Authors: Lois Cahall
“Yes. I know. You’ve reminded me every five minutes since we left Paris.” Not to mention she has to pee every ten minutes and be fed like a grazing cow every fifteen.
We pull up to the Hotellerie du Bas-Breau to check in for our girlfriend getaway night so I that I can cover the restaurant gig for my blog. As I fill out the paperwork at the front desk, the house cat maneuvers in between my legs before jumping up on a trusted old sofa in front of the fireplace.
*
“You ready?” I say to Kitty, after dropping off our bags in our sweet and immaculately clean, inviting little room.
“In a moment,” says Kitty, as I witness her confiscating the tiny Relais & Chateaux products - the shampoo, the bath salts, the sewing kit, the little soaps and even those black sponges in plastic white cases to polish shoes with. She shoves them into her side luggage pocket.
“What’s a Bonnet de Douche?” asks Kitty, reading the tiny package.
“A shower cap.”
“Oh,” she says, and crams that into her suitcase, too, struggling to zip its bulging contents closed. Then Kitty contemplates the laundry bag. It’s white linen and embroidered. She looks at me undecided, before pulling it from the hanger clip.
“Okay, now you’re moving into petty larceny,” I say.
“Hey, the way things are going, we won’t be able to afford soap!”
“So what makes you think we’ll be sending out laundry?”
“Fine,” she says, “Let’s go then.”
Since Kitty is in the art world, she’s anxious to see the Musee de l’Ecole de Barbizon, the town’s most famous attraction. Nobody in this town speaks anything but French and it’s a struggle to get the hotel clerk to understand my simplest questions about
the museum’s hours, let alone the tough ones, like when did the museum actually become a museum?
Oh where is Ben when I need him most? Ben is so effortlessly fluent. Even what I call Ben’s “taxi French” fascinates the driver. I recall the time one driver peered into the backseat from his rearview mirror, narrowing his eyes on Ben as he held my hand kissing it. The look on the driver’s face read “Was the man kissing the pretty lady’s hand an American or one of us?”
“Why do you suppose they have all those gross mounted pig heads in our hotel lobby?” asks Kitty, her nose buried in a brochure as we stroll along the Grand Rue.
“I think they’re wild boars. The hotel was a hunting lodge back in the day. They’re probably an endangered species. You know, the forest of Fontainebleau begins right at the end of this street…”
“The forest?”
“That’s why the air smells like fresh pine.” I inhale deeply. “Smell it? It’s heaven.”
Kitty glances at her watch. “Are we going to have enough time to see an
entire
museum?”
“What time is it?”
“Four o’clock,” she says.
“Trust me,” I say. “It’s small. More like a private house.”
Kitty reaches into her pocket and pulls out a Nuts bar – the French version of Snickers, except the French use hazelnuts. Barely removing the outer wrapping, she devours the entire candy bar without asking me if I’d like a bite.
“What? I’m pregnant,” she says. “Dinner isn’t until seven.”
“Yes, and we just had lunch at three.”
We head through the museum’s gate and swing open the glass door to the ticket office that also doubles as guest services as well as a small gift store. My eyes scan the shelves full of a few maps, some odd books and souvenir coffee mugs.
“Bonjour!” I call out to anybody who might be there. The place is empty, except for a feeble elderly woman who appears from behind the counter. She rises from her stool patting her bouffant. Judging from the looks of her, she’s just woken from a nap that dated back to the beheading of Marie Antoinette.
She separates a bobby pin between her teeth, then slides it into where the bun meets the nape of her neck. Her face registers confusion at the spectacle of real tourists showing up and buying tickets. It takes her a moment to focus on us. “Ah, bonjour…” she responds lazily.
“Deux billets, s’il vous plait,” I say. Two tickets, please.
Slowly she moves to the register and hands me two tickets in exchange for a few euros.
After a trip to the restroom, again, Kitty and I move into the cramped museum. The tiny dark room on the lower level has crooked wooden floors. Between two rooms, another mounted wild boars head stares down at us. I duck under it quickly and turn the conversation to the paintings in the next room highlighted by a formal dining table with a Delft-blue and white setting. A warm hue of yellow light bathes the walls.
