Queen of the Trailer Park (Rosie Maldonne's World Book 1)

by Alice Quinn

  Fine, but what did this song have to do with anything?

  From what I could make out: we don’t find heaps of cash every day. And never as much as I’d just found. Certainly never in a dumpster. Especially with me and my bad luck.

  One time Mimi found ten euros lying on the ground, and afterward, I went everywhere with my head down, looking. But of course I never found a thing. Nada. The usual. Though I will say, that way of walking certainly helps you dodge dog shit. So I never really got out of the habit. It remains a part of my daily routine.

  I don’t remember much about my thought process, but I know I came to the conclusion that all this cash . . . well, it had to be dirty money. Who would stash their money in trash cans if it was legit? You’d just take it down to the bank, right?

  I didn’t think much more about it after that. When it came down to it, I didn’t want to know why or how all that money had ended up there. I told myself: I have to go easy. Especially as everyone around here knows I’m broke right now. I’m going to have to stash most of it somewhere. I’ll just keep a bit to spend now. I’ll tell people I’m going to come into some money soon. I was confident I’d be able to come up with a credible story as to how I’d gotten hold of it.

  For the time being, I stuffed the envelopes under the sink behind my detergents—perfect spot for dirty money, right?—and I kept a few hundreds in my wallet, and that was that. I don’t think my poor wallet had ever been so full. It looked like it was going to explode.

  9

  What surprised me most, and also disturbed me, was that now I didn’t have to use up all my neurons coming up with plans for how we were going to eat.

  Problem solved. La commedia è finita. Time for a break. I could shut down the old brain for a while. I was unnerved by this turn of events.

  As I took the older kids to go pick up the twins, I felt both exhilarated and anxious, flitting from one state to the other. Exhilarated because—well, it’s not difficult to understand why. Anxious because that amount of money would have to be put somewhere safe, and I had no idea how to go about it without some bank giving me a headache. Suddenly I had middle-class problems.

  The twins were handed back to me safe and sound. I was still in shock about how much dough I had. If I spend some of it in a neighborhood where nobody knows me, no one will have a clue how much I have.

  With this reasoning, we went off in the direction of the Hôtel de Provence, a four-star hotel where I’d tried to get work as a maid two years ago. The chief of staff hadn’t wanted anything to do with me. She’d thought my clothes were too revealing—roughly translated, I was too trashy for her.

  Now I was dressed the same as usual, but everyone knows you can do certain things as a client that you can’t do as an employee.

  I went through the main door with the four rascals in tow and confidently made my way toward the lounge bar. I thought I detected movement on my left, around the reception area, as if my arrival had upset the order of things, but I realized nobody had batted an eye. A few clients watched me, but I’m someone you’d normally take notice of, with my red glittery heels, glam updo, and satin corset.

  What I liked about this bar were the seats and tables—just like you’d see in a comfy home. Real sofas, deep and fluffy, and armchairs around small coffee tables. All very intimate.

  The monkeys were delighted. They rarely have the opportunity to indulge in such luxury and had certainly never seen this kind of furniture before. They all grabbed a spot in an armchair, except Simon, who wanted to sit on the sofa next to me.

  I ordered a platter of pastries. They brought a massive cart buckling under the weight of beautiful cakes. This was just a snack. A snack!

  We got down to bingeing again. Just like we had at lunch.

  I was not a total bulimic! It was just that I hadn’t had a cent in my pocket that morning, with dry bread as my only prospect for a meal. It had been like that at my place for some time. You get frustrated. I swallowed every mouthful. Now that’s something! How the other half lives!

  As the scamps and I crammed down chocolate éclairs, truffles, and other desserts, I noticed two guys in suits in the corner of the bar. They didn’t look relaxed. They’d clearly just arrived and were shaking hands with a third nervous-looking guy. Who was that? I was sure I’d seen him somewhere. Oh! I’d seen his mug on a poster during the local elections. It was the mayor!

