Chapter 8: Friendship
"Mireille, are you sure about this?"
"No, I'm not. But we've already cancelled on them five times; I don't want to act suspicious. Or rude. We'll do it; we'll just have to be careful, that's all."
"What a lovely day for a walk in the park," said Madame.
"Same as it was yesterday," replied Monsieur, stumping along.
"Exactly my point."
"Point? What point? There's no point."
"Yes there is. We've the same breeze, the same sunny sky as yesterday, except now we get to share it with someone else! There's no day that's too good that it can't be made better with the company of a good friend and neighbour."
"Yeah, I guess," said Mireille, looking over her shoulder. Kirika, next to her, kept her eye on a passing butterfly.
"Oh, don't be such a glum-muffin, Miss Bouquet," said Madame, ribbing her with her elbow. "It's a beautiful day; what's to stop you from enjoying it, eh?"
Mireille glared at the two photocopies before her. "So," she thought, "I'm no closer to figuring any of this out, the Sicilian Mafia wants my head, the Paris police are on high-alert after D'Estaing, and a mysterious world-spanning organization that wants to kill me knows where I live, and has invited me to meet with them in what is an obvious trap. And then there's her, of course." She could still feel the cold sharpness of the blade against her neck, still remember how that woman had stared down two loaded guns without even batting an eye. "And the only reason why I'm still alive is because someone's playing some sort of stupid game with my life, and there's a good chance I'll lose before I even learn the actual rules." She felt a headache coming on.
"This is quite possibly the worst day of my life," she noted.
"Nothing, I guess," she replied. "You two come here often, then?"
"Well, we've been trying to get you out here since you moved in, so I guess the answer is 'yes,' dear," said Madame.
"Yeah, sorry about that. We've been busy."
"Well, I'm glad you two found the time at last. Life's too short not to take the time out to enjoy it and all. Although I guess things can't be too dull at that consulting job of yours."
"It's a bit stressful," she said, squinting at something in the distance, "but you do see the sights."
"And how was New York, then?"
She considered this question for some time. "Crowded," she said.
"You went to Central Park, of course?"
"Ah, no. Didn't have time; we were pretty busy. Lot of meetings."
"No loss," grunted Monsieur. "Park's probably full of crooks anyway. Mafia, y'know. Very big in New York."
"I've always wanted to visit the Big Snapple at some point," mused Madame. "I know some of the girls in the old neighbourhood ended up there; it would be so much fun to get in touch with the old gang again."
"Run into any old friends on your trip, Miss?" asked Monsieur.
The shock of the impact ran up her arm. The blade went deep. Someone screamed.
The one from her past slumped to the ground. Her family…was avenged.
"No," she replied, suppressing a shiver.
Kirika glanced at her, briefly. "The hat," she said to Monsieur. "Do you…?"
"It's, ah, it's — " He grunted as Madame accidentally stumbled into him. "It's very nice. Fits well. Blocks out the sun. 'Mets'; that's baseball, yes?" Kirika nodded. "Never understood it. More of a polo fan, myself. Ah, thanks."
"Oh, he's just being modest," said Madame. "Why, just before we left, he was saying how he was going to throw out that old ratty cap of his and wear this one instead."
"I did? Ow!" Madame had inexplicably elbowed him in the ribs. "Yes, yes, I did, I did!"
"Good," said Madame. "And thank you very much for the photo-book, Miss Bouquet; I enjoyed it."
"I'm glad you did," she replied. "Anything interesting happen while we were out?"
"Hmmm. Well, Monsieur Violet (he's the accountant down in 1-B, remember?), he got engaged recently."
"Really? To whom?"
"Englishwoman," said Monsieur. "Miss Marple."
"What, like the book?"
Monsieur grunted in the affirmative. "Gets that a lot, apparently. Charming woman, though."
"I'll have to congratulate them sometime," noted Mireille.
"Monsieur Golgo dropped by last week," said Madame. "Just for a few nights. Actually, he forgot a lot of his luggage when he left; I hope he comes back for it sometime…"
"Always in and out, he is," said Monsieur. "He'll be back."
"Oh, and Peter started redoing the wallpaper on the first floor."
"I noticed," said Mireille. "I think I saw him in town yesterday as well."
"Playing with his new car," huffed Monsieur.
"He looked tired," noted Kirika.
"Eh? Should be; all morning in the office, evenings at that club of his, afternoons at that Department…work himself to death he will…"
"The NSB? I thought he quit?" said Mireille.
"Did. 'Cept after the shake-up they had few months ago, they called him back. Part-time, thank goodness. Too dangerous, that job. Life's risky enough as is; no call for getting in the line of fire like that."
"Sometimes, there is no choice," said Kirika, softly.
"Oh, don't be bothered with him, dear," said Madame. "He's just an old gloom-monger. Why, he even said it'd be pouring rain today, and look! Not a cloud in the sky."
"That wasn't me, that was the weatherman!" protested Monsieur.
"Oh, but you believed him, Toulouse. Even wanted to bring an umbrella with us and everything, can you believe it?" she added, aside to Kirika.
