Parisian Promises Page 16
“Please, let go,” she pleaded. “You’re hurting me.”
“You must admit that you’ve played a role in the subjugation of people. Admit it.”
“But I don’t see how. Hell, I work harder than––”
Jean-Michel slapped her across the face. A trickle of blood dripped from the corner of her mouth and her eyes widened in terror. “Admit it!” he snarled.
When Monica began to sob, Jean-Michel walked away, disappointed in his own brutal behavior. His goal in creating the “California Girl” technique of mind-control was to prove to others how a potent and superior mind could command a pliant creature to follow orders unequivocally. A strike against a target was common practice among the other revolutionary groups, particularly those who specialized in kidnappings and ransom as a source of income. They had to punish their victims for their sins, and a well-placed and painful punch always made the victim recant their previously held views. By striking Monica, Jean-Michel showed her his own weakness, and this alarmed him.
Monica was still crying, but she did not dare speak up again. She’d learned from witnessing her mother’s beatings that it was best to agree with every accusation and to apologize for any perceived crimes. Otherwise things only got worse.
Jean-Michel sat next to her on the cot and draped an arm around her slim shoulders. Monica shook with fear.
“Please forgive me,” he murmured. “I love you so much, and I want you to believe in the work that I am doing to help the poor and oppressed all over the world. You must concede that you come off as a smug, well-fed California girl, right?”
Monica nodded.
“We must get medicine to the tiny children in, in the, that is to say, the children who work in mines in South America and Africa. Do you love me enough to help me do this?”
Monica nodded again, though she looked miserable.
“And don’t you agree that these colossal stone châteaux in the Loire Valley are nothing but a conspicuous reminder of the power of the French nobility? It’s no surprise that their heads had to be chopped off in order for a new world order to form, n’est-ce pas?”
All Monica could do was nod. Tears streamed down her cheeks when she thought of Christophe, who possessed a title of nobility and, more importantly, displayed such an admirable dignity of character. Surely his ancestors did not abuse their workers. On the other hand, she’d seen his mother verbally abusing her employees. Maybe Jean-Michel was right. Her confusion made her sob even harder.
“Is that all you can do, cry?” Jean-Michel squeezed her shoulder, digging his fingers into her soft skin. He looked in her eyes and guessed that she was thinking of her own nobleman, Christophe. Jean-Michel spat at her face.
“So, are you thinking of your princely exploiter? Perhaps he liked to rape you, like a common kitchen wench. Is that why you were huddled inside that Louis XV armoire, where I found you naked? You know what Louis XV wrote about the slave merchants, don’t you?”
“No, but I’m sure it was awful,” Monica managed to say, drawing on her last reserve of moxie.
Jean-Michel cleared his throat, as if preparing for a speech. “Louis XV wrote: ‘les négociants du Port de Bordeaux se livrent avec beaucoup de zèle au commerce de la traite des––”
“Stop!” Monica stuffed her hand in her mouth to stop herself from wailing. It was all too horrendous: Louis XV praising the slave merchants for their profitable trade in human beings from Africa; the thought that Christophe’s family might have gained their château through exploitative means; the fact that she was trapped again, this time in a cave; the residual pain from the bite on her inner thigh––a constant reminder of the rough sex she craved with Jean-Michel; and lastly, the fact that she felt her mind dissolving into a blank porous stone, not unlike the cave that surrounded her.
“So you do acknowledge that these châteaux are a symbol of oppressions through the ages,” Jean-Michel continued, his eyes boring into hers. “Are you aware that Château Chaumont was purchased with the tarnished proceeds from the slave trade? The Say family of Nantes made their fortune on sugar plantations in the Caribbean, and in order to look legit they bought the château and married into a minor title of nobility.” He threw back his head and laughed. “And you do know that Nantes was France’s leading slave port––after Bordeaux, that is? During the 1730s alone, the French shipped probably more than 100,000 slaves from Africa. What do you say to that?”
