protective instinct. The man didn’t seem the violent type, but his weirdness was very unsettling and I knew he wasn’t happy with the two of us showing up in his private gallery of masterpieces. “You know this guy?” Leo asked, mystified by our exchange.

  “Not by name,” I said, “but by his bizarre and cowardly actions.” The old man’s lip curled in anger. “He wants to be thought of as an artist, but I suspect in his heart, when he is face to face with the real thing,” I looked around the room at the stolen work, “he must admit, at least to himself, that he is a fraud.”

  “You know nothing,” the man shouted, losing his carefully measured control, “and you know less than nothing about me.”

  Leo bolted for the door and had his hand on the doorknob, but the old man coolly picked up a remote and locked it without moving.

  “Please,” he said, “don’t insult me. Just because we are in a room off of a wine cellar that no one knows exists doesn’t mean that I would not take every precaution as far as security goes.” He gestured across the room. “These are, after all, some of the gems of creativity of the western world, and it is because I respect and appreciate them that they are here.”

  He slipped the remote locking device into his pocket and strolled around the room, taking in the work like the connoisseur he was. “By the way, Mademoiselle Mac, I have no intention of harming you or your little paramour [I wasn’t exactly sure what that meant, but I felt like I should have been embarrassed], but you will have to stay a while. When they come for you, and I assure you they will, you can be the one to tell the world about the work of the great Raoul DeFaux.”

  He lit a cigarette and settled into his savour faire man-about-town mode. I rolled my eyes at Leo, who looked both fascinated and disgusted by this whole affair. “You may not know this, but I, Raoul DeFaux, was the director of the world’s most famous museum of art, the Louvre, until I was forced to retire over some petty issues of modernization.” He gave a small shudder accompanied by the stinky upper lip expression. “What a shame that my successor, Blaise Roquefort, that snivelling little weasel, has had to endure this scandal so early in his time as director.” Thinking back to my unexpected visit to the Louvre and encounter with the director, I actually agreed with the snivelling assessment. DeFaux made no attempt to hide his mirth at the effect of the scandal on Roquefort, and it occurred to me that revenge could underlie this whole business.

  “Sadly, it may shorten his time in the position he coveted so nakedly and assumed so undeservedly by poisoning the minister of culture with lies about my work.”

  I felt like I could read Leo’s mind. If we could play for time, maybe Defaux would slip up somehow, get distracted by his own genius, and we could escape.

  “But how did you manage to create these ...” I had to choose my words carefully so as not to inflame the former director. I was going to say “fakes” but thought better of it. “... these replicas?”

  He still winced at the term, but chose to indulge me. “I know everything about art,” he said modestly, “not just who and when and where and whether they died penniless, or lived off of their mistresses, or whose faces they included in the background in exchange for financial considerations and protection from persecution ... I also know ... how.” He paused briefly as if waiting like an impatient teacher for someone, anyone, to raise their hand. “I studied the classical techniques in school, but my work went unappreciated, so I grabbed the reins of power in the art world, all the while returning to my workshop at home, honing my skills, until now.”

  “But how did you do it, Monsieur DeFaux?” Leo’s curiosity sounded so genuine, I think DeFaux was moved.

  “Come here, young man, and learn.” Leo approached DeFaux cautiously as he gestured at Mona Lisa. “My most challenging work, not because of the genius of da Vinci — that’s easily replicated by a true craftsman — but because of age. I had to bake her many times in this oven,” he gestured across his studio, “to achieve the exact craquelure that would have occurred naturally over five hundred years of heat and cold, expansion and contraction, leading to all the fine cracks you see in the older work.” DeFaux suddenly swung around and glared at me. “Is this boring you, mademoiselle? I’m glad to have one young mind who doesn’t spend his life with his eyes closed and his headphones on.”

  I told the truth. “No, it’s fascinating. Weird, but fascinating.” I was playing for time before DeFaux went all Hansel and Gretel on us with that oversized oven.

  “Who could have foreseen,” he thundered, “that it would be months before someone discovered the alteration to the world’s best-known and best-loved work of art?” He allowed himself a small smile and, almost under his breath, added, “Of course, it could be attributed to the pure talent of the creator.” I rolled my eyes, which did not escape the madman’s attention. “And who would have imagined a child would be the one to see it?”

  He suddenly sounded weary and defeated and sat down heavily on a stool in front of Mona. He
took the remote lock from his pocket and mimed painting as if in a trance. Leo and I exchanged a look.

  “Sad,” said DeFaux in a hushed voice, “but it confirmed my hypothesis. We see not what we see, but what we expect to see, what we are told is in front of our eyes. People seek out the so-called ‘important’ works of art, the must-sees, and check them off like a grocery list that they can brag about at their coffee chain stores, their nail salons, and their self-important book clubs.”

  His voice sounded far away. Leo whispered to me, “What’s this all about?”

  “It goes with the territory. He’s mad. He has to make speeches,” I whispered back.

  “Oh. You sound like you’ve had some experience with this sort of thing.”

  “Well, actually ...” But I thought a long explanation would have to wait.

  DeFaux finally looked up. “So I raised the stakes. Van Gogh, Magritte, and now my boldest move: to transform an entire collection of work without anyone noticing. Until I am gone, that is. Look. Appreciate.”

  He yanked away the cloths covering easel after easel of newly converted work. The prizes of the Colombe d’Or collection by Picabia, Matisse, Picasso, and Léger were all on display, or their close relatives were. Matisse’s Portrait of a Woman with a tiny butterfly tattoo on her neck, Léger’s vase with the tip of a cellphone behind the flowers, Picasso’s round-faced man with a wisp of gelled hair poking out of his crown. DeFaux seemed to snap back to life as he gathered up his canvases.