The Family Hitchcock

by Mark Levin

  “How do you say slow down?” Maddy asked.

  “You’re the French student,” her mother chimed from the front seat.

  For once, Maddy wished that she was a good one.

  “Vite! Vite!” she told the driver.

  “Oui, Madmoiselle.”

  He stepped hard on the gas.

  “You just said go faster,” Benji said.

  “Omigod!” Maddy said. “I am so car sick right now.”

  “Open your window, sweets,” Roger said.

  “But it’s pouring.”

  The taxi driver swerved, narrowly missing a man running across the street using a copy of Le Monde for an umbrella. Maddy groaned.

  “Idiot!” the driver called.

  “Oh my lord! Madeleine Hitchcock! You haven’t been strapped in all this time!”

  Maddy couldn’t believe her ears. Whizzing down one of the most famous and beautiful streets in the world with a physically ill daughter and all her mother could think about was auto safety? Thankfully, her father came to her rescue.

  “Becs,” he said. There was an unaccustomed edge to his voice. “Give it a little rest.”

  “A little rest?” Rebecca said.

  “Yes,” Roger said. “Let’s stay cool, OK?”

  “Turn around, Mom,” Benji said. “You’ll get sick, too.”

  Instead, Rebecca eyed Roger up and down. “Are you OK?”

  Maddy and Benji exchanged a quick glance. For a split second, she was worried that her brother was going to blurt out something like, “Of course Dad isn’t OK! How could he be when you’re about to dump him like a bag of month-old manure? At least, that’s what Maddy says.” But if Benji was planning on mentioning anything about their conversation on the plane, he was cut off by Roger, who retreated to his default response in the face of anything emotionally unpleasant—a jocular, if forced, enthusiasm, topped off with a “happy voice.”

  “Oh, no, no,” Roger said with a grin. “I’m fine, Becs. Just watching the big bad meter. This ride’s turning into a budget buster!”

  With that, he leaned forward to speak to the driver.

  “Excusez-moi? Est que . . . ” Giving up quickly, he turned back to Maddy. “You ask him. You’re the French speaker.”

  “I’m also the girl who just told the driver to speed up. I’m the C-minus student, remember?”

  “Because you don’t apply yourself.”

  “Because I’m not into it.”

  “What are you into then?”

  “That’s easy,” Benji said. “Noah Willis!”

  “Shut! Up!”

  Maddy reached across her father and socked Benji hard in the shoulder.

  “Ow!”

  “Come on, guys!” Roger said. “Can’t we all just get along?”

  “God, I am so sick,” Maddy said.

  “Don’t throw up,” Benji said. “Because you know what happens when other people throw up. I throw up, too.”

  “All right, people,” Roger said, laughing nervously. “No one is getting sick in this car! Ne gettez sickez pas.”

  As was becoming more and more the case lately, Roger was unable to control events. Maddy thought that she would be first. But no sooner had Roger finished speaking than Rebecca craned her neck. With a mighty retching sound she vomited all over the dashboard. The cab swerved wildly, this time narrowly missing an old lady carrying a loaf of bread before the cabbie righted the car on the road.

  “Mon Dieu!” he cried.

  “Pull over!” Maddy called. “Pull over!”

  Somehow, the cabbie understood perfectly. With a loud screech, the taxi stopped at La Place de la Concorde, perhaps the most historic square in Paris. Before them stood the Obelisk of Luxor, a seventy-five-foot-tall monolith given to France by the king of Eygpt. But Maddy wasn’t well enough to focus on its beauty. Instead, she kicked open the cab door and vomited violently on the curb. Benji and Roger spilled out after her, barely able to control their own stomachs.

  “God,” Maddy heard her father say. “Was the plane food really that bad?”

  A moment later the very unhappy-looking taxi driver had their bags on the street. Roger took out his wallet and paid the fare. With a shake of his head, the cabbie pointed to the stained front seat and pulled out another few bills—large ones—then sped away in an angry burst of exhaust. Only after the car had left was Maddy able to stumble to a nearby bench.

