Parisian Promises (23 page)

A beaming Madame packed up her handbag and grabbed Monica's arm.

“Let's go, my dear girl,” she said, ignoring Monica's cautions.

“I, I really should stay here. I'm expecting a phone call.”

Madame laughed. “The telephone workers will be going on strike
tout de suite
as well before too long! Let's go and have my photograph taken. Oh, I can't wait to be famous––again.”

Downstairs, the concierge was guarding the building as though it were the Bastille, about to be stormed at any moment.

“I will not open this gate for any strangers,” she barked at Serge and Christophe.

“I understand your apprehension, Madame,” Christophe told her. “But it is urgent that I speak with Mademoiselle Monica. She's one of the guests of Madame Caron de Pichet.”

“Anyone can give me the same set of facts you've just uttered. I refuse to open this door.”

Serge interceded. “Madame, please tell us if Madame Caron de Pichet and Monica are in the house.”

“Certainly not!” The concierge was emboldened by her own stubbornness.

Christophe thought with his pure heart and said, “Madame, surely you were in love once, deeply in love, that is––”

“No, can't say I was. Came close to it, recently. But all men are filthy opportunists.” She spat on the ground again and thought of Jean-Michel. He came in and out of her apartment as if it belonged to him, expecting her to do this and that for him, expecting her to bow down to him. Last night he'd even had the gall to sleep until dawn in her bed, while she lay, sleepless and fuming, on her sagging sofa.

Serge gave up on being calm and polite. “Look here, woman, this young man is the son of the Viscount who, uh, who came often to visit Madame Caron de Pichet. If you'll just peek through the gate, you will see the family resemblance.”

“Humph, I don't care about any Viscounts. Didn't they all get their heads guillotined on a day of protest just like today?” The concierge laughed. She pulled the hummingbird from her apron pocket and idly plucked at its iridescent green feathers.

“I beg you,” pleaded Christophe. “Is Mademoiselle Monica in the house or not? I will pay you handsomely for your service, Madame.”

“Ahhh, now you're talking like a Viscount. How much is it worth to me to go up five flights of stairs to verify if your beloved Monica is there or not? Let me add up my numbers.” The concierge pulled out a handful of tiny feathers, dropped the bird on the ground, and crushed its remains with her heavy-soled shoes.

“Please Madame, name your price, I beg of you.” Christophe's voice cracked. “My heart is racing. I fear something awful has happened to her.”

“Fine, slip three hundred francs under the gate and I'll go check. And quit your sniveling and act like a man, for God's sake!”

The money appeared moments later, and the concierge pulled the dusty notes free. But rather than open the gate right away, she wandered into her apartment and threw the stained bedspread off her mattress. She'd hidden some items she found in Jean-Michel's valise under her bed. She had an urge to add all the mad money she collected the last several days from not one, but two nobles. No wonder the fools had their heads chopped off ages ago: they had no sense of safeguarding their money. When Jean-Michel had left his valise next to her sofa, she'd stolen six hundred francs, two house keys, and a large toucan bird.

Jean-Michel had laughed at her petty theft, as he had called it. But the concierge had been afraid of the things she'd seen inside the toucan's huge bill, and she wanted to make sure they were gone, as Jean-Michel had promised they would be.

The men outside were pounding on the heavy wooden gate again, demanding to be let in. The concierge pulled open the toucan's top bill, and saw, to her relief, that the bottom bill was now empty. She added all her tips and started daydreaming about a future bird-watching trip to the Amazon.

“You took the three hundred francs,” Serge shouted. “Now let us talk to Mademoiselle Monica.”

The concierge ambled out and opened the sliding peephole. “Yep, you sure do look like your father,” she said to Christophe.

Serge glared at her. “Is Mademoiselle Monica at home or not?”

“No, she and Madame Caron de Pichet walked out, arm in arm, about a half an hour ago.”

“Which way were they heading?” Christophe asked.

The concierge rubbed her thumb and index finger together. “Oh, that will cost you an additional two hundred francs.”

Christophe pulled out his wallet and, shooting the concierge a black look, shoved another two hundred francs under the gate.

