by Alice Quinn
There was no way around it. All the shopping had to be done on Monday.
I went to bed at a quarter to nine and fell asleep without a second thought—my face on top of my pile of lists. At a quarter past nine, my cricket started chirping. I awoke with a start.
“Hello?”
“Rosie, is that you?”
“Gaston! How’s it going?”
“Did I wake you?”
“Yes.”
“I just got back.”
“I saw you in the paper. Did you have a good time?”
“Amazing! Everyone was wonderful. Do you have plans tomorrow? Think you’ll need a chauffeur?”
“Yes! How did you guess?”
“I want you to sign up for your driving exam. I hope you didn’t forget that. And your trailer is being delivered tomorrow.”
“You’re such a stubborn old thing. I have so much to do. I don’t even know if I’ve got time to do it all. I absolutely have to get everything done tomorrow. I’ve only got one day. I can’t tell you why, but . . .”
“I’m the king of organization. I can help you with it all. No questions asked.”
“I’ve actually made a list—”
“Perfect. You should always start with a list.”
“You want to come over and see it?”
“Yes, I’ll come over now and go through tomorrow’s program, and then I’ll leave you in peace.”
He showed up at my suite with a bottle of champagne. He gave my list the once-over and added driving school to the bottom. He asked if I wanted to take a foreign-language class while I was at it.
“Learning languages can be very expensive. A lot of progress has been made with all these modern methods, and everyone needs to be able to speak another language these days. My entire life I’ve regretted not learning one.”
“Not me,” I said.
“Yes, you and everybody else. Stop going around thinking you don’t live in the same world as the rest of us. Look, here’s how I see it. This list needs several columns. You need to group the items geographically so we can plan the best route. First of all, we make a phone call to the trailer salesman. We want him to deliver it without either one of us having to be there. Next, let’s start with all the intangible items. Club memberships, vacations . . . all that can be done downtown. I’ll drop you off in front of the shops. I can double-park . . . No, I have a better plan: we’ll rent a driver for the day, and he can stay in the car! That way, we won’t get any tickets. We should have enough time in the morning to cover it all. One: driving school. Two: Club Med. Three: language lessons. Four: judo and dance at the fitness center. Five: massages. Then lunch. We’ll go to a restaurant for lunch. In the afternoon, we’ll go to the sports store. And then . . . Where do you want to buy your clothes?”
“Um . . . Monoprix and H&M?”
“Only two shops?”
“That’s more than enough. And what about the shed? We need to go to a garden store for that, don’t we?”
“Fine, that’s perfect.”
I showed him to the door. He leaned in to kiss me on the cheeks, and somehow exactly the same thing that had happened with Ismène happened again. I really don’t know what had gotten into me. My face turned rosy pink like an offended virgin. He didn’t seem to have noticed.
I was cross. With myself, of course. I slammed the door in his face. Yes, I know it wasn’t his fault, but that’s just the way I am. I went back to bed.
50
After an hour I woke up in a sweat. This time, the words I awoke to were downright scary. Impossible to put a name to the band. It was more my mom’s era.
The lyrics spoke about a dead-end street—a kitchen sink leaking, a ceiling cracking, can’t pay the rent, out of work, and, most importantly, got no money. No money. No money. Money. Money.
Holy shit. The fucking money. Thanks, Mom.
There’s no way I had enough in my purse for tomorrow’s shopping. And I’d have to pay for everything in cash. I needed to pick up my hidden stash in the railway station before Tuesday anyway, and I wouldn’t have the time to do it tomorrow. There was too much to do. How was I going to get it all back before it was too late?
There was only one solution. I’d have to go now.
I got dressed as quickly as I could. But I couldn’t leave the babas alone in the middle of the night. What if they woke up?
Pastis rubbed against my legs. He wanted to go for a roam outside too. He must have wondered why he’d been locked inside this prison. What had he done wrong? It was a five-star prison, of course, but all the same . . .
Pastis wasn’t the ideal babysitter.
Then I realized. Gaston.
I made a quick call to Gaston and asked him to take care of the kiddies.
Gaston came without the slightest complaint. Such a gentleman. He didn’t even ask me what I was doing. He just left me to get on with it, adding as I was leaving, “Don’t you worry about a thing. I’ll watch over them. Come back to us soon!”
Clearly this guy was too good to be true.
I walked down to the old railway station by way of a whole bunch of detours, just in case Marco or the other guy was following me. I thought about Jérôme and how he spent his nights in the hotel parking lot looking up at my window, but I’d never seen him.
When I got there, the first thing I did was take a look at my broken-up trailer.
It was as depressing as ever.
Michel wasn’t there. At least that was something. Perhaps this whole sorry tale was finally taking an upturn? Slowly.
I took a plastic bag from the back of a closet, dumped out all the useless contents I’d crammed into it, and then went out to the tree and climbed up to the second floor of the station.
I filled the bag up with the mint I’d stashed in the back of the drawer.
