She snarled at me.
I sat down again, leaned forward, and tucked a loose hair under her scarf, my eyes glued to hers. “So, not into oppression, then?” I asked.
She smiled with her eyes, and then lowered them.
A shadow fell over our table.
“Pardon.” The voice didn’t sound like it was sorry.
“Oui?” In moments of panic, all the French I ever knew had a way of falling to the very bottom of my knowledge base, which was one of the many reasons I hadn’t stayed to teach in Montreal.
“Stand, s’il vous plaît." The Rollerblade cop stood over our table, his face a mask of Gallic indignation.
I stood like my chair was on fire. “Can I help you, sir?”
Two other officers, this time in regular shoes, helped Dani to stand and moved her away from the table. They were speaking to her in low, gentle tones, in French.
She stared at me, eyes wide. Because of the scarf, and how well I had managed to stick it to her head, she couldn’t even mouth words to me. But I knew what she was thinking: somehow I had managed to get her in trouble with the law.
“What is the problem?” I stood with my feet apart. I didn’t want to look aggressive, but I had to get the situation under control.
The stage lights flared into life and focused on Berger, and the room was suddenly filled with the weird, reverberating sounds of the didgeridoo and a drum set being bashed hard. Wickham had started playing.
The cop said something to me, but I couldn’t hear him.
“What?”
He spoke again, but still, nothing.
“WHAT?” I held my hand to my ear and moved closer.
Someone grabbed me from behind, by both arms. The cop in front of me—on the skates—rolled up fast and took one of my sides. They pulled me out into the dark night. To the side, two cops had Dani under a streetlight.
The band was loud, and it was hard to hear even outside the bar.
“Are you aware of the naqib laws in France?”
Naqib. Naqib. I racked my brain. I couldn’t be sure I had heard him right, but if I had, I didn’t have a clue what a naqib was. Sure, I had an idea that I was supposed to know, but the definition of that word had flown off with all my French. “I’m sorry—I don’t have any idea what you are talking about.”
The cop behind me jerked me to the wall. He didn’t slam me against it, but almost.
I shook out my arms.
The cop on skates rolled forward and stared me down from under his bushy eyebrows.
“In France, we do not make women our slaves.”
Naqib.
Head scarf.
Yes. I did know. “No, no, you misunderstand.”
He interrupted my pathetic excuses. “The veil for the face, it is illegal in France. The man who forces a woman to wear it must go to jail and pay a 30,000-euro fine.”
I swallowed. Hard. “A misunderstanding, that’s all. I didn’t do that. We’re not even Muslim.”
“We heard you, and saw you force her into the naqib.”
I turned away from the cop with effort. He was inches, centimeters even, from my face.
Dani stood under the light, facing down the cop. She had the scarf over her head still, and clutched the ends of it under her chin. I read fear and determination in her face, but she didn’t move a muscle, or say anything. She was determined not to let them know her name.
“She’s fine, she’s with me.” I held out my hand to Dani.
She didn’t relax, and didn’t respond.
The cop moved himself so he stood between Dani and me, and I realized I probably sounded like I thought I owned her. I tried a relaxed chuckle, but it came out high like a chipmunk. I coughed. “We’re honestly not Muslims. We’re from this Bible school in Sweden.”
“Your women wear the scarves at this school?” The cop fingered the Taser clipped to his belt.
“No, of course not. Dani’s just…feeling shy.” I still sounded like a chipmunk. I hoped it at least made me look less like a threat to French womanhood. I took a deep breath. “It was just a joke, right, Dani?”
The cop with Dani leaned closer to her and spoke softly.
“English, please, in English.” Dani finally spoke up.
“It’s all good, Dani. Don’t worry.” I pulled out some firm words from somewhere. I would not let her take the fall for my stupid joke.
“If I had known about the nadiq-scarf thing, I would not have joked about it.”
“Thirty thousand euros is no joke.” The cop with me rolled back, giving me breathing room. I think, at least I hoped, that hearing Dani’s American accent gave a little credence to my claim.
