Queen of the Trailer Park (Rosie Maldonne's World Book 1) (4 page)

8

After searching through more trash and finding nothing, I awakened from my trance and began to see and hear the world around me again.

I could hear the intoxicating words . . . and I wanted to dance like crazy. Dance with the stars and sing to the moon.

Thanks, Mom, you had it just right. I am among the stars . . .

Except I saw Sabrina was crying.

We sat down on a bench, and I held her tight. She still wanted me to admit that I’d lied about the pacifier business.

It was true. It had been over a year since she’d last used one. She was a big girl now.

She accepted my apology.

“So then, sweeties, how would you like to go and eat in a fancy restaurant?”

“Can we have ithe cweam for dethert?”

“Anything you want.”

She yelled, “Gweat, cool, awethome! Yay!”

We headed for the Place de la République, to the terrace of the Brasserie de la Piazza. It was a high-class establishment, which rarely—that is to say, never—saw my kind grace its doors. With my general lack of funds, you can imagine why.

Each of us ate enough to feed a family of four. The restaurant certainly lived up to its reputation.

We finished our meal with an ice-cream orgy, and I ordered three coffees to go.

The caffeine helped me straighten out my thoughts. I was getting a second wind. I’d been without coffee for so long.

When the bill arrived, after counting and recounting it (it was a classy restaurant, but these jerks are always ready to swindle anyone who walks through the door) under the incredulous eyes of our waiter, I pulled two one-hundred-euro bills, all curled up and mixed in with other equally wrinkled bills, from the pockets of Sabrina’s jeans. She laughed.

“Mommy, you wath playing in the twath too. We thaw you.”

I glanced at the waiter apologetically. “Just ignore them . . . Kids, hah . . . You know how they are.”

I gave him a twenty-euro tip and said regally, “Looks like money’s growing on trees these days!”

We slowly wandered home. I hoped the children would agree to take a short nap when we got back. This whole adventure, followed by a meal fit for kings, had left me wiped out.

But my heart was singing. I wanted to shout out to everyone I passed, “Listen up! I’m rich!”

It was three o’clock already, and on Wednesdays I picked up the cubbies at half past four.

We got to our trailer. I put the kiddos in their room with their tape player and coloring books, and I sprawled out on the sofa bed in the lounge, falling into a deep sleep.

As soon as he caught sight of me in this position, Pastis made himself at home on my belly, which led to me having a horrendous nightmare in which I was trapped at the bottom of a tunnel, miles deep, like in the film
Journey to the Center of the Earth.

But despite the nightmare and despite the fact that the crib lizards were no doubt making an impossible racket, there wasn’t a thing that could wake me up, not even a nuclear bomb.

I think it was when I’d gotten used to the weight on my stomach that my dream changed. My mother showed up for a visit.

She sang the praises of a mysterious Gaston—there was no one as quick as him, as manly as him, as perfect as . . .

It was from Disney’s
Beauty and the Beast
. I loved that film when I was a kid. Still do. She was sure to be right, but what exactly was she trying to say? No one fights like him . . . nobody bites like him . . .

Fine, but what did this song have to do with anything?

From what I could make out: we don’t find heaps of cash every day. And never as much as I’d just found. Certainly never in a dumpster. Especially with me and my bad luck.

One time Mimi found ten euros lying on the ground, and afterward, I went everywhere with my head down, looking. But of course I never found a thing. Nada. The usual. Though I will say, that way of walking certainly helps you dodge dog shit. So I never really got out of the habit. It remains a part of my daily routine.

I don’t remember much about my thought process, but I know I came to the conclusion that all this cash . . . well, it had to be dirty money. Who would stash their money in trash cans if it was legit? You’d just take it down to the bank, right?

I didn’t think much more about it after that. When it came down to it, I didn’t want to know why or how all that money had ended up there. I told myself:
I have to go easy. Especially as everyone around here knows I’m broke right now. I’m going to have to stash most of it somewhere. I’ll just keep a bit to spend now. I’ll tell people I’m going to come into some money soon.
I was confident I’d be able to come up with a credible story as to how I’d gotten hold of it.

For the time being, I stuffed the envelopes under the sink behind my detergents—perfect spot for dirty money, right?—and I kept a few hundreds in my wallet, and that was that. I don’t think my poor wallet had ever been so full. It looked like it was going to explode.

9

What surprised me most, and also disturbed me, was that now I didn’t have to use up all my neurons coming up with plans for how we were going to eat.

