Wendy Bravo - To Catch a Killer - First Chapter

OPENING SCENE - Introduces protagonist, secondary character, setting, tone, and foreshadows the primary conflict.

Butter croissant, pain au chocolat, a raspberry tarte, baguette with butter and jam, a bowl of strawberries, a pot of yogurt. I run a finger down the menu—a slice of quiche?—although I won’t bother with this one because then I’d have to ask for the daily special and I don’t want to talk beyond the bare minimum. And then there is the coffee: Americano, my usual, or better yet, café au lait, to be truly authentic. But who am I kidding? I’m not French. 

“Un croissant et un café Americano, s'il vous plaît,” I say to the waiter as he approaches and takes my menu. I’ve been here for a month already, but still, it feels like I’m living in a movie, not real life.

“Yes, ma’am, right away,” he says in his accented English. It’s morning but he’s wearing a suit and bowtie. I like how these Frenchmen always dress up, no matter the occasion. I guess he doesn’t have a choice though, does he? 

I sigh. When will my French be good enough so that they start replying to me in their language instead of my own? I’m so tired of English, of everything American. I came here to get away from it all, but here I am living out the cliche, an American in Paris. 

I pull my Le Monde out of my bag and unfold it, looking for any article that sparks my interest. Something about a dog being kidnapped in the 2^nd arrondissement. Global warming. An upcoming planned workers strike at the airport. This doesn’t affect me. I’m not planning on going anywhere. 

The mustached waiter approaches my table and puts down my Americano in a large ceramic cup on a saucer and a croissant on a plate. 

“Merci beaucoup,” I say, trying to smile. After he leaves, I reach out and touch the croissant. It’s warm. Of course it’s warm, it’s France. They know how to do things right here. 

I’m reading the paper, or at least trying to, and sipping on my Americano when I hear my name being called out.

“Wendy, Wendy!” I turn my head all around but it takes me a moment to recognize the man walking towards me. It’s Lucas from my French literature class at the Sorbonne. 

“Wendy,” he says again as he sits down beside me before kissing me on both cheeks. It still shocks me when people here do this. It’s so intimate. I can’t remember the last time I’d been kissed and now it’s a weekly occurrence when I can’t wiggle my way out of it. 

“Um hi,” I say, trying to hide that I’m blushing. Maybe he’ll just think it’s the chilly wind giving me a flush. I look up and see that Lucas has one of those perfectly brown with blue flecked scarves around his neck. He’s handsome with his sandy blond hair and green speckled eyes that always seem to be smiling. 

“Hey, can I ask you something?” he says. I hate when people ask this. What am I supposed to say? No? Do I even have a choice? I nod in agreement. 

“You live in the Latin Quarter, right?” he says. My cheeks go red as I nod again.

“Wait, how did you know that?” I ask. 

“Well, I didn’t want to tell you this, but I followed you,” he says. 

“You did?” I sputter. Does he have a crush on me or something? 

“Yeah, um, I did. Sorry,” he says. He doesn’t sound sorry.

“I need you… “ he starts, then pauses when the waiter comes over to ask him if he wants anything and orders, “un espresso, s’il vous plait.” Lucas’s French is perfect because he actually is French. I learned that on the first day of class.

Then he starts again, “I was wondering if you’d be able to help me with something.” Again with these statements where I’m not allowed to say anything other than yes. Part of me wants to say no—the scared shy part—but I’m too curious not to at least ask.

“What is it?” Now I’m nervously glancing around the cafe, but there is only an older man down at the end of the row of tables, and he’s not paying us any attention.

“I have, what do they call it, a mission. And I need your help,” Lucas whispers. 

“A mission? Like a spy mission?” I don’t know why I said that. It sounds so stupid coming out of my mouth. But then he nods and he’s looking at me intently, eyes not smiling now. He’s serious. The cold from the sidewalk is radiating up through my jeans, making me shiver. 

“Yes,” is all Lucas can say before we both abruptly stop talking. His espresso has arrived. He takes it down in one shot before adding, “I’ll talk to you about this later. After class.” 

He gets up and leaves, only looking back to give me a wink. My mind is spinning with all the possibilities. 

Just then a family sits down beside me and instantly I can feel my levity deflating. A boy—looks to be about five—rides a scooter right up to the table, almost crashing into it. He takes off his helmet and slams it down on the table. The mother is telling him something in French that I can’t quite make out. The little girl is whining. The waiter approaches and takes the mother’s barked order.

I try to go back to reading the newspaper, at least what I can decipher from it, or thinking about what Lucas has said, but I’m constantly distracted by this family intrusion. My calm Parisian morning has been infiltrated by noise, demands, ongoing negotiations that probably started at home and have continued here in the café. All I want is some tranquility, a moment of peace before my morning classes at the Sorbonne. 

The boy is quiet when his croissant arrives and I turn to look as he smashes it in a pot of strawberry jam and stuffs it into his mouth, leaving the red preserves smeared on his face. The mother is calmer now, sipping on her espresso, lighting a cigarette. The girl is happy, too. She’s playing with a doll that she’s produced from her backpack. Golden blond hair, the doll and the girl alike. 

I try to think back to my own childhood. This scene before me must have looked different from my own, but I can’t remember. In fact, I can’t remember much of it at all. I know that I’m from Kansas. I grew up on a farm before we moved to Topeka. That’s what Daddy says, at least.

So how does a girl from Kansas end up in Paris? Funny story. Amélie. That’s the short answer. I loved that movie. I even had the haircut for quite a while, but it’s grown into a longer bob now. A lob, I think they call it. I loved everything about that movie: the characters, the pranks, the love interest. My favorite thing had to be Amélie herself. The fact that she doesn’t talk. I can relate. I don’t talk much either. 

“Qu'est ce que vous regardez?” the boy with the red-smeared strawberry face asks me, through a mouth full of croissant. 

I flinch. “Rien,” I say, looking away after clocking that the mother pulled her son in closer to her side. Is she afraid of me? I guess I was staring, but so what?

My peaceful breakfast ruined, I take one last sip of my Americano and clank the cup back on the saucer. I wrap the croissant, cold now, in a paper towel that I produce from my bag and stuff it in on top of the books. I see that waiter coming back to the table and giving me a sour look. It’s definitely something that only an American would do: take their breakfast to go. 

I get up and head off for my class, giving one last backwards glance at the family. An uneasy feeling overtakes me, but I don’t know why. I never know why.