The streets were clogged with Bastille Day revellers, but my mind was racing as Blag’s cab crawled through the crowds up the hill to Montmartre. Flags were flying from every building, and parades of all sizes wound their way along sidewalks full of people. Kids in painted faces, musicians, jugglers, dancers, and dogs in ridiculous costumes all added to the happy feeling of a summer celebration. The local fire halls were decorated with flowers and streamers for the evening’s dances. Slumped in the seat beside a silent Blag, who for once seemed to have forgotten his ear-shattering music collection, I felt it was up to me to devise a plan to stop Louche’s Bastille Day nightmare. Maybe Rudee, together with the Hacks and Sashay, had slowed things down a little by distracting the Shadows, but I knew it wasn’t enough. And the police, the ones who were supposed to prevent this kind of madness, what about them? If Magritte, nice enough to be sure, was an example of the art of crime prevention, then Paris had some dark days ahead.
“Okay, Cal Gal, this is it. Want me to hang in?”
Blag indicated the old stone tower that served as Madeleine’s office on a street behind the Sacre Coeur church. There was a bright light shining on the top floor. “If you don’t mind. I have to talk to Madeleine, but I really need your help.”
“Yeah, alright, but I’m not going up. She’s still lathered about me cranking up Malade and cruising past the Pope during his speech. Can you believe it?”
Looking for the stairs, instead I found a ramp that wound to the top of the tower. From above I could hear the crackle of the taxi radio system and occasionally Madeleine’s voice barking out instructions. I called up, “Madeleine? Hello? It’s me, Rudee’s friend Mac.”
“Ah, little Mac, come up, ma petite. I’ve been waiting to meet you.”
The top of the ramp opened onto a circular room that overlooked all of Paris. The view was majestic. Madeleine swung around from her microphone at the centre of a large console, featuring an electronic map of the city, and waved me over with a giant smile. Then I noticed her wheelchair and understood the need for the ramp.
Up close, she was a pudding of happy wrinkles and silver hair springing in random directions. She planted a couple of gooey, ruby-coloured kisses on my cheeks and looked me over. “Ahh, but you’re just une jeune fille, aren’t you? Here.”
She handed me a bowl of strawberries, and I couldn’t say no. “What do you think of my chariot? This year’s model, mes chauffeurs bought it for me for Christmas.”
Madeleine indicated her gleaming wheelchair and proceeded to give me a demonstration of its impressive moves, gliding back and forth across her little room, spinning and stopping effortlessly. “I can see by your face that you have more on your mind than a little visit, ma petite. What is it?”
I drew in a deep breath and started my story once more, not wanting to waste time, and hoping she’d believe a tale that sounded crazy even to me. “Madeleine, do you know where all your drivers are, and can you contact them at any time?”
“Bien sur, of course,” she replied and wheeled over to her map, which showed a system of little orange lights moving through every part of Paris. “Les voila, and I feel like I can almost see them out of my window on the world. Beautiful, non?”
It was indeed glorious, but I couldn’t stop to admire the view.
“Do you have access to other information on your map ... like the entrances to the sewer system?”
She smiled at me, swung her chair around with a tiny whirr, and tapped on a keyboard until a different set of lights showed up on the map. I rushed through my story and the plan that was formulating as I went along. There was no time to lose. Within twenty minutes, a cluster of cabs was gathering at the top of Montmartre in a jumble that must have blocked any attempt at passage through the area, although I doubted if anyone cared in the city that night. I could hear the laughter and music pouring out of windows everywhere as I ran into the midst of the drivers. Madeleine’s voice cut through the night air on a couple hundred cab radios.
“Listen, mes amis. Tonight, Paris needs us for much more than our wheels. The city needs our hearts, our courage, and all the light that we have to shine into some very dark places. Listen to little Miss Mac and then make me proud, mes chauffeurs.”
I climbed up on one trombone-shaped exhaust pipe, and Dizzy hoisted me up on top of his cab, as all the drivers stood beside their cars to listen. Just as I finished, our heads all turned at once to witness the first burst of crackling fireworks filling the July sky above the Trocadero. A city-wide cheer had erupted and was rolling like a wave from window to window when suddenly all the lights in the city went out.