Outrun the Moon(5)

The man laughs. “Whatsa matter? Your mouth don’t work, bambino? Or maybe he’s some kind of idiota.” He taps his head.

It is all I can do to keep from clouting him in the mouth. His gaze washes over my figure like dirty bathwater, coming to rest on the pocket where I have the chuen pooi bulb stashed in a handkerchief. A corner of the white fabric peeks out in stark contrast to the black of my funeral dress.

I jerk away, but he snatches the bundle from my pocket. “I found my toll.” The man discards my hat onto a newspaper full of carrot peelings. Jack fetches it, his face pale.

The man unties the handkerchief, but doesn’t find the coins he’s looking for. He holds the shriveled bulb to his nose, then quickly pulls it away. Chuen pooi smells like ripe feet. “Che cavolo! What is it?”

One of his friends peers at the herb, then shrugs. “Looks like cogliones.”

The first man snorts loudly, but then his derision gives way to uncertainty. Aha.

“It is the energy pouch of a farmer who tried to pass off a guinea hen as a chicken.” The words are out of my mouth before I know what I’m saying. “Chinese people have many ways to make those who cross us pay.” I draw myself up as tall as I can and summon my haughtiest demeanor. “Lucky for him, he’d already had five sons and didn’t need it anymore.”

The man blanches from under a grove of black whiskers. At that moment, the mahogany-haired waitress pokes her head out the door. She glares at the men through her almond “dragon” eyes, a shape that indicates determination. “How long does a smoke take?”

I seize the moment and pluck my belongings from his grasp. Clamping my hat back onto my head, I sweep Jack away, hoping they don’t follow.



By the time we arrive at Chocolatier Du Lac, I’ve developed a crick in my neck from looking backward and am ready to throw my boots into the nearest trash receptacle. But to give up now would be a waste of several good blisters, so I resolve to ignore the pain a little while longer.

The shop occupies one corner of the manufacturing plant, a brick structure that spans the whole block. A bay window provides a view of perfect rounds of chocolate arrayed neatly on cake stands. Jack stares at the bounty without blinking. Each morsel looks to be dressed for Easter Mass with sugar bows, flowers, and little polka dots. Bet they charge a sweet premium for those bitty flourishes.

“This is the best thing I’ve ever seen,” says Jack, practically drooling.

“Come on, then.”

The smell of burned sugar assaults us as I open the door. At our entry, Madame Du Lac looks up from behind the counter, and her small mouth seems to recede deeper into her face.

I knew it wasn’t going to be easy, and yet her instant dislike puts straw down my back.

The fleshy customer she is with stops jabbering to frown at us, then continues her monologue at a reduced volume. Too bad the marble floors amplify sound.

“Used to cost two dollars to wash ’em. Now she wants three—I’ll take five nougats, and four more honeys—and to pile on the agony, she wants a carriage to pick her up. South of the Slot, too! Do I look like I’m swimming in gold?—no need for the ribbon; save yourself the trouble—How are we supposed to eat paying that?”

Jack tugs my dress, and I bend so that our faces are even. “Choose the one you want, but don’t touch anything.”

With a solemn nod, he stuffs his hands in his pockets as if he doesn’t trust them. He wanders around the room, peering into the glass cases and up at the shelves.

Madame Du Lac passes a look to a girl, who couldn’t be older than me, working so quietly behind the counter that I didn’t notice her at first. Perfect ears like pink seashells hold back blond plaits that cascade down her starched apron. Her violet eyes are as insolent as the cow I found chewing up the Garden of Purity at the cemetery. She goes to stand by Jack, probably to make sure he doesn’t pinch anything.

My toes curl. Even the shopgirls outrank us.

Finally, the fleshy customer leaves in a cloud of perfume. Madame Du Lac points her chin in my direction and says in an arctic voice, “We are closing.”

Jack crooks his finger at a chocolate that looks like a domino. The shopgirl languidly produces tongs from her apron.

“Just a minute, Elodie,” says Madame Du Lac. “That will be twenty cents,” she says to me.

Twenty cents? I could buy twenty Li’l Betties for that.

A smile creeps up the girl’s face when she sees my expression, and I’m tempted to smack it off her.

“Which ones cost five cents?” I ask stiffly.

Madame Du Lac points to a dish of chocolate-covered peanuts on the counter. “You may get two cacahouètes.”

Caca-what? Even the peanuts here are pretentious.

Jack, bless his sweet face, doesn’t let his disappointment show but creeps to the counter and tentatively holds out his hand. When the woman makes no move to dispense the treats, I realize she’s waiting for me to pay. I begin to cook from the inside out and remind myself that The Book for Business-Minded Women says one must remain unsinkable in the face of adversity, like a cork in a barrel of water.

I step to the counter and plunk down my nickel. Thanks to the shoes, I have a good three inches on the shop owner. She squints at the coin without picking it up. Maybe she thinks it’s stolen, or that it will give her the bubonic plague.