The Devil's Own Chloe (Bistro La Bohème Series) (6 page)

Ten

Manon
opens the door, dressed as Maleficent. “Yay, you made it! Come on in.”

We
cheek kiss and I hand her a plastic bag with a bottle of champagne and two
bottles of wine.

“Let
me take your coat,” she says.

Hesitantly,
I undo the belt buckle and unbutton my knee-length trench coat.

“Ooh
la la,” Manon comments with a saucy smile as she takes in my costume.

I’m
dressed as Catwoman in knee-high boots and a tight black jumpsuit with a zipper
down the front.

There’s
a brief moment when I want to snatch my coat from Manon’s hands and run away,
but then I pull myself together and push my shoulders back. This outfit is
meant to convey a certain message about me to the male guests at this bash, so
I’d better act the part.

I
reach behind my neck and pull the stretchy hoody over my head. It has pointy
cat ears and a mask that covers the upper half of my face.

I’m
all set now.

Let’s
do this.

Manon
hangs my coat and ushers me into the living room. As I had predicted, it’s full
of young people in their early twenties with a few noteworthy males who catch
my eye. As I check them out, I can feel their almost palpable gazes running up
and down my body. So who is it going to be? Darth Vader, Jack Sparrow or… the
other Darth Vader? Or maybe Count Dracula, who ogles me like he’s dying to sink
his fake fangs into my neck.

I
scan the room once more and note with immense relief that Hugo isn’t here. Not
that his presence would thwart my plans, but given what happened in the
basement of
La Bohème
last night, it would make me uncomfortable
executing them.

Very
uncomfortable.

Manon
thrusts a plastic champagne flute into my hand and leads me
over to
the corner of the room where a small group is
talking animatedly.

“We
were discussing the religious meaning of Halloween,” she says as I follow her.
“You’ll find it interesting.”

I
probably will, especially if Count Dracula joins in.

When
the debate circle makes a hole for Manon and me, a man in a black sombrero and
a mask gives me a smile of recognition. “Oh, hi, Chloe. Nice costume!”

I
nod a thank you and take a closer look at his face, trying to place him. Then
it hits me. Zorro is Amar, the waiter from
La Bohème
. Quite
good-looking, by the way. Only… there may be something brewing between him and
Manon, judging by the way she looks at him. I’d better concentrate on Dracula…
as soon as the vampire hauls his ass to this end of the room.

A
witch rubs her chin and says to Amar, “I see your point, but you can’t deny
that most people have a need for spirituality. That’s why we can’t dispense
with religion.”

“I
thought we were talking about Halloween,” Manon says.

“We
were.” Amar shrugs apologetically. “But now we’ve moved on to superstition in
general.”

“Religion
isn’t the same thing as superstition,” the witch says.

“No,
I’ll grant you that.” Amar nods before adding, “But it isn’t the same thing as
spirituality either.”

“What
is it then?” I ask.

“A
tool for manipulating people,” Amar replies.

“Are
you a communist?” asks Jack Sparrow, who’s made his way to our circle faster than
the two Darth Vaders and Dracula.

Sparrow
it shall be, then.

Amar
shakes his head. “No, but I think religion should be a private matter. It
should be between the individual and God or whatever you believe in. There’s no
need for middlemen.”

“What
if the individual doesn’t know where to start?” Manon asks. “There’s too much
information out there, and a lot of people feel they need guidance from someone
more competent than themselves.”

“And
that’s precisely the problem, don’t you see?” Amar leans forward. “Who are
those
guides
? What’s the proof of their competence?”

Manon
taps her chin. “Degrees, I guess.”

“In
other words, they’ve been vetted by other
guides
, right?” His tone
betrays anger. “Not by God—just by other men.”

“Yeeaah…”
She looks at him from under her eyebrows. “So what’s your point?”

“My
point is that all clerics in all religions are mere humans. Mostly male, by the
way.”

She
smirks. “You’re a feminist now?”

“Would
that make you proud?” he asks with a smile.

She
beams back before rolling her eyes in an attempt to hide her glee.

“Men,”
Amar says, “love to manipulate other men for power.”

“Some
do.” Sparrow waggles his eyebrows at me. “Others love to manipulate women for
pleasure.”

I
do as Manon did, only in reverse order. My first response is to roll my eyes,
and then I give him a saucy smile to camouflage my distaste.

Note
to self:
When
Sparrow and I get down to business, nip any conversation he might attempt in
the bud.

“The
bottom line is that
all
men are manipulators,” Amar says, his expression
suddenly tired. “And the men of the cloth are the worst of them.”

Manon
swaps out his empty beer bottle for a full one. “Enough politics! You’re gonna
ruin my party.”

“I’m
sorry,” he says, touching her arm. “I promise to keep my mouth shut for the rest
of the evening and open it only to consume alcohol.”

“That’s
my boy.” She points toward the center of the room. “Dance, people.”

Good
idea.

Albeit
not my favorite activity, dancing is a great way of telling a man what I’m
after without having to say a word.

Twenty
minutes later, Jack Sparrow and I have migrated to the farthest end of the
hallway, away from the crowd. We’re exchanging meaningful glances and smiles
while undulating in approximate synchrony.

Soon
enough, Sparrow’s hand lands on my backside and gives it an eager squeeze. I
begin to scan the space around us to make sure no one familiar is close enough
to witness our antics. Before I turn to check behind me, someone’s huge fist
connects with Sparrow’s face. He flies backward and hits the wall. Slowly, he
slides down to the floor, blood oozing from his nose.

“What
the fuck!” He wipes his nose with the back of his hand and stares at his
aggressor.

