The Christmas Pudding Lie

by P. B. Phillips

Sherlock announces, “This is it.” He tugs at the hanging ornamental copper bells. The door buzzes open. Anna comments as she steps over the landing, “This is so Dodd. It has the same roughness as Dodd’s unpretentious country home.”

  Sherlock chuckles as he leads the way over the cracked tile floor. “Umm you may be right. Dodd is not one for pomp. But I say, Watson, this place could be grand with a bit of spit and a lick of paint.”

  Anna laughs as she enters the creaky black iron elevator. The elevator makes a terrible rattle. It sounds as if it is about to go out on strike. Anna cries out, “Stop! Let’s take the stairs.”

  From above, Mycroft shouts over the racket of the aged elevator, “It’s okay Anna. It needs a drop of oil. You should see this place Lock. I have second bids on it, if Dodd walks.”

  Mycroft opens the outer milk glass door to the elevator. Sherlock pulls aside the metal gate and gestures for Anna to go first. Mycroft indicates Dodd’s door number five to the left. He whispers to Anna and Sherlock,

  “Dodd is with the agent from the immoblier and the concierge. The latter is quite a character. He smells like an old wine casket.”

  Walking along the dank, dimly lit corridor, Anna sniffs the scented air. She takes in the layout of the building. There are two apartments on each floor flanking the center elevator well. Mycroft opens a tall, narrow worm rotted door into a barren room. He bids his brother and Anna, “Bienvenue.” His voice echoes off the thirteen-foot high-coffered ceiling complete with pearl gray medallion and gunmetal gray chandelier. The sound proceeds to ricochet off the oyster white walls of the room. The only word that comes to Anna’s mind is ‘dilapidated.’ The ash colored paint on the crown molding is peeling. The floor’s random narrow gauge red fir planks are warped and rutted from wear. The centerpiece of the room, the fireplace is done in yet another shade of gray, antique gray. The hand carved wooden mantle features curlicues and rosettes. Anna concludes silently, ‘yes this place has all the charm of a foggy day in London town.’

  Mycroft directs, “Dodd is in the kitchen, through here.”

  Dodd greets his guests, “Madame Grave and Monsieur Duree these are my friends. They would like to see the flat, if you will allow?”

  Madame Grave, the realtor, is a petite finely groomed French woman. Her hair is a stunning auburn color arranged in a classic bob. She wears smartly tailored slacks made of light wool and silk shantung in a dusty rose color. A thin neat black patent leather Chanel belt accents the pant. Her soft taupe blouse of silk compliments the blush in her oval face. She translates to M. Duree, the gatekeeper and all round handyman. He nods in agreement. He is an older gentleman of eastern European descent. He is small and thick in stature, bald except for a few greasy gray strands. He wears traditional blue workmen overalls.

  Anna grabs Dodd’s arm and ask in a barely audible whisper, “Where’s the kitchen?”

  Dodd bends over and whispers, “Your standing in it.”

  Anna gawks “Dodd dear, this is a room with a sink!”

  Dodd struggles to stifle a laugh, “It’s unfurnished.”

  Anna tugs at Dodd’s arm leading him back into the main room out of ear shot of the two dire looking agents. “Dodd there are no counters, there are no cabinets. I think that this may be a con.”

  Dodd pretends he is coughing, “Cara mia, this is a ‘deux pieces non equipee.’”

  Anna exclaims, “Dodd all I see is dilapidated emptiness! Where are the two rooms?”

  Madame Grave and M. Duree join them in the main room. She asks, “M. Dodd shall we go back to my office and go over the lease?”

  Dodd doesn’t hesitate for a second, he agrees immediately, “D’accord! Say in an hour? My friends and I have been traveling since early morning. We would like to have a bite to eat.”

  Mm Grave explains the arrangements to M Duree. He hands Dodd the key, “Bon jour,” is all he says as he exits.

  Mm Grave leaves also saying, “D’accord! There are many bistros on rue de Bercy. There is also a Monoprix on the Boulevard two blocks north. You can enjoy a picnic in the park. Also the old wine houses are now chic cafes. Lock up and leave the keys with M. Duree. His flat is below the stairs on the right. Oh, yes, be sure you bring your Carte de Sejour. Au revoir.”

  Dodd follows her to the door, “Merci, I have my work card with me. A tout a l’heure.”

