We hop on and off buses to confuse anyone who’s following us, and one hour later, we are standing under the Eiffel Tower – a tower that I’m familiar with, as I have a scale model at Tapley made from eighty thousand burnt matches. It was built by my Uncle Graham, who lives in a caravan with his executive personal assistant, an albino guinea pig named Simon (although I would suggest that Simon is really more just a pet).
‘Mon Dieu,’ says Chase, looking up through the lattice of girders that appear to soar upwards forever. ‘I don’t know why they call it the Awful Tower, George. It looks all right to me.’
I would classify that remark as incredibly culturally insensitive.
‘If that’s your idea of a joke, Chase,’ I mutter, ‘I’m not sure our French friends would find it very funny. And if the relatives of Gustave Eiffel, the designer, happened to be picnicking in the area – and that’s not out of the question – imagine how they’d feel?’
Chase laughs. ‘How did I ever get on at school without you, George?’
‘Let’s find the stairs and go up,’ says Isobel, holding Amy. ‘It’ll be fun.’
So, on a magnificent steel staircase dappled by sunshine and shadows, we set off upwards.
‘Hey, Georgie,’ says Chase, after about ten minutes of climbing, ‘this Eiffel Tower’s certainly giving us an eyeful of Paris now. Look how high we are. Imagine if I fell off?’
Right! I am determined to put an end to these insensitive comments about this elegant monument.
‘Chase,’ I say, choosing my words with great care, ‘regarding the Eiffel Tower, I’ve had my fill—’ No, that’s not going to work. ‘I feel—’ Darn, I did it again. ‘I’ve had more than enough of your awful Eiffel—’ Oh, I give up.
We arrive at an observation deck far above the ground. Below, Paris spreads in all directions like a pale-coloured tapestry. Usually I’m terrified of heights, but the caffeine in my system has diminished my nervousness to a point where I feel quite fine.
‘Ever thought you could fly, Chase?’ I imagine gliding over to England, perhaps popping into a tearoom and stirring things up by ordering a pot of coffee. ‘Sometimes it really does seem possible.’
Chase grabs my arm. ‘You’re under the influence of sugar and caffeine, Georgie-boy. A cup of coffee can’t defy gravity, and neither can you.’
I shake his hand off. ‘I know that! This is all to do with the imagination and nothing to do with coffee. Although if there’s a cup going, I wouldn’t say no.’ I look around. ‘Surely there must be a machine or something? What’s wrong with these people?’
‘You’ve had too much already,’ says Isobel. ‘And don’t give me any more of that not business. Because I am not listening.’
I don’t reply, as my razor-sharp senses have detected some extremely suspicious-looking characters arriving on our deck.
‘The enemy,’ I hiss, ‘is here!’
It’s Roland, wearing yellow pants, a lavender shirt and pink jacket, with a handgun in a shoulder holster! Beside him, in blue overalls and carrying mops, are Katerina and Olga, followed by some musicians with bongos and an accordion, which is confusing.
My mind is racing; Olga has the lift covered, Katerina the stairs, and Roland is coming my way.
‘Chase,’ I whisper, ‘I’ll get their attention while you take Isobel and Amy down the tower. We’ll meet in the Eiffel Trifle, Coffee and Truffle cafe across the road. Order me a double-shot short long black.’ I have a sudden thought. ‘No, make it a triple. See you soon.’
Chase pokes me hard in the chest. ‘You’re supposed to be smart, George. Don’t do anything stupid.’
‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘I was xylophone class safety monitor for five years. In all that time, no one ever forgot their ear plugs, suffered concussion, or developed a repetitive strain injury. Now go!’
An accordion begins to play a swirling gypsy melody that interfaces with the creative centre of my coffee-sensitised brain, sending me twirling like a talented tornado to leap up onto the rail. The crowd is amazed! And so am I, just quietly.
‘Ooh-lah-lah!’
Oh my goodness, I think, looking down. But this is Georgie-boy’s time to shine!
I do a dazzling coffee-fuelled run along a girder. And when the music abruptly stops, so do I – luckily, as there’s nowhere else to go but down.
‘Grab zat monkey-boy!’ Roland yells. ‘’Iz danzing iz diszrezpecting French pipple! I am polizeman drezzed in paztel colourz and ’ee iz awful Oztralian, pozzibly Ned Kellee, who zteal zheep and pud ’im in a tuckair bag bezide billybonk!’
I swing up onto another girder. ‘That’s racism, Roland!’ I yell. ‘Besides, you’re not a policeman but a mediocre magician. And I would never be unkind to sheep. In fact, I favour wool over any synthetic fibre you can name! I would also consider vegetarianism, but unfortunately it’s outlawed at my school!’
The music starts, and this time it’s a traditional Jewish folk song called ‘Hava Nagila’, which starts slowly then gets faster. And as the crowd claps, I make a charge towards the lift. But Roland blocks my exit, shouting.
