Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet No. 15 Read online

  She turned to the waiter standing over her. A student, probably, and definitely a mundane.

  "Madame understands that the 1990 Latour is very costly? More than a thousand euros?"

  "See, I told you,” said Hannah with a pout.

  "Yes, I understand, young man. Merci,” Margot said to the waiter in her most matronly tone. He nodded and went away.

  The broomstick man danced after the waiter in greatly exaggerated steps, then scurried back to Margot. Composed of loose collection of a dozen or so shiny, dark blue metal poles with white rubber rings at their tops, the broomstick man clattered as he danced.

  "They won't bring it,” said Hannah.

  "Yes, they will. Why don't you go talk to Uncle Walt until it's time to go to the bridge? And take the broomstick man with you."

  "I don't like Uncle Walt. He smells funny."

  Margot and Hannah glanced at Uncle Walt, who grinned at them from the next table, his big teeth whiter than his beard.

  Margot returned her attention to the workers as they made their way noisily up the Rue des Boulangers, driving some kind of traffic control spikes into the pavement. The air was thick with faux cinnamon pumped in for the benefit of tourists. Except that tourists rarely came this way anymore. And there wasn't much traffic but the new solar/natural-gas hybrid buses recently brought in from Japan.

  The smoky egret squawked.

  "Uh oh,” said Hannah. “The man who was staring at us is standing up."

  "The thief?” asked Margot. “He is a mundane, isn't he?"

  "Oui. Here he comes."

  Margot glanced from the corner of her eye. The smoky egret flapped its great wings and squawked again, but the stranger paid him no mind. Hannah hid under the table.

  The young man stopped at her table, but Margot didn't look up. She spotted the broomstick man a block away, near the bridge, with the friar, the ghoul, and the fox, who always hovered in the distance, never coming near Margot. It must be bad for the broomstick man to flee that far.

  "Afternoon, madame. May I join you?"

  The egret hopped from foot to foot, its wings trembling and its beak open and jutting skyward. Margot could feel Uncle Walt's agitation, though she didn't turn to look. Hannah clung to her leg under the table. The mundanes didn't react, but then again mundanes never noticed anything.

  The stranger sat without waiting for Margot to reply. He placed a PDA on the table, a slim model she didn't recognize.

  Suddenly the waiter was there too. “An extra glass, Madame?"

  "No."

  The waiter uncorked the bottle, poured half a glass, and slipped away.

  Margot still hadn't looked at the stranger directly. He wore a charcoal pinstriped suit, like a businessman from the last century. His skin and eyes were dark. He almost seemed to shimmer, to vibrate as if he were under great pressure, holding something explosive inside.

  "I am very pleased to meet you. I recognized you at once, of course.” His voice was very smooth, soft enough that one had to focus attention to hear clearly.

  "You are mistaken."

  "That cannot be. You are Margot Truth Lejune, the poet, yes?"

  She turned to eye him.

  * * * *

  "I thought so. Once a professor at the University of Iowa, but living in Paris for the past seventeen years.” His oily smile only confirmed Margot's feeling that he was here to steal something.

  "Did you know you wrote your first poem exactly thirty-eight years ago today?"

  "What do you want?” She sipped the wine. Exquisite, blood-red, dissolving on the tongue like a cool fertile mist. Too bad she couldn't enjoy it alone.

  "I'm interested in your work. You had a remarkable talent, so the critics said, but you only published three real poems. By real I mean masterpieces. Not all the hack work you couldn't manage to place in any respectable journal.” He seemed to conjure a cigarette out of thin air.

  Margot noticed the broomstick man tiptoeing back, and that made her even more nervous than having him far away. That meant she was going to feel the need to defend herself, perhaps she'd even want something from this thief.

  He sucked on the cigarette, and the end began to glow. Margot wondered if he was trying to impress her, as if she'd never heard of self-lighting cigarettes before. An online catalog she sometimes ordered from offered them.

