Lily B. On The Brink Of Paris Part 7

"Well, how long will it take me to walk there?"

Lindy bestowed upon me a look of sheer astonishment.

"Walk?" she asked. She appeared to consider the word, then repeated it again with the same level of bewilderment. "Walk?"

"Well, uh...what do you suggest?"

Lindy turned and made a grand gesture toward the curb with her hand, like Moses parting the Red Sea. And then I saw it. How could I not have seen it before? It looked like an ocean liner with tinted windows docked in a marina full of rowboats.

"Get in," said Lindy.

There may have been all sorts of reasons, environmental and otherwise, why I should not get into Lindy Sloane's stretch limo, but I didn't produce any of them. Time was of the essence, and who was I to look a gift celebrity in the mouth?

As we approached, a uniformed driver magically appeared and opened the back door. It didn't so much feel like getting into a car as it felt like going into someone's living room. There was a television, a fridge, a phone, a bar. Lindy Sloane's limousine could have provided ground support to a small army for several days.

"I so utterly and completely appreciate this," I said to Tim as he climbed in next to me. "You're a good guy."

He shrugged, but I couldn't help thinking he looked a little...pleased.

Lindy slid expertly into the seat across from me. This was a person who'd had plenty of practice getting into limousines. Out of the sunlight, her face was almost entirely shadowed by her sungla.s.ses. When the driver got behind the wheel, Lindy spoke.

"Jean-Michel, nous avons besoin d'aller au Musee du Louvre tout de suite, s'il te plait. La demoiselle ici est bien en r.e.t.a.r.d."

My goodness! While I was still relatively certain Lindy could not correctly name all the continents, I have to admit I was impressed by her French.

The limousine moved surprising fast through the traffic, in a t.i.tanic sort of way.

"What are you going to do when you get there?" Tim asked. "I mean, isn't the Louvre supposed to be huge?"

"I don't know," I said. "I'm making this up as I go. Everybody was supposed to meet at this place called ze glesspairmeed. Do you have any idea what that is?"

"Glace means 'ice cream,'" stated Lindy.

"Pere means 'father,'" added Tim.

"So you think it's an ice-cream stand?" I asked eagerly. "Called Father something?"

Tim pulled a small dictionary out of a little pocket by his door.

"Don't leave home without it," he said, flipping through the pages. "What's the last part? Meed? I don't see...there's a midinette."

"What's it mean?" I asked.

"Uh...silly young townie."

"Father's Silly Young Townie Ice-Cream Stand?" I asked.

"It's catchy," said Lindy.

"Keep looking," I said to Tim.

"The only other thing that sounds close is midi. It means noon."

"Father's Noon Ice-Cream Stand," I said thoughtfully. "I don't know. It could be a French thing."

"I've never heard of it," Lindy said. At this point I was willing to accept her opinion as expert.

"Well, do you have any ideas? Do you remember any ice-cream stands from your photo shoot?"

Lindy wrinkled her nose. "We had an on-set buffet," she said. "You don't really think I'd go to some ice-cream stand with all of the Other People, do you?"

As one of the Other People, I felt mildly offended. But this was not a good time to launch a gra.s.s-roots Other People movement.

"I just thought you might have noticed something," I responded diplomatically.

"I have people whose job is to notice things FOR me," Lindy said. "I have a STAFF. Hair guy, makeup guy, Pilates guy, nutrition guy, color consultant guy, life coach guy. You know."

Uh-huh. Well, I had Charlotte. So I could kind of relate.

"Voila, nous sommes arrives au Louvre," the driver was saying.

I perked up at the sound of the word Louvre. I looked out the window. This must be the place. Victory! Yay!

Jean-Michel hopped out of the car and opened the back door. I started to slide out, then paused.

"Listen, I seriously want to thank you. Both of you. You're, like, saving my life here."

"Whatever." Lindy shrugged. She pulled out her cell phone and began to fuss with it.

But Tim kind of smiled a little, which seemed as dramatic a change as Helen Keller at the pump spelling out w-a-t-e-r for the first time. Progress.

"What are you going to do now?" he asked.

