Chapter 6
“Bonjour, Madame, comment puis-je vous aider aujourd’hui?” The woman behind a thick mahogany desk returns from her phone call, waking me from my lust-filled haze. I smile at her; she seems close to my age. Dressed in what I can only describe as French chic, her cat-eye glasses frame her angular face, and blood-red lipstick sets off her golden locks, perfectly coiffed in a French twist with a tortoiseshell clip holding it in place. A strand of small white pearls, tied around the arm of her glasses, forms an unconventional yet subtle chain necklace. Her belt is adorned with pearls to match her glasses chain.
“Er,” I mumble, placing my backpack on top of my suitcases while I rack my brain in an attempt to string together the correct words. I’ve never listened to my dad when he tried to teach me French, and right now I’m seriously regretting it. “English?” I ask, a sheepish smile on my lips as I fidget with my fingers, nervously hoping that the clerk can speak even the tiniest bit of English. Or maybe we can call back that really cute guy; he seemed to know English.
A glint passes the woman’s eyes. “Oui, Madame, I speak English.” A smile graces her lips, clearly happy to be able to practice her English on me.
I pat my chest. “My name is Aurora,” I say very slowly, making sure to enunciate each word.
“Aurora, plaisir, my name is Madeline,” she replies. This conversation may take twice as long to get through, but at the end of it we might just become fast friends.
“Madeline.” I smile, thankful I’m talking to the right person, and pull out the thick white envelope Timothé had given me.
“My lawyer gave me this.” I hand Madeline the pieces of paper that Timothé instructed to give to the Bureau du Conseil. I don’t know what is written on the page; most of the documents within the envelope are all in French. Timothé must have had the forethought I may have trouble deciphering the papers and labeled each with a sticky note with the English translation. Madeline takes the piece of paper and pulls down her glasses to read it.
“Do you have the acte?” Madeline asks after reading through the document.
“Acte?” I repeat while flicking through all the documents, trying to find one with acte scrawled on it.
“Yes. Acte.” She clicks her fingers, trying to recall the English translation.
“Acte?” I ask, holding up a document with compte bancaire in thick Helvetica lettering. Madeline shakes her head. Tugging at the scarf around my neck, my body becomes hot. I continue to flick through the paperwork but can’t see a document with acte written on it. My chest constricts, making it difficult to take a breath. What if Timothé forgot to give me the acte, and now I can’t get the key to the chateau without it?
I’ve come this far only to find out I forgot a piece of paper back at my apartment. I put the compte bancaire document down and flick through the remaining small stack of documents. I find another document, citoyenneté, and hold it up to Madeline, hoping it will be the right document. “Acte?” I ask again. Madeline shakes her head and pulls out her phone from her back pocket.
Her thumbs furiously type away on the screen. “I’ve forgotten the English word, one second,” she says before the robotic voice of Google Translate blares through the speakers, “Deed.”
The corners of my mouth relax as relief sweeps across my face. “Ah, the deed.” I smile and grab the deed to Chateau des éveillés. Holding it up, the tightly woven ball unknots in my stomach as equal parts elation and relief flood through me, and my tense body relaxes. I could kiss Madeline and her phone. I reach back into my backpack, pull out the mustard-colored document, and hand it to Madeline.
“Thank you.” Madeline smiles, takes the deed to the chateau from my hands, and walks into the small room off to the left. I collect all the documents and put them back in the envelope while I wait for her to return. The Bureau du Conseil is empty, the silence making it almost eerie. I pull at an errant piece of lint from my sweater. Nervous energy courses through my body while I wait for Madeline to return. I become keenly aware of the tick of the hands on the clock, like the countdown on an explosive about to detonate. Each click makes me more nervous for the impending boom.
What is taking Madeline so long? I move from foot to foot, trying to calm a new surge of the nerves pulsating through my veins. Did I hand over the right documents? Is this all just some whacked dream, and I’m still sitting in a dingy bar, suffering from alcohol poisoning from one too many tequila shots, and I’m about to be woken up in a sterile hospital room?
I strain to hear who Madeline is talking to. “Oui, oui,” I hear her whisper in hushed tones in the distance. “Elle a l’acte, Luc.” At the word acte, my ears perk. Who is Madeline talking to?
My train of thought is broken when Madeline appears through the threshold with a smile fixed in place. My eyes widen, tucked under her right arm is a medium-sized cardboard box, her left hand weighed down with a stack of papers with lots of little tabs coming out in all different directions. This is really happening.
When Madeline reaches the counter, she stands up on the balls of her feet and slides the cardboard box onto the desk. She places the papers down next to the box. “Aurora, here, I have some papers for you to sign.” Madeline holds her forefinger and thumb together, mimicking holding a pen, and signs the air.
I offer a tight smile and hold my hand out, waiting for her to give me a pen. “Where do I sign.”
Madeline flicks through a few pages. “Ah, here.” She points to the first tab next to an X. I make quick work to sign my name on each line she points to. For a fleeting moment, the thought that I should be reading this before signing flitters across my mind. “And here.” Madeline flicks a few more pages and points to another tab. I guess it can’t be bad, really. Timothé wouldn’t get me to sign incorrect documents, right?
“How many signatures do you need?” I ask, twirling a strand of hair around my thumb and forefinger as I continue to sign more pages.
“Not many,” she replies. A nagging feeling tugs at my stomach. How can a simple release of the keys to the chateau need so many signatures? I peer down at the paperwork, making a conscious effort to try to read what I’m signing, but it all looks like, well, a foreign language. Maybe it’s the bone-shattering exhaustion from the long flight, or the residual nerves from Timothé’s visit, but I’ve thrown caution to the wind and continue to sign the rest of the documents, trying to get this over with as quick as possible.
“Three down, twelve to go,” I mumble as we continue to make our way through the stacks of pages. Madeline shuffles more papers under my nose, hurrying me through the process.
It will all be worth it once I have the keys in my hand, I have the mantra practically on repeat in my head.
With the final signature, Madeline closes the thick set of papers and pushes the box forward. “This box is for you.”
“Do you have the keys to the chateau?” I ask.
“It is all in the box.” Of course, it is.
I almost drop the box pulling it off the counter. “Holy fricksickles! What is in this box, bricks from the chateau too?” I wheeze, placing it on my suitcase. Madeline smiles a tight smile.
“One last question,” I ask, holding my index finger up. “How do I get to the chateau?” The tips of my ears turn red; I should probably know where my new home is located, but I haven’t really had a chance to familiarize myself with the town.
“Ah, yes. If you go outside, on the left you see Chemin des Plaines. Your chateau is on that road poursuivre jusqu’à,” she says, moving her arms in a forward motion.
“Okay, thank you.” I smile and grab the handle of my suitcase.
“I’ll see you soon.” Madeline waves and takes the stack of papers away, I presume to file them.
I wrap my scarf around my neck and wheel my suitcases out onto the sidewalk. A blast of cold afternoon air snakes under my newly tied scarf and wraps around my neck, causing me to shiver. Chemin des Plaines written on a blue sign catches my eye. That is the road I need to take.
I really hope it’s not a long walk. I send a silent prayer to the universe, because at this point, if my legs were to give in, I would sit down on the side of the road and curl up into a ball, praying for death to come. My body is that exhausted. My stomach gives another rumble, so I stop by the patisserie and pick up a glossy-looking pastry and a bread roll. The man at the counter surveys me up and down before handing me my food. I give him my best customer service smile as goose flesh erupts on my skin at the way he’s staring at me like an ant in a glass farm. Strange.