Revolution - Jennifer Donnelly [42]
“Hey, Jules, this is amazing. Thanks for bringing me here,” I say, between bites.
He’s about to say something back, when this guy comes over, takes the spoon out of his bowl, and starts eating his food. I’m kind of concerned until I see them kiss each other on the cheek.
“This is Virgil,” Jules tells me. “Virgil, this is Andi. I found her at the Eiffel Tower. She’s good.”
“Then what’s she doing with you?” Virgil says.
He turns to me, and … like, wow, but he’s fine. Damn. I mean, really. He’s tall and lean with Lil Wayne dreads and a soul patch. He’s got high cheekbones, light brown skin, eyes as warm as coffee. He pulls out a barstool next to Jules and sits down.
“What are you doing here? You heading into the cats tonight?” Jules asks him.
“No, I’m working. Just came to see you play.”
“The cats?” I say, puzzled.
“The catacombs,” Jules says. “Virgil’s a big-time cataphile.”
I know what the catacombs are, but I’ve never heard of a cataphile. “It sounds vaguely illegal,” I say.
“It’s very illegal,” Virgil says. “We go into the closed-off sections at night. Try to map new tunnels. Find new rooms. It’s only dangerous if you don’t know what you’re doing. Mostly it’s fun.”
“Dark tunnels and dead people,” I say. “Yeah, sounds like a great time.”
“When does your shift start?” Jules asks him.
“Midnight,” Virgil says. He tells us he came into the city early. There’s been trouble again. Between some kids and the police. He wanted to get out before dark. Before someone messed with his cab.
He tells me that he’s a taxi driver and that he lives with his parents in a cité—a housing project—in the banlieue, or suburb, of Clichy-sous-Bois. Which is about ten miles out of the city center. I’ve heard of Clichy. It’s a tough place, like a lot of the banlieues. A few years ago, two boys were killed there during a police chase. Their deaths sparked riots that went on for days.
“I thought the trouble was over,” I say.
He shakes his head. “The trouble’s never over.” He changes the subject. “Where you from?”
“Brooklyn.”
His eyes light up. “You know Jay-Z?”
“Um, no. We don’t exactly move in the same social circles, Jay and I. Why? Are you an MC?”
“I’m a hip-hop master,” he says.
“He’s a hip-hop disaster,” Jules says.
Virgil flips him off. “I’m writing my own stuff,” he tells me. “It’s a mix. Hip-hop. World. Funk. Roots. It’s all there.”
“Are you signed?” I ask him.
He shakes his head. “I want to do it on my own label.”
Jules smirks. “Good thing. Cuz Cash Money don’t want you doing it on theirs.”
Virgil ignores him. “After I get my own label, I’m going to have my own club. And a chain of restaurants and a line of clothing.”
“Is that all? You’ll never make it big if you think small,” I say. “What about an airline? Your own basketball team? A cable channel? And you need a mansion in the Shamptons if you want to hang with Jay.”
“You’re right. I do,” Virgil says. “As soon as I get it, you’re invited.” He hooks a thumb at Jules. “He’ll be there, too. Parking all my cars.”
I laugh. It comes out sounding rusty. Like how the Tin Man sounded before Dorothy oiled him. “Are your rhymes in French or English?” I ask him.
He snorts. “How many French hip-hop artists can you name?”
“There’s Joey Starr.…”
“Who else?”
“Well … um …”
“Exactly. Until Weezy starts rhyming in French, I’m rhyming in English.”
He asks me if I’ve ever seen Team Robespierre. Fischerspooner. Spooky Ghost. And a bunch of other obscure Brooklyn bands that no one in Brooklyn even knows.
“Fischerspooner?” I say, laughing again. “How do you know about them?”
“He knows every song ever written,” Jules says. “You should see his room, CDs floor to ceiling. He’s got the craziest tunes. Hunting songs from Somalia. Chants from monks in the Carpathians. Circus music from the twenties. Ragga. Zouk. Marching bands from Tennessee. You name it, he’s got it.”
“Why?” I ask, really curious.
Virgil shrugs. “Looking for inspiration, I guess,” he says.
“He wants to write the perfect song,” Jules says.
“Yeah, I do.