“Of course not.” I fumbled with my stupid waist pouch and pulled out my passport, glad the years in Boy Scouts had been good for something. “See, I have a visa to be in Sweden. We’re just here for the couple of days, to see this band. Then we’re going home.”
He eyed my passport. “You’ve been in and out of France a lot this week.”
I kept my mouth shut.
“We’ve just been traveling a little.” Dani exhaled slowly. I was glad to hear her speaking up. If the charge was that I was oppressing her, she was going to need to show a little of her natural spirit to get us out of it.
“For what purpose were your travels?” Her policeman had a thicker accent than mine.
“Ummm…” I had nothing, but I tried anyway. “We were looking for her sister.”
My cop raised one of his bushy eyebrows. “Oh yes? For what purpose did you need her sister?”
“She ran away.” Dani’s voice couldn’t have sounded more oppressed if she had tried, and the idea that I was hunting down a runaway girl wasn’t going to help my case.
“From the school,” I added, pretty sure that was the wrong thing to say. “Dani…just take the scarf off, yes?” I tried to smile encouragingly.
She let the scarf flutter to her shoulders. She took a deep breath. “It’s no big deal, I just wanted to look pretty.” With her long neck exposed, and her glossy hair shining in the glow from the streetlight, the idea that a scarf would make her pretty was absurd.
The cop with her pinched his mouth shut. “The oppression of women in France is a very big deal.”
“It’s just a scarf, not a hijab or whatever you called it.” The color rose in Dani’s cheeks. She was coming back to herself. “Just a fancy scarf, like Princess Grace.”
“Are you aware there is a 130-euro fine for wearing a face scarf?” The officer’s tone was condescending, like he still thought she might be some kind of victim of mine.
“I thought it was 30,000?” I clamped my mouth shut. Now was not the time.
“That’s for you, if you make her wear one.” The cop snarled, but the French way, all in the back of his throat.
“I didn’t know. I just…I thought it was pretty.” Dani fluttered her eyes at the cop. She was definitely back in the game.
He turned pink but didn’t smile. “Le folle enfante.”
“She’s no fool. I was just teasing her, trying to make her laugh. Obviously we didn’t know it was a law.” I had had enough. Dani hadn’t assaulted anyone this time. She had merely attempted to be anonymous in the worst possible way.
The cop nearest Dani took a disdainful sniff. “You are sure that you are free to remove the nadiq if you wish to?” He stared at the scarf that hung over her chest. I did want to punch him.
“Of course I am. Do I look like the kind of girl who would let a man cover me up?” She thrust out her chin, shoulders back. She was covered with a skirt that went to her ankles, but her shoulders were bare and tan, and her eyes had a challenge in them. I wondered where this Dani had been hiding the last few minutes, glad to see her back. I admired her even more, seeing her pull herself together in the face of some serious getting-arrested fear.
“We do not take human rights violations lightly in Nice. This is a town of freedoms. Not oppression, you understand? If we see you again hid
ing this woman away, there will be serious consequences.”
I narrowed my eyes. “We’re just here to connect with her sister and watch a concert. We’re not here to set up some kind of jihad school.”
The cop rolled forward. Again, I had picked the wrong thing to say.
“You still think this a joke?” He pulled out a notepad. “I can make sure you do not laugh again tonight.”
From behind us, the music stopped. One long song, or maybe two songs that sounded the same, were over, and the silence was jarring.
“No, sir.” Whether it fit or not, or was what I was supposed to say or not, I didn’t know. The sudden cessation of the cacophony had made me forget exactly what I was responding to.
Three men pushed out the door and lit cigarettes. A tall man in a green blazer blew his smoke in the direction of the cop.
The cop rolled to him.
“Get lost.” The smoker directed his words to me, in a deep voice with a cockney accent, but the look he gave me made it clear he meant the cop. “No real freedoms in this city.”
The officer looked from me to the smokers. “Friends of yours?”
