François studied her intently, then reddened and looked away. He shuffled his feet, looked at her again. “You know what I am thinking.”
“I can pretty much guess. You’re a reporter and this story will make you famous. Monsieur, you’ll retire a wealthy man if I can pull this off.”
“Madame, the fame and money will be nice. How do they say in English—the icing on the cake? But the real thrill will be working with you.”
François was such a sweetie. Just the touch of gallantry she needed. “Okay then, let’s get going. Hopefully, we’ll have a big crowd here at noon tomorrow.”
“People will start coming at the break of dawn to get the best spots.”
“Won’t they be afraid to get too close to me? I’m a woman and look at this dress.” She held out the skirt with both hands and gave it a little shake. Were those sparks of light floating up from it, dancing like fireflies around her?
“The dress won’t matter.” François’ tone was dismissive. Hadn’t he seen the sparks? She was afraid to ask, but he was speaking again anyway. “When word of what happened today spreads, everyone will be here. You must understand that no one has stopped the Spinda before.”
“They’re not vanquished, only derailed momentarily.”
“You will succeed. I am sure of it. How can I help?”
“I need some sort of platform or stage. Do you think one of these buildings would do?”
They had an audience as they searched. Small dark forms scurried between the buildings, peeked out from hiding places, undoubtedly driven by curiosity that overrode their fear. Or possibly they had been sent to spy. Either way, it didn’t matter. The tales the boys told would build and grow to serve her purpose.
She and François climbed over and around piles of bricks and broken cement and the carcasses of wrecked and burned vehicles. Stymied by blocked and barricaded doors, tired and frustrated, she stood in the middle of a deserted store. The shelves were layered with dust, the floor littered with shards of broken glass. She swore under her breath and looked around for François.
“Madame, venez ici,” he called from outside. “Je l’ai trouvé.”
“Where?” She ran out to join him in the square. He pointed to a narrow three-storey structure squeezed between two larger buildings. On the second floor, a mini balcony protruded a few inches from the wall of the building with a wrought iron railing. A perfect little stage.
They entered an empty but relatively clean room. She clung to the railing as she followed François up the stairs. Suddenly it gave way.
“Attention!” François’ warning came too late. She stumbled, fell forward, and almost took him down too. He righted himself and helped her regain her balance. “Keep one hand on the wall. Don’t use the railing.”
On the second floor they found two worn and battered divans, several faded carpets, and a lidless chest.
“Alors?”
“Yes, this should work.”
François stared out the broken window into the stark empty street. As she watched him, she was overcome by melancholy. Would she ever know her home? Would she ever be able to lose herself in memories, good or bad?
Her mouth flooded with the taste of raspberries eaten ripe from the vine and her nose tingled from bubbles of homemade root beer sipped on a hot summer day. She heard sleigh bells ringing under the moonlight, and horses’ hooves squeaking on hard-packed snow, shivered at the sight of the headless body of a butchered rooster leaping wildly across a field, and felt a thrill of fear at the garter snakes coiled together basking in the sun. She saw little girl arms attacked by thorns as the gooseberry bush protested raiding.
“Madame, what is it?” François asked. “You look—”
“Nothing … memories, I think. Of … of my other life. Nothing.”
“Mais—”
“Nothing!” He was wise enough not to push and she was grateful.
“Eh bien, now we eat.”
“A Frenchman never forgets his priorities.”
“But of course not, madame.” His tone was all serious. Only the twinkle in his eye gave him away. “Come, I will take you to my home. Fatma, my cook, will have prepared a simple meal and there will be enough for two. She will have heard about you by now and will want to meet you.”
“My dress will scandalize.”
François looked at her dress as if seeing it for the first time. “It is beautiful, yes, but the legend of you will overshadow the dress.”
“Legend? Surely you’re not serious?”
“You will see. You are la madame des miracles.”
*
“So theatrical, what the Frenchman says to her. Of course, she thinks it gallant, but really….” I had to admit, though, that François was good for her. With him, she felt less alone, less stranded.
“Well, little brother, I wouldn’t mind a bit of that chivalry up here. I like it.”