“In the mid-1800s, all these pre-Impressionists summered here,” I say. This was a school that later became a museum. But you know all that…”
“Yes, yes, of course! This is
huge
! They were the first “plein-aire’ painters, painting directly on site rather than in the studio. The whole idea was that they could capture the various seasons at different times of day – different light exposures. Millet was a big influence.”
“There’s a Millet or two upstairs,” I say, “C’mon.”
We climb the staircase to enter a room of empty walls. Bright winter light pours through a window and onto the peeled wallpaper. I take a closer look. Between patches of paper are the delicately rendered sketches that Barbizon artists have made directly on the plaster.
We move to a second room where paintings hang in no particular order. But while I study a Corot landscape, Kitty is studying the fire escape route, the alarm system and a Jean Francois Millet. It’s of a young girl darning fabric in an ornate gold-gilded frame.
“Why do you suppose this museum doesn’t have any guards?” asks Kitty.
“Why would they?” I ask, with rising skepticism. This place doesn’t even have a
website.
Trip Advisor
begs
people to write reviews.”
“Exactly. No one even knows about the place. So who needs guards? It’s not like anybody’s thinking of coming here to steal a painting….”
Facing the iron bars in a damp holding cell, I’m trying to remember how this all started. Was it when Kitty noticed the museum had no guards? Was it my fault for suggesting she join me in Barbizon for an evening of fine dining? I can’t be sure, though I’m positive of one thing….it’s the day after the night before, and my hangover is trying its hardest to pound some sense into me. And pound in some memory…
*
Our excursion in Barbizon had been going just fine. We had ended our museum visit, and then Kitty took a shower, while I indulged in a long and luxurious bubble bath. We wrote a few postcards, and I sipped a cocktail by the fireplace of the inn, where the hotel cat sat on my lap.
Then we enjoyed a lovely meal at a charming little restaurant called L’Ermitage St. Antoine. The tiny candlelit tables covered in white linen reminded me of the last time
Ben and I were in town. Back then, L’Ermitage had been “Ferme Mardi.” Closed Tuesdays. And “Mercredi.” Wednesdays, too. But as luck would have it, this particular Tuesday it was open. Kitty sipped sweetly on her Pepsi and ate enough food for all three of us, if you count her unborn child. I drank enough for all three of us, if you, again, count her unborn child. As we ate, I took notes for my restaurant blog, while Kitty went through two baskets of bread, one “roquette” salad, one carpaccio, and a large entrée of “Cabillaud” – fish. It was the “catch of the day.” That is, if you don’t count us.
Then the mille-feuille arrived for dessert. Our eager-to-please waiter set down the platter, delicately sprinkled with powder sugar, a few loose raspberries and a mint leaf to its side, just as Kitty leaned forward and hissed: “Do you have a tampon?”
“A what?”
“A tampon.”
“What for?” I whispered. “You’re pregnant.”
“I think I just got my period.”
“Are you serious? But you took the test.”
“Oh, those tests!” she whispered. “You can’t depend on them. I kept meaning to tell you, I knocked the stick onto the floor. It might have altered the results. What do I know?”
I wanted to reach out and strangle her, partly for her nonchalant attitude and partly for delaying the delectable sensation of my fork’s tongs piercing the black and white drizzle topping. But like the good friend I am, I put down my dessert fork and rustled through my purse’s contents to locate the one tampon resting next to my crimson-cocoa lipstick. “Here,” I said. “Hurry up! Or I’ll eat this entire thing without you.”
“Okay, I’m hurrying,” she said, rising from the table and heading the wrong way for the bathroom.
“It’s over there,” I said, with an exasperated sigh.
I studied the mille-feuille, its sweetness and delicately yielding crunch so tantalizingly close, yet so frustratingly far away. To quell my impatience, I opened my pad and began scribbling notes for my blog. “The French pronunciation of this “thousand sheet” dessert is ‘Mil foej.’ This heavenly creation consists of several layers of puff pastry alternating with a sweet filling, typically white crème often lightly whipped. Sometimes jam is substituted…”
Then I stopped. I was at a loss for words. Either that or my eager salivary glands had kicked my brain into a fog, simultaneously awakening my guilty inner Catholic girl. The devil on my left shoulder (the one in red stilettos) screamed at me, “One damn bite isn’t going to hurt anything. It’s not your fault your friend is taking so damn long to powder her nose. Besides, she’s already had her evening’s thrill. She’s not knocked up!”