  "Ah, but those three works. Treasures. One was in a short-lived academic anthology. I've got copies of them all at home.” Smoke darted from his nostrils and curled away. It was a clove cigarette. Margot had once had a fondness for clove cigarettes, back in her bohemian days.

  Uncle Walt giggled. When the egret squawked, Margot sat up straight and cleared her throat.

  "You know a lot about this poet,” said Margot. “You are perhaps the only one who does.” She sipped.

  "It's a shame. If only you had written more, I'm certain everyone would have heard of the great Margot Truth Lejune."

  "Don't listen to him,” called Hannah from under the table.

  "I repeat my question. What do you want? An interview?” She gestured toward the PDA. “Are you a reporter of some sort?"

  "Not a reporter. And I'm not recording anything.” He put his hand on the PDA. Then he leaned across the table and whispered, “I've been sent to take away your talent.” He blew a cloud of clove smoke over her head. “As punishment for failing to use it properly."

  Margot raised an eyebrow and nodded thoughtfully.

  "Oh no,” cried Hannah, clutching Margot's leg so hard it was certain to bruise.

  The broomstick man raced toward the table and leaped at the thief. Margot flinched, but the broomstick man stopped, hovering just above the thief, arms upraised and rattling.

  No, no, no, Margot thought. She'd been baited by a lot of little shits in her day—this one wasn't going to provoke her. She took another long, slow sip of the wine. The broomstick man backed away a few steps, his racket diminishing a bit.

  "I don't believe an innate talent can be stolen."

  "No?” The thief snapped his upraised fingers and the waiter hurried right over. “Garcon, I've been watching your work. You are very skilled—Henri is it?"

  The waiter nodded and thanked the thief.

  "I wonder just how skilled you are. Can you tell me the last twelve food orders you've received?"

  "I believe so. Fondants de poisson au beurre de citron and magrets de canard aux poires; two feuilletes de saumon aux asperges, one with potage ambassadeur, one sans; two petits farcis nicois and escalopes de saumon gigondas; four oeufs en gelee aux crevettes and civet de lapin a la francais; three rouelles de veau bourgeoise, two of them with oeufs a la tripe. Also two petits pots de creme, three gratin de fruits au marsquin, three tulipes aux trois fruits rouges, and four mousse au chocolat aux noisettes et au whisky."

  The thief applauded.

  "Very impressive. Tell me, Henri, how long have you been a waiter?"

  "Almost four years, monsieur."

  "How many glasses have you broken in all that time?"

  "None, monsieur.” He smiled smugly.

  The thief winked at Margot.

  "Would you repeat that list of orders, please? Once more for my doubting friend here.” He grinned as the waiter began.

  "A feuilletes de saumon aux asperges and potage ambassadeur—no, two feuilletes de saumon—I seem to have forgotten.” he frowned.

  "Well, I'm sure it will come to you. Merci.” The thief dismissed him with a backhand wave.

  The waiter slowly turned away, straight into the path of an oncoming colleague. A whole tray of drinks crashed down, narrowly missing Uncle Walt. The mundane at Uncle Walt's table leaped up, snatching his web reader out of the growing puddle.

  "Means nothing,” said Margot. “An innate talent cannot be taken away. Perhaps a learned one, but not one that derives from the soul."

  "Not convinced, you say? I understand.” He absently tapped his PDA.

  One of the new natural gas powered buses putter
ed by, giving the workmen a wide berth. The buses were so much more quiet than their predecessors. And so much more ugly. No wonder the French hated them.

  "I know about the misplaced account card,” said the thief. “I know that you are charging this meal to a publisher who has rejected your work many times over the years, most recently just this week. Not much of a revenge plan, if I may say."

  Margot heard Hannah whimper.

  "I even know about the corner by the bridge where the new buses tend to roll over the sidewalk. A very dangerous place to stand. Someone could be killed there, no?"

  The broomstick man trembled. The street workers had moved along toward the bridge.

  "I can see,” said the thief, “that you are wondering how I know so much.” He flicked the stub of his cigarette toward the street. It passed through the broomstick man, who clutched his ill-defined chest. “We both appreciate a good story. In a good fairy tale the villain traditionally offers the heroine a chance to escape her fate."