  They sat down at a table, but the mayor didn’t stay longer than a couple of minutes.

  As soon as he left, the other two picked up their cell phones and looked busy.

  Wow. What jerks! I said to myself. They made themselves look important but were probably talking to their cutesy wifeys to see if they wanted anything picked up for dinner.

  Then I lost interest in them.

  I thought about what I was going to do after we finished eating. Now that I had all this dirty money in my life, my schedule was all messed up. It was crazy, but more stimulating than anything else. I read somewhere that if you wanted to feel alive, you had to break up your daily routine. For me, it would be heading off to do some major grocery shopping and filling the trailer cupboards with all the things I could never usually afford. Just imagine all the crap the imps would want. And I was going to get it for them. When I say “major,” I mean major. And I was going to fill up on so much coffee that I’d be able to go the rest of my life without ever craving it again.

  As I sat lost in my thoughts, I hadn’t noticed the waiters staring at me. It was the kiddos: they’d finished their cakes and had started exploring their new playground. They were attracted to anything and everything. The luxurious window displays, with jewelry and designer clothes, on which they drew intertwining roads with their goopy fingers and smears of sticky saliva. The low tables, just the right height, where they picked at the food of other patrons. The curtains, on which they wiped stripes of chocolate. In short, they were wrecking the joint.

  Everything was happening at the same time. It’s weird how things can stagnate for so long, in a dreary, motionless way, without anything ever happening. Then, all of a sudden, everything goes off at once, and it only takes a second.

  One of the jittery waiters walked quickly toward Simon, who was digging his paws into the ice bucket belonging to the two meathead business types. They were outraged and had signaled for the waiter to come over. They didn’t dare tackle Simon themselves.

  I was on guard. I thought they were going to give me a tongue-lashing. I was ready to cause a scene if one of them dared even touch Simon’s grubby T-shirt. Just then, some old-timer—fifty, sixty, seventy? Who could tell? In any case, the age of Methuselah—with beautiful curly white hair came up to me, diverting my attention from the scene taking place three tables over.

  The old guy leaned in toward me. I nodded, all polite, wondering what on earth he could want from me.

  “Six thirty, four twenty-one,” he mumbled with a faraway look in his eyes.

  10

  “Four twenty-one?” I repeated stupidly.

  That was some kind of dice game, wasn’t it? Did he want to play dice with me?

  Finally, I replied, “Sorry, I don’t know how to play dice games.”

  He laughed. “Very funny. I really like your sense of humor. Four twenty-one is my room number. Gaston. Gaston Contini. Pleased to meet you.” He offered me his hand.

  I took it, smiling. It was a reflex.

  I got it! Here he was. This was the Gaston my mom said would be showing up.

  There was no one as strong, clever, or manly as Gaston, the lyrics had warned me!

  I answered him casually: “Gaston was the name of the villain in Beauty and the Beast, you know. I’m Cricri Maldonne.”

  He looked confused and frowned. “I’d just like to point out that your name is every bit as odd as mine. Cricri . . . Hmm, that’s strange. Not what I understood on the phone earlier. I
really should pay more attention. Excuse me, but . . . are you sure?”

  Why the hell would I have another name? Apart from Rose, of course. Clearly this guy had the wrong gal, but I had to hear him out. For Mom.

  Now he was snuggling up to me on the sofa. He seemed a bit on edge, talking nonstop, as if he was trying to calm himself. “Between you and me, I’m glad we’ve managed to break the ice. I’ve always hated interviews. I was wondering how to approach you. Then I took my courage in both hands, and I told myself this just couldn’t go on. I should force myself to communicate now and again.

  “Though I must admit that from your voice, I thought you’d be older. I was really impressed with your degrees. Even more so now that I see how young you are. A thesis on Saint-John Perse? That’s right. Your editor in chief insisted we hold the meeting in my room. For the photo shoot. It’s more personal. The intimate poet, that’s the idea, I think . . . but what he doesn’t know is that it isn’t even my real room. Never mind, I just gave you the number. I didn’t want to say it on the phone. All this has to stay our little secret for now. You think I’m paranoid, don’t you? I just tend to be cautious when it comes to my private life.”