Problem solved.
La commedia è finita.
Time for a break. I could shut down the old brain for a while. I was unnerved by this turn of events.

As I took the older kids to go pick up the twins, I felt both exhilarated and anxious, flitting from one state to the other. Exhilarated because—well, it’s not difficult to understand why. Anxious because that amount of money would have to be put somewhere safe, and I had no idea how to go about it without some bank giving me a headache. Suddenly I had middle-class problems.

The twins were handed back to me safe and sound. I was still in shock about how much dough I had.
If I spend some of it in a neighborhood where nobody knows me, no one will have a clue how much I have.

With this reasoning, we went off in the direction of the Hôtel de Provence, a four-star hotel where I’d tried to get work as a maid two years ago. The chief of staff hadn’t wanted anything to do with me. She’d thought my clothes were too revealing—roughly translated, I was too trashy for her.

Now I was dressed the same as usual, but everyone knows you can do certain things as a client that you can’t do as an employee.

I went through the main door with the four rascals in tow and confidently made my way toward the lounge bar. I thought I detected movement on my left, around the reception area, as if my arrival had upset the order of things, but I realized nobody had batted an eye. A few clients watched me, but I’m someone you’d normally take notice of, with my red glittery heels, glam updo, and satin corset.

What I liked about this bar were the seats and tables—just like you’d see in a comfy home. Real sofas, deep and fluffy, and armchairs around small coffee tables. All very intimate.

The monkeys were delighted. They rarely have the opportunity to indulge in such luxury and had certainly never seen this kind of furniture before. They all grabbed a spot in an armchair, except Simon, who wanted to sit on the sofa next to me.

I ordered a platter of pastries. They brought a massive cart buckling under the weight of beautiful cakes. This was just a snack. A snack!

We got down to bingeing again. Just like we had at lunch.

I was not a total bulimic! It was just that I hadn’t had a cent in my pocket that morning, with dry bread as my only prospect for a meal. It had been like that at my place for some time. You get frustrated. I swallowed every mouthful. Now that’s something! How the other half lives!

As the scamps and I crammed down chocolate éclairs, truffles, and other desserts, I noticed two guys in suits in the corner of the bar. They didn’t look relaxed. They’d clearly just arrived and were shaking hands with a third nervous-looking guy. Who was that? I was sure I’d seen him somewhere. Oh! I’d seen his mug on a poster during the local elections. It was the mayor!

They sat down at a table, but the mayor didn’t stay longer than a couple of minutes.

As soon as he left, the other two picked up their cell phones and looked busy.

Wow. What jerks!
I said to myself. They made themselves look important but were probably talking to their cutesy wifeys to see if they wanted anything picked up for dinner.

Then I lost interest in them.

I thought about what I was going to do after we finished eating. Now that I had all this dirty money in my life, my schedule was all messed up. It was crazy, but more stimulating than anything else. I read somewhere that if you wanted to feel alive, you had to break up your daily routine. For me, it would be heading off to do some major grocery shopping and filling the trailer cupboards with all the things I could never usually afford. Just imagine all the crap the imps would want. And I was going to get it for them. When I say “major,” I mean
major
. And I was going to fill up on so much coffee that I’d be able to go the rest of my life without ever craving it again.

As I sat lost in my thoughts, I hadn’t noticed the waiters staring at me. It was the kiddos: they’d finished their cakes and had started exploring their new playground. They were attracted to anything and everything. The luxurious window displays, with jewelry and designer clothes, on which they drew intertwining roads with their goopy fingers and smears of sticky saliva. The low tables, just the right height, where they picked at the food of other patrons. The curtains, on which they wiped stripes of chocolate. In short, they were wrecking the joint.

Everything was happening at the same time. It’s weird how things can stagnate for so long, in a dreary, motionless way, without anything ever happening. Then, all of a sudden, everything goes off at once, and it only takes a second.

One of the jittery waiters walked quickly toward Simon, who was digging his paws into the ice bucket belonging to the two meathead business types. They were outraged and had signaled for the waiter to come over. They didn’t dare tackle Simon themselves.

I was on guard. I thought they were going to give me a tongue-lashing. I was ready to cause a scene if one of them dared even touch Simon’s grubby T-shirt. Just then, some old-timer—fifty, sixty, seventy? Who could tell? In any case, the age of Methuselah—with beautiful curly white hair came up to me, diverting my attention from the scene taking place three tables over.

The old guy leaned in toward me. I nodded, all polite, wondering what on earth he could want from me.

“Six thirty, four twenty-one,” he mumbled with a faraway look in his eyes.

