Page 79 of From Paris, with Butter
Please have driven since you were twenty, I prayed to the traffic gods. Madame Blanchet jammed a helmet over her head and passed another to me. Meekly, I put it on.
I scrambled on behind her, trying to hide that I was shaking. After all this was over, I was going to take a vacation. No working, no baking.
Madame Blanchet turned on the engine. The Vespa made a horrific coughing noise and emitted a billow of smoke.
And absolutely no motorized vehicles.
“We’re off!” Madame Blanchet declared.
She promptly reversed into the wall.
“Ah, I always forget that,” she muttered.
“You forget if you’re going forward or backward?” I asked, my voice unnaturally high. I don’t think she heard me over the noise of the engine. It was louder than a truck.
“Hold tight,” Madame Blanchet said. As if I needed reminding.
We sputtered onto the street, nearly tipping over.
“Don’t worry. It’ll steady once we’re going fast,” Madame Blanchet shouted. A whimper escaped me.
We wove along the streets, Madame Blanchet seemingly trying to remember how to drive in a straight line.
“Awful giant cars,” she grumbled, nearly clipping an SUV. I couldn’t decide which was worse, opening my eyes or keeping them shut. I settled for staring into my lap, muttering positive affirmations as though they were protection spells.
“I welcome new experiences. I am open to adventure. I have released my fear and can enjoy this moment,” I whispered frantically, breaking off to cough as another cloud of Vespa smoke engulfed me.
It took Madame Blanchet several intersections to remember how the Vespa’s turn signals worked. Until she got it, she settled for shouting to the world at large which direction she was turning.
By the time we reached the busier roads, she seemed to have gotten the hang of the Vespa. With her increased confidence came road rage. I was shocked at the words coming out of my demure landlady’s mouth.
“Learn the rules of the road!” she shouted at a man she decided had passed too close in front of us. “And your girlfriend is too pretty for you, you ugly bastard!”
“We didn’t free this country from the Nazis so you could drive like a filthy connard! Casse-toi, espèce d’abruti!” she shouted at another while flipping him off, her scarf flapping in the breeze.
I did not know it was possible to be so terrified of impending death while simultaneously wishing the world would swallow me whole.
At one point, the engine made a sad sort of clanking sound and just died, right on the road. Swearing, Madame Blanchet managed to pull over while she tried to figure out what the problem was.
“J'en ai ras de cul,” she said, kicking the Vespa with her heel-clad foot. “We have places to go.” She kicked it a few more times, and just as I was about to say I didn’t think that was an approved Vespa repair tactic, the engine roared back to life.
“Exactly. And there’s more where that came from if you act up again. Putain de bordel,” Madame Blanchet said, kicking the bike a final time.
By this point, I was beyond the power of speech.
But we made it to the gala as Madame Blanchet promised, on time and inone piece. I’d kept my legs so locked during the ride that I nearly fell over when I got off.
Once I was confidently on terra firma, I thanked Madame Blanchet profusely, assured her I wouldn’t need a ride back (I’d crawl across Paris if I had to), and went inside. The Vespa ride hadn’t done a thing to calm my nerves, and I was keyed up as I opened the doors.
When I walked into the main ballroom, I paused in pulling leaves out of my hair (There’d been a low-lying branch hanging over the road at one point, and I’d gotten a faceful of it). My eyes widened.
Gone was the bland, aging room that had looked better suited to hosting business conferences than a fancy event. The decorators had worked their magic, filling the space with glittering chandeliers, potted palms in ceramic planters, turquoise and pink rugs spread across the floor, divans with piles of cushions, and bouquets of red and orange flowers.
“Margot!” I turned to see Fatima striding toward me, energy crackling around her. In her hands was a towering stack of papers, heavily earmarked. A trio of assistants trailed behind her.
“Margot, I’m so glad you were able to get here. The strike is expected to be resolved this afternoon, so it shouldn’t affect guests, but it’s been chaos making sure the staff is able to get here.” We stepped into the kitchens. “Do you have everything you need?”
I took a glance around my counters. “I think so. Thank you, Fatima.”
