Twenty-Seven

The crowd assembled in the square in Marseille, where it was mercifully warmer than it had been at the time of the launch of the Rally de Taxi two days earlier. Was it really two days ago? It felt like a half a lifetime to me. Leo and I sat beside Margot and Blag in a row with the other Partypoppers and Marauders drivers as the grandmaster hauled himself up onto the podium. The crowd, knowing what was to come, was subdued in its reaction, unlike the one at the launch of the event.

“How do you spell bogus?” muttered Blag to no one in particular.

“Congratulations to this year’s winner of the Rally de Taxi, the Champagne Supernovas. To accept the award, here is their captain, Anatole Belmondo.”

Holding a bottle of bubbly in the air and waving to his group of loyal followers, Belmondo milked the moment, bowing, accepting bouquets of roses and tossing his sunglasses into the crowd like a rock star with a bad tan job.

“I’d like to put a tarantula in his pudding,” said Margot.

Leo gave me an eyebrow signal and we quietly slipped away while Margot, Blag, and the other drivers expressed their discontent with the Supernovas’ victory.

“So, Maman is very curious as to how you managed to get to Saint-Paul de Vence after being so far behind in the race on day one,” said Leo with a sly smile.

“Ahh, oui, a good question,” I replied, “but of course, you’ll understand if our shortcut remains a little team secret of the Partypoppers.”

“Of course, Mac.”

“And the herd of sheep blocking the road,” I looked questioningly at him, “merely a random event favouring the mighty Marauders, I suppose?”

“Hmmm,” he hummed contemplatively, “very difficult to say. Sheep are such unpredictable creatures, you know.”

“Yes, I imagine. And that freak fog that derailed the Supernovas ... who could have foreseen that?”

“Truly bizarre, I agree,” he replied thoughtfully. “And what could be harder to forecast than the weather in the south of France?”

“And just for the record, how did you get underneath the tarp on DeFaux’s boat?”

Leo smiled. “I wasn’t going to let that cretin make off with you just after we’d met. When he saw you in the boat, he slowed ever so slightly and I grabbed a rope dangling in the water. And when you made your grab for his cane, I hauled myself out of the water and under the tarp.”

“Well, I’m very glad you did.” I sounded so awkward. “And thank you.”

Leo pushed his curls out of his eyes and looked at me without saying anything for a long time. “When you cut that fuel line with your friend’s bracelet ... you were my hero, Mac.”

I looked everywhere but back at Leo. Then he took my hand and kissed it.

“You know, there’s a big party tonight to celebrate catching the art attacker. And you’re the guest of honour, Mac.”

What would I tell Penelope?

The Bar de la Marine was the scene of the traditional party to wrap up the Rally de Taxi, and this year’s event was huge, given the national focus on the art attacker. DeFaux had been dispatched to a local jail, awaiting transportation to Paris in the morning. I almost felt sorry for him, having to get by in some damp, grubby quarters in a Marseille police station without his beloved Louis the Sixteenth furniture and his fancy booze, but I soon let that thought go as the party got underway. The TV lights shone brightest on the supposed rally victor.

“Monsieur Belmondo …” Louise was once again interested in the results of the rally, a little too interested, I thought. “Your victory was, to say the least, unconventional. How did it come about?”

Belmondo shrugged with false humility. “What can I say, Louise, sometimes destiny takes over and leads us to places we dared not imagine. Like here. Tonight. And for me, just to be speaking with you.”

Louise fluttered her eyelashes but tried to maintain her professional demeanour.

“But Monsieur Belmondo, your team appeared to have been eliminated from the rally and then, voilà! You were the winners. Quite a turnaround, non?”

“I must express my utmost respect for the drivers from the Bordeaux Bombes, the Parisian Partypoppers, and the mighty Marseille Marauders, who somehow fell just shy of achieving victory. I also offer my eternal gratitude to my spiritual advisor, Dr. Etienne Brouillard, who unfortunately could not be here tonight to share this moment of glory due to a previous commitment at an all-you-can-eat fois gras festival in Alsace.”

Louise seemed to find this fascinating as Belmondo winningly ran his hands through his hair.

“More on this incredible victory later, but back to you, Stephane.”

Louise turned away from the camera and stood very close to Belmondo, who was clearly enjoying his moment of glory.

“You know, Monsieur Bel ... may I call you Anatole, I love your team uniform, and the helmet with the bubbles says so much about the man wearing it, if I may be so bold.”

