13 Little Blue Envelopes(38)

They smiled at her when she came in, and though she could tell that they had nothing against her, she also sensed that they had been hoping she wasn’t coming back. Which was fair enough. They were all friends. They wanted some pri—

vacy. She tried to get her things together as quickly and quietly as she could, then climbed into the loudly creaking bunk and tried to sleep.

Ginny bolted straight upright at the loudspeaker announcement at 7:30 a.m., which alerted everyone that breakfast was only until eight thirty and that everyone was expected to be out by nine on the dot.

The Minnesota Contingency was just waking up. They were

pulling things out of their bags (much cooler, better-designed bags than her purple-and-green monstrosity). She had nothing, she realized. Nothing except shampoo and toothpaste. That meant no soap and no towel. She had never even thought of it.

She dug around in her bag for something she could use as a towel, finally coming up with her fleece.

The bathroom was small, with three shower stalls and four sinks. Though it was fairly clean, there was a raw, rotting smell coming from somewhere deep in the building. She waited in line with the others, slumped against the wall. She noticed that everyone seemed to be staring at her in the mirror. Their eyes flicked back and forth between her towel-fleece and the drawing on her shoulder. For the first time in her life, Ginny felt a little more dangerous than the people 173

around her. It was an interesting feeling, but she figured she would probably have enjoyed it more if it were true.

Also, she had no clean clothes left. Everything was funky and damp and wrinkled. Why she hadn’t thought to wash them at Richard’s was anyone’s guess, but now she had to paw through, looking for the most passable items to put on her still-damp body.

Once she was on the street, Ginny realized that she had no idea how she was supposed to do this. Even just a short walk around the area revealed that Paris was nothing but cafés. Cafés everywhere. Cafés and winding streets and broad boulevards.

She spent an hour circling the neighborhood, peering into shop windows at displays of bread and pastries, stepping over little dogs, weaving around people intently talking on their phones, and basically accomplishing nothing. Paris was glorious and sunny, of course. But her pack was also heavy, and she had an impossible job to do.

Ginny decided to take a gamble. She walked back to the

hostel and tried the heavy black wrought-iron door. It was open. The sound of some heavy piece of cleaning equipment echoed from the hallways somewhere above, bouncing off the marble floors of the lobby. There was a strong smell of fresh smoke.

She cautiously approached the front desk and found the

woman still there (Ginny began to wonder if she ever slept), sipping away at a big blue bowl of something and watching Oprah dubbed into French. Upon seeing Ginny, she stubbed out her cigarette in anger.

“Eet ees lockout!” she cried. “You are not to be heer.”

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“I just have a question,” Ginny began.

“No. We have rules heer.”

“I’m just looking for a café,” Ginny said.

“I am not a guidebook!” The guide was particularly drawn out and indignant. Gaaaaaaide.

“No,” Ginny said quickly. “My aunt was a painter. She decorated it.”

This calmed the woman a little. She turned back to Oprah.

“What ees eet called?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Ginny said.

“She did not tell you eets name?”

Ginny decided to sidestep that one.

“This place has a lot of decorations,” she said. “And she said it’s near here.”

“There are a lot oof cafés neer here. I cannot tell you how to find somezing that you do not know ze name of.”

“Okay,” Ginny said, shuffling to the door. “Thanks.”

“Whaight, whaight . . .” The woman waved Ginny over. She

took three phone calls and lit a cigarette before explaining why she had called her back.

“Okay. So you go to see Michel Pienette. He sells vegetables at the market. He sells to chefs. He knows all cafés. Explain thees to heem.”

She wrote the name down on the back of one of the hostel’s cards in big blocky letters: MICHEL PIENETTE.

Though the woman hadn’t explained how to get to the market, it was easy enough to find. Ginny could see it in the distance as she got out on the street. Again, this was one of those moments that lived up to her French textbook. There were the heaping 175

tables of fruits and vegetables, the massive breads, the terracotta bowls of fresh olives. It was almost too French-textbooky.

After flashing the card around, Ginny managed to find

Michel Pienette behind a pyramid of tomatoes. He was smoking a fat cigar and yelling at a customer. There was a short line of people waiting for the same abuse. Ginny took her place behind a man in chef ’s whites.

“Excuse me,” she said to the chef. “Do you speak English?”

“Some.”

“Does . . .” She indicated the man with the cigar.

“Michel? No. And he is mean,” he said to Ginny. “But his

food is good. What do you want?”

“I need to ask him about a café,” Ginny said. “But I don’t know the name.”

“Michel will know. But I will ask for you. Describe it.”