Frankie in Paris (13 page)

Pulling
me off my pedestal, he led me down a long hallway into a tiny room.
 
The room held a small card table, two chairs,
and Lulu.
 
She was studying her many
rings and did not look up when I entered the tiny room.

“What
is going on?”

“Zees
woman stole from our faceeleetee.”

What
could she possibly have stolen from the facility? There were huge stone tombs,
and that was about it!

“What
did she steal?”
 
The “she” in question
still didn’t look up from her hands.

“Dirt.”

“Dirt?”

“
Oui
.
 
She eez a thief.”

“I
don’t understand what you are saying.”
 
Although my grandmother had taken extra bags of pretzels from the
airplane, I truly didn’t believe that she was a thief.
 
And I didn’t quite understand how someone
could steal dirt.

“Do
you want to tell her, or should I?”
 
Putting
his hands on the table and leaning really close to her face, he was practically
yelling.

“I
just thought it would be nice to have a souvenir from Napoleon’s tomb.
 
I didn’t think that anyone would mind.”

“What
did you do?”
 
I still didn’t get what was
going on, but I did get a horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach.
 
It wasn’t just the remaining snail meat
digesting.

“Zees
woman scraped dust off of zee tomb!
 
She
was desecrating one of our great monumentals!”
 
Monumentals?
 
Is that
even a
word
?

She
opened up one of her hands and revealed a small tube.
 
It must have come from her purse.
 
It looked like a container from one of those
teensy eyeglasses screwdriver kits that you can get at any drugstore. It rolled
off of her palm, onto the table, while
 
Lulu looked on, terrified.
 
I
picked up the tube, shook it, and looked inside.
 
It was maybe one-tenth full of powdery
dirt.
 
Damn
.

“Are
you serious?”
 
I was probably twenty
times more terrified than Lulu looked, but
 
figured that my classical theater training had to come in handy for
something
.
 
I rolled the tube back toward the scared
little old lady in the folding chair.

“
Oui
.
 
I am totally serious.
 
This eez
against zee law and eet eez incroi- incred- incredibly deesreespectful.”
 
He was having trouble translating
incroyable
into “incredible” and it
almost sent me into a huge set of nervous giggles.
     

Keep it together, Frankie!

I tried to find
a way out of this frightening situation.
 

For the life of
me, I couldn’t even figure out how my gift could benefit us at this point.
 
There really wasn’t anything that I could
have used it for to help us.

A small black
camera near the ceiling told me that we were being filmed
—
and God knew the last thing we needed was for someone to see
footage of the crazy, dirt stealing, freaky
Telekinetic
Americans.
 
I wondered what the French equivalent of Area
51 might be.
 
We’d
never
get home alive:
 
If I
died, Rich would be so pissed at me!

"She was so young," Alicia would weep,
standing next to Rich under a sea of open black umbrellas.

"She had so much to live for." Rich
would stare at my coffin, devastated,
 
as
it lowered into to the ground
—
red long-stemmed roses spilling off the lid into
the dark abyss below ...
   

Lulu flipped the
dark glasses over her specs and looked down at her fantastically sparkly hands.

Crap. Damn.
 
Aha!

I
smoothed my skirt over my hips like I had seen girls in movies do, but had
never done myself.
 
Pulling my shoulders
way back, I sauntered over to the guard, using the flattering red sweater to my
benefit, silently praying that I wouldn’t trip over my own toes, as I had
earlier.
 

I
licked my bottom lip and pouted. “Please don’t be offended.
 
She didn’t realize that this was bad.
 
We didn’t mean to be bad.”

Putting
a hand on his shoulder, I almost shuddered in disgust.
 
I was disgusted with myself, mostly.
 
He didn’t seem to mind much.

“In America, I
don’t believe it is against the law to steal dirt, so we just didn’t know.”

We
damn well did know.
 
Let’s see someone
try to scrape off a part of the Lincoln
Monument and find out
what would happen.
 

Batting
 
my eyelashes and feeling instantly
ashamed, I convinced myself that this was the biggest scene of my acting
career.
 
I was a character:
 
the dangerous, over-sexed twenty-year-old.
 
Merde
.
 

I
added a little bit of a southern accent to the mix, since I knew that most
people who were not from America
thought we all spoke like that. “Ah am sure you will realahze that we were just
mahndin’ our own business, not knowin’ that dirt stealin’ doesn’t sit well with
the Frayanch people.”
 
