Revolution - Jennifer Donnelly [35]
I lean back in my chair and stretch. My stomach growls. I look at my watch. It’s almost three and I haven’t eaten a thing all day. I’ve been too busy reading. Trying to get some background on Amadé Malherbeau.
He’s a mystery. The books say a lot about his music, but not much about the man himself. He appeared in Paris at the age of nineteen, basically wrote Muzak for some city theaters, then quit and started writing the stuff that made him famous. He never married or had children, and he made enough money by his forties to buy a swank house by the Bois de Boulogne. He died at the age of fifty-eight and left the house to the Paris Conservatory.
It’s a start, but I’m going to need a lot more or I’m not getting out of here on Sunday, and I’ve already booked my ticket. I couldn’t get a normal flight to New York on such short notice—something that departs in the morning and gets me into the city the same day. All I could get was a flight that departs Orly at nine p.m. and involves a seven-hour layover in Dublin. It’s going to be a nightmare, but it’s either that or wait until the twenty-third, which would be a bigger nightmare.
Now … where else can I find more on Malherbeau?
The old guitar case is lying across from me on the table. I pull it over so I can mess with the lock while I’m thinking. G said there was a collection of Malherbeau’s music at the Abelard Library. Which is in central Paris. I could go there and look at the collection. Maybe photograph it. That would be both a primary source and a visual. I could go to Malherbeau’s house and check out his stuff. Take a look at the portrait that’s hanging there. And then what? This is hard. People like Vijay with his quotes from world leaders really raise the bar.
That prong is still stuck. It won’t budge no matter how much I jiggle it. It’s really pissing me off. I head to the kitchen and start digging around. Five minutes later, I reemerge with a nail set, a screwdriver, a crochet hook, and a bottle of olive oil.
I take the guitar out of the case, then move the case to the middle of the table, right under the chandelier so I can see what I’m doing. I tilt it on its side, drip a tiny bit of oil into the lock and get to work.
Half an hour later I’m nowhere. The nail set wouldn’t fit into the lock. The screwdriver was useless and I bent the crochet hook. I’m really mad now and leaning way over the table, trying to tilt the case just right so that the light from the chandelier shines directly into the lock, when I hear a soft little clunk.
I look down. It’s Truman’s key. It slipped out of my shirt and knocked against the side of the case. What are the chances, I wonder? I take the key off and try it. It fits into the lock, but it won’t budge when I try to turn it. I twist it a little harder. Just a little. I don’t want to break anything. Still nothing. I try to pull the key back out but it’s stuck.
I start to panic. I shouldn’t have taken it off. I never take it off. I twist it again—too hard. My hand slips and I slice a knuckle on the edge of the lock. I suck on the cut, then try again. I want Truman’s key back.
I’m pulling and pushing and twisting it as hard as I can. My fingers are hurting and my knuckle’s bleeding and I’m swearing and about to give up when suddenly there’s a scraping sound and the key turns and the prong rises and sinks again, but the key keeps turning. It should stop, but it doesn’t. It’s still turning and suddenly there’s a kachunk sound and a thin crack appears along the side of the case.
I’ve broken it. Oh, shit no. I look closer, wondering how in the world