Part 7 (2/2)

”Don't worry about it if you're late,” I said. ”I've got your back.”

Then I made this ridiculous little ”key locking the lips” motion. I don't know what I was thinking.

But Tim seemed pleased.

”Later,” he said.

”Later,” I replied.

I admit, Dear Readers, I snuck a final peek at Lindy Sloane before stepping back so that Jean-Michel could close the limousine door. It was just as well that I didn't plan on telling anybody. I can't think of a person in the world who would believe it.

I waved a cheery good-bye to the sleek whale of an automobile. It was impossible to tell through the tinted windows if anyone waved back.

Then I turned to have a look at the Louvre and evaluate my next move.

c.r.a.pstick.

I've been to large museums before. But this building looked like its own CITY. It seemed to stretch elegantly and endlessly in every direction. I was willing to bet the entire population of Greenland could be inside that building AT THIS VERY MOMENT, and there would still be plenty of elbow room. How did a person even get INSIDE this place? There were crowds of people everywhere. But in the midst of the frenzy of activity, I noticed a stream of bodies going in and out through an archway. Quickly, I followed them.

The courtyard seemed roughly the size of Rhode Island. To my left I could see another huge arch monument. They seemed to be following me. And to my right was the heart of the U-shaped palace that was the Louvre. There might be an admission door over there somewhere. Who could see anything with that huge gla.s.s pyramid smack in the center of things?

Gla.s.s pyramid.

Glesspairmeed.

EUREKA!.

Eight.

There was an entrance right in the gla.s.s pyramid, which led to an escalator going down to a gleaming marble-floored reception area. Now, I say ”reception area,” but it looked like a very streamlined version of the engine room on the stars.h.i.+p Enterprise. Overhead, the gla.s.s pyramid soared into the sky. I pitied the Louvre's Official Window Washer.

I had stumbled upon a mecca of English speakers. Even women in saris and men in elaborate headdresses were speaking English. At the admissions desk I didn't bother explaining my situation. The nice lady in the trim blue suit who spoke perfect English certainly wouldn't know where Madame Chavotte and her students had gone. I paid for a student ticket, took a few authoritative steps down a hallway, then stopped.

How was I going to locate my group in a four-story building of this magnitude? Being lost in the Louvre might be just as hopeless as being lost in Paris, and statistically I was unlikely to run into another celebrity willing to direct me where I needed to go.

Then I remembered Lewis. He'd said to text message him when I got to the museum. Sadly, he hadn't told me HOW to do that. Or maybe he had, and I wasn't paying attention. I pulled out my phone and stared at it. I pushed a b.u.t.ton. Nothing happened. I pushed another b.u.t.ton. Nothing happened. I pushed a bunch of b.u.t.tons in succession. All at once the phone produced a high-pitched single-tone version of Mozart's Eine Kleine Nachtmusik. I let out a little yell, shook the phone and smacked it, then tried sticking it under my arm to m.u.f.fle the sound. People began staring at the Little Chicken with Mozart coming out of her armpit, so I started pus.h.i.+ng b.u.t.tons again. Miraculously the music stopped. What a nightmare!

I decided to push one last b.u.t.ton. I picked one on the side of the phone. A menu flashed onto the screen. Now we were getting somewhere! With things looking more computerlike and less phonelike, I became more confident. Even the superpowers of Lenny Blennerha.s.sett had not prevented me from getting a moderate amount of experience using e-mail. I found my way through ”text message” to ”address book,” and YAY! Lewis had indeed entered his address there.

After a few wrong turns, I finally sent Lewis a message: im here The response came back almost immediately.

good-cant cvr mch lngr-hrry up flr 2.

Eureka! I made a dash for the elevator, holding the phone out in front of me like it was a homing device. As I got into the elevator, my hand froze over the b.u.t.tons. Was floor two the second floor or the deuxieme etage that made it the third floor? But I had come in a floor below street level. So maybe in this building the deuxieme etage was the second floor because the ground floor was the first floor and the subterranean level the ground floor?

I hit ”2” and let the elevator decide what it meant. When the door opened, I got off and text messaged Lewis: b mr spcfc. whr r u?

A lady with a baby stroller almost ran me down as I waited for his reply.

paintings Well, thank you very much. That was Extremely Helpful. I'm in the world's largest collection of artwork, and Lewis tells me to meet him BY THE PAINTINGS.

details I made a face at the screen when I hit ”send,” just to reinforce my feelings of exasperation.

fat guard w teeny mstche. grp of abt 100 german kids. ldy w triplets in stroller.

I looked around frantically in every direction, but I didn't see any of those things. Well, not exactly. I saw a guard with a teeny mustache, but he was thin. I saw a group of about a hundred kids, but they looked j.a.panese. I saw two ladies with strollers, but both had sets of twins. Paintings I saw. Paintings EVERYWHERE. Millions upon millions of them.

c.r.a.pstick.

I would have to search systematically, wing by wing. That should only take, according to what I could glean from the map the admissions lady gave me, about three hours. Per floor. I had barely started down the Hall of Painted Grim Guys in Big Hats and Dark Colors when my phone wiggled. (I preferred to think of it as wiggling; vibrating sounded too dental.) gng to escltr What? They were switching floors? Now I'd have to switch floors too, a.s.suming I was on the right floor to start with. At this point everything felt like the dumb-ieme etage to me. I shot off a message: wht drctn?

And after a moment, I got back: down 1 I went back in the direction I'd come, once again through the Hall of Painted Grim Guys in Big Hats and Dark Colors. There was a little group of plump blond women posing for a picture, the escalator beyond them. I dashed through the shot just as the photographer was exhorting them to ”say cheese.” I have no doubt I will make a notable addition to someone's vacation photo alb.u.m.

As I sprinted out onto the first floor, my phone wiggled again.

baby cryng by wndow I stopped and listened. I seemed to hear crying babies from every direction.

Another wiggle from the phone.

monalisa!!!

International jackpot! I scuttled over to the closest security guard.

”Hi there...um...English?”

”What are you looking for?” he said in slightly accented English, eyes half closed like I'd caught him napping.

”Mona L-”

He cut me off.

”Down that hall, right, fourth hallway on the left, look for the crowd.”

”Thank you,” I said. He seemed to have fallen back asleep. I guess an American asking directions to the Mona Lisa wasn't very unusual or interesting. He probably stood there all day telling people where the Mona Lisa was. I hoped, for his sake, a tiny but ultimately failed armed robbery might happen after I'd left-just a little something for him to talk about with his buddies after work.

I shot down the hallway like a speed skater, bobbing around and between people. When I got to the fourth hallway on the left, I saw the crowd right away. If I'd been anywhere else, I would have a.s.sumed there'd been some kind of accident. But I could see very well what the crowd was staring at. Hanging by itself on the wall, protected by velvet ropes preventing anyone from approaching too closely, was the Mona Lisa. The painting looked a lot smaller than I'd expected. Like maybe the size of one of those posters of a kitten hanging off a branch that say, ”Hang on, it's almost Friday!” When something is a Universally Recognized Artistic Icon of Epic Proportions, you expect it to be at least the size of a station wagon. Still, I needed to capture the moment for my Mental Pool, which is what I was doing when I heard an unmistakable voice above the crowd.

”She is magnifique, n'est-ce pas? She is formidable!”

I sidled over, all casual.

”She's not even French, Janet. She's Italian.”

Janet whirled to face me.

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