‘Ziz Gheorge-rat muzt be arrezted! Ze tuckair bag ’az no air holes. Ze sheeps, ’ee ’az nightmarez about zis!’
‘Let us sing,’ I sing. ‘Let us rejoice! With a happy heart!’ Which is truly how I feel, because Isobel and Chase have snuck away, and now I can make my dash for freedom. Well, I could’ve, until I see that Amy has come back to look for me!
Actually, no. She’s chasing a huge black rat that sends people running in all directions, which fortunately results in the crowd pinning Roland into a corner and pushing Olga and Katerina back into the lift – leaving me free to grab Amy, who has seized the rat, and down the stairs we go!
I leave the rat safe and sound in the souvenir shop, blend into the passing parade of people, and then make my way into rather dimly lit Eiffel Trifle, Coffee and Truffle cafe on the boulevard.
‘Pssst! Over here, George!’
In a dark corner, under old coach lamps, I see Isobel and Chase. This cafe is a wonderful little place, made of ancient black timber, with a sprinkling of rather varied customers.
‘Whew-ee.’ I collapse onto the worn leather seat. ‘I can’t believe I did that. I normally hate heights.’ When I was small, instead of a treehouse, I had a house-tree, which was a little cubby on the ground built around a tree that had been disinfected and cling-wrapped. ‘So,’ I say. ‘What d’you think the coffee’s like here?’
‘You don’t need any more coffee,’ Isobel says firmly.
I feel a little disappointed. ‘Perhaps I could have one of those green drinks, then? That all these other people are having? I’d say they’d be a pea or bean-based beverage, Isobel. Very healthful.’
Again, Isobel heads me off. ‘No, George,’ she whispers. ‘They’re drinking absinthe. It’s a potent kind of a drug. Or it used to be, in France in the old days.’
Well, I certainly won’t be having that because, along with polyester pants and plastic supermarket bags, Parkers do not do drugs!
Chase looks around. ‘We’re safe in here,’ he says. ‘Because of how we look. This is an artists’ cafe. You know, writers, painters, poets, all those nutty sorts of people. No tourists.’
From a rear door, I see a large lady in a green dress and black jacket bring in a tray loaded with bowls and bread. She comes to our table and puts the tray down.
‘Bon appétit,’ she murmurs, her dark eyes flashing, her gold earrings swinging. ‘Welcome to you, the artists.’
‘Merci, madame.’ Isobel holds out a twenty euro note, which the lady waves away. ‘Non, merci, madame. Your necklace.’ She points to one of the glass necklaces that Isobel made in hospital in New York. ‘Trade.’
The necklace is made of big chunks of old ginger-coloured glass joined with some kind of silver chain. Isobel gives it to the lady, who puts it in a pocket then rubs Isobel’s pale hands in her own, which are weighed down by rings with red and green stones.
‘Now, as well as beautiful soup, you have good luck.’ The lady looks at Isobel intently. ‘Where are you sleeping tonight?’
‘L’Hotel Geranium,’ Isobel replies.
The lady nods. ‘Ah, good. I organise you safely home in a few minutes.’
‘Great,’ Chase says. ‘Thank you, madame.’
The lady walks away, we begin on our meal, and the noise in the cafe rises.
‘This is what the real Paris used to be like,’ Chase says. ‘Full of artists, actors, writers, ghosts, and mystery. Like, check this cat out.’
A wild-looking young man comes into the cafe. He holds a three-cornered hat, his black hair curls to his shoulders, and he has on a long leather coat and tall boots. He strides to our table.
‘I take you to L’Hotel Geranium,’ he says. ‘Luludja, the Romani queen, has ordered it.’
The lady in green nods from behind the bar.
‘Oui,’ Luludja says. ‘Go with Tommy. He can be trusted.’
Isobel shrugs. ‘It’s probably safer leaving with someone these people know than getting on the bus or train. Roland will be sure to be watching the underground stations and stops around here.’
‘Good enough for me,’ says Chase, so we quietly make our exit.
Outside, a thick fog swirls slowly through the night-dark trees. The Eiffel Tower is a haunting four-legged presence disappearing into an unseen sky. Standing in deep shadow, I see four black horses and a black carriage with golden lamps.
‘Far out!’ Chase claps. ‘That is so cool! Let’s go.’
So we climb into the coach. There is a sound of jangling and iron horseshoes striking hard stone, and we are off into the cold, misty, and mysterious Parisian evening. And although there are no safety belts fitted or a colourful brochure to pass the time, we make it safely back to L’Hotel Geranium on Tommy’s tourist coach via the romantic backstreets of the City of Light that is currently quite dark. Then we watch the rattling black coach and black horses disappear into the fog and silence returns.
‘Now, George,’ says Chase. ‘Do you think that would’ve happened if we’d stayed home?’