At 10:00 P.M. precisely, the phone rang and they all listened carefully to the voice on the other end. “Madame Azoul, you will place the money in the public garbage bin located behind the bookshop, next to the bus shelter. This will be your punishment for having raised a miscreant. If you call the police, you'll be digging Yasmine Azoul's grave."
"Don't hurt my daughter!” implored Madame Azoul, a tremor in her voice.
"It all depends on you. Do as you're told and she will live."
"I want to speak to Yasmine!” she rushed to add.
"You don't get it, do you? My orders are all that count. Just get the dough together."
"But—” There was no one there.
A glimmer of light appeared in Suzuki's eyes. “We've located the call: Senlis!"
"Senlis!” repeated Antoine with surprise. He swallowed hard to prevent himself from saying more.
A flash of hope lit up Madame Azoul's face.
A squad of policemen escorted Yasmine's mother to the Dufour-Planchon bookshop while Suzuki and Antoine, followed by three police cars, raced towards Senlis.
Antoine eyed the GPS nervously. “If that lunatic has touched a single hair on Yasmine's head..."
"Take it easy. We're only five hundred meters away."
Suzuki slowed down, pulled over, and parked.
"A telephone booth! Merde! Merde! Merde!" he exclaimed seconds later, kicking the curb. He called the squad and ordered them to follow the kidnapper's exact instructions. “Don't intervene before the exchange."
Antoine got out of the car. “I told you that Gabrielle is living at her parents’ at the moment.... They live in Senlis."
"Why didn't you say so before? What's the address?"
"Twelve bis, rue Meaux. I'll show you the way."
The shutters of the house were closed. Suzuki walked up the driveway, approaching under the cover of three hidden policemen, and hammered on the door. “Madame Dufour! Police! ... Open up! Madame Dufour!” He pounded harder.
"Yes, yes, I'm coming.” Gabrielle opened the door. Suzuki showed her his badge.
"What's going on?” Her eyes nearly popped out of her head when she caught sight of Yasmine staggering across the garden on the arm of a police officer.
"She was in the shed at the back of the garden,” he shouted.
Gabrielle rubbed her eyes. “But ... what's she doing here? At my parents’ place?"
"That's what you're going to tell us back at the police station,” Suzuki replied coldly. There was something in Gabrielle's attitude that struck him as aggressive. She looked heavy, but strong, too.
"At the police station? ... You must be mistaken,” she stammered in a panicky voice.
Suzuki handcuffed her and contacted the other squad. “Yasmine is safe and sound. It was just a diversionary tactic or a test of some sort. Who knows? You can bring back the ransom."
Antoine was upstairs folding Maeva's belongings into a suitcase. His little girl would spend the rest of the night back in her own bed. At home.
Monday, October 8
The associates Dufour and Planchon, Yasmine, her mother, and Hinda, co-author of the book that was all the buzz, listened to the anchorwoman on the midday news praising the police for their professionalism as she described the kidnapping. “Drama and literature. When jealousy intrudes upon publishing..."
Yasmine was still very shaken. She had been sedated with sleeping pills and her mind was muddled and confused. She'd been unable to identify Gabrielle with any certainty as her aggressor.
* * * *
A few months later...
Ensconced in an armchair, Mathieu was browsing through the book reviews in Livres Hebdo. He had just lit his pipe, and the pleasant smell of his tobacco wafted through the room. The victorious grin he wore on his face reminded Antoine of that eventful day that had marked the beginning of their glory. Antoine let his thoughts drift. The Paul Morand Literary Prize had been awarded to the authors of Skin Deep. “A work outstanding for the quality of its thinking, its spirit of independence, and, of course, its style."
Antoine glanced out the window. Under the awning stood Gabrielle, wiping her feet on the doormat.
"Maeva! Your mommy's here!"
"Okay, I'm ready."
Antoine and Gabrielle exchanged a few civilities. She was still full of resentment toward Antoine. The divorce proceedings were underway and he had custody of Maeva. Despite certain unresolved inconsistencies, Gabrielle remained the principal suspect in the Azoul affair. Her lawyer had succeeded in getting her free on bail until the trial took place and she was only authorized to see Maeva every second Saturday, and no later than 5:00 P.M.