"I'm not sure," I replied. "Once I'm inside the museum, at least I'm there. It may take a while to find everybody, but we'll be in the same building."

Tim nodded thoughtfully.

"What about you?" I asked.

Lindy had called someone on her cell and was chattering away about a stylist whom a friend had fired. She sounded outraged and bored at the same time.

"We'll drive around, maybe go over to the Tuileries or Versailles or something. Except for you, n.o.body's recognized her yet. Maybe we'll get lucky and stay anonymous."

"Definitely," I told him. Secretly, I have to say the chances of Lindy Sloane's remaining incognito for long, even in her monster hat and bug gla.s.ses, were slimmer than she was. And that's saying something.

"I'll be back at the VEI before you guys," he said.

"Don't worry about it if you're late," I said. "I've got your back."

Then I made this ridiculous little "key locking the lips" motion. I don't know what I was thinking.

But Tim seemed pleased.

"Later," he said.

"Later," I replied.

I admit, Dear Readers, I snuck a final peek at Lindy Sloane before stepping back so that Jean-Michel could close the limousine door. It was just as well that I didn't plan on telling anybody. I can't think of a person in the world who would believe it.

I waved a cheery good-bye to the sleek whale of an automobile. It was impossible to tell through the tinted windows if anyone waved back.

Then I turned to have a look at the Louvre and evaluate my next move.

c.r.a.pstick.

I've been to large museums before. But this building looked like its own CITY. It seemed to stretch elegantly and endlessly in every direction. I was willing to bet the entire population of Greenland could be inside that building AT THIS VERY MOMENT, and there would still be plenty of elbow room. How did a person even get INSIDE this place? There were crowds of people everywhere. But in the midst of the frenzy of activity, I noticed a stream of bodies going in and out through an archway. Quickly, I followed them.

The courtyard seemed roughly the size of Rhode Island. To my left I could see another huge arch monument. They seemed to be following me. And to my right was the heart of the U-shaped palace that was the Louvre. There might be an admission door over there somewhere. Who could see anything with that huge gla.s.s pyramid smack in the center of things?

Gla.s.s pyramid.

Glesspairmeed.

EUREKA!.

Eight.

There was an entrance right in the gla.s.s pyramid, which led to an escalator going down to a gleaming marble-floored reception area. Now, I say "reception area," but it looked like a very streamlined version of the engine room on the stars.h.i.+p Enterprise. Overhead, the gla.s.s pyramid soared into the sky. I pitied the Louvre's Official Window Washer.

I had stumbled upon a mecca of English speakers. Even women in saris and men in elaborate headdresses were speaking English. At the admissions desk I didn't bother explaining my situation. The nice lady in the trim blue suit who spoke perfect English certainly wouldn't know where Madame Chavotte and her students had gone. I paid for a student ticket, took a few authoritative steps down a hallway, then stopped.

How was I going to locate my group in a four-story building of this magnitude? Being lost in the Louvre might be just as hopeless as being lost in Paris, and statistically I was unlikely to run into another celebrity willing to direct me where I needed to go.

Then I remembered Lewis. He'd said to text message him when I got to the museum. Sadly, he hadn't told me HOW to do that. Or maybe he had, and I wasn't paying attention. I pulled out my phone and stared at it. I pushed a b.u.t.ton. Nothing happened. I pushed another b.u.t.ton. Nothing happened. I pushed a bunch of b.u.t.tons in succession. All at once the phone produced a high-pitched single-tone version of Mozart's Eine Kleine Nachtmusik. I let out a little yell, shook the phone and smacked it, then tried sticking it under my arm to m.u.f.fle the sound. People began staring at the Little Chicken with Mozart coming out of her armpit, so I started pus.h.i.+ng b.u.t.tons again. Miraculously the music stopped. What a nightmare!

I decided to push one last b.u.t.ton. I picked one on the side of the phone. A menu flashed onto the screen. Now we were getting somewhere! With things looking more computerlike and less phonelike, I became more confident. Even the superpowers of Lenny Blennerha.s.sett had not prevented me from getting a moderate amount of experience using e-mail. I found my way through "text message" to "address book," and YAY! Lewis had indeed entered his address there.

