Lily B. On The Brink Of Paris Part 4

"What?" I asked her. "Did I fall asleep again? Oh, G.o.d, was I drooling?"

"No drool," Charlotte replied.

Yay!

"So what's on the books for tomorrow? No wax museums or Hard Rock Cafe, I hope. I can't handle any more of the Simple Tourist Life. My stomach is about to explode!"

"I worry about you, Lily," Charlotte said.

There is little worse in life than when your best friend starts channeling your mother.

"Is this about the chili dog and the lollipop? Because I'm really fine now. Honest."

"I'm serious," Charlotte said.

Of course she was. Charlotte was always serious.

"Why would you be worried about me?" I asked.

"Because, Lily Blennerha.s.set, you're scatterbrained. You aren't always going to have a personal a.s.sistant to fill you in on what's happening. Your life isn't always going to have easy-to-read instructions printed on the side of the box. Take a little control over the details of your life. You'll need them when you've become a Great Writer."

"Is that all? Jeez, Charlotte, you scared me for a minute. I thought maybe I had a new nose growing out of the back of my head, or something."

"It's never too soon to start, Lily. Read a map. Reference a guidebook. Locate your information pack."

I gave Charlotte my brightest smile. "When I could never possibly improve upon the organizational skills of my best friend, the keen and coolly brilliant Charlotte McGrath, Future Corporate Executive and World Leader, who is always at my side?"

Charlotte just shook her head.

"But that's the thing, Lily. I won't always be at your side."

"Are we talking about college? Because that's YEARS away," I said. "Besides which, I still think we stand a very good chance of finding a college that offers both a world-cla.s.s corporate education AND an outstanding creative writing program. We'll be roommates!"

Charlotte smiled.

"That would be cool, Lily. But what if we're not? You have to stop relying on me so much. I don't mean to hurt your feelings, but you flounder when I'm not around. Or worse. Remember when I went away to Young Executive Camp last summer? You were on your own for what, three weeks? And what happened?"

Oh, come on. It wasn't THAT bad. There was that little problem with hotel security, true. There was at some point police involvement. And, okay, there was the lawsuit, and the depositions, and the attorneys. Some trouble with inappropriate credit card use. Oh yeah, and a brush with Blennerha.s.set Bankruptcy and Ruination. But then everything got fixed. Around the time...around the time that Charlotte came home.

It was obviously time for an Abrupt Subject Change.

"I totally forgot to ask how your Unilever stock was doing!" I exclaimed.

Charlotte had purchased some stock with her own money and pa.s.sionately followed its ups and downs in the newspaper. It was a subject we both knew perfectly well she could not resist discussing. And technically it was a Detail. I had Oriented a Detail.

"Well, actually, I was just reading about that," Charlotte said, rattling her Wall Street Journal for emphasis. "The effect of corn growth on the world market just boggles the mind."

I listened with enthusiasm, though Charlotte's animated discussion of the impact of rainfall on long-term interest rates was something we both knew I could never even vaguely understand. Instead, I just enjoyed watching Charlotte in her element. I didn't need to be able to understand the stock market to know how smart Charlotte was. I didn't need to know what a pork belly future was to see that Charlotte already knew what she wanted to do in life, that she was going to be aces at it, and that her work would make her happy.

How I admire Charlotte McGrath.

Through the window I could see French things speeding by in a blur. The sun was low in the sky. I realized once again how thoroughly exhausted I was. And absolutely no closer to beginning the Great Parisian Novel. Maybe tomorrow I would find some gems and nuggets. I realized Charlotte hadn't answered my questions about our upcoming agenda, so I still had no idea where we were going tomorrow. But I certainly wasn't going to ask Charlotte again. She was positively glowing after her a.n.a.lysis of the effect of corn products on Unilever's stock price. Tomorrow would just have to be a surprise. I'd follow everybody like I always do, and when we got where we were going, I'd know where we were.

Really, what could be simpler?

FROM THE PARISIAN DIARY OF.

Lily M. Blennerha.s.sett

Ah, Paris. How like a carnival! How it leaves one feeling giddy and breathless as a child!

Five.

As it turned out, I didn't need Charlotte for information about what the next day had in store for us. Madame Chavotte paid us a visit in our room before breakfast and told us repeatedly that she had booked us on a group tour at Paris's most famous museum, the Louvre, beginning at one P.M. sharp. Yay! Educational, and GUARANTEED to provide gems and nuggets! Although having not read the sheet in the information packet, I could only a.s.sume this to be the case.

We would have the morning to ourselves and would be permitted to explore our neighborhood WITH THE STRICT PROVISION that we remain all together or in two groups, boys and girls. No one, for any reason, was to become Separated from the Group. We were to take the bus or the metro to the museum, using the map and directions provided in our information packets. Or in my case, the map and directions provided in Charlotte's information packet. There we would a.s.semble by what Madame Chavotte called "ze glesspairmeed," which both Charlotte and Janet claimed to understand. Because of what Charlotte had said on the train last night, I didn't ask her what "ze glesspairmeed" was. I didn't want another lecture. All would become known to me in good time, I figured. Like Bonnie always said, the Universe revealed everything to us when we most needed it.

