Thirty-One

When I woke up the next morning in my little room with the curved wooden bed in the Église Russe, I truly had no idea where I was for a minute or so. Rain was rattling the roof of the turret and washing the windows in long streaks that seemed to make the colours of the stained glass run together. As I slowly woke up, I realized that I was going home today. I wasn’t sure when I had acquired the bandage on my throbbing ankle, but I knew where the injury had come from.

Then I heard laughter from downstairs, and I recognized Rudee’s and Dizzy’s voices. I lay back down and decided to take my time. I didn’t know how I was going to explain my absence on the tour, but I just couldn’t worry about it right away. I looked up at all the tiny carved angels on the bookshelf and the bed and smiled a silent thanks. Somebody had been watching over me in Paris. I finally said goodbye to my hideaway and made my way downstairs to the kitchen, where the two friends greeted me cheerfully. They now felt like old friends.

“Hey, she’s back. Good morning, little pillowhead.” Rudee grinned.

“Mac, ça va?” said Dizzy. “Hey, nice work on ‘Transatlantic Train’ last night. Maybe you want to sit in for Rudee if the Hacks go on tour. I think Monsieur Daroo’s going to be too busy to leave town now.”

He shot Rudee a meaningful glance.

“Oh, that’s just pork-pie steam, Mac, ignore him. So Sashay wants to see you off. Are you ready to spank the road?”

I packed up my few things. There was still room for my Sashay scarf from the party and my Tonnage T-shirt. I left the “Lighten Up” beret for Rudee. We said goodbye to Dizzy and rolled through the rainy streets one last time. Rudee pulled up in front of the Scarf Museum, and I noticed that they seemed to be making room for a new display in the window.

He handed me a tape of Vladimir Ughoman’s “Zamboni Variations,” performed by Vlatislav Ughoman on organ. He also attempted to press a small book of special beet and cabbage recipes on me for my mom. “Thanks, Rudee, but I’m pretty sure she has this one. I’ll enjoy the music, though. Who’s the organist?”

He sighed and paused before replying. “As long as you don’t start calling me Vlatislav, I’ll tell you. When I arrived in Paris as a child, I thought the immigration man asked where I was staying. He wanted to know my name, I guess. I told him Rue Daru, the little street with the Église Russe on it, and he wrote down Rudee Daroo.”

He gave me his most sheepish expression and most lovable. “Anyway,” he said brightly, “see you behind the back burner, little Mac.”

From the curb, I leaned in his window and said, “It’s not au revoir, Rudee, it’s eau de cologne.” It was my best attempt at a Rudeeism, and I did get a laugh from him.

I hurried in out of the rain, and Sashay was waiting for me in her lavender boudoir. She had the tea service ready and a plate of madeleine cookies.

After she poured me a cup, she presented me with a tiny silver swan tea set. Perfect, I thought. My gift to Penelope. “So will you go back to the club, now that the Shadows aren’t taking over?” I asked.

“Mmm, I don’t know, my little one. I have done my dance so many times now.” She gave me the famous pout, but it turned into a smile. “It might be time for something new.”

We walked arm in arm through the Marais, wrapped in our scarves, tossed like we didn’t care. If anyone thought we were an odd couple, we didn’t notice. As we crossed the river, there was Jerome haggling over the price of a set of miniature books of poetry. I said merci for all his help and asked him to say goodbye to the river rats for me. “I almost forgot, little voyageuse.” He handed me the duck’s head umbrella. Now my backpack was getting a bit full.

As we approached the Boulevard St. Michel and the place where I was to meet my group, Sashay paused and kissed me twice on each cheek. She whispered that she would see me soon and swept off into the crowd.

I spotted Mademoiselle Lesage on the sidewalk waving her hands in the midst of a group of eleven girls and eleven backpacks, the bus idling nearby. “Ah, there you are, Mac. Now we are all here.” She looked at my ankle. “I’m glad that you’re getting better, and I’m so sorry you weren’t able to join our walking tour.” Penelope smiled conspiratorially from the group. Mademoiselle Lesage pressed a book of architectural wonders of Paris into my hands. “Well, even if you didn’t get to see them firsthand, you can still learn something.”

I climbed into the seat beside Penelope. “I know, I owe you big time. I’m really sorry for missing the tour. You must have had a fantastic time.”

Penelope gave me a sympathetic look. “I can’t believe that you made it to Paris and didn’t see Les Invalides, the Marais, and especially le Bilbouquet, to say nothing of the eye of the beef windows! Was it miserable being with your dad’s cab driver friend? What did you do?”

“No, no, he was pretty cool. We didn’t do much. Ate, mostly. I should have caught up with you guys, but the days all kind of ran together, and Rudee, my dad’s friend, seemed to need the company. Sorry!”

Penelope pulled a copy of Le Parisien from her bag and opened it as the bus crossed the Seine. “It’s such a shame that you didn’t join us for Bastille Day. The Champs Élysées was incredible.” Penelope shot me one of her superior looks as she scanned the front page of the paper. I glanced over to see the photo of Magritte presenting me with the Pomme Verte above the story of my exploits on the roof of the cathedral. “Scarves suit you more than I would’ve thought. Here,” she said, handing me the paper. “I’ve already read this.”