I looked up at him
with a face that I hoped looked like the doe-eyed girls whom I had drawn on the
plane.
 

“I
weel need to file a report.”
 
He
shrugged, sounding alarmingly like The Inspector from the Pink Panther
cartoons.
 
Grabbing his arm, I pulled him
to one of the corners of the shoebox room.
 

“Look,
here’s the deal.”
 
I struggled to
maintain my southern drawl.
 
“She is
mentally unstable.
 
Nuts.
 
Carazay.
 
I am havin’ trouble just keepin’ track of her. This was her wish
—
to come to beautiful Pay-ree, Frayance.
 
She wanted to come before she can no longer
travel.
 
Comprenez vous
?”
 
It was a
dumb lie, but it seemed to strike a chord within my stressed-out confidant.

He
looked toward my grandmother, who did indeed look like she was legally losing
her mental faculties.
 
Taking my hand, he
gazed into my eyes.
 
I used the pointer
finger on my other hand to make a circular motion around my ear, to emphasize
my grandmother’s state.

“I
am truly sorry,
Mademoiselle
.
 
Eet eez a sad story.
 
I weel forgive you, eef you leave immediately
and do not return.
 
Eef you return to
zees place, you weel be arrested at once.”

“Deal!”
 
I almost squealed, but stayed in character
and held out a limp hand for a handshake.

“Eef
you sink you might be free zees evening, I would like to take you to dinner
—"
 
He shook
my hand gently and if possible, sensually.

“Ah
really have to be watchin’ out for her... "

Slowly
nodding his head, he held the door open for us.

***

Exiting
the building really felt as long as walking down the famous seventeen-mile
drive in Monterey,
but when we finally stepped outside, Lulu opened up her hand.
 
The cylinder of Napoleon’s dead dirt was
nestled within the creases of her paw.
 
She cackled like a cartoon villain and let it drop into her purse.
 
Un-freaking-believable
.

“Lulu,
you are going to get us arrested.
 
My
mother will kill you!”

“We
won’t be arrested if you can keep charming guards like that!
 
I might try to get some of the dust off of
the
Venus de Milo
!
 
I think I have an old contact lens case in
here somewhere
—
” She began to dig through her purse.

“Stop
it!
 
This is serious!
 
I can’t whore myself out to every authority
that hauls you off to a little museum closet!”
 
I knew that I hadn’t really whored myself out to anyone, but it sure
sounded melodramatic.
 
Also, it made the
previous evening's almost-happenings seem so totally ironic!
 

“Let’s
go to The Louvre.”
 
She marched
purposefully toward the Metro station.

“Wait!”
 
I called, and she stopped in her tracks,
turning toward me.
    

“Please
promise that there will be no stealing at The Louvre.
 
Please.
 
I don’t think I can do that again.
 
Really, Lulu.”

“Alright,
dear.”
 
She put her left hand over her
heart.
 
“I promise.
 
I will look but not touch.”
 

Good Lord, this is like babysitting a
four-year-old.
 
Why couldn’t she buy a
freaking postcard or a keychain, like the rest of the adult world?
 

We
passed by the
Venus de Milo
on the
way to see what I really do believe to be Da Vinci’s self-portrait. Venus was
large and smooth and white.
 
She was
awe-inspiring, even without arms.
 
I
paused to let Lulu take my picture in front of her, supposing that there should
be some sort of record of our trip to The Louvre.
  

The
bare breasts were sure to remind me of our time at The Lido.
 

***

Walking
down hallways full of centuries of fine art, I recognized some of the pieces
—
but most of it was a mystery.
 
It was then that I realized that my fascination with the arts does not
inch too far away from things that can be performed on the stage.
 

I
was looking at all these creations that were priceless and hung in a place of
great honor and
 
couldn’t help thinking
that it was more fun looking at the psychedelic animal cartoon sketches on the
folders that I still bought for my schoolwork. The artist's name was Lisa
Frank, I think.
 
She drew unicorns,
mostly
—
some kittens and puppies with huge eyes,
but they were all pink or purple.
   

There
must be something missing in my DNA which made me wish I could be eating a
sandwich instead of viewing these honored paintings.
 
Turkey and cheddar, preferably.

Dozens,
maybe hundreds of people sat on the benches which lined the center of each
gallery.
 
