In the days following the Mona discovery, the press had a field day. CRIME TIME blared the Le Devoir newspaper in bold letters. MONA BALOGNA said Le Figaro, and in an exclusive interview with Art World, the former director of the Louvre, Raoul DeFaux, recently replaced in a power struggle, hastened to point out that this heinous assault on beauty and history would never have occurred while he was director. “Not on my watch,” said the saucy quote! Speculation on the motive for the theft, as much as on the identity of the perpetrator, ran wild in Paris. Every Métro car rumbling between stations, every park bench decorated by pigeons, every café steaming with witty conversation was abuzz with the subject. Christmas came a distant second.
Except in a certain hotel room at the Hôtel Costes. I’d been so energized by the wedding, the party, and especially the trip to the Louvre, that I couldn’t sleep, so in Penelope’s honour I cut out paper angels and hung them across the room. After a festive and extremely cream-filled holiday breakfast, my mom and dad were in a serious post-pastry pre-nap stupor. I was getting restless, all that sugar having had the opposite effect on me, when my brand new, ultra-cool cell phone rang with my signature tune, “Taxi Girl” by Zen Garage. It was too early to be Penelope, who was no doubt deep asleep in Lower Mandeville nine time zones away.
“Joyeux Noël, Mademoiselle Mac!” Rudee sang out. “Did Snappy Claus come to your hotel room with his eight tiny oxen last night?”
I laughed and mouthed “Rudee” to the ’rents, who were rapidly losing the eyelid wars.
“Don’t you and Sashay have to be on your way to Nice soon?” I asked, taking an opportunity to check the time on my new phone.
“Yes, that’s why I’m calling you, little Mac. Dizzy wants you to see us off at the air salon.”
“Hang on, Rudee.” I gave the bed a little shake. “Rudee wants to know if I can see them off. Dizzy’s driving.”
“Sure, honey,” my mom mumbled, “say au revoir for me.”
“And bon appetit,” my dad managed before passing out.
I hung up and grabbed my new and also ultra- cool pink denim jacket and Penelope’s bracelet, reasoning that the colour would lessen my fashion crime in her eyes. Waving to two sets of sleeping feet, I closed the door gently and headed for the street, wondering why the hallway of our totally chic hotel had to look like an abandoned tunnel.
Paris hadn’t been able to manage a white Christmas, but the pearly grey rain didn’t dampen the dreamy beauty of the rue Faubourg St. Honoré. A few flaneurs, as the French refer to their aimless strollers, ambled past the holiday windows of the shops. The spell was broken by the arrival of Dizzy’s cab in front of the hotel. Bertrand, the doorman, pretended not to notice the trombone-shaped exhaust pipes as he held the door for me.
Sashay and Rudee were cuddling in the back and Dizzy and I exchanged bemused looks.
“Well, well, well,” said Dizzy with a raised eyebrow, “the famous Hôtel Costes. Does the thirty-euro croissant amande taste better?”
“Not sure about that, but it’s definitely cool. Johnny Depp was in the bar last night surrounded by a herd of towering model types. I couldn’t actually see him but I did take a photo on my new phone of the place where he was standing last night. Look!”
“No talking about pirates, please,” said Rudee, “we’re going to be sailing on a cruise control ship for a week, and you know the stories.”
I could never be sure if Rudee was aware of his wacky Rudee-isms or not, but I had to admit they were making more and more sense to me. Was this a good thing?
“I have one ‘au revoir’ and one ‘bon appetit,’ which I think was supposed to be a ‘bon voyage,’ to deliver. Oh yes, and a ‘bonne Noël’ from me.”
“Merci, Mac,” said Sashay, “and I have un petit cadeau for you.” She handed me a slender silver package with a bow tied to resemble a rose. The French certainly know about presentation, I thought. Inside was a delicate scarf, also in silver, with a wing-like pattern in rose that went perfectly with my outfit du jour. Good heavens, listen to me. When did clothing become an “outfit”? I was sounding way too much like Penelope. Next I’d be scanning the sidewalks and cafés for tousle-haired garçons.
“Bonjour, mes chauffeurs!” Madeleine’s crusty voice crackled through the taxi radio, sounding not at all like her normally cheery self. “I have distressing news. Another of our national treasures has been discovered to be a fake. There is a swarm of flies at the D’Orsay investigating. Mon Dieu. What next, mes amis?” With a tone of exasperation, she signed off. “Try to have a joyeux Noël.”