So
do I.

It’s
Hugo, looking at me with something wild in his eyes. Something I haven’t seen
there before or even suspected he was capable of.

Something
I cannot bear to watch.

I
avert my gaze to the rest of him. He’s dressed in regular clothes, his
“costume” composed of a striped scarf and a long aquiline nose mask.

I
begin to smile as I figure out he’s Gru from
Despicable Me.

Sparrow
mutters another curse. He snuffles, whimpers, and rubs his reddened cheek. But
instead of standing up to confront Hugo, he maintains his reclining position
like a puppy signaling its submission to a bigger dog.

“Why
the hell did you hit me, man?” he asks, wiping his hand on his pants.

“You’ll
live.” Hugo lets out a deep sigh then turns back to me. “Chloe, are you OK?”

“Yeah.
Totally.” I point at Sparrow. “What was that all about?”

“I
saw him… He pawed you.”

Yes,
he did.

And
I let him.

But
I doubt he would dare do it again.

“Tell
you what, boys,” I shift my gaze from Hugo to Sparrow, trying to sound light.
“Why don’t I give you some space so you can… um… sort yourselves out?”

Both
men raise their eyebrows, but I don’t wait around to hear their objections.
Lifting my chin, I march back to the living room and insinuate myself into the
thickest group of dancers.

A
few minutes later, Sparrow stumbles into the room, followed by his assailant.

Hugo
glances at the discomfited pirate with a mix of pity and residual anger in his
eyes.

I
still can’t believe he just punched a man for as little as a risqué hand
placement. The damsel wasn’t screaming for help or even complaining. But her
knight in shining armor didn’t take the time to ascertain that minor detail. He
acted on impulse.

And
here I was thinking I knew Hugo Bonnet like the back of my hand…

At
school, his being bigger than other boys—even the ones older than
him—certainly helped keep him out of brawls since nobody dared attack him
physically. As to the taunts, he just smiled and waved them off like an
annoying fly.

I’ve
never seen him hit anyone. Perhaps what just happened was a blip. It means
nothing and it certainly changes nothing… aside from foiling my convenient
tryst tonight.

I
stay away from Hugo for the rest of the evening and sneak out early without
saying good-bye to anyone except the hostess. As I stride down rue des
Abbesses, I talk to Claire in my mind as I often do when I’m baffled.

It’s
a long conversation, like so many real-life ones we’ve had in my teens. Only in
my imaginary versions, I do all of the talking and Claire just shakes her head.
She doesn’t get a speaking part because I’m really good at anticipating her
arguments and preempting her objections. Not that I’ve ever discussed my
little
curse
with her,
but we’ve talked about enough things for me to know
exactly what Claire would say on this particular matter.

I
hail a taxi on the Boulevard de Clichy and climb in while exposing to Claire
all the excellent reasons why sleeping with Hugo would be a terrible idea.

Before
she opens her mouth to point out there’s no policy or law that prevents an
architect from dating a foreman, I remind her of the
other
reason.

She
shakes her head.

Oh,
come on,
I
say,
you know my history.

You
know what I’ve brought upon those who care for me. There’s no way you’d want
this for Hugo. You always liked him and were so vocal about it that Diane turned
your opinion of him into a moniker. When he’d call and she’d pick up the phone,
you’d shout from the kitchen, “Is it Dad?” and she’d shout back, “No, it’s
Chloe’s-friend-Hugo-is-such-a-good-kid
.”

Well,
that kid doesn’t deserve to die.

You
cannot want the lovely Yvette and Hervé Bonnet to lose a child like you and
Charles did. You cannot possibly want that.

Claire
sighs and shakes her head again. She doesn’t believe me. Her pragmatic mind
refuses to come to terms with the truth that I’m bad news. And not just your
regular bed-hopping and parent-neglecting nuisance, but a devil-powered,
inexorable, and inescapable disaster.

OK,
that was a little over the top.

My
track record is impressive but not enough to qualify me as the Antichrist.

How
bad am I exactly?

Could
I admit for a second, just for the sake of the argument, that Claire is right?
That there’s a chance I’m no Terminator, but only a young woman who’s had more
than her fair share of loss in her childhood and teens? I wish someone could
help me figure this out! I wish someone could ascertain if my abandonment, my
adoptive parents’ death, Lionel’s passing, and Charles’s stroke were the result
of my Midas touch or just a random “series of unfortunate events.”

Is
it possible that there’s no curse?

The
cab turns into Boulevard de Magenta, and I watch the elegant
Haussmannien
facades, with their first-floor mezzanines, second-floor balconies, and mansard
roofs. Most of the windows are lit with parties still in full swing in some.

We
stop at the traffic light on the Boulevard des Italiens. The last movie show of
the day must have just ended because crowds of laughing youngsters pour out of
the theaters. A black four-wheel drive pulls up next to us. The window is half
open, and the big, middle-aged man inside is wailing Brit’s “Baby One More
Time” in a shrill falsetto, alternating energetic lateral slides of his head
with vigorous back and forth moves. He accompanies this performance with an
intricate hand wave while his other hand is picking his teeth.

The
man is clearly under the illusion nobody can see or hear him in his cocoon.

Is
my Midas touch an illusion, too? Have I invented it to fill a fault line deep
inside my soul? Have I been living under a self-deception all these years?

No
way.

It’s
Claire who lives in denial.

The
cab crosses the Pont Royal to the left bank. It’s a dry night, and
people—tourists and locals—stroll along the Seine. I try to
distract myself by watching them, but Claire won’t let me. She’s stuck in my
mind, arms crossed over her chest and expression skeptical.