"Okay, Mommy, let's go!"
Gabrielle's eyes misted over with tears at the sight of her daughter. Antoine placed a kiss on Maeva's turned-up nose and smiled thinly at Gabrielle, but in his gut he was saying, “She's my daughter. Nobody will ever take her away from me. Not even you. I hope you've got that clear."
* * * *
A quarter of an hour later, Farouk stepped into the house, looking his usual self with his hands stuffed into his pockets and a navy-blue cap on his head. Always on the lookout for a good scam, he wore a broad smile on his face. He was coming to receive his due: a handsome sum of money. Thanks to him, the company Dufour-Planchon was flourishing. A bottle filled with explosives was all it had taken to trigger a media hype around the novel of Yasmine Azoul and Hinda Wafi.
"Now, that's how you make a bestseller!” boasted Antoine as he greeted Farouk.
Mathieu teased his associate as he poured the drinks. “'Honors dishonor, decorations degrade, and duties demean!’”
"Monsieur's quoting Flaubert! What's to be done if literary publishing can't be measured by the number of books sold?” There was a hint of humor in Antoine's voice.
"Create a drama!” Mathieu pointed to the sky with his index finger, aping a visionary.
Antoine and Farouk roared with laughter.
"And what a drama!” Farouk exclaimed. “Madame Dufour's jealousy and Yasmine Azoul's naiveté really served your cause well. I must say, Mathieu is a good actor. How many detective films have you two guys seen? Mathieu had his role of kidnapper down pat. And that threatening letter was the work of a real pro!"
"They saw the smoke but not the fire. You know, I was mailing that letter at the very moment you were blowing up the bookshop window,” Antoine remarked.
Mathieu held out a Kir Royale to Farouk. “That literary award was the icing on the cake!"
"It certainly was,” Antoine agreed, raising his glass to drink to their success. They all clinked glasses.
That evening, Antoine and Mathieu would be throwing one of those dinners that play such a fundamental role in maintaining good relations with key public figures, journalists, and influential members of organizations that award literary prizes.
* * * *
Suzuki could count any number of affairs in which the husband, neighbor, or associate was guilty, but where evidence was lacking. This particularly tangled case was obsessing him. There were too many things that Gabrielle Dufour didn't know. Was it all a huge sham? Maybe not. He had to explore other avenues.
"A literary prize guarantees the survival of a publishing house,” he pointed out to his colleague as he backed into a parallel parking space.
In the rearview mirror, he noticed a tall fellow with a cap on his head leaving Antoine Dufour's place.
(c)2007 by Renée Yim; translation (c)2007 by Mary Kennedy
[Back to Table of Contents]
MS. MITTY by Brenda Joziatis
The character Walter Mitty, from the Thurber story “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty” and later the movie of that title starring Danny Kaye, is one of those fictional creations that have a life beyond the work in which they were born. Says author Brenda Joziatis, “I always thought there should be a female version [of Walter Mitty].... We all have dreams. The only reason I didn't give Ms. Mitty the Pulitzer was because I was reserving tha
t particular fantasy for myself."
Ms. Mitty, also known as Margaret Wentworth, knows she is made for better things. During the day, she wears brown cardigans, slightly pilled, and high granny shoes, tightly laced. The latter support her weak ankles. But in free moments, when she lets her mind wander to what should be reality, it is a different story.
She has just performed a triple jump that brings the Olympic crowd to its feet. Ending in an arabesque that threatens to split her skimpy cerise costume, she bows her head modestly, accepting the plaudits of the audience. MargaretMargaretMargaret, they chant. The judges hold up their cards: all tens. She skates around the arena, waving and blowing kisses. Later, the gold medal bouncing between her perky breasts...
The children have finished with the Pledge of Allegiance. Ms. Mitty sighs and removes her hand from her ample chest. It's March. She supposes she can have them cut shamrocks this week. But when she suggests it, their reaction is lukewarm. “Do we hafta?” whines the little Saunderson girl.
"Yes,” says Ms. Mitty. “Spring is coming. In Ireland, it's already green."