  “I totally get it. That’s why I live in a trailer by the old railway station.”

  He looked confused. Then, “Really? Right, that’s a wonderful idea. Your article will be the first one on my work, you know. What do you think? How should we do this? Do you have a photographer with you?”

  Article? Photographer? He must be someone prominent.

  He suddenly stopped, out of breath, and gave me the hugest of smiles. Just like with the handshake, I couldn’t help but smile back.

  Reflex.

  He was quite disarming. But still, I was annoyed. I didn’t understand all this mumbo jumbo. What was he talking about? I was starting to wonder whether he was pulling my leg. At first, I thought he’d mistaken me for a hooker.

  So I wiped the stupid smile off my face and said angrily, “First of all, I think you’re really pushy. You’re totally in my face . . .”

  “Really? Oh! Yes, of course. Forgive me—”

  Simon suddenly arrived, shouting, and managed to say with some difficulty, “Cri-cro strong.”

  He was followed by my three daughters and a waiter running after them. I saw the two cell-phone guys gesticulating wildly in our direction. The children threw themselves at me. I walked over to the waiter who’d been following them.

  “What is it exactly you have against my babies?”

  Gaston Contini exclaimed, “Are they all yours? I don’t believe it. You’ve had time to have all these children, to study, to do your thesis, and work for this newspaper? All in record time, judging by your age—”

  I cut him off. “What is all this nonsense you’re spouting? Is that how you used to hit on chicks in the Middle Ages?”

  He remained speechless, then blushed.

  A cell phone started ringing, and it took him a while before he realized it was his. He searched through his pockets and pulled out the latest iPhone. He put it to his ear, trying to pull himself together.

  “Hello? Yes, no . . . But I don’t understand . . . She’s there . . . Oh, really? Thank you. Of course. Good-bye. See you tomorrow.”

  His face turned poppy red, and he stood, looking embarrassed. His eyes darted from the ceiling to my face before breaking into an extravagant fit of laughter.

  Meanwhile, the waiter stood in front of me, still as a statue. “Hmm, madame, um . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Would you please be so kind as to control your . . . umm . . .”

  “Well, go on, say it. You’re dying to say it.”

  “Your . . .”

  “Brats? That’s what you’re trying to spit out, right?”

  “Madame, please. They’re pestering our clientele, and they’re ruining the furniture.”

  “These angels? And what about your nose? Did they ruin that too? Because someone clearly has.”

  I looked to my new friend for support. He hadn’t quite calmed down yet, a delighted smile still plastered across his face.

  He stood at my side, staring at me as if under a spell. As if I wasn’t real. He then turned toward the waiter.

  11

  Gaston Contini put his hand on the waiter’s sleeve and leaned in toward his ear. I couldn’t hear what he was whispering, but I noticed they were shaking hands. It looked as though they were passing something, but I couldn’t be sure.

  The exchange ended abruptly, and Gaston Contini stepped back.

  A miracle. The waiter just hurried away as if by magic.

  Sabrina had sneaked off somewhere, probably bent on revenge. She was nowhere to be seen.

  Gaston, my new best friend, apologized for the mix-up. “You’re just so pretty. I was drawn to you like a moth to a flame. So sorry to use such a cliché, but it’s true. Plus, you have a few things in common with the lady I’m supposed to be meeting.”

  “How’s that?”

  “She told me she’d be wearing a black skirt and a pink blouse. Of course, I was a little surprised by your clothes . . .”

  “What do you mean you were surprised by my clothes?”

  “Well, they’re somewhat, um . . .”

  “Yeah, I know, in this neighborhood I suppose you’re not used to seeing superstylish chicks like me.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” he smiled.

