Revolution - Jennifer Donnelly [134]
“It’s all right. Hugo doesn’t bite,” a voice says, making me jump out of my skin. “Amadé. Amadé Malherbeau. Do you remember?” he asks me.
My blood runs cold as I look at him. “No,” I say. “I don’t.”
But I do. I just don’t want to. Because I thought that was all a dream and dreams aren’t real. Unless you’re crazy. I tell myself the same thing I told myself last night—it’s all a movie set and this guy’s an actor. He’s playing the role of Amadé Malherbeau, that’s all.
He’s sitting in a chair now, at the long wooden table. Sheets of music are scattered across it. Some are on the floor. He plays as I stare at him. Writes notes down. Plays again. Swears. And scratches the notes out.
Something’s worrying me, something that happened last night. What is it? I remember now. “Hey, did you put something in my drink last night? Did you?”
“Certainly not. Why would I?”
“To get me back here. In your bed.”
Amadé snorts. “Monsieur mistakes my kind intentions.”
He called me Monsieur last night, too. “Hey, I’m not a man, all right?”
He blinks at me. “You’re not?”
“No, I’m not.”
“But your clothing … no woman wears britches.”
“Enough, okay? Enough with the whole eighteenth century thing,” I say, testily.
I get out of bed, find my boots, and put them on. I don’t know where I am. I thought I was at G’s, but I’m not, and I really want to be. I want to take a shower and wash the fleas, the dog funk, the whole freakshow off me.
I look at my watch. It says 12:03. That was about the time the beach was raided. It’s stopped. I must’ve banged it when I fell in the tunnels. I really hope my father didn’t check my room last night. If he did, I’m dead.
“Where are we? Where’s the nearest Métro?” I ask Amadé.
“Métro? What is that?”
I so wish he would stop. I go to the window and pull back a heavy, dusty curtain. Paris is still there; that’s something. Then I see what I saw last night—horses and carriages. No cars. No buses. Women wearing old-fashioned clothes. Men selling firewood and milk out of cans. It’s the movie, I tell myself. Again. I look for the Eiffel Tower, but I can’t see it. Or any tall buildings. I let the curtain fall. Across the room, Amadé is still struggling with the phrase. It’s making my head hurt.
“Wrong chord. Try G minor.”
“Minor, you say?”
“Minor.”
“An unusual choice,” he muses, trying it out.
“Do you have any more coffee?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says, making no move to get it.
I look around for a coffee maker and a fridge and a sink but there are none. There’s just this giant room we’re in, a fireplace, and some furniture. I open the doors to a wooden cupboard and find a jug of red wine, a chunk of hard cheese, and some wet coffee grinds in a bowl. This guy’s a bit of a slob. I pick up the bowl and look around for the trash can.
“What are you doing?” Amadé says.
“Throwing out the garbage. Where do you keep the coffee?”
“Are you stupid? That is the coffee! Put it down!”
“But it’s used.”
“Only twice. There’s flavor in it yet. I’m lucky to have that much. There’s little coffee and even less sugar coming in from the plantations now. What does get here is horribly expensive. You know that.” His eyes narrow. “Perhaps you have contacts? For coffee? And sugar? I would give much for them. I can’t compose without coffee. I can’t even think without it.”
“Yeah. Okay. I’ll get some right now.” A double espresso. For myself. Because I’m so done with him and his insanity.
“What, right now? In broad daylight? Are you mad? Don’t you know what happens to black-marketers? If you’re caught, you’ll be killed.”
I give him a look. “The joke’s getting old. Really, really old.”
“What joke?” he says, looking confused.
“You know what joke. The whole revolutionary thing. I know it’s all a movie set, okay? And you’re an actor. And it was funny for a while but now it’s not. It’s really not. Where’s the bathroom? I have to go. Bad.”
Still looking confused, he points at an old tin tub in the corner. “You’re not going to take a bath, are you?” he says.