We were standing outside the VEI as Madame Chavotte reviewed the instructions for the fourth time. She had intensified her tone so that she sounded more like she was auditioning for a yodeling contest than performing her chaperoning duties.

"Okay, zen, if you MUST spleet up, you go in TWO GROUPS ONLY. Ze boys wis ze boys, ze girls wis ze girls, ca va? Do NOT GET SEPARATED FROM ZE GROUP. Eet ees absolument forbeeden. Eef you break zis rule, forget eet. No more Paree. No more nussing! We will cancel everysing. No more treeps ever. D'accord? Good. Okay. At lunchtime, you are taking le metro or le bus to the Louvre, where we will all meet at ze glesspairmeed at exactly one P.M. Comprenez?"

Everyone nodded energetically. After yodeling the same set of instructions one final time, Madame Chavotte reluctantly released us. As instructed, we separated into two groups and dispersed like a flock of carrier pigeons suddenly freed in the wild. Well, the girls did at least. I looked back to see the boys standing around, looking genuinely flummoxed. Bud and Chaz were taking tentative steps back and forth. Lewis, polishing his Sidekick case with his shirt, looked like he was trying to figure out a way to come with us. And the Mysterious Tim was missing altogether, the unfortunate victim, apparently, of a stomach virus. Or maybe he did the chili-dog-before-the-ride thing at Disneyland Paris too. Though I'd never even made eye contact with Tim (that I was aware of), I couldn't help feeling sorry for him-blowing chow on vacation in Paris. But Charlotte was already blazing a path down the street, and there was no time to offer them helpful suggestions. We had to take care of ourselves. Or rather, we had to let Charlotte take care of us. Which at this moment involved running down the street after her.

"Where are we going?" I called to Charlotte. I had to practically jog to catch up with her. Janet was plodding clumsily beside me, out of breath, but Bonnie had somehow managed to get way up ahead, drifting like a medieval apparition with her long, straw-colored hair streaming behind her.

"You absolutely must see Victor Hugo's house, Lily," Charlotte said, "and of course we can't miss the Pompidou. If we hurry, we might even have time to stop into the Musee Carnavalet before heading over to the Louvre."

It was really rather alarming how Charlotte knew about all these places, their hours of operation, and how to get there on foot. When Charlotte acted like this-like some kind of Madame-Chavotte-in-Training-I had to remember her loyalty, her sweetness, and her commitment to me. Even though she'd been positively parental with me last night, I knew that most of Charlotte's lectures were intended for the Benefit, Education, and Advancement of Lily M. Blennerha.s.sett, a charity to which I myself was quite partial. Worry though she might, Charlotte believed in me. She believed I was a Great Writer, that I was going to become an even Greater Writer, and that I was fully capable of penning the Great Parisian Novel. Charlotte always stuck with me, through thick and thin. She helped me believe in myself. So if she was being kind of bossy, that was just fine with me.

Plus, I couldn't imagine ANYTHING more important, more inspiring, more legitimately Parisian than visiting the actual home of that genius ecrivain, author of the masterpiece Les Miserables, Victor Hugo. It absolutely went without saying that the bona fide home of this Universally Acknowledged Literary Great would be bursting at the seams with gems and nuggets for my Mental Pool. Just standing within those four walls, breathing that literary air, would probably inspire me to write the first sentence of my Great Parisian Novel!

I trotted alongside Charlotte happily, while Janet brought up the rear. But then we found ourselves deviating from the plan.

Charlotte started to cross the street, yet Bonnie was walking really fast-almost flying, in fact-down the Rue de Turenne. She looked, Dear Readers, like she was on a Mission from G.o.d.

"Bonnie! Bonnie, it's this way!" Charlotte called. Janet had caught up with us and was panting and heaving, muttering that we all walked trop vite and we needed to slow down a little and enjoy la vie. But there was no time to stand around gasping for air and listening to Janet itemize her complaints. Bonnie was a full block away and steaming ahead at full speed. If we didn't take off after her immediately, Bonnie would become Separated from the Group.

And that was not allowed.

So we went after her.

"Je need rester!" Janet was calling. "Je veux Diet c.o.ke...."

We made up a little ground when Bonnie had to pause at an intersection, but as we got closer, the light changed and she charged on. She seemed to be heading for the river. But then she made an abrupt turn down a curved street. By the time Charlotte and I reached the spot, we couldn't see Bonnie at all. We exchanged a quick look, ascertained (on the basis of the garbled fake-Frenchaccented exclamations coming from that direction) that Janet was indeed behind us, then headed down the street where Bonnie had disappeared.

And came upon a vision.

It was as if Bonnie had walked right into a fairy tale. Directly in front of her was what looked like a small castle. But REAL. I mean, it put Sleeping Beauty's Castle to complete and utter shame. There were towers. There were arched windows. There was a ma.s.sive Gothic doorway. All it lacked was Heath Ledger in a suit of armor atop a white stallion.

