Lily B. On The Brink Of Paris Part 8

"Where have you been?" she demanded. "Lewis keeps saying he just saw you, but I haven't laid eyes on you since we got separated at le metro."

"Where else would I be? I've been right here," I said.

Janet regarded me suspiciously. I gave a little carefree laugh.

"What, you don't believe me?" I asked. "You need, like, proof? We rendezvoused at the gla.s.s pyramid. Upstairs, where that big security guard with the tiny mustache was, I almost fell over a stroller pushing triplets. Right by that big group of German kids. And you...you've been speaking in French since the moment we got here!"

Janet looked genuinely puzzled to be confronted by these truths, so I took the opportunity to flounce away. I flounced right into Charlotte. My soaring spirits were immediately dampened by the severely outraged look on Charlotte's face. She glanced around to make sure no one was listening, then tugged me by the shirtsleeve until my ear was just inches from her mouth.

"Do. You. Have. Any. Idea. How. Worried. I've. Been?"

The words came out like a machine-gun blast. She opened her mouth to continue, but I was way ahead of her. I pulled her aside, by my own shirtsleeve.

"Charlotte, I am a DISGRACE!"

Charlotte opened her mouth to disagree with me, registered what I'd said, and closed her mouth.

"I've come to Paris completely unprepared! I've relied on you for all my knowledge and allowed myself to remain ignorant! The only French words I can remember are ones I can't use in conversation! I haven't so much as glanced at a map! I LOST my information packet before we even left America! And I don't know the address of the VEI!"

Charlotte's eyebrows shot up at that last part. I rapidly left the Admission of Wrongdoing portion of my speech behind and proceeded to my Humble Request for Forgiveness.

"I am CONSTANTLY taking advantage of your superb organization, your intelligence, and your sense of responsibility, Charlotte. You are right about me not being detail oriented. I am detail DISoriented. And it's going to stop RIGHT NOW!"

Charlotte scowled at me for a good five or ten seconds before shaking her head in disgust and perhaps a wee portion of affection.

"Honestly, Lily, you're going to turn me into a nut job," she said.

I shook my head in disbelief at my own level of moronification and turned both my palms toward the ceiling in an expression of self-disappointment.

"Where's Bonnie?" I asked, in a shameless bid for an Abrupt Subject Change.

Charlotte jerked her thumb in the direction of the crowd.

"Getting an up-close look," she replied. Then she leaned in and whispered, "We think she may have recognized somebody from one of the portraits back in Flemish Seventeenth-century Oils and Watercolors. How did you find us, anyway? This place is gargantuan."

"Oh my G.o.d! Lewis! He text messaged me all the way up from reception!"

I looked around for Lewis, but I couldn't pick him out of the Mona Lisaadmiring crowd.

"Text messaged you?" asked Charlotte, incredulous. She was well aware of the technical backwardness of the entire Blennerha.s.sett clan.

I glanced over my shoulder and spotted Lewis standing by the window, peering at his Sidekick.

"Be right back," I said to Charlotte. Then I quickly made my way over to Lewis.

"Lewis Pilsky, you are a G.o.d among men," I said dramatically.

Lewis looked up at me, and his face turned a remarkable shade of crimson.

"Oh, well...you know."

"You SAVED me," I said, waggling my eyebrows for emphasis.

"Oh, well," he repeated. "How did you end up finding your way to the museum?"

I won't tell you I wasn't tempted. Every cell in my body-every single strand of DNA-was silently screaming "LINDY SLOANE SHOWED ME THE WAY!" Instead of replying, though, I let a few heartbeats pa.s.s while I thought of a technically honest yet completely discreet response.

"You know, I ended up just asking somebody," I said. "And they turned out to be American and basically gave me door-to-door service."

Lewis nodded and continued to look embarra.s.sed.

"I have COMPLETELY REVISED my feelings on portable communications technology," I said earnestly. Before Lewis could nod or say "oh, well" again, I sensed a looming presence. I felt like a chipmunk that has just noticed a hawk circling overhead.

"Leelee!" said Madame Chavotte. "Are you also seek wees ze stomak big?"

WHAT? Was Madame Chavotte accusing me of being FAT?

"Ze stomak big? Like Teem? Always, your frenz say you are running to ze ba.s.sroom. Every time I am looking for you, again, you are in ze ba.s.sroom. I am afraid we will all catch zis terrible stomak big."

"Oh, yeah," I said, rubbing my stomach ruefully. "You know, Madame Chavotte, I think the trouble has, um, pa.s.sed. I'm feeling much better now."

Madame Chavotte scrutinized me for a moment, her mon.o.brow furrowed. For a moment I was gripped with the fear that the game was up. That Madame Chavotte knew the Truth and was about to bust me. She took a step toward me, and I thought it was entirely possible she was about to put me in handcuffs. Instead, she reached out and pushed my hair out of my face, like my mother sometimes does.