I had a sudden brainwave. Rather than go with my first idea and hand back the money so publicly, maybe I should try to negotiate with the mayor in private. I certainly had a powerful bargaining tool. Either he abandoned the idea of the casino and gave me the right to camp forever, ad vitam aeternam, in the new library garden (discreetly, of course) or I’d expose his corruption in public.
Either way, I’d still lose my jackpot. I went over and over the problem and all its possible outcomes. I couldn’t find a way of playing it where I’d also be able to keep the stash.
As I made my way back to the hotel, bag in hand, I thought of what was ahead of me the next day. Not the shopping—no, that was cool. It was going to be incredible. I was really going to go wild.
No. I was mulling over seeing Véro, trying to work out the best way of finding her. I could go very early in the morning, as soon as the Midi Health Insurance building opened, sneak in, root her out, and talk to her.
No, that was stupid. In the daytime, Véro would be well hidden. I’d never manage to find her. And I couldn’t exactly go in there shouting out her name. There’d be too many people. The best was to go at night, just as they were closing the building. I could slip into a bathroom, maybe near a fire exit, or hide in a janitor’s closet and wait quietly until all the employees had left. I’d have to find her before the cleaners showed up to work.
I could ask Gaston to pick up the kiddos from school and daycare and babysit them awhile.
Back in my suite, I found him absorbed in a book of poetry.
“What are those poems about?”
“The memory of the sea. The fact that she understands the diversity of the human species. A diversity that could guarantee our survival. The memory of stones. How they relate the history of mankind, tell us stories of our common ancestors. But they’re only metaphors, of course.”
“Exciting. Say, Gaston . . .”
“Yes?”
“At four thirty tomorrow, we’ll have to be finished with our spree, because
I have to pick up the munchkins, and then I’ve got something to do at the Midi Health Insurance building.”
“You’re right to think about the little ones.”
“Do you think you could pick them up while I go there? It would be quicker that way. And they’d get bored with me. I’ll write a note so you can collect them, and then could you stay with them until I get back?”
Gaston, classy as ever, said, “But of course, my dear! It would be my pleasure.”
The song in my head told me we were strictly second class, living on dead-end streets—that everyone was living on dead-end streets, would live and die on dead-end streets.
Gaston was living proof that the song was a total lie.
Monday: Gaston Sees Red
51
During the night, I remembered that my mom’s last song was by the Kinks. She sent me another one by them, which was a good sign. She was on a roll. I woke up humming “Dedicated Follower of Fashion.”
The song was about a fashion enthusiast, someone who made the rounds of London shops to dress fashionably, refined, in the latest trends and styles. The meaning was clear: it was related to all the shopping I had to do. Elementary, my dear Watson!
It had only been a week since all this business began. I remembered what a state I’d been in, wondering how I was going to find enough food to feed the cubbies. And then I found myself waking up in sheets of woven gold, a world of utter opulence. A little imagery for you there! I guess Gaston wasn’t the only poet around.
But, alas, my fortune wasn’t to last for long. The hours ahead of me would be the grand finale.
I started out the day by deciding that we had to get a serious move on. I had a lot to do.
After getting a ride with Gaston in his Jag and dropping off the kids, we dived in to the day’s program.
At the first store, Gaston got out his credit card, but I stopped him. “Don’t you remember I got some inheritance from an old uncle?”
“That’s right,” he said.
“So don’t worry about a thing,” I said, wanting the last word.
For once, he didn’t protest. I wasn’t sure what had changed.
We managed to finish everything on the morning’s program except the driving school and the language courses. I’d insisted we get around to those last, and we ran out of time. Just as well. At twelve thirty, everything was closed, so we went for a bite to eat at an Italian joint.
Gaston hadn’t managed to find a driver—it had been too late in the game—so we’d had to spend the morning grappling with parking spaces, double-parking, hazard lights, delivery bays, disabled spots, and even stopping on sidewalks. Incredibly, we ended up with only one ticket.
Gaston wanted to start off the afternoon with the two things we’d missed from the morning’s list, but I refused. I said, “Let’s go to the garden center first, then the sports store!”
We could deal with the rest some other day.
Gaston didn’t understand this shopping frenzy. Of course, what he didn’t know was that from the next day onward, I’d never be able to buy another thing again for as long as I lived. He could never have guessed that my money would soon be on its way to someone else’s pockets, and that I wasn’t even supposed to be spending it in the first place. For the moment, nobody knew what was going on, but starting the next day, the media would be all over my ass, and I could wave good-bye to life’s luxuries in one fell swoop.
We bought a nifty garden shed. I’ve always loved the idea of a garden shed. Now my trailer wouldn’t look like a pigsty. We left the garden center and made our way to the sports store.
That’s where the summit meeting was about to take place. We found a parking spot in the shade at the far end of the lot.
I elegantly stepped out of the Jag, one foot in front of the other, when a monstrous limousine with blacked-out windows pulled up just beside us. The tires made a soft, almost restrained swooshing sound.
“Hey! Watch it! You almost knocked me off my feet!” I hollered.
The rear window rolled down. Gaston was already at my side. “Should we start with the ski equipment or judo?”
“Miss Maldonne?” whispered a husky voice with a strong Russian accent.