Bonnie was standing in front of the castle looking hypnotized. I know you're not supposed to disturb people who are sleepwalking, because you might startle them and they might accidentally attack you and yank your ears down below your waist. But I wasn't sure if the same thing held true for people who stood outside castles looking hypnotized. As a Writer I wanted to know immediately and in great detail what was going through Bonnie's mind, so I could add it to my Mental Pool. As a Human Being I was slightly freaked.

The dilemma was solved by Janet, still wheezing and huffing and muttering about obtaining cold drinks. She marched up to Bonnie and tapped her sharply on the shoulder.

"Bonnie. Can we go now, s'il vous plait? I have le thirst terrible."

Since Bonnie didn't rear back and swipe off Janet's head with her metro map, I cautiously approached her.

"Um...Bon? You okay?"

I have to say she looked okay. She was still staring at the castle, looking all golden and fresh like a daisy in a field. (Ew. Sorry for the oversentimentality.) "I'm fine, man. I'm phat."

Janet made an explosive sound.

"You're not FAT, Bonnie. If anyone here needs to cut back a little on the carbs, it's-"

"What IS this place?" I asked, nodding toward the building.

"I used to live here," Bonnie said. She looked at me with a pleased smile, like she'd just worked out the theory of relativity all by herself, with a crayon on the back of a napkin.

"You used to live in PAREE?" cried Janet.

"What?" I added.

"When?" asked Charlotte, who was now exhibiting somewhat milder symptoms of hypnotization as she squinted up at the building.

"Three, maybe four hundred years ago," Bonnie said.

Charlotte, Janet, and I simultaneously paused with our mouths open in prequestion gape.

"Four hundred," Bonnie clarified, having been given some quiet time for thought.

"Wow," I said, trying to look casual and impressed at the same time. "Do they still forward your mail?"

Charlotte, meanwhile, was flipping rapidly through her guidebook.

"Okay, okay, here it is!" Charlotte said. "The Hotel de Sens. It houses a fine-art collection. It was named for the archbishop of Sens."

"It's a hotel?" I asked. I couldn't help feeling disappointed. Bonnie lived in Paris four hundred years ago in a HOTEL?

"Hotel can also mean private mansion or important building," Charlotte said. "It says the Hotel de Sens is one of only three medieval-era residences left in the city."

I couldn't stop staring at Bonnie. And it wasn't just because she'd made this outrageous statement or led us straight through a city we'd never been in before directly to a building none of us, not even Charlotte, knew existed. I was staring at her because I believed her, and that might possibly indicate that I too had gone as nutty as a half-baked fruit loaf.

"I told you I had a past life in Paris," Bonnie said to me.

"I know," I said. "I just sort of thought it was...you know...a EUPHEMISM."

"It was built in 1475," Charlotte added.

"Are we going in?" I asked. Bonnie shook her head.

"Not necessary, man," she said. "I want to remember it the way it was. The past is past."

And then she turned and walked on, just like that.

"Finally!" Janet cried. "First cafe we see, we're stopping!"

"Lily," Charlotte whispered conspiratorially.

"What?" I whispered back.

Charlotte discreetly showed me a page of her guidebook, shielding it like it was a naughty magazine or a subversive publication.

"Look at this," she said.

The page was devoted to the Hotel de Sens. It had a picture of the outside view and a few shots of the interior courtyard, which looked...well, medieval.

"Yeah, that's definitely the one," I said.

"No, here! This!" Charlotte whispered.

"In 1605 the first wife of Henri the Fourth, Queen Margot, lived in the Hotel de Sens," I read.

"Shhh!"

Now I admit, math is not my strong point. But I realized what Charlotte was pointing out. The year 1605 was more or less four hundred years ago. Which might just make Bonnie...royalty.

Bonnie, once again, was in the lead.

"Follow that queen," I murmured.

We'd found a cafe with outdoor tables near the metro stop, and we were lounging back, our tummies bulging with pleasure. Janet had finally obtained her drink. After several futile attempts to communicate her desire for un Coca diete, the waiter finally inquired in perfectly good English if she meant a Coca Light.

In spite of the warm weather, Charlotte, Bonnie, and I had opted for what we'd heard was a fabled drink of mythical proportions: the French hot chocolate. We were rewarded for our daring by the appearance of three soup bowlsize servings of a deep brown liquid that seemed part drink, part meal. The first sip confirmed what we'd heard. I made a sound like a cat that had found a way into a fish market. Charlotte's eyes actually rolled back in her head. And Bonnie, whom I've seen looking peaceful more times than I can count, looked so serene, she appeared to be levitating several inches out of her chair. We were spoiled for life. We would never find satisfaction in powdered Nestle's or Swiss Miss again. It is a moment I will remember until I take my last breath (which I may use asking for another French hot chocolate). I slurped desperately at the last dregs of chocolate, while Charlotte paid the bill (she was in charge of all Official French Transactions) and declared we needed to get going if were going to reach the Louvre on time.