  “What’s that supposed to mean? ‘That’s right’? Don’t get clever with me, just because I’m not the girl you were looking for.”

  “Calm down, Cricri. Why so wound up?”

  “Looks like we’re taking turns.”

  “Yes, you’re right. I let the journalists get to me. I’m better now.”

  “Who are you, anyway?”

  “Oh, it doesn’t matter who I am! But what about you? How did you end up here?”

  “That, my old friend, is a long story. I inherited some big ones from an old uncle. Cash. He kicked the bucket with it all stuffed inside his mattress. So I’m spending it all as quickly as I can.”

  “Oh, I see! It appears to be a wise choice.”

  Guess who passed right by the door at that very moment?

  Jérôme.

  Jérôme Gallo.

  The cute young cop who I’d vaguely hit on by the school gates the day before. He looked like he was on some kind of mission. He went to talk to the bartender. He was discreet, dressed in civilian clothes, and nobody seemed to know he was a cop. He headed over to the two meatheads. They exchanged a few words. Gaston followed my gaze.

  “He’s not bad, a nice-looking kid . . .”

  I glowered at him, my cheeks heating.

  Jérôme Gallo turned around and saw me.

  His face lit up, and he walked over to me at a leisurely pace. The two men in suits watched from the other side of the room.

  “Hello, Miss Rose. This isn’t the sort of place I imagined seeing you.”

  “Why? Do I look like the type of girl you’d only see in second-class joints? This is my uncle, Gaston. He invited me and the rug rats.”

  Gaston grinned at me before standing and shaking Jérôme’s hand. “Pleased to meet you. I don’t often get to visit with my niece, and as I was in the neighborhood—”

  “Miss Rose, we’ve been looking all over for you. We wanted to ask you a few questions about your friend, but you don’t live at the address you left with the school. You don’t live at the one you gave to social services either.”

  “Just between you and me, I hate leaving tracks. You just never know. My grandmother was Jewish. She picked up these skills during the war. And I’ve already told you I prefer to be called Cricri.”

  “But I think Rose suits you more.”

  “Nobody asked for your opinion.”

  That last remark ce
rtainly shut him up—and this guy always had something to say. All three of us stood there looking embarrassed, and I began to regret having been so harsh, but all I could find to say was, “OK, I have to go.” Then I added, “I often hang out down at Sélect. I’m off, so ciao for now!”

  I called my babies over and suddenly heard a scream of rage.

  Sabrina’s revenge must have been pretty full-on, so I picked up the pace to flee that awful place as quickly as possible. I had no intention of ever coming back—despite the pastries, which were as good as it gets.

  It just didn’t feel right for me there. For the kiddos either, obviously.

  12

  Sabrina has a very peculiar trait. She likes string, yarn, elastic, anything like that. She spends her time tying stuff together. Tables to chairs, ornaments, kitchen utensils, anything.

  The trailer was a permanent death trap. It was already too narrow—but then we also spent all our time with our feet caught up in twine of some kind. The psychologist at the preschool told me she was trying to reattach what had gotten away from her, meaning her father, me, her other brothers, and sisters. Maybe the shrink was right. Or maybe Sabrina just thought tying stuff together was fun.

  Of course, she had made her way around that swanky restaurant with her string, and there was no lack of stuff to tie. With the help of Simon, who created a diversion, she tied together all the armchairs around the table where the two cell-phone jerks sat. Just as I was calling the children, the jerks stood to leave, and what had to happen happened.

  The only thing Simon and Sabrina were sorry for was that they didn’t get the chance to see the massacre and defeat of their enemies: the two bruisers found themselves flat on their backs with their feet entangled in string.

  We were still laughing on our way home, and seeing us laugh made the twins laugh too. The tone had changed a heck of a lot in less than twelve hours. I’d gone from gloomy anxiety to lightness and a recklessness I’d never experienced before. It’s crazy how just a few wads of cash can be such a morale booster.