  Sure that the pair are on their way down the elevator, Dodd continues to enlighten Anna about the vagaries of rentals in Paris. “Most flats in France come as you say with ‘dilapidated emptiness.’ The French expect that you will want your own furnishings. As for a kitchen all I need is a table and a microwave.”

  The Holmes gents invite Dodd to whatever he can use from their storehouse of antiquity. Anna remains skeptical, “Are you sure about this? All you have is this tall cave and the sink room.”

  Dodd walks her over to what appears to be a built-in bookcase on the extreme opposite wall. He pushes in on the fourth shelf and it opens exposing a hidden staircase.

  “The cave room here is one and upstairs is two,” Dodd gestures for Anna to go first. She refuses, “Are you kidding? You go first.”

  Sherlock intrigued by the hidden passageway says, “I’ve got your back Watson. I say Dodd, old man this is a bit of the bohemian.”

  Dodd standing at the top of the stairs announces, “Viola, my ‘chambre de bonne.’”

  Mycroft at the tail end says, “This part of the flat is so downstairs that it is posh.”

  Anna’s eyes dart wildly. An involuntary gasp escapes as she reaches the ceiling.

  Mycroft concurs, “Anna, isn’t the ceiling a gas. It’s so Goth.”

  Anna scans the painted ceiling with its black sky and silvery blue tone Milky Way.

  The only good thing that Sherlock can find to say is, “Hmm, vintage sixties!”

  Anna asks, “The second piece is this LSD attic? Are you serious?”

  Dodd hugs Anna and tries to show her the potential here, “I’m thinking of gray on gray strip wallpaper for here. It will give the illusion of height. And wall-to- wall blue gray carpeting will also enhance the appearance of space. This oasis will be my study and guest room. The cave room, I see as a well appointed bed sit.” He adds, “But I’ve saved the best for last. Follow me.”

  Sherlock and Anna follow Dodd over to the only dormer window. He grins from ear to ear, knowing that he will trump their every objection, “I give you the view from the top.”

  Anna’s breath escapes her. Outside is an autumn treetop view of Paris and the river Seine.”

  Anna says, “I want this place.”

  Dodd replies, “Downstairs in the cave room there is a sweet balcony. Let’s go on down.”

  Once downstairs, Anna trots merrily over to the tandem corner windows that flow from floor to ceiling. She walks out onto a balcony with its ornate copper railing. To Dodd she says, “This will be a stellar addition to your real estate portfolio.”

  Mycroft thoroughly sold on the place adds, “There are more hidden treasures.”

  Anna jumps back into the cave room and looks about for the more, ““Really? What?”

  Behind another bookcase, Mycroft reveals, “Voila, le salle de bain equipee!”

  Anna walks into the cavernous space with its high ceilings. The room features garish mosaic tile, a bath complete with vintage claw foot tub, overhead shower, requisite toilet and sink, and last but not least, the highly coveted French bidet.

  Anna observes, “The bathroom is equipee but the kitchen is nonequipee. What does that tell you about the French?”

  Sherlock walks over to view the stark white and glaring bright blue and green tile interior of the bath. He calls out to Dodd, “Mate, some tile pieces are missing. You want to make a list of the condition now. They are very stingy in returning your security when you sign off. You will be responsible for any nicks or dings that are not listed at the time of the signing. And with a full year’s rent money as caution, it behooves you to go over every inch of t
his place.”

  Dodd agrees, “Right you are. Mycroft and I have it in hand. Shall we see about light refreshments?”

  Outside the air is crisp as a Golden Delicious Apple. Sherlock has his pocket Michelin out in search of a proper place to eat. He announces, “Chez 33 on Cour St. Emilion just ahead.”

  In a short block, they find the very trendy bistro. A young blue-black man dressed in a starched and pressed white shirt with black pants and traditional white apron invites the troupe to dine al fresco. The four walk through the main dining room to the patio. They quickly make themselves comfortable without much ceremony.

  The waiter announces the day’s special; a white bean salad with andouille and grilled swordfish with pistachio and cumin. The 'prix complet' menu offers steak and fries, a cold vegetables and meat platter and omelet. All four decide to eat light and order the omelet. Anna is overjoyed to be back in Paris and sitting in a French café.