Some just sat in wonder, but
many of them tried a hand at copying the colors and shapes that decorated the
walls of the museum.
 
From what I could
see, there was a lot of talent in the building and not just displayed for your
viewing pleasure.
 
I was way more interested
in what was on those notepads than the original images.
    

Something
was definitely wrong with me.

***

The
Mona Lisa
was much smaller than I had
imagined.
 
The canvas appeared to be
about twenty by thirty inches.
 
After all
the years of so much hype, I thought the painting would be enormous; hanging
from floor to ceiling and stretching for many feet across the room.
 
After careful inspection, I didn’t think she
was happy or sad.
 
She just looked
constipated to me.
 
Or stressed-out.
 

I
probably had that same look on my face, waiting to see what my insane
grandmother was going to do next.

***

Standing
for a moment, I tried to appreciate the ancient painting hanging behind safety
glass.
 
Why had so many poems and songs
been written about her?
 
She had a
gigantic forehead.
 
Her hair was kind of
stringy and mousy.
 
And she looked like
she didn’t quite know the response to the math problem that her teacher had
sprung on her in front of the class.
 
Even her outfit was drab.
  
Some
people came all the way to Paris
just to see her!
 

What
a tease that Mona was!
 
She draws them in
and says, “Ha-ha, you thought you were going to see what all that fuss was
about, didn’t you?”
 
At least I could say
that I had seen her.
 

Maybe
I would decide to sound all cultured and say something like, “She was
beautiful, of course.
 
That face!
 
So enigmatic:
 
I couldn’t tell if she wanted to laugh or cry!
 
Leonardo Da Vinci was a genius!
 
A
genius, I tell you
!”
  
I was an
actress, after all.
 

People
couldn’t go around saying that the most famous painting on the planet was a
disappointment, but I felt a bit cheated.

“Well,”
Lulu asked, “what do you think?”

“I
dunno yet.”

“I
think she looks a little confused.
 
Or
annoyed.
 
That’s it:
 
the
Mona
Lisa
looks annoyed.”
 
The painting’s
twin no longer adorned her head.
 
I
couldn’t remember when it had gone, but I was glad.
 

Funny,
but Lulu was right.
 
The
Mona Lisa
looked annoyed.
 
Why hadn’t I noticed when I was staring into
her face on the Metro?
 
Perhaps it was
the way that her visage stretched out when she was wrapped around Lulu’s white
hair. What had she been so ticked off about?
 
Was she truly Da Vinci's self-portrait, as I'd seen once on a
documentary?
 

Maybe
I was just now figuring out a hidden secret of some kind:
 
Leonardo Da Vinci had been annoyed with
himself!
 
Probably not.
 
In any case, I really needed something to
eat.

“Lulu,
I’m really hungry and I need some pop.”

“Alright,
let’s see if they serve anything here.”

“Okay.”
I kicked the toe of my boots at something that looked like dust.
 
If I tried to remove it from the building,
I'd most likely end up with some serious security issues.

***

After
lots of horrible translating on my part, we found our way to a café inside The
Louvre.
 
Though my stomach told me that I
was starving to death, I was still way too stressed to eat anything.
 
Lulu ordered a croissant.
 
I'd lost count of how many she had ingested
so far, but it was reasonable to assume that she was eventually going to turn
into one.

I
told her that I needed to use the restroom.
 
It seemed like a simple request.
 
I guess I had forgotten about the last time I left her alone in a museum
type setting so I could visit the lady's room.

Reapplying
my lipstick, once I'd used the facilities and washed my hands,
 
I stared at my impossibly greasy bangs and
heard, “Grow, damn you!"
 
in my
head.
 
It was in English.

Lulu
was sitting where I had left her:
 
in a
tourist café, at The Louvre, in Paris.
 
Only she wasn’t alone.
 
An old woman
—
with the face of
a dual-purpose eating utensil
—
sat with her.
 
And a redhead.
 
An awful, satanic-looking, freckly redhead.
 
My stomach turned like I’d just finished an
extra large helping of escargots.
 

Sighing
for the seventy thousandth time since arriving in this country, I walked in
their direction.

“Look
who I found, dear.”

Ginny
sat with her cane between her knees.
 
She
was wearing a khaki, men’s button-up shirt and a long skirt, which looked as
though it was made of watercolor handkerchiefs.