10

“Four twenty-one?” I repeated stupidly.

That was some kind of dice game, wasn’t it? Did he want to play dice with me?

Finally, I replied, “Sorry, I don’t know how to play dice games.”

He laughed. “Very funny. I really like your sense of humor. Four twenty-one is my room number. Gaston. Gaston Contini. Pleased to meet you.” He offered me his hand.

I took it, smiling. It was a reflex.

I got it! Here he was. This was the Gaston my mom said would be showing up.

There was no one as strong, clever, or manly as Gaston, the lyrics had warned me!

I answered him casually: “Gaston was the name of the villain in
Beauty and the Beast
, you know. I’m Cricri Maldonne.”

He looked confused and frowned. “I’d just like to point out that your name is every bit as odd as mine. Cricri . . . Hmm, that’s strange. Not what I understood on the phone earlier. I really should pay more attention. Excuse me, but . . . are you sure?”

Why the hell would I have another name? Apart from Rose, of course. Clearly this guy had the wrong gal, but I had to hear him out. For Mom.

Now he was snuggling up to me on the sofa. He seemed a bit on edge, talking nonstop, as if he was trying to calm himself. “Between you and me, I’m glad we’ve managed to break the ice. I’ve always hated interviews. I was wondering how to approach you. Then I took my courage in both hands, and I told myself this just couldn’t go on. I should force myself to communicate now and again.

“Though I must admit that from your voice, I thought you’d be older. I was really impressed with your degrees. Even more so now that I see how young you are. A thesis on Saint-John Perse? That’s right. Your editor in chief insisted we hold the meeting in my room. For the photo shoot. It’s more personal. The intimate poet, that’s the idea, I think . . . but what he doesn’t know is that it isn’t even my real room. Never mind, I just gave you the number. I didn’t want to say it on the phone. All this has to stay our little secret for now. You think I’m paranoid, don’t you? I just tend to be cautious when it comes to my private life.”

“I totally get it. That’s why I live in a trailer by the old railway station.”

He looked confused. Then, “Really? Right, that’s a wonderful idea. Your article will be the first one on my work, you know. What do you think? How should we do this? Do you have a photographer with you?”

Article? Photographer? He must be someone prominent.

He suddenly stopped, out of breath, and gave me the hugest of smiles. Just like with the handshake, I couldn’t help but smile back.

Reflex.

He was quite disarming. But still, I was annoyed. I didn’t understand all this mumbo jumbo. What was he talking about? I was starting to wonder whether he was pulling my leg. At first, I thought he’d mistaken me for a hooker.

So I wiped the stupid smile off my face and said angrily, “First of all, I think you’re really pushy. You’re totally in my face . . .”

“Really? Oh! Yes, of course. Forgive me—”

Simon suddenly arrived, shouting, and managed to say with some difficulty, “Cri-cro strong.”

He was followed by my three daughters and a waiter running after them. I saw the two cell-phone guys gesticulating wildly in our direction. The children threw themselves at me. I walked over to the waiter who’d been following them.

“What is it exactly you have against my babies?”

Gaston Contini exclaimed, “Are they all yours? I don’t believe it. You’ve had time to have all these children, to study, to do your thesis,
and
work for this newspaper? All in record time, judging by your age—”

I cut him off. “What is all this nonsense you’re spouting? Is that how you used to hit on chicks in the Middle Ages?”

He remained speechless, then blushed.

A cell phone started ringing, and it took him a while before he realized it was his. He searched through his pockets and pulled out the latest iPhone. He put it to his ear, trying to pull himself together.

“Hello? Yes, no . . . But I don’t understand . . . She’s there . . . Oh, really? Thank you. Of course. Good-bye. See you tomorrow.”

His face turned poppy red, and he stood, looking embarrassed. His eyes darted from the ceiling to my face before breaking into an extravagant fit of laughter.

Meanwhile, the waiter stood in front of me, still as a statue. “Hmm, madame, um . . .”

“Yes?”

“Would you please be so kind as to control your . . . umm . . .”

“Well, go on, say it. You’re dying to say it.”

“Your . . .”

“Brats? That’s what you’re trying to spit out, right?”

“Madame, please. They’re pestering our clientele, and they’re ruining the furniture.”

“These angels? And what about your nose? Did they ruin that too? Because someone clearly has.”

I looked to my new friend for support. He hadn’t quite calmed down yet, a delighted smile still plastered across his face.

He stood at my side, staring at me as if under a spell. As if I wasn’t real. He then turned toward the waiter.