Page 34 of Closer

“Piaf,” I say, irritated that I’m apparently this predictable.

“You have an hour to get packed and get to the airport. A driver will pick you up when your plane lands.”

“An hour?” I screech, drawing the attention of several bystanders. “Remind me to strangle you the next time I see you.”

“I’ll water your plants and feed your cat. No extra charge.”

“You better be making only three per cent off this commission.”

“Six, actually.”

I growl, “Why the hell do I keep you around?”

“Because without me to book you, you’d be living under a box. Besides, if I don’t keep you busy, who will?”

“Perhaps a booking agent who doesn’t try to ruin my life just so she can get a kick out of it?”

“Pfft, whatever. Another agent will still try to ruin your life. Without me, you would just be a sad spinster alone with your cat.”

That is not true. I may work hard, but I still see my parents every day. I am not a sad spinster. I help Maman in any way that I can after mon père’s stroke. And there is so much to do, from shopping to running errands, and giving her some much-needed time away from the apartment every day. There is cleaning and cooking to be done, not to mention sponge baths and laundry, and all of the other ways you must care for a grown man who can no longer control his bodily functions and who has the strength and muscle capabilities of a newborn.

Maman is a strong Parisian woman, born and bred. When all her friends suggested she should put her husband in a home for the infirm, my mother refused. We refused, and so we care for him as best we can. Sometimes I wish I’d been born a son, like mon père had always wanted. A son to carry on the Kagawa name of his proud Japanese heritage. A man to fill his shoes and take over the family business. Instead, he got me. A stubborn French girl, too much like my mother. A young woman who loved music and had no mind for business, a gifted musician. A would-be concert cellist who was on the fast track to the perfect career. If I hadn’t slept with Bastien and got myself fired from not just the Orchestre de Paris, but one who had been blacklisted from every venue in the city. Because I fell for the wrong man.

Piaf is right this money would mean a great deal, not just for me, but for my parents too. I end the call with a “You owe me.” But we both know the opposite is true, and I scurry back to my apartment to pack. Fortunately for me, the essentials are still sitting in my suitcase from my last trip away. I stare at my cello case. I haven’t opened it since the wedding. I know it’s strange, but seeing it empty like this feels very much like my best friend died. I grab my P. Guillaume rosin and my favourite bow, and pack them in my suitcase.

I scratch Monsieur Chat under the chin, and feed him, telling him goodbye before I leave. I’ll call Maman from the airport. I hate dropping everything to leave at the last minute, but this job could change our lives.

It’s just a week.

How hard can it really be?

***

The car speeds offdown the drive and I stare at the crumbling facade of the chateau.Billionaire, my arse. I’m going to kill Piaf. I climb the stairs with my case, and use the large metal knocker. I wait a beat. No one answers. There are no sounds from the other side. No sound at all but the wind through the trees. I knock again, growing more impatient by the second. I grunt and set my case down, and then I bang my fist so hard against the door I’m afraid I might have done permanent damage.

This time, a man sings out in a strange accented English.

“Margaux, get the door!” I wait, hoping that Margaux is using a walking frame because that’s the only reason someone might keep me waiting this long.

“Margaux!” the same voice calls again.

Then I hear heavy footsteps, and a man pulls back the door. Not just any man.Him. The Cello Murderer.

“You!” I accuse. Before I can lunge at him and avenge my beloved’s death, I’m accosted by a mutt. It barrels into me and takes me down to the ground, humping my leg. I scream and the bastard standing in the doorway laughs.

He actually fucking laughs.

“Get off!” I yell at the dog and shove him away. He retreats to his master’s side. A master I notice who is not wearing pants. He’s not wearing anything at all save for an open silk robe. A tobacco pipe dangles from his lip. What is he? Hugh Hefner?

“Tu as détruit mon bébé! Tu es pathétique, misérable cafard! Je te souhaite une mort lente et pitoyable, seul, à t'étrangler dans ton propre vomi, fils de pute! ”

“I ... I don’t speak French,” he says, puffing on his stupid pipe and blowing the smoke in my face. “Listen, can we not make a big deal about the fact that I’m famous and just pretend I’m a regular person.”

“Famous?” I repeat.Imbecile is more like it. And my assumption must be correct because, for a second, he looks confused.

“Yeah, I’m the lead guitarist for Taint.”

At the same time, I say, “You’re the bastard who broke my cello.”

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