When she'd picked up and counted the notes, the concierge felt every bit the lowlife she had always been. She swallowed hard at this brutal truth, though it wasn't a pleasant thing to admit. But what could she do? It was her nature. After all, a hummingbird flits from one flower's nectar to the next, a green parrot screeches all day long, and a toucan sometimes uses his serrated bill not to break tree bark, but to safeguard grenades for his master.

Still, the concierge felt a tinge of guilt, and thought that today, just for once, she could behave in a slightly more honorable manner.

“I can tell you this,” she said. “Madame Caron de Pichet was bragging about a photographer who was going to take her photo leading the protest. She said something about the Fontaine Saint-Michel.”

She jabbed an index finger in the direction of the river, and Serge took hold of Christophe's arm.

“I'll stay right here and you go look for her. I don't trust this harpy,” he whispered, and Christophe took off running towards the Seine, blind to the agitation of the protestors, his eyes scanning the heaving crowd for his beloved Monica.

F
rom his perch high above rue de Condé, Jean-Michel could observe all the coming and goings of the street below. Now that he had the apartment to himself, he could open all the full-length French doors in Madame's salon. He walked out onto the narrow balcony and leaned against the wrought-iron guardrail. His machinations, he thought with a self-satisfied grin, would soon earn him a place at the table of all the major subversive organizations in Europe.

A gust of air seemed to applaud his well-thought out plan, the sheer lace curtains billowing out from the salon to obscure his face from any nosy neighbor. Jean-Michel smiled out at the City of Light: Paris continued to offer him its camouflage, its protection, inviting him to execute his plan all within the street theater of the famous Parisian demonstrations. Today's demonstration was huge, the perfect setting for his genius. Soon he would witness his California Girl and his ancient Parisienne together, carrying out his orders. He stuck his head out to peer in the direction of Boulevard St.-Germain-des-Près and Boulevard St. Michel, but he could not yet spot Monica and Madame, his unlikely agents of terror.

Little could Jean-Michel have predicted that Madame was totally confused in the teeming crowds. She leaned heavily into Monica and said, “I do wish I was wearing my old Chanel shoes. These new heels are making me wobbly.”

“Let's turn around, Madame.” Monica was concerned about the elderly lady. The crowd was heaving, and they were being pushed this way and that. “You're off-balance and you don't seem well.”

“Oh, no! Not when I am this close to finally making the history books. I slept with enough German officers and found out all sorts of secrets, and what did that get me? Nothing, not even a pair of shoes,” Madame laughed too loudly, too out of control––a little like the crowd around them, Monica thought. She didn't like the faces of some of the protestors. These were not the idealistic, open-eyed expressions of university students seeking Utopia. On the contrary, these protestors where mostly men who looked almost militaristic and ready to fight. The possibility of violence seemed all too real.

Madame leaned into Monica, speaking softly. “The Gestapo is here,” she said, pointing to the neo-Fascists, “and those men next to them are French collaborators. But don't worry, I know the German officers, they're not so bad. They will probably take a liking to you, too.”

“Uh, Madame, the Gestapo existed decades ago. Really, I think the crowds are making you tired––and disoriented.”

“Yes, I've been bone-tired for ages,” Madame admitted. “But I must lead the
maquis
, my own squad of
Résistance
fighters. Can you believe it? After all my hard work, I finally get to lead my own group, and Robert Doisneau should be right around here ready to take my photo. He's going to do it when I raise my arm and salute them. Do you see Monsieur Doisneau and his camera?”

Monica shook her head, not sure of what Madame was rambling on about. The old lady was too confused and frail to be out on these streets right now. A truck inched its way onto the intersection of the two boulevards, dividing the crowd into two groups. The men with the sturdy boots gathered further up the street outside another public urinal, which gave off a horrible stench. Their unlikely adversaries, a ramshackle group of anarchists in full disarray, crossed the street, moved around the now-parked truck, and sidled up to the booted men.

Monica and Madame were right in the middle of all this, jostled by the anarchists when they started crossing the street. Madame nearly fell off the sidewalk, but she gripped her handbag close to her chest with great ferocity.

“
Mon Dieu
, I must follow the directions of
mon amour
,” she told Monica, her voice earnest and clipped. “If I do, he will make sure that my name and my photograph will make history.”

