Bubble in the Bathtub (8 page)

The floor suddenly stopped swaying. Nilly spun around and stood up in the tub. And remained standing there—completely naked—as the bubbles slid down his body. The music had stopped. And a line of cancan dancers all dressed in red were staring at Nilly. Their faces were at least as astonished as his.

“Where did he come from?” he heard one of the dancers whisper.

“Where did that bathtub come from?” whispered another.

“What's that thing on his nose?” cried a third.

“Oh, look at how cute he is,” giggled a fourth.

Nilly blinked at the bright lights and the audience sitting there with their mouths hanging open too, speechless, as if they had just witnessed a somewhat unexpected moon landing. Nilly didn't understand what was happening. Only one thing was clear: He was onstage at the Moulin Rouge.

* * *

LISA STROLLED DOWN a big, broad, tree-lined avenue lined with small clothing stores and perfume shops, but no libraries. She had planned to ask the redcheeked woman at the hotel before she left, but there hadn't been anyone in reception, just a hippopotamus-like man sitting in an armchair in the lobby reading a newspaper who had eyed her with suspicion and wariness. And now she was feeling more and more dejected, because every time she would approach someone to ask for directions they would stick their noses up in the air the second they realized that she couldn't speak French. She was starting to suspect that not all French people were as helpful to foreigners as the man and woman at the Frainche-Fraille. She let her eyes browse the various display windows to see if any of the shops seemed like they might carry books. But it was mostly dresses. Nice dresses, actually. Lisa stopped to look at one particularly remarkable dress. As she stood there,
she suddenly noticed something reflected in the store window, a woman standing across the street wearing a trench coat and big sunglasses. The woman was too far away for Lisa to be able to see her clearly, and yet there was something strangely familiar about her. And even though Lisa wasn't sure who the woman was, it was very clear that the woman was watching her.

Lisa started walking again, pretending to be engrossed in the storefronts, and sure enough: The woman across the street was following her.

Lisa felt both her heart and her feet starting to speed up. Who was this woman and what did she want? Was it …? Could it be …?

The woman was crossing the street!

Lisa started to run.

There were lots of people on the sidewalk and Lisa tried darting quickly in and out between them while she
kept her head down so that the woman wouldn't be able to see her. And yet, when she turned around she caught a glimpse of the woman's coat between some pedestrians behind her. Lisa ducked into a narrow alley and ran. But she ran only a few yards before she discovered that it was a dead end with a wall at the end. She pressed her back in against the wall behind a downspout and waited, staring out toward the main street. There was the coat! It … it … passed the alley without pausing to look right or left. Lisa exhaled in relief. Now she had to get back to the hotel. The phrase book and baguette would have to wait. But just as she was about to head back out to the street, she saw the coat again. It had come back and was now stopped right outside the alleyway! It stood there as if sniffing for her scent. Lisa saw an iron staircase leading down to a cellar door below her and scurried down the steps. The steps ended in front of a door, and Lisa stood there, waiting and holding her breath.

Seconds passed.

Then she heard a sound from above her in the alley. Someone was approaching.

Lisa pressed down on the door handle. To her relief, it opened! She stepped into the darkness and shut the door behind her and leaned against it with her back. Her heart was pounding like a tap-dancing rabbit. It wasn't so strange that the door had been left unlocked—as far as she could make out, this was a completely empty room. What was strange were the sounds and the smell. It was like an orchestra of squishing, slurping, and sucking, as if there were about a hundred invisible fathers eating lamb and cabbage stew in there. And the smell was like … like rotten meat and stinky socks. Just then, she screamed. Something wet, slippery, and cold just caressed the back of her neck! She ran to the middle of the room and looked around. By now her eyes had adjusted to the darkness enough that she could see that there was something on the walls …
something moving, something undulating with long, enormous feelers. And not just over there, but there and there and … they were everywhere, they were what was making those sounds, the walls were alive!

As she stood there, frozen with fear, the cellar door slid open. Silhouetted against the daylight outside, she saw the shape of the woman who had been standing on the other side of the street.

“Hi, Lisa,” the woman said, shutting the door behind herself and flipping a switch. The light came on. Lisa looked around and mostly felt like fainting.

“Why so pale?” the woman asked, coming toward Lisa. “Is it all these giant snails on the walls? They're not dangerous, they just breed them down here. Once they get big enough, they serve them for dinner in the restaurant upstairs. Snails are a delicacy in this country.”

“They are?” was all Lisa managed to say, because the woman was so close to her now that Lisa could see her face. And it was definitely a face she recognized.

“Well, Lisa,” the woman said. “Maybe you're wondering what these snails live on down here?”

“Uh, what?” Lisa asked, feeling her teeth chattering in her mouth.

The woman laughed. “Grass. And lettuce. Things like that. Why, what did you think?”