"What's wrong with that?" cried Monsieur.
"Well, it is pretty clear out," noted Mireille.
"There could be a wind, or a sudden squall! You never know!"
"Never," replied Madame. "Bad weather, when four good neighbours have gotten together at last? Oh no, no, no. The universe doesn't work like that; it wouldn't dare dampen a perfect moment like this!"
"Hmph," said Monsieur, in a devastating rebuttal. A smirk tugged at Mireille's lips, briefly.
The neighbours stepped leisurely down the winding tree-lined avenue, dappled in the afternoon sun by the thin canopy of branches overhead. A pair of children walking a dog scampered past, laughing. Soon they came upon a clearing by a small lake with a fountain by it. "Ah, here's the spot," said Madame. She sat on a bench facing the lake; the others joined her. Immediately, a small mob of pigeons waddled up to them and surrounded their position.
"Blasted birds," grumbled Monsieur. "Menace to society." He pulled a bag out of his jacket, reached in, and variously tried to feed and concuss the birds with the bread-crumbs it contained. After a few moments, he passed a handful over to Kirika, who did the same (albeit more gently).
"He does this every week," whispered Madame to Mireille. "One of them tried to steal his shoelaces last year; it was just the cutest thing you'd ever saw. Melted his heart right then and there. Now, he can't get enough of the little fellows."
"I heard that!" said Monsieur. "This is just to distract them from my feet! Thieves!" He whipped a larger-than-average chunk towards the mob, and cackled as it bounced off a confused pigeon's head.
Kirika gave him a look.
Suddenly, he felt embarrassed.
"Y'know," said Mireille, watching the clouds scudding by, "this is kind of a nice place, actually. I think I could get to like it."
Madame nodded. "The most peaceful spot in all of downtown Paris; all the hustle and bustle of the city sort of fades away when you're here. Nothing but the rustle of leaves, like waves on the ocean, the carefree clouds in the sky, and at your feet, too, if the lake's still like it is today. I remember one night long ago back in, oh, what was it, '52?"
"How should I know?" mumbled Monsieur, demonstrating proper throwing technique to his neighbour.
"Ah, yes, that was it. It was a warm summer evening. Toulouse and I were just returning home from an evening at the theatre. The park was very safe in those days, still is, actually (Constable Brun patrols around here; we passed him on the walk, remember?), so we decided to take a short-cut through it."
"Oh no, no, no!" said Monsieur, turning. "You are not telling that story! I forbid it!"
"Why?" asked Kirika.
He flushed. "It…it…it's so…embarrassing…" He whipped a lump of bread at a pigeon, and missed. It cooed at him.
"It was all your idea in the first place, Toulouse," smiled Madame. "He said, 'I know this great short-cut home,' and wouldn't you know it, it just happened to take half an hour longer than our usual route! We went all around and about the whole forest area, past the gate, the statues, over the bridge (twice), around the fountain. Then we ended up in this very spot right here. The moon was shining, and glittered with the stars on the surface of the lake. And I pointed this out to Toulouse, and you know what he said? He said —"
"'All the treasures of heaven are but a glitter in your beautiful eyes,'" muttered Monsieur.
"— And lo and behold, he takes this very ring here out of his pocket, polishes it up, and asks me to marry him," said Madame, beaming.
"That night," said Kirika. "It must have been…so beautiful."
"She was," mumbled Monsieur. "Ah, I mean it was, it was."
"I didn't know you were such a romantic, Monsieur Trousseau," said Mireille, with a wry grin.
"What? No, no, that was, I mean, err…" He sputtered off into silence.
"He just has an eye for these things, is all," said Madame. "Everyone says Paris is for lovers, but you have to live here to know where. It's no good 'fessing up just anywhere, you know; the time, the place, they have to be just right. And he was wise enough to notice how special this spot right here was. No distractions here, nothing to get in the way, nothing to hide behind. Here you can speak your heart and mind clearly, and share your true thoughts and feelings with the person you love, free of all the lies, the omissions, and the half-truths that crowd the world outside."
"Yeah, the truth," said Mireille, suddenly uncomfortable.
"It's in the air, sort of," added Monsieur. "So empty; you can fill it with yourself, with all those secrets you have to squirrel away everywhere else."
Kirika took a minute interest in the crumbs in her hand.
"It's the kind of spot where you feel you can be completely honest with yourself," added Madame. "There's no pressure to keep it in. You get all types here, really: friends, lovers…and some folks who just come by to think. Like that lady in the cape over there," she said, pointing.
"Who?!" said Mireille and Kirika, snapping to attention.
"That's funny, I thought I saw someone by that tree over there," said Madame, squinting. "Must be seeing things again."
"Shouldn't squeeze the crumbs like that, dear," said Monsieur, noticing how Kirika had tensed up. "Mush them up, and they won't go for them, y'know."
"Is everything all right, Mireille?" asked Madame. "You look pale all of a sudden?"
"It's…nothing you need to worry about, Madame," she said. "I just remembered an appointment we have across town; I think we'd better hoof it over there."