  The luncheon plates arrive promptly. All is quiet at the table as the four eagerly break open their omelets. After several stomach pleasing bites, Anna starts up again,

  “What is required to get the place, Dodd?”

  Dodd replies, “The usual bureaucratic red tape, a thick file of legal docs to sign, a three year lease and of course the caution money.“

  Anna asks, “Three years! Yikes, that’s longer than many of my marriages. What is the going rate for a residential flat in Paris?”

  Dodd explains, “Of course location sets the price. The going rate is about two hundred Euros per meter. Once in a blue moon a studio will come on the market for a thousand Euros. Madame Graves is asking twenty-five hundred Euros a month, with one year in advance.”

  With graveness Anna adds, “Dodd, I know a great flat in Pebble Beach you can have for the same money with the blue Pacific Ocean and three funky golf courses in your backyard.”

  Dodd grabs Anna’s hand and says, “That’s my next real estate deal.”

  Sherlock cuts in, “I’ll take it, Anna, where do I sign?”

  After a quiet but quick meal, the waiter brings them each an espresso. Sherlock takes care of the ‘addition’, the bill. Anna excuses herself, “I’m off to find the loo la la.”

  When she is out of sight, Dodd looks to Sherlock and asks, “So old man, why the circling of wagons back there?”

  Sherlock smirks. He plays with his napkin, folding it in a variety of ways. In a low tone, he says, “I dare say we should not dismiss outside influences about her.”

  Mycroft interjects quickly, “The lad on the bridge? I’m on it. I’ll call ahead to Central.”

  Dodd raises his right arm and dismisses the notion forthright, “It’s not necessary,” is all he says.

  Just then a group of African youths strut through the garden patio door, speaking French loudly and fluently. They plop down at the table closest to the rooks. Approaching her table, Anna recognizes the Burberry sweats and the youth on the bridge. So does Sherlock. As Anna makes her way between the tables, the fashion wise youth whispers, “Go home.”

  Sherlock knows that this is not a chance encounter. He rises, indicates the time, “We need to get a move on it, if we are going to meet Madame Grave.”

  He adjusts the green café chairs thereby allowing Anna to exit easily. Outside he comments, “I thought that we might see your friend again.”

  Anna shrugs her shoulder, “You mean the rude boy? He is just a Young Blood. He’s not a worry.”

  Mycroft and Dodd look back at the new arrivals. Dodd speaks with some tension in his voice, “You mean you know those guys, Anna?”

  Anna looks at Sherlock, “See what you started. No, but who could miss the shabby chic dandy in his Burberry sweats?”

  On the sidewalks of the St. Emilion district the low light of late autumn filters through the trees and capture the periwinkle twinkle in Mycroft’s eyes. He remarks in passing, “Burberry retired that plaid as it was popping up in all the wrong places.”

  Dodd remains concerned, “But seriously, Anna, what exactly did he say?”

  Anna replies nonchalantly, “I couldn’t say for sure but I believe it was a bit of xenophobic nonsense.”

  Sherlock looks directly at Anna. He arches his eyebrows and peers over his gold-rimmed glasses with specks of pearl. His stare tells Anna that he is not buying that story. He extends his arm to her. She enfolds her arm into the curve of his and with an air of dismissal says,

  “He said that I should go home.”

  Sherlock shakes his head in agreement, “Good advice. I think that it is something we all should consider. Look ahead, Dodd, Mycroft.”

  At least six blue gendarme vans speed along Rue de Bercy. The sports complex is ringed with riot police in Darth Vader attire. Anna swallows hard trying to keep down a panic attack. The color in her face drains. Her mouth dries. Her heartbeat skips in three quarter time. Her hands perspire. She taps her feet, left foot right foot.

  She stutters, “What is it?”

  Dodd closes the space between Anna and himself. He remains steadfastly calm, “Nothing I’m sure more than likely a parade. You know how the French like to strut their stuff!”

  Mycroft not wanting anything to distract from this wonderful late autumn afternoon agrees with Dodd, “By golly there looks to be something going on at the Rabin gardens. So what’s our next move, mates? ”

  Anna’s anxiety creeps into Sherlock’s bones, in an octave lower than normal he says, “There is more to this than that. I glimpsed the front page of Le Monde on our way over. In large bold letters it read, “Emeute, Emeute, Emeute!”

