too long for me. “And you won’t get in the way of history, will you?”
I’m sure I was still shaking my head and whispering “No ... no” when the ride ended. Fiat evaporated into the night air, and I found myself being helped out of the car by a grinning attendant.
“A little dizzy, mademoiselle? Take your time down those steps. Thanks for riding with us tonight.”
Seventeen
There’s often a wind rushing across the Place de la Concorde; it’s wide open and exposed. Exposed. That’s how I felt, blown by that wind, not necessarily where I wanted to go. It was like all the happy couples waiting to get on the Roue de Paris were laughing at me. No doubt I looked a little green, confused, not sure which way I was going. I gave my head a good old California hair toss and tried to look purposeful as I walked to the nearest cabstand. Maybe I’d see a familiar face there, and I wouldn’t have to hide my fear or confusion.
It seemed like a long wait. I’m not sure how long, but it was Saturday night, after all. I couldn’t expect an instant rescue after the mess that, to be honest, I’d gotten myself into. I tried to erase Fiat’s face from my mind, but it was replaced by Rudee’s, and I had a pretty good idea of how unhappy he was going to be. Eventually, I worked my way to the front of the line and slid into the back of a dirty black sedan with cracked seats and some kind of frantic music playing. The driver, who was built like a small mountain range, turned his head and leered at me with a nasty smirk.
“Where to, nana?”
“Blag?” I asked, but there was no mistaking the driver.
“Actually, my name is Antoine. Blag’s a nickname I got at school, and it wasn’t my idea, but you don’t get to choose those things.”
I gulped, and too many thoughts came into my mind at once. Had he arranged to be here? Did he know where I had just been? I didn’t ask, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.
“This is rich,” he snorted. “Daroo’s been spitting beet juice out of his ears looking for you, and I get to bring back the prize. There’s been a full taxi search for you, little Yankee twerp.”
He couldn’t contain his glee as he called in on his radio. “Madeleine, it’s number 66; you can call off the hunt. I got the kid. I’ll head for CAFTA now.”
“Oui, Blag,” came her answer. “Try to be pleasant to her. You can do it.”
Blag grunted and turned up the bass on his radio to minor earthquake level. I noticed a collection of what looked like Viking action figures on his dashboard. “Listen to this. ‘Clunque’ by Malade. Now this is music. None of that lame nose-whistling stuff the Hacks play.”
I wanted to jump to the Hacks’ defence but thought better of it. I was also thinking about the welcome that awaited me at CAFTA.
“Uh, Blag ... I mean Antoine.”
“What, nana, need to go to the toilette?” he laughed.
“No. So the cabbies have been looking for me?”
“Combing the streets is more like it, kid. The perfect chance for me to pick up some extra dough. Daroo’s had his pantaloons in a twist since you disappeared from the club. What’s the matter, Sashay’s show too much for you?”
He suddenly accelerated and drove through a giant puddle at top speed, spraying a group of well-dressed diners coming out of a gleaming brasserie. He looked back at his handiwork in the mirror, waving a redheaded plastic Viking. I tried to hide my head in shame as he was gagging with amusement.
“Why are you so mean, Blag?” I didn’t bother to correct myself this time. “And why do you hate Rudee so much?”
“Ruuudeee Darooo.” He stretched out the words with obvious distaste. “I’ve been hearing that name since I was a kid. It’s not even his real name. Ask him about it sometime, why don’t you? You want to know why, I’ll tell you. Our families arrived in Paris at the Gare St. Lazare on the same train, ready to start new lives in ‘The City of Light.’ We both came from nothing, but my family did something, and my father built the Moulin D’Or from the ground up, while Daroo’s parents taught kids like us in the basement of the Église Russe. And just because he could play the organ, he was the golden boy; but when they needed someone to knock down a wall or move some giant piece of furniture, it was, ‘Hey, Blag, give us a hand, will ya?’”
The resentment in his voice was heavy, and he paused before almost whispering, “I introduced him to Sashay. If we hadn’t owned the club, she wouldn’t have had anywhere to perform. Nobody buys that ‘Queen of Dreams’ act any more.” He fell silent as we neared the lights of CAFTA. But he still buys it, I thought.
“Thanks for the ride ... Antoine.” I tried to muster as much kindness in my voice as I could. I’d heard two tales of woe tonight, and I could’ve done without either of them. He just stared ahead, seeming to focus on the windshield wipers. I was glad he didn’t come in with me to add to Rudee’s stress level, and I needed a moment to collect my thoughts before heading inside.
As I walked into the bright light and warm oven smells of the café, the volume increased right away.
“Hey, it’s the little runaway!”
“Rudee, your chick has returned to the nest.”
“Hey, little one, is Blag your new best friend?”
Rudee threaded his way through the laughing and shouting tables of cabbies, trying to look amused, but I could read his expression from across the room. The ridge of his brow looked like a plow heading in my direction as he made his way to the door. I froze. I’d never seen Rudee like this. When he reached me, he threw his arms around me and squeezed me like he wanted to wring me out. “Little Mac, for flying out cloud!” His voice was trembling. “I was so worried about you. Where ... what ... oh, don’t tell me now, let’s go.”
We rushed out the door to hooting from the drivers and into his car. As we drove to the church, the tension was awful, with Rudee shaking his head and muttering, “I was in a panic ... mon dieu....” as I sat very still and very small in the back seat. It kind of reminded me of that time I fell out of the tree and sprained my knee in my secret grove in the canyon, and my mom and dad and the neighbours had to search until they found me. They’re happy you’re alive, but once they get over that, you know you’re going to hear the expression “just worried sick” a few thousand times before the night is over. Rudee jumped out of the cab and hurried down the path to the side door of the church, his hair flapping with every step.
I could see that the lights were on in his room, and I heard him saying, “Here she is, thank the clouds.” Although I wondered who he was talking to, I was totally surprised to see Sashay sitting in Rudee’s little kitchen. Her elegant swirl of scarves, skirts, and hair seemed so out of place in the bright little bare-bulb room with the lingering odour of overcooked vegetables. She swept me up in her lavender cloud and smiled calmly at me.
“This won’t do,” she whispered, and proceeded to light some candles, switch off the overhead bulb, and clear a space on the tiny table.
“Tea, Rudee?” She seemed to be offering, but it was Rudee who scurried about, lighting the kettle and digging through drawers for some prehistoric tea bag. I wondered how long it had been since Sashay had been at Rudee’s