“I had no idea,” Monica admitted. “But … but I thought that Château Chaumont was built in the 10th cent–”
He shook her harshly, raising his voice again. “What difference does it make what century it was built? Don’t you realize this cave is not a natural cavern? The caves in this valley are a direct result of greed and subjugation. The nobility demanded that each château be bigger and more ostentatious than the next. Their serfs had to dig into the hills for the porous tuffeau limestone to build these monstrosities. Need I tell you how many people died from quarrying this limestone?”
He slapped her back, and Monica moaned.
“Lots of people,” she whispered, flinching when Jean-Michel reached over to stroke her hair.
“Then you must agree that the huge international corporations that control your government are the equivalent of the nobility of yore,” he said in a low voice, as though he were reasoning with her. “Their only goal is to make more and more profit at the expense of their workers.”
Monica nodded and wiped the tears from her face with the back of one trembling hand.
“I have to go to the bathroom. Please let me go,” she begged.
“There is a bucket in that corner over there.” He pointed to the darkest section of the deep cave.
“Please come with me. I’m afraid.”
Jean-Michel slapped her again, so hard that she almost fell backwards. “So now you’re too good to take a piss in the same pot that the dead man used for months, is that it?”
Monica was exhausted and confused by his accusations and violence. She staggered to the makeshift chamber pot in the dark corner, clutching at the stone wall to keep her balance. When she returned to the cot, Jean-Michel was nowhere in sight.
“Please,” she called. “I’m begging you, let me go. I’m too afraid to stay in here any longer. What do you want from me?”
When Jean-Michel did not respond, Monica walked around the cave frantically looking for him. In the darkness, she stumbled on the uneven surface and scraped her knees on a protruding rock. “Please, come out from wherever you’re hiding. I’ll do whatever you ask. But I must leave this cave or I’ll die.”
Her pleas entertained Jean-Michel. He liked playing cat-and-mouse in the dark. He was only feet from her, hiding behind the rows of stacked wine barrels, and he could pounce on her in an instant. He relished the thought of clawing her and biting her, but he settled for the mental anguish he caused her. From her uncontrollable sobbing, illogical promises, confessions of mistakes, and declarations of eternal love for him, he recognized that he was driving Monica to the required nervous breakdown. At that point, she would no longer have a clear sense of what was happening to her, and she would be putty in his hands. He was proud of his ability to stifle her cries. He had learned to detach himself by grandiose daydreaming since childhood, and while Monica sobbed and screamed and pleaded, his mind was busy with the presentation he would soon make. While other militant groups taught bomb-making and communiqué-writing, Jean-Michel would instruct other subversive cells in the “California Girl” method of mind control––and provide them with a list of deadly deeds accomplished by his gullible little agents of terror.
What Monica did not realize was that her noisy hysteria was utterly futile. This particular cave had been dug out hundreds of years ago and was one of the longest and most intricate caves in the region. The vintners of this region bottle-aged the Chenin Blanc wine early and left it alone for a long period of time. During the current harvest season, the bottles of Vouvray were left to cellar
in the consistently cool temperature of the cave. No one would be coming to check the inventory for several days––and no one would hear her plaintive cries.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
C’est Choutte
You are not who you think you are,” Jean-Michel whispered in Monica’s ear, holding her so close she could barely breathe. “You are a woman of conviction, not some daydreaming American girl wasting her time in France. You’re here to help us accomplish greatness.”
In the ill-lit cave, the shadows of Monica’s spindly arms looked like desperate tentacles clinging to the solid rock of Jean-Michel’s shoulders––and to his granite resolve. Deeper in the cave there had once been prehistoric fossils of bivalve mollusks; their hinged halves had enclosed tiny scallops, oysters, and clams. These creatures had also clung to the limestone for strength against the elements.
The fossils had been removed from the cave by Didier’s family decades ago, and were now exhibited proudly in his family’s château. When Didier attended prep school in Switzerland, he would invite friends to visit his cave to get high on hashish without any adult bothering them. In order to impress these friends, he’d even shown them the location of the key to the entrance gate. Luckily, as Jean-Michel knew, Didier rarely visited this cave anymore.
