Revolution - Jennifer Donnelly [70]
“That’s so lovely,” I whisper when he finishes.
“Yeah, it is.”
“Dude, you’re too modest,” I say sleepily.
He laughs. “I meant the song, not my voice.”
“What’s it called?”
“ ‘Ya gamrata ellil.’ It’s a Tunisian song. You should hear Sonia M’barek sing it. Or my mom.”
“Sing it again,” I murmur. “Please.”
He does. Over and over. I don’t know how many times. I lose count. His singing takes me out beyond. Beyond the pills, beyond the pain. It carries me until I feel still. And safe. Until sleep finally comes and finds me wrapped in the dark velvet warmth of his voice.
34
Yves Bonnard looks at me like I’ve just dumped a shovelful of shit on his desk.
“What?” I say, pushing the little brown bag closer to him. “It’s a croissant. For you. I thought you might be hungry.”
“Have you any idea—any idea at all—what grease can do to paper?” he asks me, his voice shaking with anger. “Take it away. Now. And wash your hands before you come back.”
“Hey, you’re welcome,” I say, grabbing the bag.
Get on his good side, the professor guy told me yesterday. Looks like I’m well on my way. I go outside, to the courtyard in front of the building. There are some workers there, fiddling with a standpipe. “You hungry?” I ask one of them, then thrust the bag into his hands before he can answer me.
A few minutes later, I’m back in line, with squeaky clean hands and four perfectly filled-out call slips. After ten minutes or so of waiting, it’s my turn. I hand the slips to Yves Bonnard and he examines them, one by one. I’m sure he’s going to tell me to get lost again, but no.
“Good,” he says, putting them into the vacuum tube. “You are actually capable of filling out a call slip correctly. I had my doubts.” He tells me the papers I requested will be brought up shortly, then launches into his list of rules. He goes on and on, but I don’t care. I’m going to get the stuff I need.
He finally finishes, hands me a pencil from the box on his desk, and a pair of thin white cotton gloves. I take them and sit down at my space at one of the reading tables. I glance at the clock on the wall: 9:52 a.m. Not bad, considering I only got here at 9:30. I’d hoped to be earlier, but the trains were slow, and even after I got off the Métro, I took a bit of an unplanned detour. I was just walking out of the station with a big gush of people when my phone rang.
“Your turn,” Virgil said.
“Um, can’t. I’m right smack in the middle of Paris at rush hour.”
“So what?” he says, and there’s a bite to his voice.
“What’s wrong?” I ask him, feeling worried, looking around for a more private place to talk than the Boulevard Henri IV.
“Nothing.”
“Come on,” I say, dashing up a side street. “What’s up?”
“Some guys messed with my cab this morning.”
“What, like, they stole your mirrors or something?”
“No, like, they tried to steal my car. With me in it.”
“Oh my God. You were carjacked?”
“Almost.”
“Virgil, are you okay?”
“Yeah. Just wired.”
“What happened?”
“There was a fight. The cops came and—”
“A fight?”
“I’m fine. Really. Can you just sing?”
“Okay, yeah. Um … no. No, I can’t. Not until I know you’re really okay.”
“I am. For real. One of them threw a punch but I ducked it. Mostly. He grazed me. I’ve got a cut on my cheek, that’s all. Sing, Andi. Please. I’m tired. I’m so damn tired.”
So I did. I sat down on a bench in the park and sang stuff we’d sung at Rémy’s the other night. Then tunes from Plaster Castle. But it didn’t work. He was still awake. Still amped up on adrenaline. I could hear it in his voice.
I need a lullaby, I thought. I wracked my brains but all I could come up with was “Rock-a-bye Baby,” the worst, most scary-ass lullaby of all time. A cab passed by as I was thinking, with an ad on its side for a British travel agency, Smith and Barlow, and their cheap flights to London. Smith and Barlow. The Smiths. “Asleep.” Perfect, I thought.
I didn’t do the greatest of jobs on it. I could’ve used