  “You OK, Mads?” Roger said. “Are you well enough to find the Vadims’ home?”

  “Once I finish saying hello to my guts.”

  “Where are we going anyway?” Rebecca said. “All I see is miles of traffic.”

  Maddy frowned. For a brief moment she felt almost sorry for her father. It was as if her mother was enjoying the fact that the trip over had been a disaster, almost as though she had even enjoyed that she had thrown up so she could say “I told you so” later on. Still, this was a case when Maddy had to admit that her mother had a point. The cab had let them off in the middle of one of Paris’s busiest streets, with eight lanes of traffic whizzing by and no crosswalks in sight. Once again, Benji the super brother came to the rescue. Reaching into his backpack, the boy took out a giant piece of computer paper and held it up.

  “What’s that?” Maddy asked.

  “A printout of the area from Google Earth,” Benji replied. His finger traced over the page and stopped near the center. “We are here. And the Vadims’ place, 39 Rue de Solférino, is . . . here! Just a quick lope over the Pont Solférino. That’s a bridge across the Seine River. Come on!”

  Roger practically exploded with joy.

  “Nice, wingman! Onward, Hitchcocks! Time to check out our new digs!”

  Maddy struggled to her feet and followed her family up the street to the bridge. The light rain felt good on her face. Now that she was out of the car and had thrown up, she felt better. And even though she had fought with all of her might to stay home, she had to admit that the Seine was a beautiful river. Even romantic. Perhaps she should text a picture or two to Noah to make sure he didn’t forget her?

  Roger also loved the river. Even though he had pushed for the trip, he was struck by just how much he loved Paris—how beautiful it was, how sophisticated. Before them stood the Louvre Museum, home of the Mona Lisa, one of the greatest paintings in the world. It was all so wonderful. It made him feel smarter just to be walking down Paris’s elegant streets.

  Unfortunately, his family didn’t seem to share his feelings—at least not yet. Walking across the Seine, Benji called out, “Allons-y! Allons-y!” which even Roger knew meant “Hurry!” But Maddy wasn’t rushing for anyone. She was snapping a photo with her cell phone.

  “Come on, sweetie,” Rebecca said. “There will be plenty of time for pictures later.”

  Maddy didn’t answer. Taking her own sweet time, she took a final shot and sent it off.

  “Who are you texting, dear?” Roger asked.

  “I know!” Benji said.

  “Shut up.”

  The conversation went on from there, but by that point Roger was determined to block out the gripes of his family and focus on the glorious sounds of Paris in the morning. It had finally stopped raining, and the honks of taxicabs, the calls of the food vendors selling fresh baguettes, and the bright shouts of school kids filled the air. And then there were the smells.

  “Ah,” he said. They had just entered the Seventh Arrondisement, one of Paris’s fanciest districts. “Smell that air. I haven’t smelled something quite like this since I came here on a Eurorail Pass twenty-two years ago.”

  Maddy took a deep whiff. “You ask me, it smells like . . . I don’t know, sort of like urine.”

  Roger bit his lip, willing himself to stay calm. “No, that’s not urine, Mads,” he said, pasting on his best grin. “That is the great metropolis stirring awake, washed by the dewy mist of morning.”

  To that, Benji tugged on Roger’s shirt. “No, Dad,” he said. “It is urine.”

  Roger glance
d over his shoulder. A homeless man was relieving himself against the side of a building. Rebecca smiled.

  “Ah, Europe!” she said. “How glorious!”

  Roger frowned but cheered up a moment later when Benji pointed to the side of the next building down.

  “Hey, everyone. This is it.”

  Indeed it was. Roger sighed. Another reprieve! Maddy had to admit, as she peeked through the door, that it looked nice. The facade was constructed out of bright red brick and marble. The lobby was large and well lit. Expensive-looking art hung from the walls. Roger pressed the security code the Vadims had given him into a pad on the side of the wrought-iron front door. The lock clicked.

  “Come on, Hitchcocks!” Roger called, pushing the door open. “Our new home is a short elevator ride away.”

