Revolution - Jennifer Donnelly [109]
“Gotta run. Flesh-eating Mombie. Later, A.”
“See you soon.”
I’m smiling as I hang up, glad that my plan worked. Glad my painter mother is painting again—even if it is on a wall. Maybe I can bring her some more things. Why not? I’ve got a few hours to kill before I need to leave for the airport, and Clignancourt, the huge Paris flea market, is open today. I decide to go.
I get my bag and jacket, tell my father I’m heading out. He asks me if I have euros for the fare to the airport and dollars for the cab ride from JFK to Brooklyn. But before I can answer, his phone rings.
“Hello, Matt,” he says. He looks at his watch. “It’s very early your time, isn’t it? Is anything wrong?”
Matt. That’s Dr. Becker’s first name. I wonder if he’s done rounds yet today. If he’s seen Mom’s wall. I wonder if, by any chance, he’s figured out who sent the art supplies. Time to make tracks.
“Andi, wait a second,” Dad says.
“No worries, Dad!” I yell from the doorway. “I’ve got money! I’ll be fine! I’ll call you from Brooklyn. Bye!”
I slam the door and bolt.
52
Like a city, Clignancourt has its own districts.
The streets leading to the market are full of low-rent flea-market guys. They set their goods out in carts or just throw a blanket on the sidewalk. I walk past women and men selling African beads, socks, lipstick, underwear, sweatpants, goat curry, and batteries, and keep moving toward the heart of the market.
The Rue des Rosiers and the Biron have furniture. L’Entrepot has salvage. Serpette has vintage clothing, old Louis Vuitton trunks, and chandeliers. I don’t want any of that, so I head to the Marché Vernaison, which is funkier and junkier. It’s a rabbit warren of stalls, jumbled and narrow.
I stop at one and buy a silver thimble and a cracked porcelain cup. A cookbook from the forties. A faded velvet candy box. I move on and find some faded fabric roses, jet buttons, a ribbon belt with a rhinestone buckle, postcards from Deauville. I pick my way around boxes and crates, looking, hunting, stuffing my finds into my bag.
I turn a corner, pass a stall selling fur coats, another selling clocks. Outside a third is an old gilt table, and on it there’s a bowl filled with billiard balls. They’re nicked and dented, five euros apiece, and I know my mother will love them. I pick out three.
My bag gets heavy. I’m hungry. But I keep looking and digging, walking farther into the market until I come out the other side. The antiques stalls give way to junksters again. I pick through their offerings, turning up a red crystal necklace, a candy tin.
And then I’m at the end of it and there’s just one last dealer to visit—a skinny guy with a ponytail. He’s eating a gyro with one hand. Pulling stuff out of a rusty Citroën with the other. He looks like he just arrived. He’s wearing a long, grimy velvet jacket with a hoodie under it. The hoodie has the outline of a city on it. I ♥ ORLÉANS, it says.
There’s a box of old jewelry out on the sidewalk. I start pawing through it. He squats down next to me and smiles. His teeth are in bad shape. There are bruises between his fingers. His eyes have a glazy, unfocused look. He looks around, then pulls a bone out of his jacket.
“I got it from the catacombs,” he tells me. “It’s a leg. Very old. You want it? Twenty euros. I have ribs, too. Ten euros. And skulls. They’re fifty.”
“Um, no thanks.”
I hope he’ll go back to his boxes, but he doesn’t. Coldplay’s on the radio. He starts singing along with Chris. One minute I held the key, next the walls were closed on me, and I discovered that my castles stand, upon pillars of salt and pillars of sand …
He wipes his nose on his sleeve, and says, “Could be Louis XVI singing that. Or maybe just his head. Since they cut it off.”
“Could be,” I say, moving away from him a little.
“The head knows it’s been cut off. For a few seconds. Ten, maybe fifteen. It’s true. A doctor made experiments back in 1905. He picked up the head of a guillotined man immediately after it had been severed and called his name.