“Humph! We’re fine just as we are. If you saw more of Earth, you’d know that.” But maybe Elspeth was right. The courtliness was nice.
“Seeing herself reading the paper, doing the crossword, saving the comics for last, isn’t that dangerous for her?”
I wished Elspeth hadn’t voiced my fears. I felt… was that anger? If so, anger at whom? “She has to stop all the maudlin nonsense. She has a job to do. This other life of hers creeping in is too distracting. Could be dangerous if it happened at the wrong time.” But, it’s not her fault her mind is so strong and isn't that one of the reasons I chose her? It’s my responsibility. I’ll have to come up with better blocks.
“Her dress…” Elspeth sounded shocked, but was that a note of wistfulness I heard too? “The Spinda aren’t the only ones scandalized by it. She is too, a little. So am I.”
I thought I’d done a good job picking it for her, feminine in an Earth kind of way, but sexy too by their standards. I liked it.
*
The main room of François’ house served as living area with a small square wooden table, three chairs, a divan, and a vinyl armchair sporting a spider-web of cracks. A communications system and two cell phone chargers sat on a low chest. A generator hummed somewhere in the background.
François directed her through his bedroom to the bathroom beyond and went to fetch their lunch. She stared at herself in the small faded mirror for a long time, and then went in search of him.
“How old do I look to you?”
“Thirty-four. Thirty-five.”
She returned to the mirror and stared again. The face looking back at her was certainly not as young as he said, but perhaps not as old as she felt either.
In the mirror she could see the scoop neckline of the dress and the skinny spaghetti straps. God! To the Spinda, she might as well have been naked. The dress, fitted to the waist, flared gently to her ankles, with billowy pockets on each hip. She checked. One crumpled Kleenex. Nothing to give a hint of the “me” she knew had to be there somewhere.
She ran her hands over the dress, luxuriating in the exquisite texture of the rich fabric. She felt a glimmer of shock at feeling so comfortable with the sensuality of it. Would the dress glow in the dark igniting both her and the air around with its power?
Where did it come from, this provocative dress? Was it real? Was she? A wave of panic washed over her. She grabbed the edge of the sink and took several deep breaths. She stripped and considered washing her clothes, but they were spotless. Stepping into the shower, she found the water, warm from the sun-heated exterior pipes, soothing and refreshing.
The threadbare towel caught on the ring as she dried herself. She’d been aware of the weight of it, heavy on her hand, but comforting too. She reached with her right hand to pull it off her finger and hold it up to the light. Something stopped her. A little voice in her head issuing a warning?
The ring seemed to have been carved from a single piece of crystal. A multitude of facets refracted sharp edges of light. She ran a finger over it and found that it was not sharp to the touch. Twenty tiny star sapphires surrounded a large blue translucent stone set in the ring; a stone that sucked her in, threatening to drown her. She felt dizzy again and a wave of nausea washed over her. She steadied herself, dressed quickly and went back to the main room.
The homey scent of warm bread welcomed her and made her mouth water. The unleavened bread and the fresh cheese were delicious, as were the nuts and dried fruit that served as dessert. She and François ate in companionable silence. For a few delicious moments she relaxed and felt worry free.
“How is it that you, a single man, are able to have a female cook?”
“I offered refuge to a widow, Fatma, several years ago. She and her three children live in the shed behind my house. Her sons run the errands and do the shopping. She never leaves the compound. No one knows she exists.”
“In effect, a prisoner.”
“Oui, but a prisoner who is not starving or threatened or beaten. A mother who can provide for her children. You would like to spend some time with her?”
“Yes.”
“You will not need a translator. Madame, you speak French and the local languages so well and in the earlier reports of you, they said you spoke their languages with ease. How is it you are able to do this? How many languages do you speak?”
Yet more unknowns. No matter how bad something was, she’d rather know. Besides, how bad could it be? Oh, God…
“When will you file your report on this?” she asked.
François muttered under his breath, the reporter in him obviously frustrated as hell. Publicity about her actions didn’t concern her in the least. She figured whoever was running the show was taking care of that. Taking care of everything. Taking care of her?