Her
granddaughter was slouched in the chair next to her, with her feet up on the
table, wearing a miniskirt and black, twelve-holed Doc Marten boots.

“Nice
kicks,” I grumbled.

She
looked up at me, and I noticed that her eyes were bloodshot.
 
They almost looked like a rabbit’s, they were
so red.
 
How convenient; now they matched
her hair!

“Come
with me to the gift shop,” she said, as she jumped up from her seat.
 

***

Dragging
me past the gift shop, she led me outside onto a little patio area.

“Do
you have any cigarettes?”
 
she asked.

“Uh,
no, I don’t smoke.”

“You
should try it sometime.
 
It’s a great
stress reliever?”

“I
like my lungs, thanks.”

“For
God's sakes, do you have to be so freaking flip?”
 
she hollered in my face.

Me?
 
Flip?
 
She began sobbing and slid
down the wall onto the ground.
 
Long
ribbons of snot collected on her upper lip, and she wiped them away with her
hands.
 
Her nails had been painted black
and were chipped and bitten to the quick.
   

Her mournful
face was quickly starting to match her hair.

“What
gives?”
 
I asked.
 
I should have been more sensitive, but I was
too surprised to find my gentler side.

“I. Am.
Having. A. Miserable. Time. InthisfreakingCOUNTRY!”
 
She took deep breaths between most of her
words.

For
the first time since meeting her, I felt like we had something in common.
 
I slid down next to her.

“Me
too.”

“Huh?”

“I
hate this country, too.”

A
big hunk of frizzy hair hung over one of her eyes as she turned to look at me.
 
At the moment, her face was so pink that you
could hardly see all the freckles.

“Why
do
you
hate it so much?”

“Well,
for one thing, we almost got arrested earlier this morning.”

“No
shit?”

“My
grandmother tried to steal part of Napoleon’s tomb.”

She
wasn’t fazed a bit.

“Mine
tried to shoplift ten postcards from our hotel gift shop.
 
She told them that she just forgot to pay,
but I know better.
 
She is a criminal
.” Sort of like the pot calling the kettle
black, wouldn’t you say?
 
“She argued
with my Auntie so much that she told us not to come back to her house.
 
Ever.
 
This was supposed to be some sort of big reunion.
 
They haven’t spoken in over ten years.
  
I don’t even remember what the original
argument was about.”
   

After
digging around in her giant bag, she produced a pack of gum.
 
I gladly accepted a piece.

“When
are you supposed to go home?”
 
I took the
green stick out of the foil and rolled it up.
 
I couldn’t find a trashcan, so I tossed the wrapper into the metal smoking
tray.

“Not
for another three days.
 
I think I’m
going to lose my mind.
 
Or murder my
grandmother.
 
Probably both?”
 
She looked absolutely miserable.

“I
can completely relate.
 
Do you have any
Valium in that purse?”
 
I was half
serious.

She
shook her head.
 

“I
keep thinking that this might be a bad dream.
 
I hope it might get better, but it only keeps getting worse.”

“Hey,”
I leaned into her with a little bump, “at least your grandmother didn’t try to
pay someone to take you out on a date.”

“You
have got to be kidding me.”

“Unfortunately,
no.
 
It turned out alright, though.”

“How?
 
Was he super hot or something?”

“Well,
yeah, he is pretty hot, but he didn’t take me out.
 
My grandmother ended up going with me.
 
I'm still pretty pissed, though.”

“Yeah,
that sucks.
 
I wish mine would pay
someone to take me out.
 
I am sick to
freaking death of talking to her.
 
She
criticizes everything I do.”

“Mine
doesn’t criticize me too much, but ... she is certifiably bonkers.
 
I am sure of it.
 
She got drunk last night and passed out at a
live show.
 
That was after she asked our
waiter to dump our bottle of two hundred dollar champagne.”

“Ho-lee
crap!”
 
She laughed out loud.
 
It was a wonderful, unladylike laugh, ending
in a strangled cough.

“Yeah.
 
Never a dull moment.
 
My boyfriend is going to die when he hears
about this.
 
I don’t think he’ll ever let
me out of the country again.”

The
devilish glint was back in her eye.
 
She
didn’t look quite so... fuchsia, anymore.
 

“Alright,
we’d better get back to the old crones.
 
They’ll think we’re up to no good?”