My mouth went dry, and my heart skipped a few beats. The murmurs I had heard backstage swelled to a sea of voices, clinking glasses, and couples laughing, accompanied by a creaky piano player. The room was washed in cool green and blue light. It was filled with little circular tables, attended by waitresses bearing exotic drinks of every colour in every shape of glass. Lights in the floor resembled lily pads, and the ceiling seemed to have stars embedded in it. I was transfixed by the mood of the place; it was like nothing I’d ever seen. My reverie was broken by a voice that sounded like a cough. “Mademoiselle, while we’re young, if you don’t mind.”
I followed the voice to a group of dimly lit tables set above and back from the main part of the club. I couldn’t see the face behind the voice, but I heard the snide laughter that followed as I tried to steady my legs and start the climb to the balcony. My hair fell in my eyes, but I hung on to my tray and remembered Sashay’s advice.
A single candle lit each table on the balcony, which was more like an alcove that overlooked the club. A group of five black coats and hats that I supposed had men in them were clustered around two of the three tables. The first thing that hit me through the dense cloud of smoke was the slightly swampy odour that hung in the air. That and the mirrored sunglasses. Two were wearing theirs; there were two pairs on the table, and the fifth had his hat pulled low enough to hide his features completely. “You want us to die of too much fresh air?” hissed the tallest of the group as the others laughed ugly, wheezing laughs. “What took you?”
Before I could answer, he grabbed a pack and some Moulin D’Or matches and tossed down a bill, waving me off like a mosquito. As I was about to make my escape, a bony hand grabbed my wrist. “Playing favourites, kid?” he almost whispered, then glancing at the selection, made his choice and looked me in the eyes. He had long, wispy silver hair beneath his hat and strangely smooth, bluish skin. A thin white scar snaked from his ear to the corner of his mouth. Minus the glasses, his eyes looked like what you see in the fireplace just before the fire goes out. I felt like my blood was slowing down in my veins from the cold chill that washed over me. “Where’s Michelle?”
“Uh,” I started to reply, but my tongue wouldn’t move.
However, they soon lost interest in me, and I left as quickly as I could to gather myself. I was back and forth between the balcony and the friendlier patrons on the lower levels all night until the music stopped and the stage lights dimmed for Sashay’s performance. I had turned toward the stage, excited to watch my new friend, when I heard a rasping voice from the balcony and saw a hand beckoning me back into the darkness. By now I was getting used to their cheesy comments and overall rudeness, but I was still on my guard as I made my way up the stairs. Suddenly I was pushed aside as a new group emerged onto the balcony from a doorway that I hadn’t seen before. Two more cookie-cutter trench coats and fedora hats brushed past on either side of a small, slender man with slicked-back hair in a perfectly tailored suit and silver cowboy boots. The others greeted him like a celebrity, and I was completely ignored as I stood off to one side of their gathering. The little man eased around the tables shaking hands and saying, “Yesss, ouiii.”
He stopped and addressed the group. “Kudos to the Shadows on Les Invalides. Dirty work and a clean job.”
They laughed their sooty laughs as a tall, thin one held out a chair for him. “Congratulations to you, Louche. Your plan worked to perfection, and the cross is safely at Shadowcorps. The black paint was a stroke, ha-ha, of brilliance.”
My body felt like it was frozen. I pulled Sashay’s scarf closer to my neck and had trouble focusing on anything else that was said.
“You part of the décor, or are you working tonight, bouffée?” The little man at the centre of this thug party waved me over, to the group’s general amusement. When he looked at me, I avoided his gaze, feeling like a specimen in biology class pinned to my place.
“Where’s Michelle?”
“Sick,” I mumbled, but it was my voice that sounded like it was on its last legs.
“What’s your name? Where are you from? Not from here, I’m guessing,” he hissed softly.
Mechanically I replied, “Mac. Upper Mandeville ... cigarettes?” I hoped to shift his attention to the tray that was shaking slightly in my hands. He ignored my question.
“Califorrrniaaa.…” He stretched out the word like a lizard sunning itself on our backyard patio. “What do you think of the lighter, brighter Paris? Remind you of home?” he asked with a smirk as he opened a fresh pack of cigarillos and reached for a match.
My brilliant reply went something like, “Um, ah, yes. I don’t know, I mean, yeah, I guess.”
“Well, lighten up, kid,” he sneered as he touched the match to the tip of his smoke, illuminating his face. I felt my arms go limp as I realized I was staring at Luc Fiat, the prefect of Paris. But how could that be? I was saved by a voice from below.
“Ladies and gentlemen, mesdames et messieurs, please give a warm welcome to ‘La Reine Des Rêves,’ Paris’s own Queen of Dreams, Sashay D’Or.”
As the crowd applauded, I hurried downstairs and into the safety of the little space beside the stage to catch my breath. Sashay swept past me, and she seemed in a dream herself as strange music slowly wove its way through the club. Rhythmic blue lights like waves washed over the quieted crowd as Sashay, well, sashayed onto the stage, one long-gloved hand extended as if it were leading her somewhere. The music rose and fell. She seemed to pull endless wisps of gauzy material from the folds of her outfit as she spun and floated back and forth across the stage. Every once in a while, she would dramatically throw a jewelled, gloved hand into the air, and a little column of golden smoke would rise like it had been charmed out of the stage, while from somewhere a cymbal would crash in response.
Maybe it was the waves of blue lights, but I found myself feeling like I was beside the ocean in California, with the distant sound of children playing and my mom laughing at something my dad was saying. The sand felt warm on my hands and feet, and in the haze I could make out tiny sailboats in the distance as I watched the patterns the seagulls made on the sand as they drifted overhead. A particularly loud wave crashed, and it turned into the sound of the audience applauding. I realized I was still standing side-stage at the club. With a whiff of lavender, Sashay materialized and took my arm, leading me, in a fuzzy state of mind, to her dressing room.
“Mmm, I just had the coolest memories,” I started to tell her. She smiled at me as she removed the cigarette tray.
“I know, I’d love to see the coast of California some day.”
My head was still glowing from Sashay’s performance as little questions started to take flight like seagulls from my memory. She seemed to know what I was thinking. “Later, ma petite, let’s go. I don’t want to see anyone at the stage door. I’ll change at home, chez moi.”
She threw a coat on my shoulders, and the next thing I knew we were in the back seat of Rudee’s cab.
Twelve
The rain had stopped, but it had left the streets slick and shiny like new leather as the tires hissed down the grand boulevards. We didn’t seem to be returning to Sashay’s place in the Marais as we crossed the Pont Carrousel and drove through the archway past the Louvre. I sank back in the seat and listened vaguely to the usual exchange of jokes and recipes on Rudee’s cab radio. The cafes and bars were still buzzing, and the lights on the beautiful Opera Garnier gave it a storybook glow. We continued on through a seedier part of the city toward the giant train station, Gare St. Lazare. We stopped at the end of a short bridge overlooking the rows of darkened railway tracks, and Rudee switched off the taxi lights.
“It doesn’t look like much, but this is my first memory of Paris.”
Sashay gave me an “I’ve