Although I had enjoyed my time with Madame Piaf, I needed to move on. First I wanted to ask for a favor. My teeth chattered, causing a bit of a stutter.
“Do y-you think y-you could help me g-get out of here?”
Not sure if I was making my request of Jesus or Edith Piaf, I bowed my head and began walking away.
Suddenly, I felt more lighthearted than I had in days. I wasn’t even frightened by a tomb that looked as though it had been broken open, with a green head, torso and arm sticking out from below the earth. The arm extended into a hand with long fingers which were holding a rose. Okay, now that's just weird.
That was the exact moment that I decided that when I died, I just wanted a plain headstone, with my name, birth date and date of death on it. Nothing else. No head sticking out of it, no dead child laid out across the top. No macabre angels crouched and ready to pounce. Simplicity is key.
***
The rain flounced like silver streamers. The water had even penetrated my sturdy boots. My teeth clapped together, and my muscles began shuddering uncontrollably. I needed warm, dry clothes, pronto.
My purse made a sloshing sound as I almost tripped over a knotty tree root.
A steady wind had been born from the breeze. Branches whipped around overhead, lifting my hairdo up into a wild coxcomb. Straight ahead, I saw some graffiti spray painted onto the side of a tomb.
Crooked, black letters spelled J.M. with a giant arrow pointing to the left. J.M. must mean Jim Morrison! The rain was running through the cobblestones in rivulets, forming little streams through the rocks, as I excitedly followed the arrow.
A bit further down the street, I saw another one. No letters this time, but the paint was the same. I turned the corner and watched for more clues, which I easily found. More arrows.
I followed the series of triangular marks until I arrived at my journey’s end. I had found him. James Douglas Morrison. 1943-1971. There was a small picture of his face after the dates.
I remembered my brother telling me that there used to be a statue of Jim’s head, but that some demented fan had stolen it. In front of the stone was a square carved into the ground and surrounded by what looked like cement. I think it was supposed to house a garden, but it was filled with flowers, full bottles of whiskey and other liquors, cigarettes, letters, and various other allegiances to the man who was called “The Lizard King” and had sung songs like "L.A. Woman," "Light My Fire," and "People are Strange." I decided—after recently witnessing so many bizarre shrines for the deceased—that people are indeed strange.
An orange candle was balanced on top of the marker, with dried wax making a curvy pattern through Jim’s name. I wanted to bring some of that wax to my brother. Using my fingernails to peel a strip of it off , I plopped it into my wet purse. I was no better than my dirt-stealin' granny!
My grandmother. Is she worried about me? Is she lying in bed, befuddled by unfamiliar soap operas, listening to the patter against her window?
***
Like she'd read my mind, Lulu stepped into view. She was soaking, her hair stuck against her face. And there was a penny-shaped bruise on her forehead. It was obvious that she had tried to cover it, but it stood out, round and purple against her pale skin—and made me feel like a world-class jerk. In place of the white wicker flats were black rain boots. They were far too big for her and reached almost to her knees.
“Where did you get the galoshes?”
“François loaned them to me. He told me that a storm was coming.”
I should have listened to François.
Lulu put one mis-sized, wader-clad foot up on Jim's grave and posed, hands on hips. She had a lot of spirit. But so did I: in the end, we were a perfect match. Two of a kind.
Me without the ice.
“I’m so sorry, Lulu.” I reached out my hand and took her much smaller one. Pulling me close, she kissed my cheek, almost slipping on the wet muddy grave.
“Please don’t give it another thought, Francis.” One step further away from calling me Francesca—I was proud of her.
She unfolded a map which had the name of our location on it. Why didn’t I think to buy a map of the cemetery?
Because I had a lesson to learn, that was why. Thank you, oh Cosmic Universe, for being such an awesome teacher.
Although I could’ve done without the rain.
“I think I know how to get us out of here,” Lulu proclaimed. “There is one more stop that we need to make on our way back to the hotel.”
13
The Purchase
The dry tunnel, which was the Metro stop at the exit for Père Lachaise Cemetery, wasn't challenging to find, if you had a soggy map. We sat silently, waiting for the train to come. And we sat silently, as it pulled away from the station. When we reached the Bastille Market, Lulu tugged at my hand and led me out of the car.
Besides the waterworks, the market was exactly the same as it had been on our second day in France. The man who had invited us to the real French party was flirting with a gaggle of ladies, so we easily avoided the detection of his onion-scented booth.
We found the spot: The Doc Marten Mecca. A different purveyor was there this time, which was a relief. I was sure that our awkward exchange from days ago would have been remembered.
“There were two pairs that I wanted. Red ones and black ones. I hope they’re still here.”
“You pay for one pair, and I’ll pay for the other.” A peace offering.
“Thank you.” I had never given a more sincere and heartfelt thanks.
Sitting on top of a tall stack of boxes was a pair of tall black boots. I counted the holes: One, two, three ... there were twelve of them. I squealed out loud. After all, these had pretty much been my reason for visiting the country. My raison d'être.
