Half of me wants to hurry on to Lourdes, and half of me wants to hop on a plane bound for Japan where I can meet my father and my long-lost sibling Junpei. But before I do either of those things, I have to go to a party with Mom.
We’ve been invited to dinner with the gallery owner. To get to his apartment, we have to take a taxi and then an elevator that looks like a cage. It makes a ratchety sound as we go up, and for a second I’d rather be dragging my lame body up four flights of stairs than risk my life in that ancient box. But then the thing stops and we’re still in one piece. The door opens. We get off.
Mom pushes the light switch. Suddenly, a row of doors is brightly illuminated. The gallery owner lives at the end of the hall. I hobble along just behind Mom. We’re almost there when the light goes off.
“It’s called a minuterie,” Mom says. “The lights only stay on for about a minute. It saves electricity.”
“Hmm.” I grumble a little and wait for her to press the light switch again.
Mom waits for me to catch up and then presses the bell. The door opens almost immediately and we are welcomed by Madame Le Clerc, a bony woman with long, straight black hair. She looks kind of Goth, if you ask me. She’s so pale, I doubt she ever goes outside. She kisses Mom on each cheek, then takes a long look at me. “Ah,” she says. “La Muse!” and she does the same kiss-kiss thing to me.
I’m trying to be gracious here, so I nod a little—yeah, yeah, la muse, c’est moi—and then I lurch into the most beautiful apartment I’ve ever seen in my life.
The ceilings are high enough for palm trees, and the walls are covered with pleated burgundy fabric. Of course, there are paintings all over. It’s all dark and elegant and there are about a million vases around. They look old and Chinese and are probably worth more than our house. I’m worried that I will suddenly lose control of my arm or legs and knock them to the floor. “Uh, I think I’d better sit down,” I say to no one in particular.
Mom is brushing cheeks with the other people in the room. I make my way to a velvet sofa and sit down in the middle. It’ll take some work to get up again without an armrest to grab onto, but at least I’m out of range of the breakables. I try to make out what everyone is saying.
The guy with brown sideburns down to his chin is some sort of artist. I admire him for a minute, till another guy, this one with platinum-dyed hair, puts his arm around Sideburn’s waist. Oh well.
The woman with the chandelier earrings is the editor for some fashion magazine. Apparently she’s sending someone over to interview Mom in a couple of days.
The bald man waving a cigarette around is Monsieur Le Clerc, the gallery owner.
There’s nobody here my age, and no one is speaking English. But I’m okay as long as no one remembers me and starts raving about what a great inspiration I am.
Everyone pretty much ignores me until it’s time to sit at the table. Mom is seated way at the other end. She flutters her fingers at me, and mouths “Are you okay?”
I nod. She seems really happy.
A woman dressed in a maid uniform brings out the first course. It looks like some sort of meatloaf. “Qu’est-ce que c’est?” I ask under my breath, practicing one of the few phrases I’ve learned.
It’s been a while since anyone has noticed me, so I almost forget that I’m not invisible. I’m a little surprised when the artist guy on my left answers.
“It’s pâté,” he says. “Made from goose liver.”
“Oh, you speak English.”
“Un petit peu.” His smile is like a laser beam. I feel myself blush.
I’m trying to think of something clever to say, and then I get all nervous and my arm flails and knocks over his wine glass. The crystal tinkles against my plate and a big red splotch blossoms on the white damask tablecloth. It’s probably an heirloom. Definitely dry clean only.
I glance up at Mom and her mouth is an “o.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, sinking down in my seat. Right about now, I could really use a miracle. Remembering Saint Bernadette, I try to beam my thoughts across the country to Pau or the grotto at Lourdes, or wherever she is. Please please please let me disappear from this place, or at least make my arm behave for the rest of this trip. Either one would be fine. I wait for a zap or a tingle. Even a frisson. But nothing happens. I summon up the only other French phrase I seem to remember: “Je suis désolée.” I’ll be needing to say this one a lot.
Our hostess forces a smile and rings a little bell. The maid rushes in once again. The mess is cleaned up and we get on with our dinner. I am careful not to draw attention to myself for the rest of the meal.