Basil Bates looks at her sceptically. “How do you know?"
"Well,” says Ms. Mitty, “I just know. They get spring sooner in Ireland."
She was reluctant to go—What about Jackie?—but Jack had insisted. I want to show you my father's land, the thatched cottages, the stone ruins, the Dublin pubs. So she smiled, that wistful little smile that he loved, and packed her bags. They took Air Force Six, the plane he kept for just such assignations. (The bigots called it Air Force Sex, but she ignored them.) Jack quoted Yeats to her over the ocean and they landed in a world of emerald green. Oh, how she sorrowed later in the administration when news of Dallas came crackling over the radio...
"Did you watch the Academy Awards?” The question comes from Serena but is really addressed to her classmates, not her teacher. The room instantly fills with whistles and catcalls.
"Whoo-ee! Some babes!” “Did you see Sharon Stone? I thought her boobs were gonna fall out of her dress!"
Ms. Mitty tries to run a tight ship but is increasingly unsuccessful. She shushes the rowdy ones, turns to Serena, and answers with dignity: “No, dear, I didn't happen to watch them. Not this year."
Everyone had told her this was her year. And they were right. She makes her way up the aisle, her mouth a moue of humble disbelief. Her gown is a simple black sheath, slit so her gorgeous legs show as she climbs to the stage. An Oscar de la Renta, of course. Elegant, chic, its very name a portent of what the evening holds. Best Actress. Her peers give her a standing ovation. Tears glisten in her eyes. She blinks them back. I want to thank the little people, she says. Without you, all of you, I couldn't have done it. This (she waves the golden Oscar high in the air) belongs to all of us...
"Look, Miss Wentworth. I made enough for all of us.” Basil Bates is tugging at her sweater, flourishing a sheaf of shamrocks. Ms. Mitty, still trying to decide if maybe a fiery political diatribe might be more appropriate for the Academy Awards, has trouble focusing.
"Where did you get those, Basil?” She is sure that last year's fourth-graders had taken their shamrocks home.
"From the computer,” Basil says. “I just did a Web search for shamrocks and printed these for coloring. We can make them orange or pink or purple even."
This is too much! Basil is an arrogant little creature, she decides. If there's one thing she hates worse than computers, it's children who are proficient at using them. Ms. Mitty tries, but the thing always seizes up on her, leaves boxes with indecipherable messages, reduces her to a frazzle that borders on tears.
"Shamrocks are always green,” she informs Basil. Then: “Computers will destroy your creativity. We don't need computers in Miss Wentworth's classroom.” She hands out scissors, green construction paper, dittoed shamrock patterns. "This is how we do it in Miss Wentworth's classroom."
What type of computer do you use? asks the book reviewer for the New York Times. I don't, she says sweetly. I compose my poems by hand, letter by exquisite letter, with a Parker fountain pen given me by my late father. The paper, of course, is handmade ragfashioned by my administrative assistant, the ink hand-ground and imported from Thailand...
"Can you tie my shoe?” It's the Saunderson girl again, snotty-nosed and laces dragging. Really, these children have no idea how they interrupt the genius of Ms. Mitty's inner life!
"Liane,” Ms. Mitty commands, with real vigor in her voice, “by now you should have learned to tie your own laces. Please do so."
Liane sighs, props one foot on the wastebasket, and promptly overturns it. She starts to whimper.
"Don't whine!” Ms. Mitty is sharp with whiners. “And tie those laces before you trip.” Liane shuffles off, snuffling. The errant laces trail beside her feet like trolling fishing lines.
There, thinks Ms. Mitty with satisfaction, that's how you deal with malcontents. With firmness. Firmness is the mark of a leader. She makes Basil stand the basket upright and put the scattered papers—including the illicit computer shamrocks—back in.
Jack had always admired her decisiveness. You're soft on the outside, Margaret, but your inner core is granite, rock-solid. You're a natural-born leader. They were lying aboard a Greek fishing vessel in the Mediterranean, and he was rubbing suntan oil on her voluptuous back. After my second term, I'll devote my energies to your career. Governor, U.S. Senator ... who knows how far you could climb. We'll have to position you so that when opportunity knocks...