  Dodd alarmed jumps in, “Riots! I say, Sherlock, will you go with me to the immobilier? I’ll need you to crack the Napoleonic Land Code. Anna and Mycroft can go back to your flat in the Marais. I am sure, Anna, you will enjoy a visit to the old Paris you knew.”

  Mycroft agrees, “So you are taking the flat, jolly good!”

  Anna looks bewildered. Riot police flood the area now. Sherlock, eager to remove Anna from the scene, seconds Dodd’s plan, “Excellent strategy, old man. Croft do go by taxi, take the scenic tour around the ring road. Start at the left bank at National, over to the Eiffel tower.”

  Mycroft is equally anxious to leave the scene, “Right oh, the route we travel with the hotel guests.”

  Sherlock reviews carefully and quickly the matter at hand. He decides to override Dodd’s directive and whispers to Mycroft, “Get on to Central.”

  Mycroft hails a cab. From inside the cab the two peer out on a scene that looks more and more like a standoff of some sort. Sherlock and Dodd make haste to the immobilier, the real estate office located on the next block.

  Anna and Mycroft get comfortable in the taxi. Neither comments on the passing landscape. Anna inhales deeply and exhales slowly trying to shift her focus back to the joy of seeing Paris one last time. She calls out, “I see the Eiffel tower, cool!”

  Mycroft ducks his tall lean frame to take a closer look at their exact location. To the driver he asks, “Monsieur, s’il vous plait, prise Avenue Foch a Champs Elysee, puis Quai des Tuilereres a Quai des Celestines.”

  The garlic laden, jaundiced faced driver with red eyes looks as if he’s been up for the last forty-eight hours. He kisses his teeth. In the dirty rear view mirror, he raises his hand pointing to the traffic. He’s not a happy camper. He’d rather avoid Europe’s most congested intersection. Mycroft ignores the protest.

  Anna breathes a little easier as they approach the Paris of her past. As they inch around the Arch and travel down the most well known boulevard in Europe, Anna’s eyes pop. She gawks. She squeals quite unexpectedly, “Look, all the trees are decorated in tiny white lights.”

  Mycroft relaxes for the first time since departing Bercy. Anna’s joy is contagious. He resumes with great relish his tour guide mode. “Indeed, Paris is big on Christmas. Every year they deck out the two thousand or so trees that grace this boulevard. Ahead is the Drugstore.”

  Anna looks about wildly, not wanting
to miss one thing on this parade, she asks, “That mass of steel and glass?”

  Mycroft nods yes. He continues, “On the left you can make out the Louvre, and to our right is the Ile de Citi with …”

  Anna interrupts, “Notre Dame.”

  A little further along, Anna gasps, “Is that the same GAP as back home? “

  Mycroft answers, “It is indeed but here it hobnobs with Cartier, Vuitton and Guerlain!”

  Anna asks, “We should be getting close to the Marais?”

  Mycroft replies, “Yes, you recognize the district? It’s just off Celestine.”

  He directs the driver, “S’il vous plait, a gauche, Monsieur, a Rue de l’Ave Maria cinquante-cinq.”

  Anna remarks, “Sherlock lives on Ave Maria Street, how utterly divine!”

  Number 55 Rue de l’Ave Maria holds the coveted spot on the block, the corner. Anna looks out on the edifice as the taxi pulls onto the sidewalk to let his passengers out. Anna can’t contain her glee, she chatters,

  “Yes, this is the Paris I know and love. Sherlock’s place is quintessential Marais. Look he has his own café, The Blue Rock Café. ”

  Mycroft settles with the driver and offers a strong hand to help Anna out of the taxi. Anna’s head whirls to and fro taking in the sights.

  Mycroft announces, “This is Paris’s oldest neighborhood, the Paris of the Kings. Shall we go up? I think I see a light in Sher’s flat.”

  He presses the buzzer on the twelve-foot high double doors finished in glossy black. Anna steps quietly into the Belgian block courtyard with its potted tree boxes painted a forest green. The door to the concierge’s flat opens to the immediate right of the entrance. A stunning woman in her mid forties with platinum hair coifed in the ultra mod spiked layer look, dressed in tight stone washed jeans exposing a tight flat midriff peeks out to see who enters. She smiles and waves to Mycroft, “Comme ca va, M. Holmes?”