We both gasped and I leaned toward the window. “How do you know my name?”
Dopey and Dumbo shot out of the limo, slamming the doors behind them.
So it looked like this guy was their boss.
I said “Hey, guys!” Then I turned to the Russian. “So, are you the big boss, then? You must be a real hotshot, showing up like this in public and in broad daylight. Mamma, right?”
“Leave my motherrr outside of this, vould you please?” He laughed. “I vas told you be trrrrouble, but I see now you courrrrrrageous! Or perrrrrhaps irrrrrrresponsible?”
“Rosie, do you know these people?” asked Gaston.
“Yeah. This is Dopey and Dumbo. I don’t know them by any other name. They never introduced themselves. But it didn’t stop them from nearly mowing me down with their car just now!”
“What are you talking about? Rosie, is this some kind of joke?”
“I wish it was, but it’s not.”
I pointed to the Russian, then took a few steps toward the entrance of the store. “That one there, with the Russian accent, must be their boss. So they’re not really to blame for anything, they’re just minions. They obey orders, that’s all.”
Gaston followed me with a horrified look on his face.
52
We didn’t get much farther. I tried my hardest, but I knew from the outset it wouldn’t work. The two beefcakes blocked our way, hands in the pockets of their jackets.
“Let us pass, gentlemen,” said Gaston in a very calm voice.
The two goons grinned stupidly. The noise of the car door being opened caused us to look back. The Russki stepped out of his vehicle. He couldn’t have been less than six foot five. He had shoulders the size of concrete blocks and wore a white alpaca suit. I say alpaca because I read it in a detective thriller; I’ve never seen one in real life, so I couldn’t be sure. His face was rosy, but his piercing, steel-blue eyes took something away from the innocent, childlike appearance of his complexion.
He stroked his blond mustache. He was taking his time getting himself together, preparing to speak, and we—we were all waiting for him to . . . to . . . I don’t know what. To just open his goddamn mouth.
I was so wound up, I cut him off before he even said his first word.
“Are you gonna spit it out, then, big guy? I have a lot of retail therapy to get through today. I’m a dedicated follower of fashion . . .”
He gave me an indulgent smile, then scanned me from head to toe.
“Prrrrrecisely! Concerrrrning yourrr shopping, Miss Maldonne. You have some crrredit, vith me, I believe . . . but I do not accept yourrr conditions of rrrreimburrrrsement.”
“Rose,” said Gaston, “what is this man talking about?”
“You! You must be morrre rrrrrrespect and quiet now.”
This was an awful way for Gaston to be treated. He barely flinched, but I noticed both his hands clenched into fists.
The man continued, “I learrrn of yourrr morrrning activities, Miss Maldonne! And now you carrrry on. And vith my moooney.” His smile suddenly froze and he continued, but in a much sterner tone, “And you believe ve vatch as you squanderrrr ourrr money vith no interrrrrvention? I do not even speak of the rrrrest—of my little pieces of jewelrrrry!”
I eyeballed his fly. “Are you talking about the family jewels, there? Or your bribe?”
His eyes shot daggers at me.
“As I already explained to your loyal lackeys here, I blew it all in the casino. Today, I’m spending my uncle’s money. He’s buying me a few small gifts. And why should it be any of your concern, you big pebble head?”
Why did
I call him a pebble head? I knew full well it didn’t even mean anything, but it just popped out. To this day, I still don’t know what it is.
“Hand me yourrr purrrse!”
“No.”
He glanced over to Dopey and Dumbo, who both made a move to grab my purse. As soon as they put their hands on me, Gaston lost it. He kicked up his leg as far as Dumbo’s hand, spun on the other leg, and managed to kick Dumbo from behind. Straight in the nuts.
Who would have believed it?
“Gaston, are you a black belt in karate or what?”
“No, my dear, that was kickboxing.”
Dumbo let out a little high-pitched chirp and doubled up in pain.
Dopey rushed toward Gaston, screaming out what sounded like a war cry. Gaston welcomed him with a smooth uppercut to his chin, and then, taking advantage of the fact that Dopey was bending forward, grabbed a hold of his neck and blocked him.
“Wow!” I exclaimed. “I had no idea you knew judo too, uncle!”
“No, this is wrestling.”
The Big Boss shouted, “No mnogo ublyudkov! Why I even pay you?”
He pulled a pistol from his pocket.
It cracked me up. “I was expecting that one. Watch out, uncle, he has a gun.”
Gaston smacked Dopey on the neck, which resulted in his falling flat on his face between the two cars. I had to take a few steps back so he didn’t fall on me. I moved closer to the Big Boss. I leaned forward and pretended I’d twisted my ankle.
“Ow! My ankle! Uncle, you really should be more careful before you dump a big pile of crap on my foot like that.”
Gaston’s movements had been hampered by the sudden appearance of the gun. He’d gotten dangerously close to the Big Boss.
I bent down to rub my ankle, removing my shoe. Heels are certainly an interesting choice when it comes to a lethal weapon. Whack! I smacked the Big Boss’s hand. The one holding the revolver.
