little dogs in baskets and purses or inside their coats. There were the famous monuments I had seen in my school books — the golden dome of Les Invalides, the Eiffel Tower, Sacre Coeur, and the River Seine winding like a ribbon across it all.
I bounced down the staircase to find that Rudee had left me some crusty bread, tiny oranges, savagely stinky cheese, and a map of the city. A note on the torn corner of a newspaper said Gone to work — have some times. I descended the stairs from his room and passed through the garden and into the street.
Everything was different. The noises, the voices, the shops, and the people of Paris — the wrinkled roadmap face of the chestnut vendor, leaning over his fire, pushing a few blackened chestnuts around — no, merci. He looked as old as time. And the children — the babies were like the dolls in the toy stores I saw everywhere, the ones having tea in the window. Penelope must be in heaven.
Thinking of Penelope reminded me that I’d better make my way to the Latin Quarter to meet my class. I followed the right bank and crossed the river on the Pont Des Arts, a beautiful pedestrian bridge that was decorated with an exhibit of wacky collage photographs. I arrived, a little out of breath, to see the tour group assembled on the sidewalk in front of our residence.
Penelope spotted me and whispered immediately, “Nice timing, Mac. While we’ve been waiting for you to emerge from your chambre, which I don’t believe you’ve actually seen, Mademoiselle Lesage’s sympathy for your newfound allergy to almond paste has been wearing thin.”
Our tour guide rushed over to me and put her hand on my forehead. “Mon Dieu, child, but you are so warm.” Over her shoulder, I saw Penelope fanning herself dramatically.
“I do feel a little faint, Mademoiselle Lesage,” I said feebly.
“Oui, I can see that. Penelope told me you had a reaction to the almond croissant at breakfast.”
“Yes, I had no idea it had ... almonds in it.”
She looked at me pityingly. “Well, Mac, I’m going to have to insist that you remain in your room. We have so much walking to do today.”
I tried not to laugh at Penelope’s giant “ahhh” expression. “I suppose you know best.” As Mademoiselle Lesage herded the girls toward Boulevard St. Michel, I made my way into the lobby. While giving them a head start, I glanced at the daily paper, Le Devoir, which announced a big “Lighten Up” celebration at the Arc de Triomphe. I did have some monuments to see.
I hustled alongside the river past the Musée D’Orsay. Check. Crossing the river on the Pont de la Concorde, I whizzed by the Grand Palais and the Petit Palais. Check. Check. Wow, Monuments R Us here.
I soon found myself on the widest street I’d ever seen. The Champs Élysées was abuzz with what looked like bumper cars, and the broad sidewalks were filled with people speaking every language imaginable. As I approached the Arc de Triomphe, I saw a crowd and heard music. I slipped through the bodies for a closer look. There was a band playing on a temporary stage decorated with plastic palm trees that had trunks shaped like the Eiffel Tower. A banner read LIGHTEN UP PARIS! in bright orange letters. The band was in full swing with dancers and coordinated back-up singers and a skinny little vocalist who was about three-quarters man and one-quarter hair. He wore a gold cape and puss-in-boots shoes with buckles. His back-up singers wore matching outfits in different colours, each representing a suit of cards as they dipped, turned, and spun like a machine. The dancers, dressed in fleur de lis bikinis, were shaking their hips like little dogs trying to dry off.
The singer was singing, “Shaaaade ... quit giving me shade, baby.”
The back-up singers did one final cake-mixer spin and landed in front of their mikes, singing, “You’re raining on my parade,” as the music abruptly halted.
The dancers produced twirling umbrellas that spun to a blur, lifting them off the stage into the afternoon for a dazzling crowd-pleasing finish.
The singer remained on stage, and as the applause faded, he announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, mesdames et messieurs, please give a warm, and I mean warm welcome to the prefect of Paris, Luc Fiat!”
A man bounced up the steps, took the microphone, and waved to the cheering crowd. He wore a dazzling white suit with a golden sun emblazoned on the shoulders and rays extending down the back and sleeves. He wore silver cowboy boots and mirrored sunglasses in the shape of little suns. He smiled a long, thin, crescent smile that looked like it had drawstrings at the corners.
“Yessss. Ouiiiii. Merccci!”
He stretched out the words and nodded approvingly at the crowd.
“Today is a special day for all Parisians. Today we say ‘non’ to the grey clouds and ‘pooh’ to the rain. We will borrow a cup of California and a hint of Hawaii to scare away the grey. Today, my fellow citizens, we lighten up!”
At this, a screen unfurled behind him showing the Seine and one of the tourist boats, the bateau mouche. The crowd ooo’d as the dancers from the band sailed by on orange water-skis, waving, smiling, still holding their little parasols.
At the other end of the Champs Élysées, in the Place de la Concorde, fireworks went off in the shape of a giant happy face. A small plane was busily spelling out the words “Lighten Up.” The crowd seemed enthralled as Luc Fiat pointed toward the happy face that was melting to the ground and shouted, “It’s up to you, mes amis, to lighten up old Paris.”
He bounded off the stage as quickly as he had arrived, down a set of stairs toward the backstage area. I noticed, almost hidden behind the screen, two identical characters in long black trench coats, faces hidden by their fedora hats with the glow of cigarettes the only sign of life. The coats seemed to billow like smoke as they parted a backstage curtain to allow Luc Fiat to exit before they followed right behind. Curious, I eased through the dispersing crowd and pushed apart a couple of wooden barriers. I peeked inside a large tent. At that precise moment, Fiat turned to look back and briefly caught my eye. He registered surprise but quickly disappeared into the folds of heavy grey material. Then I heard a voice that sounded like it came from a barrel.
“Nice work, Monsieur Fiat, you got the touch,” followed by a deep laugh.
A thin voice hissed in reply, “Oh shut up, Scar, and help me down.”
I tried to slow my pounding heart as I heard a scraping, accompanied by a damp, fishy smell. The voices echoed then suddenly stopped. I eased around a tent flap and into the back as my eyes got used to the dark. Nothing. No one. How could that be? There was only one way out. I walked around, and all I saw was a couple of cigarette butts ground out beside a manhole cover.
“Can I help you?” a man asked, putting his hand on my shoulder, making me jump about a foot in the air. He was carrying a broom and wearing a “City of Paris LIGHTEN UP!” sweatshirt.
“No,” I replied, wondering what I was doing there anyway. “I just wanted to meet Monsieur Fiat, that’s all,” I blurted.
He smiled and nodded. “Let me help you find your way out, mademoiselle. I don’t think anyone actually meets Luc Fiat, at least not with those two giant bookends that always follow him around standing in the way.”
On my way back to Rudee’s, I thought I’d sample a guacamole croissant at one of the stands set up on the Champs Élysées. It wasn’t very good. Or maybe I wasn’t very hungry.
Six