  "A la Rumpelstiltskin? The heroine always does escape her fate, you know."

  "Perhaps. Tell me why I know so much about you, and I'll leave you be, talents intact."

  The egret shook its head and squawked.

  "Please don't,” said Hannah.

  "So generous of you,” Margot told the thief. She sipped her wine. “I don't believe for a moment that your challenge is serious. However, you amuse me, so I'll play along. Are you restricting me to three guesses? I believe that's the usual routine."

  "Please, make as many guesses as you'd like."

  "Merci.” She filled her glass, and Hannah peeked over the edge of the table. “The first, most obvious explanation is that you are insane."

  The thief shrugged. “Doesn't explain how I know the details, discounting the fictional tendency for the lunatic to possess mystical powers."

  "True. Perhaps you are an obsessed scholar from the future, come back in a time machine to save my life so that I might finish my last masterpiece."

  "No, I'm not from the future. And as I said, I'm here to collect your talent, not encourage you to use it."

  "Ah yes.” She glanced at her distant companions. The friar, the ghoul and the fox each in turn and looked guiltily innocent. “Perhaps you are a demon, come to tempt me, a la Faust."

  "No."

  "Are you my long-lost son?"

  "You had a son?"

  "No. Then perhaps you are my younger self, come to talk sense into me."

  "I don't wish to talk sense into you.” He looked down at himself. “Besides, I'm a man."

  "I may be nearly an old woman, but not so old that I don't know gender has become ephemeral."

  "Good point."

  "Already I tire of this game. You are a mischievous elf? Or a hallucination. You must be a hallucination."

  "Hey!” said Hannah with a scowl. The broomstick man shuddered in mock terror. Even her three distant companions covered their faces.

  The thief smiled. “I see now why most of your works are so weak. I think we can consider your talent forfeited. Your resistance surprises me. What difference does it make if I have your talent when you will be dead in a few minutes?"

  "It matters a great deal to me."

  The broomstick man lingered near the thief again, shuddering and clattering.

  "If you know me then you know that my failure to live up to my potential is essentially a failure of ambition,” said Margot with a scowl.

  "What are you saying?” cried Hannah.

  "I lack ambition because that's the way I was raised back home in Cedar Rapids—to be meek and polite. My parents died disappointed that I didn't marry and live the dinky suburban existence. They never once encouraged me to do better."

  As Margot's voice rose in volume, the broomstick man danced ever more wildly. His stick arms flailed, and he kicked high his stick legs.

  Hannah ran away.

  Margot was tempted to chase after her. When the fox followed in the direction Hannah had gone, Margot wasn't sure whether that was a good thing. No doubt she'd later find Hannah atop the Arc de Triomphe. That's where Hannah went whenever she was upset.

  "Blaming your failures on your upbringing? Not a terribly original defense,” said the thief. He brushed his nails on his lapel, then began tapping them on the PDA.

  "There's also the matter of opportunity. I've barely kept myself out the gutter since I came here. I had some notion that it would still be possible to do a Lost Generation thing. But mostly I've been fighting just to keep from becoming homeless, not always successfully. My life has been very hard."

  "Poverty and upbringing?” The thief shook his head. “You haven't given me much reason to change my mind. I sympathize, but there's still a little matter of personal responsibility."

  Margot hung her head. The broomstick man drooped until he was little more than a pile of sticks on the pavement. Uncle Walt and the egret were as still as death, and the others were nowhere to be seen. Margot fretted about Hannah.

  "Fine,” said Margot in a whisper. “I concede. After all, I will shortly be dead, as you so kindly pointed out. Tell me one thing before you steal away my talent. What are you that you know so much about me? Not a mundane."

  "Think of me as a metaphor."

  "A metaphor? A metaphor for what, exactly?"

  "I think, if you look inward, you will find that you already know.” He tapped the PDA, then put it in his pocket.

  "Maybe I do.” She gulped the rest of the wine. “What will become of my talent?” Tears clouded her eyes.