“Perhaps we could rendezvous a little later, Louise,” Belmondo cooed. “You know, I’ve always enjoyed your news reports for so much more than just the news. Your smile, and perhaps especially, your hair….”

At this point Louise noticed that the camera light was still on and hastily made a the “cut” sign with her hand on her throat, too late, unfortunately. The nation had observed the previous exchange.

Margot and Blag were watching this on the TV at the bar and clinking glasses, laughing raucously. Just then there was a commotion as a pair of gendarmes escorted Magritte into the bar with much pomp, accompanied by my parents!

How much did they know? I saw my mom’s beaming expression. Not much, it would seem.

Mom rushed over and embraced me, giving me little Parisian air kisses. When my mom commits to a cultural experience, she goes all the way.

“Bonjour, ma petite,” my dad jovially called out, although it sounded more like “banjo appetite.” Fortunately, I was used to auto-correcting Rudee, so this was no problem.

“We had to surprise you, Mac,” said my mom, holding my shoulders in that “look how you’ve grown” style. Well, it had been a whole two days since I’d seem them. “When we saw the gorgeous view from the train of the south of France I was so jealous of you cruising through the countryside, letting the breeze blow through your hair, stopping for Camembert and a baguette and chatting in your perfect French with the locals.”

“Well, it was kind of like that, Mom. Although I think that baguettes may be out of season. But definitely lots of breeze.” I thought about my ride in the motorcycle sidecar.

“And the fog in the harbour looks so mystical, doesn’t it, sweetie?” My dad gave me his best dad hug, this time with a look of sympathy. “Sorry you guys didn’t win the rally. I guess the competition was pretty tough.” He grinned and nodded toward Belmondo, who was taking a victory lap of the room.

The din level was building when a squawk of feedback got everyone’s attention.

“Allo, merry crackers!” Who else? Rudee grabbed a microphone on a tiny stage with a little keyboard. “Congratulations to the bubbleheads on their victory in the taxi rally.” Was this meant to be sarcastic? “But next year, watch out for the Partypoppers zooming to victory!” A roar went up from the Paris contingent and was met with an equally enthusiastic “Noooo!” from the Marauders camp, joined by their local supporters. Musical instruments appeared and The Hacks assembled on the crowded stage. In the midst of the mayhem, Magritte approached me and extended his hand.

“You have, once again, Mademoiselle Mac, my gratitude, and indeed that of the art-loving populace, who when faced with the drabness of daily existence, look to the timeless works of the creative spirit that lives within all of us, but finds its fullest flowering ...”

I hope Magritte didn’t see my eyes glazing over. It was pretty dark in the Bar de la Marine.

“I’m sure you understand why, for security reasons, your most considerable contributions to the apprehension of the art attacker must remain unrecognized publicly.”

“Of course, Inspector Magritte,” I said. “I just did what any kid would do.”

Magritte smiled and extracted a small box from his raincoat. Tipping his bowler hat to me, he silently handed me the box. I looked around, and since no one seemed to be taking note of our little exchange, I opened the box and there was the Stella mini Fossil watch that had appeared on Mona Lisa’s wrist.

“It was among DeFaux’s effects,” said Magritte, “and it would just collect dust in a police evidence locker. That seemed like a waste of a good timepiece.”

I knew where this souvenir would be going. “Merci, Monsieur Magritte.”

A boisterous cheer went through the crowd as my dad joined The Hacks for one of their signature songs. I think it was “Onion Heart” but it just as easily might have been “Stinkbomb Serenade.” Then I saw an unfortunate sight. A group of drivers from all the teams was standing in a circle clapping as my mom and Dizzy did the tree dance that I’d witnessed at Sashay and Rudee’s wedding party. Why is it that every day for parents is just one more opportunity for victory in the embarrassment Olympics? I slipped out into the street, where I encountered Leo, leaning against a taxi and strumming his guitar in the cool evening air.

“I wondered where you’d gotten to,” I said.

“Too much fun for me in there.”

“What were you playing?”

“Nothing much. I’m always working on something new.” He strummed distractedly and I wondered how he could see what he was doing with those curls falling into his eyes.

“Well, I have to go home tomorrow. It would be nice to hear one farewell song.”

He hesitated and then shrugged and began to play and sing. I remember the opening line.

“There’s a girl from California …”

And the rest is a bit hazy.