After a few wrong turns, I finally sent Lewis a message: im here The response came back almost immediately.

good-cant cvr mch lngr-hrry up flr 2.

Eureka! I made a dash for the elevator, holding the phone out in front of me like it was a homing device. As I got into the elevator, my hand froze over the b.u.t.tons. Was floor two the second floor or the deuxieme etage that made it the third floor? But I had come in a floor below street level. So maybe in this building the deuxieme etage was the second floor because the ground floor was the first floor and the subterranean level the ground floor?

I hit "2" and let the elevator decide what it meant. When the door opened, I got off and text messaged Lewis: b mr spcfc. whr r u?

A lady with a baby stroller almost ran me down as I waited for his reply.

paintings Well, thank you very much. That was Extremely Helpful. I'm in the world's largest collection of artwork, and Lewis tells me to meet him BY THE PAINTINGS.

details I made a face at the screen when I hit "send," just to reinforce my feelings of exasperation.

fat guard w teeny mstche. grp of abt 100 german kids. ldy w triplets in stroller.

I looked around frantically in every direction, but I didn't see any of those things. Well, not exactly. I saw a guard with a teeny mustache, but he was thin. I saw a group of about a hundred kids, but they looked j.a.panese. I saw two ladies with strollers, but both had sets of twins. Paintings I saw. Paintings EVERYWHERE. Millions upon millions of them.

c.r.a.pstick.

I would have to search systematically, wing by wing. That should only take, according to what I could glean from the map the admissions lady gave me, about three hours. Per floor. I had barely started down the Hall of Painted Grim Guys in Big Hats and Dark Colors when my phone wiggled. (I preferred to think of it as wiggling; vibrating sounded too dental.) gng to escltr What? They were switching floors? Now I'd have to switch floors too, a.s.suming I was on the right floor to start with. At this point everything felt like the dumb-ieme etage to me. I shot off a message: wht drctn?

And after a moment, I got back: down 1 I went back in the direction I'd come, once again through the Hall of Painted Grim Guys in Big Hats and Dark Colors. There was a little group of plump blond women posing for a picture, the escalator beyond them. I dashed through the shot just as the photographer was exhorting them to "say cheese." I have no doubt I will make a notable addition to someone's vacation photo alb.u.m.

As I sprinted out onto the first floor, my phone wiggled again.

baby cryng by wndow I stopped and listened. I seemed to hear crying babies from every direction.

Another wiggle from the phone.

monalisa!!!

International jackpot! I scuttled over to the closest security guard.

"Hi there...um...English?"

"What are you looking for?" he said in slightly accented English, eyes half closed like I'd caught him napping.

"Mona L-"

He cut me off.

"Down that hall, right, fourth hallway on the left, look for the crowd."

"Thank you," I said. He seemed to have fallen back asleep. I guess an American asking directions to the Mona Lisa wasn't very unusual or interesting. He probably stood there all day telling people where the Mona Lisa was. I hoped, for his sake, a tiny but ultimately failed armed robbery might happen after I'd left-just a little something for him to talk about with his buddies after work.

I shot down the hallway like a speed skater, bobbing around and between people. When I got to the fourth hallway on the left, I saw the crowd right away. If I'd been anywhere else, I would have a.s.sumed there'd been some kind of accident. But I could see very well what the crowd was staring at. Hanging by itself on the wall, protected by velvet ropes preventing anyone from approaching too closely, was the Mona Lisa. The painting looked a lot smaller than I'd expected. Like maybe the size of one of those posters of a kitten hanging off a branch that say, "Hang on, it's almost Friday!" When something is a Universally Recognized Artistic Icon of Epic Proportions, you expect it to be at least the size of a station wagon. Still, I needed to capture the moment for my Mental Pool, which is what I was doing when I heard an unmistakable voice above the crowd.

"She is magnifique, n'est-ce pas? She is formidable!"

I sidled over, all casual.

"She's not even French, Janet. She's Italian."

Janet whirled to face me.