  Once again, Roger found that he had spoken entirely too soon.

  “Uh, maybe not, Dad,” Benji said.

  “What?” Roger laughed. “The Vadims are on the sixth floor, buddy. I don’t know about you, but I’m not walking.”

  “So sorry, monsieur,” came a voice. “But I am afraid that you are.”

  Roger looked up. Standing in the elevator was a man in a greasy gray work suit, holding a wrench. His dark scowl perfectly complemented his pierced right eyebrow. “Zes elevator is down for maintenance.”

  Roger’s heart dropped. Even he was beginning to feel some chinks in his pathologically upbeat armor.

  “Please tell me you’re joking?”

  The Elevator Man didn’t smile or apologize. “Should be done in a couple of weeks.”

  Roger closed his eyes and waited for it. Then it came, in tandem.

  “A couple of weeks!” Rebecca and Maddy said.

  By the time Roger roped them into taking the lead up the circular, narrow flight of stairs, he was all but praying that the apartment would be a veritable shrine. He turned to his son. “You got my back, wingman?”

  Benji nodded. “I’m on it.”

  But half a dozen steps up the stairs, the boy stopped. As a young scientist and musician, he lived in a world of facts, trusting data over feelings. But sometimes even a fleeting impression was too strong to be ignored. Benji sensed that he was being watched. On the first landing, he turned. Standing at the bottom of the stairs was the Elevator Man, staring up, again unsmiling.

  “Yes?” Benji said. “What?”

  “Rien, Rien,” the Elevator Man said. He had a nice enough face, Benji thought, if he would only smile and lose the safety pin through his eyebrow. “Just watching. Making sure you get up OK.”

  Heart pounding, Benji turned and trotted up the stairs. Another flight up, he glanced back down to the lobby. By that time the man was back in the broken elevator, taking a screwdriver to the control panel. As if on cue, he looked up and met Benji’s eyes again. Even from a distance, the pin in his eyebrow looked enormous, as though the cut had been made with a machete. The boy gasped, then turned quickly away, suddenly imagining that the man was a spy, paid by the French government to keep an eye on them. Or maybe he was a member of some weird Parisian cult that kidnapped and tortured unsuspecting tourists.

  Benji shook his head. “Stop it,” he told himself. “You’re being a paranoid freak.”

  No doubt about it: He was letting his imagination run away with him. The Elevator Man wasn’t a spy. He would probably turn out to be a nice guy to have around the building. Someone to recommend fun things to do around the city, or good, cheap restaurants. In fact, hadn’t Benji just been rude? Maybe the man had been watching to make sure he got upstairs in one piece. Shouldn’t he say thanks? Benji leaned over the railing to call “Merci.” But then he heard it. A scream, loud and piercing, that echoed down the stairwell from the sixth floor.

  His mother.

  She screamed again.

  The Elevator Man could wait.

  Chapter Six

  Benji took the stairs two at a time, his mind working overtime. He was right about the Elevator Man! Maybe he wasn’t a spy but a robber, the lookout man, and his accomplices were upstairs! On a rampage!

  Benji heard a third scream.

  His sister!

  “Hold on!” Benji called. “I’m coming!”

  Though the boy hadn’t been in a single fight in his entire life, he was determined to defend his family. Who knew where his father was. Maybe already knocked out, or hanging upside down out the window. And his mother and sister? Already tied up in a closet.

  I’ll take them out with quick, sharp blows to the neck, the boy thought. Then I’ll tie them up with bedsheets, gag them with a croissant, and drag them down the stairs and find a policeman.

  Taking the last flight three steps at a time, he flew across the landing and burst into the apartment, fists clenched, ready to do battle.

  But with who? Benji was so surprised it took him a minute to adjust to the scene before him. To his relief, his mother and sister were standing just inside a lavish living room. They seemed to be fine. In fact, he hadn’t seen them look so happy in months. His father, too. Roger was leaning against a grand piano, positively glowing.

  His mother all but skipped across the room and kissed him on the cheek.

  “Oh, Benji! Look! They even have a piano! Isn’t it wonderful?”