“Dizzy,” Rudee said forcefully, “we must see for our own selves.”
“But what can we do?” said Dizzy. “And what about your flight?” He glanced at Sashay in the rear-view mirror, hoping to appeal to her good sense. She pursed her lips in the famous French “moue,” as they called it, her good sense telling her that it was useless to oppose Rudee at this moment. I sat in silence in the passenger seat, knowing where this was going, and more than a little curious to see the Musée D’Orsay, which I’d missed on my last trip to Paris.
“No sweating, Dizzy,” said Rudee, “take rue de Rivoli all the way. It’s empty like a bird’s nest on Christmas Day.”
“Sweet. We could drive by the Louvre, right?” Dizzy glared at me. “I love the I.M. Pei pyramid!”
“That’s right, Mac.” Rudee beamed with pride at my taxi drivers’ knowledge of Paris. “You see, Dizz, how she will steer Blag in the rally.”
“Hmmm, yes, I hope. Might I mention that the Orly airport is in the opposite direction?” Dizzy tried to get Rudee’s attention but was ignored, so he shrugged and hit the accelerator, sending a twin blast of exhaust into the quiet Paris morning.
The Musée D’Orsay, a former train station, is a beautiful Left Bank landmark, across the river from the Tuileries Gardens and an éclair’s throw from the Eiffel Tower. The third floor of the museum houses the world’s most amazing collection of Impressionist paintings — Cezannes and Monets rub shoulders with Toulouse-Lautrec’s and the portrait of Whistler’s mom. Is my French art appreciation class showing? Something told me that this was where we were heading, and I felt excitement at seeing it mixed with dread at the thought of what a thief might have made off with.
Rudee avoided the growing scrum in front of the main entrance and confidently guided us toward a rear door. Inside, the great hall of the old train station was empty, but it was easy to imagine it filled with travellers at the beginning of the twentieth century. Now it held an incredible collection of sculpture by Rodin, the guy who created The Thinker and others. A lone gendarme stood at the bottom of the stairs to the upper floors. He met Rudee with a stony expression.
“Oui?”
“Magritte,” said Rudee with an equally serious look as he flashed something from his pocket. The guard, eyeing us suspiciously, allowed this odd group to pass. He couldn’t resist a glance of admiration at Sashay as she whisked past in a lavender breeze.
“What did you show him?” I asked.
Rudee grinned slyly and showed me a business card with a picture of a man in a suit and bowler hat with an apple in front of his face. Okay, weird, I thought, but ...
“The Belgian artist, Rene Magritte’s self-portrait. Only Inspector Magritte’s closest friends have one,” Rudee said proudly. “Here, Mac, you squeeze on to this one.”
Magritte was in full contemplation, hands clasped behind his back, when we got to the third floor of the D’Orsay. Small groups of officials, police, and museum employees hovered, nervously whispering amongst themselves. I looked around in awe at an entire room dedicated to the paintings of the Dutch genius, Vincent Van Gogh. Starry Night, the couple sleeping in the hay, the self-portraits — I’d seen them all in books, but seeing them in front of my eyes was something else. Magritte stood motionless in front of one of the most famous of all the works, Van Gogh’s Bedroom in Arles, a painting of his humble little room with its table and chairs, a pitcher, a towel, and the bed with its red blanket and ... hey, I’d never noticed that before.
Dizzy, Rudee, and Sashay seemed befuddled as Magritte arched an eyebrow, steepled his fingers, and slowly leaned in toward the canvas.
“Isn’t that cute, there’s a little chocolate on the pillow,” I exclaimed a bit too loudly, realizing in that moment that there should not be a chocolate on the pillow of the bed of Van Gogh’s Bedroom in Arles. Definitely not.
Magritte closed his eyes and nodded rhythmically. “Oui, Mademoiselle Mac, un petit chocolat....”
I leaned in next to Magritte for a closer look. “In the shape of an earlobe,” I whispered, slowly making the connection with the legendary tale of the artist cutting off a piece of his own ear in a fit of madness.
Dizzy, Rudee, and Sashay stood, mouths agape, like children waiting for a little Christmas bonbon to be deposited on their tongues.