Revolution - Jennifer Donnelly [41]
“Stick them in your armpits.”
I look up. A guy’s standing there in an orange coverall. There’s a bag of tools at his feet. He looks like a serial killer.
“What?”
“Like this,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest and shoving his hands into his pits. “It works better than blowing on them.”
I try it. He’s right.
“I like your playing,” he says. “Want to jam?”
“Dude, with what? A hammer?”
He turns around. He’s got what looks like a mandolin case slung over his back.
I shrug. “Yeah. All right.”
I’m thinking we might sound better together. Or at least louder. Either way, we might get more money, and I need more money. He warms up and we play “Pennyroyal Tea” and then some tunes by Elliott Smith and Nada Surf. People stop to listen. A few toss coins. We play for about an hour, then divvy the money. It works out to just over seven euros apiece.
“I’m Jules, by the way,” the guy says. “I work over there,” he points west with his thumb, “for a furniture maker.”
That explains the orange coverall. I hope.
“I’m Andi,” I say.
“You want to come to Rémy’s with me? It’s a café. On the Rue Oberkampf. I play there on Wednesdays and Sundays. I haven’t played for a couple of weeks, though, because one of the guys I play with … a guitarist? He took off. Went back to Moldova to get his teeth.”
“His what?”
“His teeth. He loaned his dentures to his brother for his wedding. To look good in the pictures. He said he could take them on his honeymoon, too. Which was really nice of him, you know? But now his brother won’t give them back. He didn’t mail them like he was supposed to. So the guy? Constantine? He had to go get them. Anyway, you want to go? We can take the Métro. Rémy will feed us.”
“I don’t know,” I say. I’m really hungry and really cold. On the other hand, I just met this guy and he’s talking a lot about teeth and that’s a saw sticking out of his tool bag.
Jules shrugs. He says goodbye and heads off. I strum my guitar, thinking I’ll hang out for another hour. Maybe get a few more euros. Then I’d have enough for a hot meal in a cheap café. I’m a few bars into “Wake Me Up When September Ends” when my A string breaks. I don’t have any spares.
I turn around, looking for a man in orange. I spot him. He’s a few yards away, about to turn a corner.
“Jules! Hey, Jules!” I shout.
He turns around. “What?”
“You have any guitar strings on you?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.”
“Okay, what?”
What am I so worried about? A serial killer would solve all my problems.
“Okay, wait. I’m coming.”
23
She’s good,” Jules says.
“She’s skinny,” the bald man says, looking unhappy.
“So?”
“So? So she’ll eat all the food in my kitchen! Why do you always bring me stray dogs? Constantine. Virgil. Now this one!”
Jules plants a kiss smack on top of Rémy’s shiny head. Rémy swears at him. Jules tugs on my jacket. “Come on. This way.”
I hear Rémy tell a waiter, “No one cares if she’s good. Customers don’t want to see talented girls. They want pretty ones. With big boobs.”
“I’ll be sure to bring some next time,” I say. Rémy doesn’t hear me, but Jules does.
“Don’t pay any attention to him,” he says. “He’s always like that.”
“You think anyone hassles Jack White about his boobs?”
“Forget it. All that matters is the food. He’s got stew tonight. I can smell it.”
We walk through the tiny restaurant, past a zinc-topped bar, to a stage that’s no bigger than a manhole. There’s no mic. No speakers. No nothing.
I change my broken string, tune up, and then we play. Badly at first, until our hands warm up, then a bit better. Jules sings lead. I do backup. It’s not terrible, but still, everyone pretty much ignores us. I glimpse Rémy walking around. He’s frowning. He comes up and says, “Sing sad songs. People drink more when they’re sad.”
So we do. We play some Jeff Buckley, some Simon and Garfunkel, and various other downer tunes for an hour or so, until Rémy motions us to the bar. There are bowls of beef stew waiting for us, and a basket of crusty bread.
Jules smiles at me. “I told you we’d eat.”
The stew is