  Again, it took the boy a moment to realize that “it” referred to the apartment. Now that he knew his family was safe, Benji took a look around. Like most nine-year-old boys, Benji had little concern for interior design. But even he could tell the apartment was plush. The grand salon was enormous. A chandelier hung down from the high ceiling. The furniture was covered with delicately embroidered fabrics.

  “Looks even better than on the internet,” he said.

  “It sure does!” Rebecca said.

  Benji was pleased to see his mother’s change of mood—but also a bit mystified. It was astonishing what a nice piece of drapery or carpeting could do for a mom’s spirits.

  “Round one for the Hitchcocks!” Roger crowed. “Their place is nicer than ours.”

  Rebecca giggled. “I almost feel bad for them.”

  “I still can’t believe that we actually get to live here,” Maddy said, poking her head into a giant kitchen, complete with the newest appliances.

  “Six glorious nights,” Roger said. Then he noticed something. Next to the kitchen was an oak cabinet, locked tight with a silver padlock. “And check it out! They’ve locked up their personals, too.”

  “Wow,” Benji said. “Interesting.”

  He was already walking to the piano. He had a decent upright at home, but this looked incredible. A Steinway grand! Without waiting another moment, Benji sat at the bench and launched into the third movement of Beethoven’s Pathétique Sonata.

  “Sounds great, kiddo,” his father called from the kitchen.

  “You’re like George Gershwin,” Maddy called, also from the kitchen. “An American in Paris.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Boy,” Rebecca said. “Xavier Vadim does pretty well for a chemistry professor.”

  “Maybe there’s family money?” Roger said.

  “Check it out, Mom!” Maddy said.

  “What?”

  “Mrs. Vadim has every kind of spice under the sun. She must be some chef.”

  Rebecca looked. Indeed, the spice rack was lavish, made of dark wood and stoked to the nines. She nudged her daughter on the shoulder.

  “Maybe we can cook something while we’re here? Like we used to.”

  Maddy knew her mother was making an effort. Where was the harm in giving a little in return?

  “Sure, Mom. We’ll cook.”

  Then she glanced down the hall.

  “Go,” Rebecca said. “Find your room.”

  Leaving her mother reveling in the glory of the Vadim kitchen, Maddy wandered toward the back of the apartment. But what would a room belonging to a girl like Veronique Vadim be like? Would there be a giant skull on the door? A “make your own” tattoo machine by her bed? Maybe even a dead body
hanging from the ceiling? Suddenly nervous, Maddy walked down a back hallway and peeked in the first door. A broom closet. The next room down was a very ordinary bathroom. But then she came to a blue door with the name “Veronique” written on a plaque in squiggly purple script. Underneath was a picture of a rainbow. Maddy hesitated. A rainbow? That didn’t seem at all in character with the girl with henna tattoos she had met. Then again, how many other Veroniques could there be in one family?

  There’ll probably be a shrunken head hanging from the ceiling, Maddy told herself.

  Steeling herself for the worst, she pushed open the door. To her surprise, no blood was dripping from the walls. There wasn’t a single EMO or Goth poster. Instead, the place was . . . girly. The walls were bright pink. There was a canopied bed. By a carefully stacked bookshelf was a poster for a local production of The Sound of Music. By the window was a desk where pens and pencils were arranged by color in a jar. A blue rug looked recently vacuumed.

  Astonished, Maddy stepped carefully across the rug and put her suitcase down on the floor by the bed. Was this really Veronique Vadim’s room? Maybe the black clothes and bad attitude was an act she was trying on for America. Maddy wandered to the window and glanced at the desk. Next to the carefully arranged pencils was a set of yellow notepads. Now it was official. Embossed on the top right corner of each pad were the words Du bureau de Veronique. “From Veronique’s desk.” Maddy took another long look around the room. Even with the hard and fast proof, it was difficult to connect the way the room was decorated to the girl she had met back in Chicago. It was so strange, Maddy needed to show the rest of her family. But turning for the door, something out the window caught her eye.