“It’s French for ‘red.’？” I look carefully at Tad.
He’s turned away from me now, staring at the windshield strangely. Like he sees something there. Something terrible or lovely, I can’t tell. But then he just smiles and turns to me again. “Well, how about that? You learn something new every day, don’t you?”
* * *
The shop is a labyrinth of old things collecting dust. Aisles of glass animals in mid-roar. Dreary paintings of dreary landscapes in heavy gilt frames. End tables. So many little end tables fit for only one vase. And the vases themselves, of course. Urns patterned with carnivorous-looking flowers and white-eyed maidens in diaphanous gowns. The air in here is full of death. Everything still and sad. A decadent scent rises up from the furniture that reminds me of Grand-Maman’s place. Her dark, creaking rooms full of crap. The way she glided through them in one of her long nightgowns of cheap, Easter egg–colored lace. Carrying a small gold-rimmed plate full of pastries she would eat in the dark. The way she’d sit on her rose-gold chaise and watch soap operas or else read Nostradamus and talk to me about the end of the world. The Four Horsemen on their black horses. Did I know they were coming soon? I shook my head. Their eyes were black as pits, Grand-Maman said, and she looked at me with her own eyes black as pits. She was very excited about the horsemen. And the black horses with their foaming mouths galloping through a world full of fire. She’d smile and lean back in her chaise as though she were picturing it all burning in her mind. Her white arms, hairless like Mother’s, covered in gold bangles my father had brought back from Egypt. Then she’d turn on the television, a giant black box. I watched her soul close its eyes inside her body as she stared at the screen.
At last, Mother would appear in the doorway to pick me up. Belle, are you all right? Why do you look so pale?
Mother, are the Four Horsemen really coming?
And Mother would frown. Whisper something to her mother in rapid French, something I wouldn’t quite catch. About filling my head. About religion. And Grand-Maman would hiss back. My granddaughter. The truth. Deserves. What did I say?
“Belle,” Tad says. And then I’m back in the shop, standing still in the aisle full of glass animals and urns and end tables. Tad’s looking at me worriedly. “You coming? It’s just back here.”
At the very back of the shop stands Al, behind a tiny antique register. He’s wearing a sailor’s cap and a sky-blue Hawaiian shirt patterned with obscenely red flowers that look like vulvas. He does not look up at me and Tad. Instead, he eyes the items that Tad has just set on the floor. He picks up the lady lamp. Lifts the hem of her dress in a bored way, exposing her coils and wires.
Don’t fucking touch her, I want to scream. But I just stand there letting him fondle Mother. Mother’s lamp, I mean. His fat fingers. Assessing eyes. He picks up the butler statue and puts him back down. Strokes the gilt frame of the painting. Hundred already like it in the shop, says his face. Then he turns to the black antique chest. My heart starts to pound as he grips the lid. But it won’t open. Al looks at Tad, raises an eyebrow.
“Belle,” Tad whispers. “Do you have a key?”
I look at the chest, Al’s hands on the lid. I shake my head. “No key.”
“Well maybe a screwdriver could—”
“No screwdriver!” I shout. They both look at me. “It could damage the wood,” I add quietly. “Or the lock. Best to leave it locked.”
Al and Tad exchange another look. “Well, maybe we could—”
“Look, I’m very sorry, but if it’s locked, it’s locked, okay?” I bend down, tugging on the lid. And it comes right open.
I can feel Al looking at me with new interest. Tad beaming like he knew this would happen. “Magic touch.”
I look in the chest. Empty, of course. Just a blackness. What was I expecting to find?
“Oh hey,” Tad says, reaching down into the chest. He holds up a key. Tiny and golden. The size of a penny. “The key was inside the chest all along. How about that?”
“That’s not the key to the chest,” Al says.
“Sure it is.”
“Too small,” Al says, his hand still under the lamp lady’s skirt. “Looks more like the key to a cheap jewelry box. Or a diary.”
The red diary I found in the basement box flashes in my head. “I’ll take that,” I say, snatching the key from Tad.
Behind us, the shop bell rings.
“Cool,” Tad says, clapping his hands. “Well, the chest’s open, anyway. Now we’re in business, aren’t we, Al?” He’s looking at Al like he’s an oracle. “Al?”