President Mitty hears the rapping but chooses to ignore it. How dare they interrupt her in the Oval Office! The noise persists. There is a babble of small voices. “The door. Someone's at the door.” Then, “Miss Wentworth, Miss Wentworth."
Ms. Mitty surfaces, realizes the rapping is not opportunity, rather it comes from Amy Peterson, her colleague across the hall. Amy has agreed to knock each day to remind her of lunch. Now she hovers solicitously by Ms. Mitty's desk while the children jostle and shove themselves into ragged lines.
"Are you okay, Margaret? You looked kind of out of it there for a while."
"I'm fine,” Ms. Mitty snaps. “The children were just extremely trying this morning.” To prove her point, Basil Bates is writing a computer address on the side chalkboard. Probably the one for shamrocks. “Young man, erase that. Right this minute.” Amy could use an example of decisiveness. Often, Ms. Mitty hears the children in the adjacent classroom. They are usually laughing.
In the lunch line, Ms. Mitty hears the problematic Basil criticizing the day's meal. “Yuck, it's mystery meat again. Do you think they slaughtered Mr. Dooly's dog?"
Ms. Mitty is outraged. “You will eat what's given to you and stop your complaining,” she says, leaning out of the line and forward for emphasis. Basil looks sullen but takes a proffered slab of thin, gray meat. “Just wait until you get in the Army. You won't be so fussy then.” She doesn't hear Basil's under-his-breath whisper that he intends to go to Yale like his dad, not the freaking Army.
Horsemeat. All they have had to eat for days has been rancid horsemeat. But on such ignoble fare her gallant battalion has managed to storm an artillery site, capture a key city, and hold open the bridge, the crucial bridge to escape, so the last bedraggled prisoners of war can make their way to safety. Jesus, Margaret, a man couldn't have done it better, her staff sergeant says admiringly. He is a grizzled veteran, his stubbled face lined with years of experience. You're the kinda general we look up to. You don't stay in some fancy office sending orders, you come down here in the trenches with your enlisted men. Thanks to you, we'll be able to bring peace back to this troubled land...
"Peas?” The server behind the hot-lunch counter is holding a scoop of withered green nuggets out to her.
"War,” Ms. Mitty manages to croak. “War and Peace."
The server's weathered face crinkles quizzically but she takes the statement as a yes and dumps the overcooked peas onto the plate.
The rest of the day is tedious. Most of them ar
e. Ms. Mitty much prefers the night. Snuggled down under her Great-Aunt Ellen's quilt, she floats away to foreign lands and alternative lives. All are immensely more satisfying than that of spinster schoolmarm. She is brave. She is beautiful. She excels and is admired. The fate of the world hinges on her decisions. During the velvet night, Ms. Mitty writes Great American Novels, composes Wagnerian arias, replants the fabulous gardens of Versailles around her modest cottage. She is the first woman to step on the moon, the only one to climb Kilimanjaro and back again in a single day.
But not all of her lives are self-serving. Actually, Ms. Mitty specializes in the selfless and heroic. In the soaring night, she discovers a cure for AIDS, heads a wildly successful fund-raising campaign to build six new dormitories at her alma mater, argues a winning capital punishment case before the Supreme Court. (Although here Ms. Mitty is ambivalent. Sometimes, she persuades them to save the poor wretch; at others, she convinces the court to let the evil bastard fry.)
Although she cannot swim, Ms. Mitty saves a drowning child. She ventures out onto thin ice to rescue a freezing mutt. Like John Henry, she props up the timbers of a collapsing coal mine until the men are led to safety. She is exhausted in the morning after such strenuous nights, is barely able to pour her breakfast tea and get to the school in time for playground duty. She manages (barely) to break up a fight between Edgar Belliveau and Basil Bates. And she scoops up the little Saunderson girl, who has fallen off a swing, and while not exactly comforting her (Ms. Mitty hates whiners) she does manage to apply a bandage to her scraped knee. Small triumphs, to be sure, but they all add to the legend of the fabled Ms. Mitty, Woman Extraordinaire.
EQMM, July 2007 Page 16