***
Less than two hundred dollars later (this was a deal, believe me), I was the proud new owner of two gorgeous pairs of boots. I beamed: we hadn’t bothered bargaining.
Lulu explained that I should probably wear a pair on the airplane so that I would only have to claim one pair at customs. I didn’t quite understand the whole process, but I was going to trust her. She had been through it all before: even if it had been forty years ago.
I spied a record booth when we were about to leave the market. I personally mostly listened to cassettes, because you could make mix-tapes, something that I really liked to do.
But Rich loved vinyl. His record collection could put some pretty serious collectors to shame. Hundreds of singles and albums, neatly labeled and categorized—now at least partially in alphabetical order—were stacked along his bedroom wall. He had begun collecting them when he was only ten. If I could find one that he didn’t already have, then I would have the perfect gift to bring home.
Lulu followed me, still wearing François’ rubber galoshes, as I started at the first row of boxes and flipped quickly flipped through the records with the tips of my fingers.
“What are we looking for?” she asked.
“I’m not sure yet.”
There were lots of French albums, of course. Loads of old classics, but nothing rare. From time to time I would come across Edith Piaf’s face. I silently thanked her in my head for sending Lulu to Père-Lachaise. I would thank Jesus later, too—just in case it had been His doing.
Halfway through the ninth carton, I found the perfect album. It was one of Rich’s favorite punk bands, from the 1970’s, The Clash. I knew he already had the album, but the cover was in near-mint condition. He'll totally love this!
The teenage boy who was manning the booth named an outrageous price. I made a counter-offer. He brought the amount down, but only a few francs. I suggested a lower number. Lulu clapped her hands. The boy caved, took my money, and handed me the record.
“You did it,” Lulu smiled, “I knew you could do it!”
I have to admit: it felt good to know that I had been in charge, if only for a few seconds.
***
While we
were on the Metro, I pulled the album out of the jacket. It was the wrong record. Someone had placed a children’s album in the vintage punk sleeve. Frère Jacques was the first song on the list.
I shook my head at my own stupidity, guessing Rich would have to live without a souvenir. Or maybe I could pick up a T-shirt or a ball cap at the airport. What a lame gift for the love of your life.
We arrived at the hotel, and I let Lulu go in ahead of me, the oversized rain boots flopping around her short legs.
I needed to call Rich. I told her I’d be close behind.
Even though I knew I would see him the next day, I missed him so much that it was almost physically painful. His voice was the only available cure. I opened up the little phone booth and stepped inside.
Peeking around to make sure no one was looking, I dialed without my fingers, because my digits had still not lost all the numbness from the cold—and I can do it quicker that way, anyway. He picked up on the first ring.
“Richie.” It came out in a snivel. Damned tears.
“Frankie, are you alright?” I could tell that he had jumped to his feet, as if he could leap through the receiver of the phone to comfort me.
“I’m fine. I’m really, really fine. I just… I can’t wait to get home. I miss you like crazy.”
“I miss you, too,” he said, “Grampy wanted to pick you guys up, but I wrestled him for the honor.”
“You did not wrestle my grandfather. Liar.”
“Okay. I didn’t really wrestle him, but he wanted to be there, and I had to do a lot of convincing. It didn’t occur to me until after that I could have invited him to come along.” Humor engulfed his wonderful calming voice, like a fuzzy sweater.
“That’s alright; we’ll see him when we drop Lulu off.”
“And after we drop Lulu off, I’ll have you all to myself.” I couldn’t wait to look into those baby blues. Wrapping my arms tight around myself, I made believe they were his.
“Is there anything that I can bring you from beautiful Paris, France?” I asked, more homesick for him than ever.
“The only thing I want you to bring me from Paris, France,” he said, “is you.”
***
And that’s exactly what I did.
Thank YOU:
Rachel—for reading the manuscript with a purple pen in hand.
Erica (my Alicia)—for convincing me that I really could do this.
Alex, Antonia, Linda, Susan, Suzana and Mom—for reading the very first draft and giving valuable feedback.
Eileen (Madame Springs)—for proofreading all of the French.
Lauri—for the stunning cover art.
Brian (my dear husband) and our children, Em and Ian—for overlooking the many hours that I have spent at the computer, lost in Frankie's world.
Lulu—for taking me to Paris, when I turned twenty.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
SHAUNA MCGUINESS lives in California with her husband, Brian, and their children, Emma and Ian. She works in children's theater: writing, directing, and producing productions for kids of all ages. Shauna took a trip to Paris with her grandmother, Lulu, when she turned twenty. As far as she knows she isn't telekinetic...
Table of Contents
Copyright
1 Une Idée
2 Making Plans
3 Bon Voyage
4 Loose on the Town
5 Tour de Paris and Beyond
6 Champs-Élysées
7 The Lido
8 Old Dead Napoleon and Other Colorful Character
9 The Lovely Louvre—or Not
10 Ice Cold Paris
11 The Tower of the Last Straw
12 Hanging with the Dead
13 The Purchase
Purc
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Frankie in Paris Page 15
