Rudee seemed to glaze over for a moment, with a distant, almost sad expression. “Sorry, Mac, where was I? Sashay, of course. She knows ways of taking people away with that swirly girl dance of hers. You remember things ...” his voice trailed off before the fire in it returned, “… she was the toast of all Paris. Now she works for people who don’t appreciate her. No one does ... like I do.”
At this moment the radio cut in with a burst of static. “Fifty-two. Cinquante-deux. Are you there?”
Rudee grabbed his microphone. “Oui, I’m here after all.”
“Rudee, you little cockroach, ça va?” A crusty female voice came from the speaker.
“Yes, oui, Madeleine, you old sea hag, ça va.”
A cackling laugh, part static, part cough, shot back, “I’ve got a new recipe for curing baldness, mon ami.”
“Really?” Rudee sounded cautious but interested.
“Listen, take equal parts goose liver and very ripe brie and let it sit beside your bed for one month. Then spread it on your head and sit under a lamp for six hours, and do not move.”
Rudee was taking notes while driving.
“And the next morning, my shiny-domed driver, you’ll have a full head of hair.”
“That’s it?” Rudee couldn’t hide the hope in his voice.
“Oh, just one last thing. You need ... one very gullible bald cabbie.”
A chorus of laughter echoed over the radio. Rudee turned the colour of his beet stew and slammed down the handset.
At this point we swung into a narrow street and stopped in front of a darkened storefront that read “Musée D’Écharpe.” I’d never heard of a scarf museum. Could Erik Satie’s place be smaller than this? On the floor above, a curtain parted slightly then closed, and the lights went out. Rudee jumped out of the cab, opened the back door, and stood waiting while a woman whisked from between the buildings and into the back seat. I turned to get my first look at the “queen of dreams.” I could barely focus on her face for the wild profusion of hair and scarves in the dim golden glow of Rudee’s cab.
“Sashay, this is ...” began Rudee.
“Mac,” she said in a whisper, “enchanté,” and extended a hand contained in a silky glove that travelled far up her sleeve.
“Hi,” was all I could manage as her eyes, located deep beneath waxy lashes, found mine.
Before we could go any further, Rudee hit the gas and pulled away, pushing “play” and filling the cab with the sound of a velvety male singer. In the mirror, Sashay looked like she was somewhere else. Rudee said nothing, so I thought I’d better do the same. We eased through the streets of St. Germain till we approached a cluster of cars and people standing in groups dressed for a night on the town, laughing and talking happily. On one side of a narrow passage, I could see the lights of the club gleaming on the polished steel and stone exterior. The sign read MOULIN D’OR and below it was a poster of Sashay surrounded by lights looking like she had just emerged from a silver cloud. The groups parted as we slowly drove past the entrance then stopped in front of an alley leading to the side of the building. Above a dimly lit doorway, I could just make out a sign that read STAGE DOOR. Sashay departed without a word and went in.
There was a man in a long black coat in the shadows by the door, standing very still. I might not have noticed him if it weren’t for the glow of the cigarette under the brim of his hat.
Seven
“There goes the most beautiful woman to have ever taken the stage in Paris or anywhere with curtains,” sighed Rudee as we drove away, “you can have your Coco LaFoie, your Tipi Chaussette.”
My mind was still on the smoking man by the stage door, but I could see that this was not the moment to mention it to Rudee. Another set of rain-slicked cobblestone streets later, we arrived at a café. Every car outside, all parked at odd angles to the curb, was a taxi. The blinking sign in the window of the smoky room said CAF TA; then I saw that with the burned-out letters lit up, it would have spelled CAFE TAXI. It was packed, bright, and very loud, and the smell of coffee and fresh pastry ruled. In one corner, someone was getting a shave and a haircut. Card playing, arm wrestling, and arguing contributed to the chaos. As Rudee looked for a table, he was spotted by some friends.
“Hey, Rudee, I’ve got some goose liver for you.”
“Did you bring the brie?”
The laughter was punctuated by more voices. “Hey, who’s that? Have you given up on the most beautiful woman to have ever taken the stage?”
“Business slow, Monsieur Rudee? Doing a little babysitting on the side?”
That was it for me. I stood up on a chair and shouted above the crowd, “He’s not my babysitter. Rudee’s my friend!”
This was greeted by some good-natured “ooolalas” and “wellwellwells,” and the crowd moved back to their drinks and on to other matters. Rudee looked the most surprised of all by my outburst. A tall, thin driver with a mop of hair escaping from a pork pie hat and a nose that looked like it could slice bread was waving at us and pointing to a couple of empty chairs. We sat down, and Rudee introduced me to François Caboche.
“Friend of Rudee’s is a friend of mine.” He grinned through a wispy moustache that hung like a curtain over his mouth. “Call me Dizzy.”
He saw my expression and went on. “No, it’s not a balance problem; my mom was in love with Dizzy Bluebird, and when he toured here with his hot half dozen, she was at every gig. She put a mini trombone into my hands when I was in the crib.” Dizzy tilted his head at Rudee. “Your pal Rudee’s a heckuva fine organist, you know. We jam on Saturdays upstairs; you want to come by?” Rudee didn’t jump in, so I just smiled.
I said my dad had told me all about Rudee’s talents. “He played me the Pipeline Tour tapes. He said Rudee’s solo in ‘Strange Glove’ should be studied by every kid who wants to call himself an organist.”
Rudee couldn’t hide his pride and asked if I’d heard my dad’s vocal on “Transatlantic Train.” I didn’t tell him it just sounded totally weird to me.
“Listen, Rudee.” Dizzy lowered his voice so it could barely be heard above the din of CAFTA and leaned toward his friend. “I’ve been thinking about what you said about the city getting darker, and I’m sorry that I laughed at you, mon ami. I know the theft of the cross from the Église Russe bothers you a lot, and I figured that’s what was getting to you. Anyway, I was picking up my usual fare on Rue Bonaparte, and I realized that I couldn’t read the building numbers. There was no fog, the lamps were on, but it seemed a bit darker to me. Maybe we’re both crazy.”
“That’s it, slideman,” Rudee burst in excitedly then quickly glanced around the room to see if anyone was paying attention before continuing. “I know it’s true. Paris is getting darker by the day. Hardly but slowly. A driver in the Métro drove past the Pigalle station and two hundred passengers on the platform yesterday.”
Rudee paid for the drinks and the warm chocolate croissants that had magically appeared and quickly disappeared, and we all headed into the street. We waved to Dizzy, who got into a very low-slung cab with exhaust pipes that looked like trombones. His cab belched blue smoke, and Rudee shook his head. “Only bohemians would travel like this.”
The café door swung open, and a driver wider than the doorway squeezed out to spit in the street. Spotting us, he lumbered over.
“Daroo, you lunatic, how do you afford gas with all your freeloading friends?” He snorted like a pit bull and tilted his face close to mine. When he spoke, his breath could’ve been used as rust remover. “Past your bedtime, isn’t it, nana?”
Rudee stepped