Читать книгу The Adventures of Mademoiselle Mac 2-Book Bundle - Christopher Ward - Страница 13

I rang the bell at the side door and heard it echo from above. The door clicked open, so I started upstairs. The same foggy music that I’d heard in Rudee’s cab oozed down the hallway on a fragrant cinnamon and lavender breeze. Sashay welcomed me to her “chambers,” as she called her apartment, into a room that to me resembled a Christmas tree, without the tree. The room was lit by red candles. The light flickered off of a series of crystal ornaments hung at different lengths from a ceiling that was covered in waves of lacy white material that resembled frosting.

“Please be at home, little one,” she said, indicating a velvet chair as she sat in its identical twin. It was my first real look at Sashay D’Or. She wore a serene expression with quietly intense eyes. Her face, with its beautiful and timeless porcelain features, was topped with a golden hairdo that had that whipped, baked, and glazed look of pure confection. A permanent pout suggested a “pooh pooh” to all in sight. She sighed as she spoke, and her narrow hands fanned and fussed through the lavender cloud around her.

“Rudee asked me to give this to you.” I handed her the gift.

She took the tiny box with an even tinier smile and sighed. “Rudee, forever the same,” as she opened it, revealing a pin in the shape of a silver peacock with its feathers about to unfold, hinting at the rainbow of colours to follow. “Ah, so elegant. He knew one of mine broke.”

She paused and arched a painted lid at me. “You know about Rudee and me, I suppose.” I nodded but wasn’t sure I knew anything, really.

“It was ... l’amour at first, as it always is; and then it just was, oh ... je ne sais quoi.” At this point I felt like I knew even less than before. “Rudee was, and still is, the most loyal man I know. He fought for me. He protected me and he made me crazy. Maybe I’m not meant for love.”

Her voice trailed off, a mixture of regret and resignation, then she seemed struck by a powerful memory. Irritation crept into her tone.

“He smells of beets!” I tried to swallow a laugh by coughing, but I don’t think it worked. “He sleeps with his gloves on, so the music never escapes his fingers, he says. This man stands on his head every morning. He claims it promotes hair growth. Has it worked? Non, of course not.”

This time I couldn’t disguise the laugh that escaped me. Sashay seemed to be gathering steam as she went on. “And the music, mon dieu, always the organ, always those mournful minor keys. And those melancholic composers — Gruntz, Langosteen, and worst of all, Vladimir Ughoman.” Her lip curled beyond its usual pout as I recalled my own encounter with the Churlish Concerto that morning. One was definitely a full helping. She paused, sighed, and added quietly, “But Rudee loves me ... and I love him. It’s just better for me if he’s on the other side of Paris, you know. He calls me every day and tells me I’m the loveliest of all and that no one can dance like I can. Ah, maybe twenty years ago it was true, but now I get by on craftiness, some mysterious music, and the audience’s desire to be entranced. What used to be all me is now mostly lighting, dry ice, and a three-drink minimum at work.”

She stood up to pour some tea from a swan-shaped teapot.

“Sashay, I wish I could have seen you then,” I said. “I’m sure Rudee’s right.”

Her smile made me feel like such a child. She slipped through a beaded curtain and returned with a long silver tube, from which she extracted a yellowed poster of a woman who looked part cloud, part whipped cream, her eyes glowing through all this motion and flashing like little jolts of amber lightning. The image of a young Sashay was magical, and underneath in ornate script was written:

Sashay D’Or. La Reine Des Rêves

The Queen of Dreams

One Show Nightly at the Lido De Paris

The same eyes looked at me as she rolled up the poster. “To work, we’ve both got a show tonight!”

From a gigantic shipping trunk, she pulled out miles of assorted fabrics and tossed them here and there. She draped me with each one then stood back, shaking her head, pouting, murmuring little “mmms” and “ouis” and “nons” as she worked.

“It’s all scarf, Mademoiselle Mac, it has nothing to do with buttering your little cheeks with blush or balancing you on a pair of pumps with heels like La Tour Eiffel. It’s not the scarf with the perfect little origami folds. And none of that awful whiplash look, wrapped around your neck like a maypole. Mon dieu, non.”

I agreed with everything, trying to stand still as she wrapped and unwrapped me in layers of satin, silk, cashmere, and chenille till I thought my neck would break out in hives. If my mom could see me now....

“And you don’t want to look cold. One doesn’t buy a watch for its ability to tell time, oui? We must drape, casually, elegantly, with that certain ‘oh I don’t really know how it fell like this’ look. Once over each shoulder, a little toss to one side then the other. A little pouffe in the front, et voila! Oh yes, and let your hair fall in your eyes. It says ‘so what.’”

I knew that part would be no problem. I can do “so what.” Looking in the mirror, I felt silly but more ready for Le Moulin D’Or than I had been an hour ago. I was going to ask what to expect at the club when Sashay glanced through the curtains and spotted Rudee’s taxi. “Our carriage is here, ma petite.”