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Cover
Dedication
To
Rachel Mackenzie, the original “Mac,”
for the inspiration
Robin for the joy of adventure
and Mom and Dad for the love of reading
One
“It’s summer in Paris. You can’t wear only sneakers!” My mom pleadingly held up a pair of lemon-coloured sandals for inspection as my dad peered into a stack of guidebooks.
“It’s a school walking tour, Mom, not tea at the Ritz ... and besides, my ankle’s still a bit swollen.” I instantly regretted reminding her of last week’s “incident,” when I’d tied some sheets together and parachuted off their bedroom balcony.
“Did you realize that the Erik Satie museum in Paris, celebrating the famous twentieth-century composer, is the smallest in the world?” My dad hummed an obscure melody, bouncing his head lightly from side to side. “Oh, but it’s by appointment only.”
I feigned disappointment as my mom launched a chiffon offensive. “And this picks up your eyes beautifully,” she said, wrapping something caramel-coloured and more than a little itchy around my neck. “How I envy you, sipping a coupe of champagne ... or rather, a Shirley Temple at the Café de Flore in the very heart of the artistic milieu on Boulevard St. Germain.” At this she became a little dreamy, and I saw my chance to tuck the sandals back in the closet with the scarf and floral frocks.
“Hey sweetie, did you know that they still leave roses daily on the grave of the little sparrow, Edith Piaf, at the Père Lachaise cemetery?” He sang her famous song, “La Vie en Rose,” in a fluty falsetto as he waltzed my mom around the bedroom.
While they were distracted, I put seven of every item of clothing I’d need in my backpack, along with my copy of Victor Hugo’s Notre Dame de Paris, number one on our summer reading list, and snapped it shut. “Okay. Done.”
“Don’t forget this.” My dad handed me the letter from his old friend and former bandmate, Rudee Daroo. “It takes some time to catch on to Rudee-speak, but he’ll give you a great cab driver’s view of Paris.” Rudee, a classically trained organist, had toured with my dad’s band one summer way back before they had computers. My mom loves the scrapbook, which features pictures of my dad with a ponytail and a mushroom-embroidered vest. Rudee was the resident clown who had supposedly once played a keyboard solo with his nose and with his feet in the air. Other tales of his love for pickled herring juice and beets always seem to bring choruses of laughter, but I guess that’s just adult humour. The letter looked like someone had served dinner on it.
Hey Mr. Bigsport,
Good to hear from you after so many spin cycles. How are you and the pretty missus? So you are air mailing the little Mac to Paris to smell some buildings. Good — I understand architexture you know.
Me — I’m fine. No, I’m not. I’ve got a problem and I don’t know what it is. It’s Sashay. She says her gig at the Moulin D’Or is in danger and it’s the only place she can dance and that when this one ends she’s going to do one last twirl and disappear. And there is something strange about the city but I’m not going to tell you because no one believes me and you already think I’m mad as a dormitory.
Nevermind. Send the sprout to the Pont Neuf when I go on my brakes at 4. Jerome the bookseller will find me.
Yours for days, Rudee
My mom watched with trembling lips as we got in the car to pick up my friend Penelope on the way to the airport. I was glad that Mom was off to “Twigs and Roots,” her annual yoga retreat in the hills near Santa Barbara. Mellow is good for moms.
My dad called from the driver’s seat, “Okay, let’s go, Mac, or as they say in France, ‘allez-oop’!”
The “Mac” is short for Mackenzie. My mom is a teacher and my dad is a songwriter, and we live in California in Upper Mandeville, which tells you that there’s a Lower Mandeville. Both towns are made up of wood-and-brick houses that run the length of a very green canyon, not far from the ocean. Sycamore trees surround our house. The teetering redwood fence has ruby-coloured bougainvillea climbing over it, and my mom has planted roses and calla lilies all around the property. There are lots of creatures that share the place with us — hummingbirds, lizards, dragonflies, deer, the odd skunk, and even the occasional bobcat.
I like Upper Mandeville. It’s a little quieter, not as ritzy as Lower Mandeville, where my friend Penelope lives. The trees meet over the road, and it’s easier to get lost, which I like to do whenever I can, and it has more butterflies.
When we passed through the gates and pulled up in front of Penelope’s house, she rolled out her matching set of pink Louis Vuitton luggage in top international girly-girl form, lowered her giant sunglasses and flicked a tiny wave in the direction of her parents. “Au revoir, maman, papa ... Paris awaits.” Inside the car, she snapped her first of a million photos, me cross-eyed, pretending to read Victor Hugo upside down.
Two
Airport. Waiting room. Plane. Luggage. Customs. Bus. Paris!!!
Most of a day and almost 6,000 miles later, I stood with Penelope and ten other girls from my advanced French class outside the student residence in the Latin Quarter that was to be our home for the next week. A stream of taxis and a blustery wind swept down the ancient boulevard. The whole street resembled one giant café. We didn’t manage the “two straight lines” thing, but it still reminded me of an American version of Madeline and her posse. The school chaperone handed us off, a little too hastily, I thought, and disappeared into a nearby brasserie for the first café crème of the rest of her life. Our Parisian tour guide, Mademoiselle Lesage, batted her eyelashes like Audrey Hepburn and spoke in a bird-like trill.
“Les filles. Les filles! Girls! Bienvenue, welcome to Paris. Before we check you into your rooms, I want to say how excited I am to guide you on your architectural tour of the beauties of Paris. From the gothic majesty of Notre Dame to the breathtaking modernity of I.M. Pei’s Louvre pyramid, we shall see it all....”
“Those hand gestures look like she’s making doves fly out of a hat,” I whispered, and Penelope bit her lip. I checked my watch and realized I was going to have to sneak away soon if I was going to meet Rudee on time.
“... and the Renaissance creations that honour Marie de Medici, the Italian wife of Henry IV, whose sculpture is featured on the Pont Neuf....”
“Excuse me,” I interrupted, “Mademoiselle Lesage, is the Pont Neuf near here?”
“Oui, it’s but a few minutes walk along the quai,” she replied, gesturing vaguely toward the river. “But why do you ask?”
“Oh, it’s just that, you know ... Henry and Marie ... I’m a big fan of the reno at the Louvre.”
She continued with a puzzled expression. “And who could ignore the baroque glory of Louis XIV, the ‘Sun King,’ whose vision for the incomparable ‘Les Invalides’