At his post guarding the gate, Serge witnessed all the maneuverings of the disparate protest groups on the street and decided he wanted answers from the concierge. He knocked on the gate once again and the concierge absentmindedly opened it.

“
Merde
,” she muttered. “I can't believe I opened the gate for an old farm hand.”

Serge snickered. “You used to like me well enough in the old days. Do you recall the fun times we had in your old bed while the Viscount and Madame had their own trysts?”

“It only happened once, and I never saw you again.”

“Well, I'm back.” He flashed her his snaggletooth smile. “Only this time I'm here to find out what is going on with Mademoiselle Monica. Who is she seeing here in Paris?”

“How should I know? She doesn't tip me, so I don't care what she does.”

“Why would she leave with Madame on such a crazy day? You're a shrew––I mean to say a very intelligent woman. What do
you
think is going on with the two of them?”

The concierge noticed that Serge actually meant what he said, that he did find her intelligent, so she decided to give him her opinions. “I might have my own speculations about what's going on with Madame and those American students––and her young lover. But you look quite elderly these days, and I don't think that you can handle bad news.”

“What do you mean? I can still put a knife at an enemy's throat, in case you have your doubts about my resolve.” He grabbed her rough hand and kissed it gently. “Please tell me. Anything that pertains to Monica can hurt my Christophe. Didn't you see how madly in love he is with her?”

“Yes, but I've never had anyone love me that much, so what do I care?”

“Because, although life has dealt you a bad hand, you deserve to feel like a decent person, a kindhearted person, at least once in your life. That's why. Please tell me.”

“Madame has a new young lover,” the concierge blurted out. “A despicable rich young man who abuses old women. He left some things in my care and, and … well, some of those things can kill a lot of people.”

“What kind of things?”

“Things that were hidden in the toucan's bill up in Madame's apartment––”

“What? What is a toucan? You'd better not be lying and making a fool out of me.”

“Why would I lie? A toucan is a bird––a stuffed bird, in this instance. And the things hidden in his bill were grenades. That's the kind of person this Jean-Michel is. I hate him. He violated me and now he's making Madame do something terrible on his behalf. And he's taking his revenge on that Monica who you care so much about. He is furious that she cheated on him with Christophe.”

“Do you know where Jean-Michel is now?” Serge couldn't believe his ears. “And where are these grenades?”

The concierge pointed to Madame's fifth-floor apartment. Serge had heard enough. He knew that he could not solve this sordid puzzle by standing talking to the concierge. First, he had to act quickly, but this wasn't easy. His old legs lumbered slowly past the concierge as he started his long trudge up the steps to Madame's apartment. When Serge paused at the second-floor landing, already out of breath, he heard the concierge's heavy footsteps as she walked up the stairs and past him. She was dangling her metal ring full of apartment keys. One of those keys was crucial; the one that would open the door of Madame's apartment to reveal the evil hiding among her worthless treasures, evidence of a life poorly lived.

Back in California Lola had participated in numerous anti-Vietnam War rallies, so she had a good sense of how to navigate the perimeter of crowds. When she discovered that the travel agency was closed, she wanted to return as quickly as possible to Madame's apartment and keep a close eye on Monica.

Lola took long strides, maneuvering her way through the crowds, her crimson curls swaying in the fall breeze. Christophe spotted her trademark locks from a block away and shouted, “Lola,
attends
!”

“Damn, the fuzz is calling my name,” muttered Lola to no one in particular. Rather than look back, she picked up her pace, weaving in and out of the teeming crowd.

The man's voice insisted, this time more politely, “Mademoiselle Lola,
attendez, s'il vous plait
!

But Lola, like her gangster cousins, never waited for any cop, even a polite cop, to ask her any questions, so she hustled away as quickly as she could, disappearing into the heaving crowd.

Jean-Michel was astounded to feel butterflies in his stomach. He was a decisive leader, not some nervous minion. The plan he'd put into action was foolproof, of course, but he could not locate Monica and Madame among the swirling river of people in the street, and this made him jittery. He needed to imprint on his mind an image of the forthcoming destruction––of a river of blood––and remind himself that this image would obliterate any past missteps as a rebel leader.

He leaned farther and farther out of the balcony, gripping the guardrail, but Monica and Madame were nowhere to be seen.