“Err…”
“We’ve never seen them before.” The fear that had held Dani cowering under her scarf all day, was long gone. She stepped out from the protective fence of French Policemen. “Are we done here? I took off the scarf. I don’t see the problem.” She raised her voice so that she was easy to hear over the clatter bar life coming from the open doorway. “If you’ve got a real problem with me, I guess we have to deal with it; otherwise—”
A braying laugh cut through the tense night air like a fire hose.
“You tell ’em, sister!” Drew’s grating voice so familiar, so looked for all week, so obnoxious. She had come out behind the smokers, a blond man in a pink shirt at her side. I recognized him easily as Berger, from the band.
“Don’t let le flic tell you what you can wear.”
“Drew…” Berger had a gravelly voice that made even that one word sound important. That kind of voice would be really good to have in class, though I supposed it was useful in a rock band as well.
Drew stood next to Berger, a foot shorter than him, her newly platinum hair a cloud of curls like you would see on the picture of an angel, if the angel wasn’t staring at you with a sarcastic gleam in their eye. “It’s all good.” She nodded up at the cop. “That girl’s not a Muslim. No way, no how. Wouldn’t have the guts to do it, frankly.” She smiled a wide, toothy grin. Most of the boys in the dorm found that grin irresistible, but I begged to differ.
Berger nudged her with his elbow and rolled his eyes.
The four officers exchangedgrim nods. If this were somewhere back home, we wouldn’t have stood a chance, but since the only crime right now seemed to be insolence, they slowly backed away.
The bushy-eyebrowed flic handed me back my passport. “Make sure we don’t have a problem with you again, comprenez-vous?”
We watched them roll and walk away, not looking back at us, shoulders squared as though they had put out a real problem. I was confused but didn’t even know where to start asking questions.
I reached my hand for Dani, and she responded, letting me pull her to my side. For half a second, I allowed myself to lean close and smell her hair. I wanted to tell her it was okay, I had her now, I wouldn’t let it happen again, but before I could do anything useful like that, Drew spoke up.
“The professor? Really?” She laughed, hard. “I did not think you were that kind of girl.” She paused. “I’m impressed.”
“Drew, come on now.” Berger pulled Drew into a side embrace, comfortable and intimate.
Drew took a deep breath. She turned to him and wrapped her arms around his waist. “If you knew Dani the way I know Dani, you would find this situation hilarious.” She turned her gimlet eye on me and looked me up and down. “I knew she had her eye on someone, but I would have never expected her to look so high. And you, Mr. Daniels. A student? Isn’t that what got you in hot water last time? Or was it the last three times? When the subject is hot teachers, word spreads fast in a girls’ dorm.”
My face heated up, from anger and shame and the idea that I was considered a hot teacher by the Tillgiven girls’ dorm. Until about 2010, when I took up coaching, I hadn’t been anyone’s idea of hot, and as pathetic as it was, it still had the power to knock me for a loop.
“Oh, he blushes!” More of Drew’s own special laughter. I didn’t know how Berger could stand to have her so close when she did that. “What have you done to that boy, Dani?”
“Knock it off, kid.” Berger put his hand over her mouth for half a second. Then, without exactly extricating himself, he stepped forward and offered me his hand. “Hey. I’m Berger, lead singer of Wickham. Good to meet you.” He smiled, his whole face relaxed and friendly. His accent was sort of sophisticated and made him sound mature.
I shook his hand. “Isaac Daniels.” There was an awkward, silent pause as we stared at each other, Drew tucked neatly under his arm, Dani close at my side.
The female version of himself—tall, and blonde, clearly his twin, Antje—sauntered into the door. “Friends, music?” She gestured to the bar with her head. “We came to play, yes?”
“Right.” Berger pushed Drew forward. “Buy them something to drink, babe.” He kissed the top of Drew’s head and followed his sister back inside.
“Whew.” Drew fanned herself. “He’s hot, right? I totally scored.”