He apologized profusely to Monica. “I don’t know what possessed me,” he groaned, holding her on his lap. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just wanted to share my dreams with you, but you didn’t seem interested. So I went too far. Please forgive.”
“Oh, no, not at all,” Monica whispered, still confused and frightened, but clasping his neck with both arms. “I agree with all your dreams about, uh, about changing the world,”
“How far would you go to help me with this goal? Would you be as devoted to me as Isabel was to her husband?” he asked coyly. “Would you fight-off caimans or over-eager gendarmes, to make my dream of a better world come true?” He kissed her pert nose.
“Well, I wouldn’t want to get in any trouble with the police, the gendarmes, as you say.” she answered in a barely audible voice.
Jean-Michel plopped her on the soiled cot where they had been sitting and stood up.
“There you go again!” he shouted. “One minute you’re lovey-dovey and the next you’re worried only about yourself. Which is it?”
Monica stood up as well, but hung her head and wouldn’t speak.
“It’s time that you prove your love for me. Are you ready?” Monica nodded, and he was pleased to see her trembling again. “In a few minutes I’m going to let you go out, and you will walk down the road towards the large gate. Do you remember where the car let us off? It’s almost dusk outside, hurry.”
Jean-Michel spoke slowly and deliberately––and this focused approach frightened Monica even more than his erratic screams.
“You will get into the car that is waiting for you, and you will go with the driver,” he ordered. “His name is Rémy and he will tell you what to do next. Do you understand?”
“Okay,” she croaked. “Can I … can I take my bag?”
“Sure, why not?” Jean-Michel didn’t care what happened to Monica. He had already rifled through her duffel bag, found her purse and removed her French carte de séjour, her identification as a foreigner living in France. All he’d left her was a handful of francs in her coin purse.
He needed to get started on testing the steps of his new mission; he had to prove himself among his fellow revolutionaries. Even if Monica were to be apprehended, she’d fall apart at any questioning, and she didn’t have any idea who he really was. Besides, in a few hours, he would be hiding out in Spain.
The excitement of finally kicking off his mission put him in a giddy mood, and he lifted Monica up in the air and twirled her as if they had just won the lottery.
“Go, now,” Jean-Michel commanded. He led her to the mouth of the cave and pushed her in right direction. He stood watching Monica dart down the path to the waiting car.
As she climbed into the weathered gray car, Monica avoided eye contact with the driver, turning her head towards the passenger window. But he seemed overly friendly and enthusiastic.
“Salut, copine,” he greeted her, as though he were driving her to a dance. The radio in the car faded in and out. “Merde,” he growled. “I love that song and this junk of a car has the worst radio. Do you like The Doors?”
Monica nodded.
“Come on, baby, light my fire,” Rémy sang, drumming on the steering wheel. “I went to Jim Morrison’s funeral at Père Lachaise Cemetery two years ago and hardly anyone was there.” This was a lie, but he wanted to impress Monica.
“Cool.” Monica stared out the window, but he kept chattering.
“Where are you from? Oh, never mind. We’re not supposed to ask any questions, right?”
Monica nodded.
“You don’t recognize me, do you? I picked you up by the church and drove you to the cellar earlier today, but I was in a different car, and I had a cap on.”
The driver sang and cursed the radio, but mostly he jerked and stalled and missed the shifts. “Merde, I haven’t driven in years, ever since I left Perpignan to come to work in Paris. I drove my father’s car all the time, but then he died, and well, my stepmother hated me, and well, I came to Paris.” His voice cracked. “Merde, I hate this radio.”
Monica nodded again.
“You sure are quiet, aren’t you? I guess that Jean-Michel knows what he’s doing. He’s my best friend, you know. There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for him.”
“Cool.”
