sat an open jar of pickled herring and a fork. He wiped the corner of his mouth. “Hungry, little one?”
“No,” I lied. The walk home had made me realize how famished I was, but then the aroma of Rudee’s room quickly took care of that. I told him about the rally. He brightened and said, “Now, this is what we need. I tried to drive by, but I couldn’t get close; I saw the happy head firecracker. You know, Paris has been looking darker to me lately, and anything that can polish our eyes is good.”
I felt like I was starting to understand him. I tried to tell him about Luc Fiat’s bodyguards and his odd disappearance, but Rudee seemed more interested in the contents of his pot. I climbed the staircase to my attic room and was watching the sun ease down over the chimneys and church spires, changing everything into rosy silhouettes when Rudee called up to me, “Hey, American shrimplette, do you want to come with me to take Sashay to the club?”
I didn’t have time to ask who or where, because he was heading loudly down the stairs. As I grabbed my sweatshirt, it occurred to me that Rudee seemed to have forgotten about sending me back to my school group. Penelope would be more than curious as to where I was, but I knew she’d cover for me. I followed him through the church garden to the shed where his cab was waiting. We backed down the vine-covered alley and into the cobblestone street. Rudee changed the lighting in his cab from purple to a soft gold and was fishing through a box of tapes under the seat as he navigated the traffic. He muttered to himself till he found what he was looking for.
“Rudee?” I felt like I was interrupting some ritual.
“Sorry, little one, I forgot you were here.”
“Who’s Sashay?”
He slowly turned his head to stare at me, wordlessly at first. His normally pointy brow seemed to arch out even further from his face, making his eyes look like they were staring out at me from inside a pair of caves. “Didn’t your daddy tell you anything? Sashay D’Or, la reine des rêves, the queen of dreams, the most enchanting woman in all of Parisian nightlife, you know nothing about? Ah, Sashay....”
Rudee seemed to glaze over for a moment, with a distant, almost sad expression. “Sorry, Mac, where was I? Sashay, of course. She knows ways of taking people away with that swirly girl dance of hers. You remember things ...” his voice trailed off before the fire in it returned, “… she was the toast of all Paris. Now she works for people who don’t appreciate her. No one does ... like I do.”
At this moment the radio cut in with a burst of static. “Fifty-two. Cinquante-deux. Are you there?”
Rudee grabbed his microphone. “Oui, I’m here after all.”
“Rudee, you little cockroach, ça va?” A crusty female voice came from the speaker.
“Yes, oui, Madeleine, you old sea hag, ça va.”
A cackling laugh, part static, part cough, shot back, “I’ve got a new recipe for curing baldness, mon ami.”
“Really?” Rudee sounded cautious but interested.
“Listen, take equal parts goose liver and very ripe brie and let it sit beside your bed for one month. Then spread it on your head and sit under a lamp for six hours, and do not move.”
Rudee was taking notes while driving.
“And the next morning, my shiny-domed driver, you’ll have a full head of hair.”
“That’s it?” Rudee couldn’t hide the hope in his voice.
“Oh, just one last thing. You need ... one very gullible bald cabbie.”
A chorus of laughter echoed over the radio. Rudee turned the colour of his beet stew and slammed down the handset.
At this point we swung into a narrow street and stopped in front of a darkened storefront that read “Musée D’Écharpe.” I’d never heard of a scarf museum. Could Erik Satie’s place be smaller than this? On the floor above, a curtain parted slightly then closed, and the lights went out. Rudee jumped out of the cab, opened the back door, and stood waiting while a woman whisked from between the buildings and into the back seat. I turned to get my first look at the “queen of dreams.” I could barely focus on her face for the wild profusion of hair and scarves in the dim golden glow of Rudee’s cab.
“Sashay, this is ...” began Rudee.
“Mac,” she said in a whisper, “enchanté,” and extended a hand contained in a silky glove that travelled far up her sleeve.
“Hi,” was all I could manage as her eyes, located deep beneath waxy lashes, found mine.
Before we could go any further, Rudee hit the gas and pulled away, pushing “play” and filling the cab with the sound of a velvety male singer. In the mirror, Sashay looked like she was somewhere else. Rudee said nothing, so I thought I’d better do the same. We eased through the streets of St. Germain till we approached a cluster of cars and people standing in groups dressed for a night on the town, laughing and talking happily. On one side of a narrow passage, I could see the lights of the club gleaming on the polished steel and stone exterior. The sign read MOULIN D’OR and below it was a poster of Sashay surrounded by lights looking like she had just emerged from a silver cloud. The groups parted as we slowly drove past the entrance then stopped in front of an alley leading to the side of the building. Above a dimly lit doorway, I could just make out a sign that read STAGE DOOR. Sashay departed without a word and went in.
There was a man in a long black coat in the shadows by the door, standing very still. I might not have noticed him if it weren’t for the glow of the cigarette under the brim of his hat.
Seven
“There goes the most beautiful woman to have ever taken the stage in Paris or anywhere with curtains,” sighed Rudee as we drove away, “you can have your Coco LaFoie, your Tipi Chaussette.”
My mind was still on the smoking man by the stage door, but I could see that this was not the moment to mention it to Rudee. Another set of rain-slicked cobblestone streets later, we arrived at a café. Every car outside, all parked at odd angles to the curb, was a taxi. The blinking sign in the window of the smoky room said CAF TA; then I saw that with the burned-out letters lit up, it would have spelled CAFE TAXI. It was packed, bright, and very loud, and the smell of coffee and fresh pastry ruled. In one corner, someone was getting a shave and a haircut. Card playing, arm wrestling, and arguing contributed to the chaos. As Rudee looked for a table, he was spotted by some friends.
“Hey, Rudee, I’ve got some goose liver for you.”
“Did you bring the brie?”
The laughter was punctuated by more voices. “Hey, who’s that? Have you given up on the most beautiful woman to have ever taken the stage?”
“Business slow, Monsieur Rudee? Doing a little babysitting on the side?”
That was it for me. I stood up on a chair and shouted above the crowd, “He’s not my babysitter. Rudee’s my friend!”
This was greeted by some good-natured “ooolalas” and “wellwellwells,” and the crowd moved back to their drinks and on to other matters. Rudee looked the most surprised of all by my outburst. A tall, thin driver with a mop of hair escaping from a pork pie hat and a nose that looked like it could