"Now? But I thought we'd have time for tea?" said Madame.
"Brought the thermos and the biscuits and everything!" added Monsieur.
"I'm sorry," said Mireille, checking a clock on a nearby lamppost, "I guess I lost track of time."
"Well, 'time flies when you're eating a bun,' and all that," said Madame. "Maybe we can get together again next week, hmm?"
"I…I don't know, Madame," she replied, scanning the trees. "There's a lot of stuff going on right now; we'll have to see, I guess."
"Well, take care then," said Madame. The two neighbours said their goodbyes and set off at a hurried pace down the path, leaving the old couple where they were.
(Later that evening…)
"Got to go, Mama," said Peter, hanging up the phone.
"Go?" she asked. "Where?"
"Club business," he said, throwing on a trench-coat.
"It's the middle of the night!" said Monsieur, at rest on his chaise. "And your meeting's not till Thursday! What's going on?"
"Emergency session. Very important. Just got the call now."
"I think you're putting far too much effort into that club of yours, Peter," said Madame. "You give them more time than they deserve, you know."
"It's not work; it's fun, Mama. Honest. And they've helped me out in the past; I owe it to them."
"You don't owe them your health," said Monsieur. "Sit this one out; get some rest."
"I can't, Papa."
He raised an eyebrow. "Can't? Or won't?"
Peter shot him a sideways glance, kissed his mother good-night, and hurried out the door.
"There was no call for that," Madame said, sharply.
"Oh, come on, Cosette," responded her husband. "You were thinking the exact same!"
"Some things are better left unsaid."
"Everything is when you're dead."
"You make him uncomfortable, Toulouse. We have a good life, a good family; why do you always keep picking at it? Leave well enough alone."
He grumbled in half-assent, brow furrowing as he heard the expensive noise of Peter driving away in his new car. "He's in a hurry. Everyone is, nowadays. All rush, rush, rush. Can't even find the time to sit down for a tea picnic."
"They did apologize, Toulouse. You're not going to hold that against them, are you?"
"Classic Irish Breakfast, that stuff was. Nice and hot, too. And it was a real devil fitting those cups into my pockets, I tell you."
"You could have used the basket, you know."
"Bah. Too easy."
"Oh, give it up, Toulouse. You ended up with almost half the thermos to yourself, and I didn't see you complaining about that!"
"Well…"
"And those rain-clouds blew in so suddenly; they would've broken up our little picnic even if they haven't left."
"Would've been better if they stayed. Tense, they were. (See the way they cut through the trees when they left?) Bit of a break would've fixed that."
"Well, it's no use fretting over it now," said Madame, herself fretting over a great hole in the bedspread before her. "The moment's past and all; we'll just have to wait for the next one."
There was a knock at the door.
"Peter? Peter, is that you?"
No answer.
"'Course it isn't," scoffed Monsieur. "Wouldn't be back already. And there's no car."
"But who could it be at this hour?" wondered Madame.
"Answer it and find out already," huffed Monsieur.
She did.
It was a young woman, whose face passed through joy, surprise, confusion, disappointment, resignation, and subtle intimidation in the space of three seconds.
"Oh. Can I help you, dear?"
"Is…she…here?" asked the woman, in a soft voice.
"'She' who, my dear?"
"…………Yuumura Kirika."
Madame reversed the name in her head. "Um, no, dear, she's over there, in apartment 3," explained Madame, pointing.
The woman blinked, and unfolded a piece of paper (splattered with what looked like mud) from her cloak. She read it, checked the door, and then read it again. "Is this not the right place?"
"This is 3-A, dear," explained Madame, patiently. She snuck a peek at the paper, and then craned her neck around to the front of the door. "Oh, I see, the letter's fallen off again. Toulouse!"
"What?"
"The letter's fallen off the door again!"
"What!? Damned thing! I'll show it. Use a bloody nail this time!" He trailed off, muttering deprecations about the makers of Super-Glue™.
"Oh." The woman smiled, and bowed slightly. "Sorry for disturbing you."
"No need, we're night owls anyway," said Madame, cheerfully.
The woman turned to go. She paused in mid-turn, noticing something over Madame's shoulder. "Nice clock," she said.
"Really? It's my son Peter's," said Madame. "It's a bit of an antique, but so are we! I think he picked it up from that club of his or something."
The young woman's eyes flicked from the clock, to Madame, to Monsieur, back to the clock again, and then settled on a point somewhere above Madame's nose. "I see. Good night."
"Good night, dear."
"Kids these days," groused Monsieur, when Madame closed the door. "Watch TV all the time. Can't be bothered to read anymore."
"The sign was broken, Toulouse," said Madame, taking her usual seat. "And whomever wrote that note of hers had some terrible handwriting."
"Bah, she could've seen it if she'd looked. Paint's a different colour, for one. Too much Internet. Dulls the mind. Read," he said, with a nod to his paper, "and she'd pick up on details like that."
She thought back to her brief encounter as she took up her needles. "Purple hair," she muttered to herself. "What is the world coming to?"