But the angel on my right shoulder, the one in practical Aerosoles, said, “No, no, no. Be a
girl-friend!
This was meant to be shared. French people don’t get fat because they make eating an occasion to get together, to share the good life, including the 2,000 calories in that freshly whipped creme.”
My neck craned toward the bathroom, but still no Kitty emerged. By now I was the last one left in the restaurant. Our waiter was dozing at a nearby table. What the hell was Kitty doing in there? And why the hell are those strategically placed dark chocolate stripes zig-zagged with a butter knife continuing to stare up at me?
But what if something was wrong? Maybe Kitty was miscarrying. Maybe she was lying in the bathroom, bleeding – or worse, maybe she’d hit her head on something and was sprawled unconscious in a stall…
I got up to investigate – but just then, out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of something moving outside the window. I turned and peered through the glass. Something was approaching in the distance in the still of the night. Wait a minute. Was that…Kitty?
I bolted out the door and headed down the street toward her. She was walking strangely – her hips lurching like those of a drunk who’s been asked to walk a straight line. Every time she put a foot forward a hint of something square and gold rustled beneath her trench coat. Call me crazy, but it looked like a small, transport-friendly Millet painting.
“Libby! I did it!” she stage-whispered, laughing feverishly and skittering toward me like a college girl who’s just shimmied up a pole and stolen a street sign. “I don’t know when was the last time I had so much fun doing something so insane.”
“Are you nuts? What the hell do you think this is?
Oceans 11
?”
“More like
Oceans 29
,” said Kitty giggling. “The one where George, Brad and Matt are toothless old geezers looking for an easy heist...”
“You didn’t actually rob the museum!” I said, grabbing her briskly by the elbow and hauling her into a dark corner near a stone wall. “Are you out of your mind? Why would you rob that sweet little museum? If you took that Millet milkmaid…”
“She’s not a milkmaid,” said Kitty, lifting up the picture. “She’s sewing. We’re going to be rich!”
“I liked you better when you were insecure and pregnant!” Kitty pouts and I’m about ready to slap her. “Now you listen to me Kitty Morgan Mitty…you and I are going back to the museum this instant and she’s going back to the wall she belongs on.” I tried to drag Kitty in the other direction toward the museum, but she held her ground like an anchor.
“Will you calm the hell down,” said Kitty. “Nobody knows.”
“I know! How did you even…”
“I left a brochure in the emergency door jam earlier today. I knew that old battle axe at the front desk wouldn’t bother checking all the exits before she locked up. So tonight when I went back, voila, I was in!”
“Voila my ass! Voila prison! I can’t believe this!”
“Oh, Libby,” said Kitty, touching her hand to her chest like a fond aunt admiring her niece’s first baby-step. “You should have seen her…the way the light from the lamppost shone on her through the windowpane. She was just begging me to take her.”
“Oh, my God, I’m not even listening to you. The police will be here any minute.”
“No, they won’t. The alarm system was a piece of cake. Nothing but a wire strung through the backs of all the paintings.”
“Of course it was a wire! Probably plugged into some silent signal box…”
“It wasn’t plugged into anything,” said Kitty, calmly. “Clearly the security here was designed before the Impressionists figured out there even were well -- Impressionists.”
“I’ve had enough of this,” I said. “You’ve gone completely insane. For God’s sake, Kitty, you’ve got a stolen Millet under your coat! What do you think you’re going to do with it?”
“Oh details, details, we’ll figure it out later.”
“No, we’re not! We’re going to…” In the distance we heard a sound. It was a little like a foghorn except we weren’t anywhere near the sea.
“What the hell was that?” said Kitty.
“What the hell
is
that,” I said, staring at the shadow hurtling down the street toward us.
“Are those
tusks
?” said Kitty.
“Why would they be tusks? This isn’t Africa!”
“Those are tusks!” said Kitty.
“Oh, my God! Is that a wild boar?”
“You mean like that thing that’s mounted on the hotel wall?”
“Yes!” I said. “Only bigger.”
“I thought you said they were extinct,” said Kitty.
“Why would I say that? They were on the menu tonight. Oh God. I think maybe we should run…”