Revolution - Jennifer Donnelly [128]
He sits down next to me, runs his hand over my guitar case and says, “I enjoyed your playing. Very much. And your instrument has a lovely sound. Who made it?”
“It’s a Gibson.”
“May I?” he asks, pointing at the case.
I take the guitar out and hand it to him. He inspects it. “How unusual,” he says. “The body is a good deal bigger than most I have seen. Italian?”
“Dude, it’s a Gibson. It’s American,” I say, getting kind of annoyed with him and his schtick.
“The Americas,” he says. “I did not know there were good luthiers working there. Perhaps it is a more civilized place than one is led to believe.”
“I guess. Do you want to play it or what?”
He nods, then plays a piece by Lully. I can barely hear him over the din but what I can hear is beautiful. He’s an amazing player. No, actually, he’s astonishing.
“It is a worthy instrument,” he says when he finishes, putting it back in its case. “I write music, too,” he says. “Or rather, I did.”
His eyes flicker to the red ribbon on my neck. “I did not know you were one of us. I did not see you at the widow Beauharnais’ ball. Or any of the balls,” he says. “Who is your family?”
“What’s that to you?” I say testily. I’m starting to feel dizzy. It was a mistake to drink that wine, a big one. I want Virgil to come back. I want to get out of here.
“Be not afraid. Your secret is safe with me. My friends … you see them there? Stéphane, Francois, Henri … they all just barely escaped.” He touches the ribbon gently. “You wear the red ribbon, do you not? Do we not all wear it?” he says, gesturing at his friends. “Have we not all suffered? Who have you lost?”
My fingers wrap around Truman’s key. How does he know I lost someone? “My brother,” I say.
He nods. His eyes are sad. “You have my condolences, Monsieur.”
Monsieur? He thinks I’m a guy? What the hell? I’m about to tell him I’m not when he says, “Who are the others at this Victims’ Ball? I recognize none of them.”
Victims’ Ball? The weirdness is suddenly getting a whole lot weirder. I remember the term Victims’ Ball from my visit to the catacombs. Aristocrats who lost family members to the guillotine during the Terror held them after the fall of Robespierre.
“Is this a history class project?” I ask him. “Like a reenactment or something?”
It’s his turn to look confused. He’s about to say something to me when his words are cut off.
“Run!” someone shouts. “It’s the cops!”
67
People are swearing and shouting and burying their pot and their pills and running everywhere and knocking candles over. I can barely see. A guy leaps over me. I get hit in the head by someone’s bag. Two spelunkers tear past me, headlamps blazing.
I sling my bag over my shoulder, grab my guitar, and scramble to my feet. As I do, a girl crashes into me and nearly knocks me over. I want to run but I don’t know where.
“Virgil!” I shout.
“Andi! Where are you?”
“I’m here! Over here!”
I can’t see him. A fresh wave of dizziness washes over me, so strong and sickening that I think I’m going to puke. There’s the sound of a bullhorn. The police are telling us to stay put and not to panic. Which makes everyone panic. I feel someone pulling on my arm.
“Leave him!” a voice calls out.
“I cannot! He’s one of us!” the goth guy shouts back. “Come! Hurry! You cannot be found here. None of us can,” he says to me. He pulls me along with him down a tunnel. I’m tripping over my feet. Twisting and turning, trying to break free. I don’t want to go with him. I want to find Virgil. Finally I get loose.
“Virgil? Where are you?” I shout. I can’t see him. I can’t see anything because it’s pitch black down here without the candles. The only light now is coming from the beams of police flashlights. It blurs as I look at it, seems to hum and pulse. I remember that I’ve got a flashlight, too. I fish it out of my bag and turn it on. Now I can see. I see a policeman. And he sees me. He starts walking toward me.
I really don’t want to call my father from a Paris police station. Especially not in the state I’m in. I start running for the tunnel. I can see the