"Zees ees good, zen," she said. "A young girl's first treep to Paree should be full of wonder and amus.e.m.e.nt. It ees sumsing she should remember 'er whole life, non? No one should 'ave ze stomak big in Paree. I am glad you are en bonne sante, ma pet.i.te poulette."

Wow! Every native of France seemed to recognize my innate Little Chickenness.

"What was that all about?" whispered Charlotte after Madame Chavotte moved out of earshot.

"She was just-she was just making sure I was feeling okay," I said.

"That's because Lewis and I kept telling her that you were in the ladies' room during the head count," Charlotte said, giving me a stern look.

"I've TOTALLY learned my lesson," I declared.

"I've heard that before," Charlotte said, and she linked her arm through mine.

"Allons-y, mes enfants," Madame Chavotte was calling. "We go now to eejeepcheyan antiquites."

Whatever eejeepcheyan on tee kee tay turned out to be, I didn't care. As long as I didn't have to find them by myself, I was happy as a lark.

FROM THE PARISIAN DIARY OF.

Lily M. Blennerha.s.sett

Started the day off wonderfully, visiting the 17th century Hotel de Sens, a scrumptious medieval architectural confection of towers and archways. Partook of the delightful hot beverage chocolat in a cafe, confirming the reputation of the French as the ultimate purveyors of extraordinary tastes.

It has come to my attention, under the psychological ministrations of Charlotte McGrath, that I have allowed the issue of details to escape my life. It has further occurred to me that my journal entries, while full of whimsical and hopeful observations, have nonetheless excluded certain details not always flattering to this author. With that in mind I am including a Personal Addendum to my journal, NOT for publication in the Mulgrew Sentinel: Experienced abnormal level of brain rot and displayed intelligence roughly equivalent to a lima bean by getting on the Wrong Train and becoming lost somewhere in the vicinity of the Arc de Triomphe. Displayed outrageous levels of dull wittedness by engaging Kindly Elderly man for directions and having absolutely no ability to communicate in French. Continued acting like an enormous addlepated dunderhead, until two Unnamed Good Samaritans personally escorted me to the Musee du Louvre, where the kindness and technological savvy of Lewis Pilsky enabled me to, forty minutes after the appointed time, rejoin my group at the fabled oil depiction of that amused n.o.blewoman known throughout the world as Mona Lisa.

Paris rocks!

Nine.

I had viewed more masterpieces than I ever thought possible in one afternoon. As I lay facedown on my bed on the deuxieme etage of the VEI, my feet throbbed and felt uncomfortably hot, like they were about to go supernova and splatter carbon and stardust up into the stratosphere.

Bonnie and Janet were napping too, but Charlotte was undefeated by our hours at the Louvre. I could hear her flipping through her guidebook, muttering occasional remarks, and scratching notes with her Bic ballpoint. I could practically hear her brain working as she figured out how many places we could visit during our free afternoon tomorrow. This might be an opportune time to show her I was as good as my word, that I was making an effort to find out seule what Paris had to offer, instead of relying on Charlotte to figure it out for me. Using the force of ten oxen, I lifted my head off the pillow and looked over at her.

"Hey, Charlotte," I said.

She peered at me over her gla.s.ses, lips still pursed in reading-small-print mode.

"You know what I would really like to see while we're in Paris?"

"What?" Charlotte asked, one eye still on her guidebook.

"The Pere Lachaise Cemetery," I replied.

Charlotte gaped at me. I gestured toward my pristine guidebook, which I'd unpacked and leafed through before collapsing on my bed.

Taking advantage of Charlotte's unusually speechless state, I pulled the removable metro map from my guidebook.

"It seems to me that if we get on the eleven train here, at the Hotel de Ville stop, and transfer here, at Republique, to the three line, then it's just three stops to Pere Lachaise. I know it's a little outside the city center, but I think we could make good time and have a few hours to stroll around."

Bonnie had risen silently to a sitting position on her bed, like the Bride of Frankenstein but, well, more wholesome-looking.

"Pere Lachaise?" she asked. "Jim Morrison is buried there! Man, I wouldn't mind visiting the Lizard King."

I knew Jim Morrison was a legendary American rock star who'd died in Paris around thirty years ago, because my father had insisted on educating me in the ways of the fossil rock G.o.ds. The Lizard King thing was a mystery, though. Maybe he was one of Bonnie's seventeenth century relatives.

"There's someone there for everyone," I said, sounding like an advertising jingle. "Writers, actors, musicians. Oscar Wilde. Sarah Bernhardt. Chopin!" There WERE some advantages to reading one's guidebook. I'm sure I sounded Supremely Knowledgable.