Dani Honeywell 12
Usually when I try to punch my sister, she blocks it. While she had been earning belt after belt in karate, I had been memorizing native bug species and their parts. But this time, either because she had been drinking or because she just wasn’t expecting it, I got her hard and fast right in the nose.
Her hand flew to her face, her blue eyes narrowed. “What?” She pulled her hand away and stared at her fingers, dripping with blood. “You brat!” She kicked out, fast, but I dodged it.
Isaac jumped between us and took the full force of Drew’s pointy-shoed kick in his shins.
He shoved me aside and backed up.
“Your sister does not need another assault on her record here.”
Drew held her shirtsleeve to her nose. “A record?” She did her donkey laugh again, the one she uses just to embarrass me or Mom. “Are you kidding?”
“He’s not.” I crossed my arms. “I was arrested for assault twice, here in Nice, while looking for you.”
“Already? You’ve only been here, what? One day? You work fast.”
“It was earlier this week.” Isaac put his arm around my shoulder. It felt so protective and wonderful. I doubted I could turn this fatherly instinct of his into love, but I’d take what I could get today. Someday, I could tell him all about the insect life of the Wallowa Mountains, and he wouldn’t think I was so very ignorant anymore.
She lifted an eyebrow. “You came to Nice together before? Obviously you were trying to find me.” She smirked.
I closed my eyes so I wouldn’t punch her again. I knew the second try would land me on my back on the sidewalk.
“They’re going to start. Let’s go. Berger said I should feed you, so I will, but only if you promise to drink something and relax. You are both way too uptight.”
We did not drink anything, but we did eat as we sat through the concert. It was too loud to do more than glare at Drew across the table. I attempted to focus on the music, but I had listened to it all night long, so it had lost some of its novelty.
As big a fan as I was, I was not in the mood to groove.
Plus, I was constantly aware of the distance between Isaac and me—when it got smaller and when it got bigger again. He was working hard to keep some space between us, and I couldn’t blame him. The last thing he would want to do was give his student the wrong impression. If I were to go back to the dorms and start saying we were in love, he’d get kicked out of school faster than I could say “Joshua Judges Ruth.”
; When their set was over, Berger made his way to our table. “Come with me back to our hotel, yes? It’s close, and I think we all need to talk.”
What could we say? If we wanted to bring Drew home, we needed to stick close to her.
Their hotel was a little ten-room number with an Italian feeling to it. All stucco and wrought iron. As Berger had said, it was just around the corner from the pub. Their suite was a couple of bedrooms off a living room kitchenette.
The drummer, Maurice—I couldn’t believe it took me that long to remember his name—was sprawled across a dumpy brown couch, and the guitarist, Thomas, was making tea. Antje sat cross-legged at the coffee table. Drew was curled up in an armchair with a Wickham sweatshirt slung over her like a blanket.
“I need to explain a few things.” Berger was good at the apologetic grin. He sat in front of Drew’s chair, and she ran her fingers through his wavy hair.
“I’d better start,” Maurice said.
“And you are?” Isaac narrowed his eyes.
“You can call me Maurice.”
Drew laughed, but it looked like Isaac didn’t get it.
“I’m the drummer, and I was also part of the Christian International Unschool Association.”
“The one Mom and Dad made us join,” Drew added.
“Exactly. As far as I was concerned, the CIUA was good for one thing: meeting American girls.”
Drew snorted.
I watched Drew and Berger. He was totally into her rubbing his hair with her fingers. If Maurice was behind the trouble, what the heck was going on over at the armchair?
“But even that gets old sometimes. But this tour gave me the chance to try something new. I thought I would pick the lamest guy I could find on the message board and catfish him.”
“And that’s what I was doing, too!” Drew giggled.
“Catfish?” Isaac looked confused. Part of me thought it was cute, and the other part thought, “Who’s ignorant now?”
Drew sighed impatiently. “Faking out someone online and convincing them to meet up, where they find, to their utter shame and embarrassment, that their love interest wasn’t real.”
Hard to Find: A Tillgiven Romantic Mystery Page 16