Lisa exhaled in relief.

“I'm—” the woman began.

“I know who you are,” Lisa said.

“Oh?” the woman asked, clearly surprised.

“Yes, I've seen pictures of you. At Doctor Proctor's house. You guys were on a motorcycle with a sidecar. You're the professor's old girlfriend. You're Juliette Margarine.”

The woman in front of her gave her a big smile. “Impressive. And you recognized me again right away?”

Lisa smiled. “No, at first I thought you were Joan of Arc.”

“Joan of Arc?” the woman asked, surprised. “The saint?”

Lisa laughed. “There's a picture in our history book at school of Joan of Arc being burned at the stake and I think you look like her.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Lisa,” the woman said in her slightly broken Norwegian, picking up a lock of her long, auburn hair. “We may have the same color hair, but unfortunately I'm not a brave heroine, just Juliette Margarine. Which is actually pronounced
Jü-lee-ETT Maar-gaar-EEN
in French.”

“Jü-lee-ETT Maar-gaar-EEN,”
Lisa repeated. “But how did you know my name was Lisa?”

“Victor told me about you and Nilly,” Juliette said.

“Victor?”

“Doctor Proctor.”

“Doctor Victor Proctor?” Lisa had never thought about the fact that Doctor Proctor must have a first name just like everybody else.

Juliette smiled. “Besides, I was the one who forwarded his postcard to you guys. Since then I've been keeping my eye on the hotel and waiting for you to show up. You have no idea how happy I was when I finally saw you walk out this morning. ‘They're finally here!' I thought.”

“But … but why didn't you just come into the hotel? Why were you sneaking around after me? And where's Doctor Proctor? And why is everything so secretive?”

“Cliché,” Juliette said.

“Huh?”

Juliette sighed. “The answer to most of your questions is Cliché, Claude Cliché, a very bad man, unfortunately. But that's a long story and you look very hungry. Why don't we find a café where we can have a croissant and a café au lait?”

“That sounds great,” Lisa said, and then looked around once more and shuddered. Because even if they
weren't dangerous, it was pretty unpleasant to be in a room with giant snails covering the walls.

“But,” said Juliette, opening the door, sticking her head out and peering cautiously to the right and left, “we should go somewhere where we won't be seen….”

JULIETTE MARGARINE AND Lisa found a quaint sidewalk café on a quiet side street and each ordered a croissant. Plus one for Lisa to take back to the hotel for Nilly. But Nilly would have to wait a bit, because first Lisa had to hear Juliette Margarine's story.

“I don't know exactly where Victor is,” Juliette said. “But I was there when he left, and I know what he was thinking. This is a long story, I think I'd better start at the beginning.”

“Good,” Lisa said, taking a rather large bite of her croissant.

“The whole thing started one Sunday many years ago as I was strolling through Montmartre right here in Paris. There are always lots of painters there offering to paint tourists' pictures for a reasonable price. But in the middle of all these, I came across an eccentric-looking young man I recognized from the university. He was studying chemistry, just like me. I knew that his name was Victor Proctor, that he was a promising inventor, and that he came from Norway. I had occasionally had the sense that he wanted to speak to me but didn't quite dare. But on this day in Montmartre, he came over to me and pointed to a strange contraption—a machine he said he had invented himself
that painted portraits, in just a fraction of the time the other painters took and for half the price. So I let him—or actually his machine—paint me. But when the painting was done, he looked at it for a few seconds, then ripped it up and groaned in despair. I asked what was wrong, and he explained that it was another one of his failed inventions. Because the portrait machine hadn't come anywhere near capturing the beauty of my face. He gave me my money back and was about to leave, but I asked him if I could at least buy him a café au lait for his trouble. We came to this very café that you and I are sitting in now, and we talked about chemistry together until it got dark. Then we ordered some wine and kept on talking, about our lives, what we liked and what made us happy, and about our dreams. And by the time he walked me to the Métro station that evening, I had been in love with him for ages and knew that he was the one I wanted. Imagine, I just knew!” Juliette laughed. “All I thought about from that day on was this
cute young inventor from a country way up north.”

“Cute?” Lisa said dubiously. “Doctor Proctor?”

“Oh yes, he was quite handsome, you know. I looked for him at the university every day that week, but he wasn't anywhere to be found. On Sunday I went to Montmartre again, and there he was, standing in the exact same spot as the last time but without his portrait machine. He was shivering and his teeth were chattering, but he lit up when he saw me and we kissed each other on both cheeks the way we do here in France. When I asked what he'd been up to for the last week, he said that he'd been waiting. ‘Where?' I asked. ‘Right here,' he answered. ‘Waiting for what?' I asked. ‘For you,' he answered. And from that day on, Victor and I were a couple.”