"I know that," Charlotte said patiently. "I just wasn't aware that YOU knew that."

"Well," I said, fanning myself with the metro map, "I thought it was time I did a little research."

"Interesting," said Charlotte. She arched an eyebrow. I have a theory that Charlotte practices arching her eyebrow in private, in front of the mirror, as a way to convey serious thoughtfulness. I'm totally supportive.

"I'm game," said Bonnie. "Maybe I'll run into some old friends."

Yikes. I hadn't considered any possible paranormal high jinks; that might get creepy. But Charlotte looked positively enthusiastic. She obviously wanted to encourage me in my new ways.

"I think that's an excellent idea, Lily," Charlotte said. "There's a huge amount of history there."

"It was founded by Napoleon!" I shouted, unable to contain the self-pride in my historical Parisian knowledge.

"I don't want to go to a cemetery," whined Janet, who was sprawled on her bed with one arm dangling over the side. "I want to see the Eiffel Tower! I want to take a cruise on the river Seine! I want to climb the Arc de Triomphe!"

c.r.a.pstick. The girls all had to stay together, which meant we had to agree unanimously where to go.

"We're supposed to go to the Eiffel Tower after dinner the night before we go home," I told her. I proudly waved the copy of the trip schedule I had borrowed from Bonnie. "So you'll see it then. It's better at night anyway, according to my guidebook."

"What about the Seine? What about all the little shops on the rue de Rivoli where I can buy French objets? What about the men in berets and les chic Parisiennes? I mean, actual REAL chic Parisiennes."

"Listen," I said, plopping down on Janet's bed next to her. "I bet we could talk Madame Chavotte into showing us the Seine and the rue de Rivoli tonight after dinner. But tomorrow is our last Free Time. Madame Chavotte would definitely never take us to Pere Lachaise. So let's go there ourselves and witness a place that's really vital to the history of Paris, that's like, three-dimensional history because all these famous French figures are right there beneath us!"

Janet still looked unconvinced. It was time to play the trump card.

"You know, Edith Piaf is buried there," I said.

Janet sat up with a start.

Jackpot!

To the non-Francophile (read: normal person) the name Edith Piaf probably means nothing. However, I had found a little section on Piaf in my guidebook. To the Franco-obsessed, Edith Piaf was recognized as the greatest popular singer of modern French times. I had learned that she was tiny and sang with a tragically tight vibrato. And she was now dead, obviously. But there were droves who worshiped her like the Sloane Rangers worshiped Lindy. Dear Readers, what could be more a more suitable homage to French culture than shedding a few tears over the grave of Piaf?

"I'll even take your picture by her memorial, as a keep-sake," I said. "You'll kick yourself later if you miss the chance. I think it could be very important to you, Jah-nay."

I know, I know. It must have seemed like I was bribing her by p.r.o.nouncing her name in Franglais, and in part I was. But I had also realized that though I thought it stupid, and superficial, and embarra.s.singly obvious, this girl wanted to be called Jah-nay. Who was I to judge?

"Well..." Janet began tentatively.

"Yes!" cried Bonnie, perched regally on her bed. "I am the Lizard King! I can do ANYTHING!"

I looked at Charlotte in alarm. Bonnie might be having some kind of serious and traumatic spontaneous past-life regression. But Charlotte's expression was nothing but happy.

"Well done, Lily," said Charlotte. "Welcome to Paris."

When it came down to it, I surprised myself and everyone else by suggesting we ask the boys if they wanted to join us. I had no personal interest in watching Chaz and Bud toss a football between headstones, but I did feel it would make a big difference to Lewis if we asked him to come along. As for the Mysterious Tim, since he had miraculously "recovered" from his stomak big, it might do him some good to see people having a good time around him and with him, even though they didn't know the ident.i.ty of his older sister. He would see I was as good as my word.

There was a little grumbling, particularly from Janet, who somehow felt the presence of American boys at any Parisian landmark was unattractive and counterproductive and would detract from her experience. Bonnie, as always, was up for anything. So the invitation was extended and accepted, and after spending a morning with Madame Chavotte touring the modern gla.s.s cake of the Bastille Opera House, and lunching on peanut b.u.t.ter sandwiches at the VEI, we were ready for an adventure.

I am pleased and proud to report that the metro directions I had put together were accurate (though I'm certain Charlotte checked them over and discreetly supervised our every step). We came out of the metro onto a quiet, wide street with cobblestone sidewalks and smaller versions of the rounded beige buildings I'd gotten used to in Paris. We walked through the open gateway and it felt like we'd stepped into Wonderland.

"Man, it's like the inner city of the departed," said Bonnie. "Get a load of that energy shift."