  "I will take it with me. After that, I don't know. Perhaps if I linger, I may jot down a ditty or two of my own."

  The waiter, looking as if half a kitchen had been dumped on him, approached and handed the thief an account card.

  "Isn't that mine?” Margot asked. The waiter turned with a glassy stare and then went away.

  "Or rather the stolen card,” said the thief. He snapped his fingers. The waiter glanced back at him, eyes wide as if he'd just awoken. “No. It is in fact my card."

  "You're robbing me of my petty vengeance too?"

  "Yes. I have a soft spot. Because of those three masterpieces, your oeuvre, I will prevent your name going into the history books for this one petty act—though it would have been only as a very minor footnote, mind you. And I will do you one other favor.” He leaned toward her and whispered. “I'm only going to take your imagination."

  "I don't understand."

  "You'll still have your skills. Just no imagination."

  "What good is that?"

  "You don't have to throw yourself under a bus now, as I've taken care of the bill. So maybe somehow you can write something good, by accident as it were, if you just keep trying."

  Margot frowned. Then an idea began to form in her head.

  "Now, if you're ready,” said the thief, one finger upraised.

  Margot shut her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, the world was mundane. The effect was like taking off sunglasses on a day that's a little too bright. She couldn't quite see things the way she used too.

  "Wait, wait,” said Margot. “I had an idea.” She struggled to hold onto it.

  "Sorry,” the thief smirked and stood. “What's done is done."

  He frowned at the table behind her, Uncle Walt's table. She glanced back. The table was empty.

  Then the thief swung round as if startled by something Margot couldn't see. The egret? The thief took a couple of steps back toward the street, then whirled around again, looking upward. He screamed and ducked, trying to hide behind Margot. She giggled, the wine having gone to her head. She recalled the first time she'd seen the broomstick man. She'd nearly wet her pants.

  "They're not a bad bunch, really,” said Margot to the cringing thief. “You probably won't have to put up with them long. Not long enough to meet the really nasty ones, anyway."

  "Nasty ones?"

  "I did have one thought—but no. As you said, what's done is done.” She looked aw
ay.

  "Perhaps I spoke too soon.” He placed a hand lightly on her arm. “Please, share your idea."

  "If you insist. We both like a good story. In many a folk tale the hero has a year and a day to uncover the solution to the mystery. What say you let me keep my imagination—and my companions—for a year and a day? If at the end of that time I haven't become famous for my talent, you may take all my talents, anything I've produced in that time, and under the wheels of the bus I go. Sound reasonable?"

  "Yes, no. Yes."

  Suddenly, there was the broomstick man dancing a jig. Uncle Walt blew her a kiss, and the smoky egret preened itself. Margot even saw Hannah and the fox in the distance. Hannah waved and began running toward her.

  The thief ran his hands through his hair, and smoothed the wrinkles from his suit. “Don't make me regret this,” he said.

  As Hannah threw herself into Margot's arms, Margot thought she caught a glimpse of the retreating thief frantically punching buttons on his PDA. Then the thief was gone in a crowd of mundanes.

  Margot winked at the smiling fox, then she and her friends crossed over the Rue des Boulangers bridge, but they did not wait for the bus.

  * * * *

  A year and a day later the thief sat on a stool by the wrought iron fence that separated the cafe from the garden. The day was blustery, and the city had finally stopped pumping in the faux cinnamon. He was a little sad about that, because now the street smelled of the river.

  "I didn't expect that she'd fail to appear,” he said to no one in particular.

  "Sir?” said the waiter as he went by with a tray full of drinks, scooting around seated patrons.

  "Henri!” said the thief. “Good to see you again."

  The waiter looked at him quizzically as he went away.

  The stink of fish didn't seem to be hurting business any. In fact, the cafe was amazingly crowded. At the table nearest the thief sat an old man with a bushy beard, and what must have been his granddaughter in pigtails. They looked oddly familiar. The young professionals at the next table seemed eager, fiddling with palmtops and drink glasses but not speaking much. Many others looked like students. The air of expectation was thick.