“Oui, c’est choutte,” Rémy replied. “Did he tell you that I was starving, literally starving on the streets of Paris, and that he and Charles and Bertrand told the owner of the café to hire me? Can you believe that? They cleaned me up and told him, ‘Here’s your new man,’ and soon I was waiting on tables.” Rémy laughed and drummed on the dashboard. “They’re his main clients and they’re so rich, but they’re just like the rest of us, you know. What else could the fat owner do but hire me, right? Putain.” He popped the clutch too quickly and stalled the car. “At this rate I’ll never get you to your destination.”
“I drive a stick shift back in California,” Monica whispered.
“You don’t have to whisper. Shout, scream, I don’t care. This is a great day. We finally can get our squad working against the oppressors. Putain, I’m so happy to leave my shitty job at the café and do something important.” Rémy stalled the car again. “Damn, it’s getting late and they’ll be closing the entrance to Chambord. Isn’t it choutte? We’re going to blow up an insignificant little bridge at the entrance. Jean-Michel says it’s just a wakeup call. I wouldn’t do it if we were to damage the actual château, of course. It’s so beautiful and it represents the power and greatness of France, you know.”
Monica nodded.
“You’re supposed to leave the package and I’m supposed to detonate it. It’s easy and we don’t harm anyone, except a few stones at the bridge and we have a ton of replacement stones in the Loire.” Rémy laughed and struggled with the clutch. “Jean-Michel says it will be a symbolic gesture. Just a little taste of the greatness we can achieve.”
Rémy panted and released the clutch, but the car stalled and he panicked.
“Merde, what do I do now? It’s so dark on these hick country roads. It reminds me of Perpignan and my wicked stepmother. I hate her, you know. Why couldn’t she die instead of my mother and father?” He scratched his head furiously. “Can you drive the car and I’ll put the package under the bridge? And then POOF! I’ll explode it, and away we go! We’ll meet Jean-Michel later tomorrow, after he sends our communiqué to the newspapers. We’re going to be famous.”
“I don’t think we should deviate from his plan,” Monica said, but she sounded uncertain.
“Yeah, yeah, you’re right. But now I’ve botched the clutch and my feet are all nervous. You’ll have to drive. I won’t tell.” Rémy fidgeted with the stick shift then dru
m rolled his fingers on the steering wheel. “As long as we destroy the bridge, that’s all that’s expected of us.”
He jumped out of the driver’s seat and ran to the passenger’s side, flinging the door open.
“Your turn,” he shouted and yanked Monica out of the car. She stood there, frowning. “Hey, you’re beautiful, too! No wonder Jean-Michel is in love with you.”
Rémy smiled at her innocently, and even in the darkness, his eyes glistened with immense expectation, and an equally immense amount of fear. He couldn’t stop talking.
“My mother could drive a stick shift better than my father, but that was years ago––when I was happy.” He dragged an unwilling Monica around to the driver’s side and ran back to the passenger side. “Merde, life is cruel, don’t you think?”
“We could drive away and come back another day,” Monica suggested, flinching when he slammed the door. “Let’s go back to the cave.”
“What cave? We’re supposed to meet Jean-Michel in Paris. Did he tell you to go somewhere else?” Rémy looked puzzled.
Monica shook her head, sighing. All she could do was start the car again and follow Rémy’s directions. He attempted to light a cigarette, but stopped himself.
“We don’t want to go POOF.” He pointed to the trunk, and laughed uncontrollably, like a kid who’d eaten too much cotton candy at the circus. “You know, if we do this mission properly, then we move on to bank robberies next. C’est choutte, non?”
Rémy didn’t wait for Monica’s answer: that no, it was not cool to destroy an ancient bridge and it was definitely not cool to rob a bank. In the enthusiastic, jittery Rémy, she saw a gullible and simpleminded thug hypnotized by Jean-Michel’s dreams of inciting revolution while living the life of a ruling-class playboy. Rémy’s drumroll was his self-styled marching orders to become a man of action, a risk taker like his hero, Jean-Michel. In Rémy’s spineless obedience and blind faith in Jean-Michel, Monica recognized her own pathetic lack of backbone. She slumped in the driver’s seat, her face burning with shame.