Chapter Eighteen
In which there are unexpected brothers.
Chapter Eighteen
"Is it just," Félix asked, as they left the brownstone, "that I'm tired, or was that...eerie?"
Alf sighed. "If I had a nickel for every time someone said that..."
They emerged into the crisp New York day with mild looks of relief; Oscar had enjoyed talking to Alf while Félix and Portia wandered all over the old building, but all four of them had spoken in hushed whispers while inside. Even Oscar's enthusiasm over potentially doing some restoration work for his cousin was dampened by the heavy, foreboding air that pervaded even the brightly-painted room that had clearly once belonged to the children in the house.
"Listen, I didn't want to tell you because it creeps out potential clients, and then they won't even look at the place, but there's something wrong with that building," Alf continued.
"Wrong...?" Portia asked. "Aren't you legally required to tell us about stuff like that?"
"No, not in the pipes," Alf said. "Listen, have you ever seen Rosemary's Baby?"
"Oooh, I love that mov -- no way," Portia said. "Were there cannibals living there? I mean did Satanists have dinner parties there and stuff?" she turned around to look at the house, which Félix swore was looking back at them. "That's cool!"
"Nothing was ever confirmed, but I'm telling you, no place gets that horror-film creepy on its own," Alf said.
"It didn't want us there," Félix agreed, as they climbed into the limousine. They were all silent the rest of the way back to the hotel, Portia itching idly at some sort of bug bite she'd picked up in the house, until Alf grabbed Oscar's arm as Félix and Portia disembarked.
"I see why you like traveling with him," Alf said with a grin. "I could get used to this."
Oscar grinned. "You'd miss the family."
"I would, at that. All right then -- I'll catch a cab from here," Alf said, accepting cab fare from Félix, who thanked him politely and said they'd be in touch. "There's no way he's going to buy it, is there?" he added, to Oscar.
"Sorry, Alf."
"It's all right, it was a relief to have someone who didn't immediately try to drop the cost because the door squeaks," Alf said cheerfully.
"Oscar?" Félix called, from the doorway.
"I'll be right there, let me get Alf in a cab," Oscar said. Félix nodded and followed Portia into the hotel.
"Hey listen, Iz said something to me..." Alf began, hesitantly. Oscar sighed. "It's okay, you know. I mean your dad's going to have a heart attack and your ma's probably going to cry about never having grandkids, but family's family. I mean we'll back you, Oscar."
"He's my boss," Oscar said. "Just my boss. He pays me to be an architect. That's all."
"Sure thing. Invite me to the civil union ceremony, though, huh?" Alf said, as he climbed into a cab. The engine rattled and roared, drowning out Oscar's exhausted protestations, as the taxi pulled off.
He really ought to take up smoking. He didn't precisely want to go in yet, but loitering on the front steps of this kind of hotel was strictly out, so he shoved his hands in his pockets, turned, and was nearly run over by some kid who pushed past him into the revolving door.
"Punk," he muttered, in the great echoing lobby. The kid had shoved his way to the front desk and was demanding something of the hotel concierge. Oscar narrowed his eyes as the sounds drifted back -- it sounded almost like French, and that voice was sort of familiar...
"You must tell me," the boy was insisting in French, pounding a silver-ringed finger on the counter.
"I don't know what he's saying," the concierge said helplessly, to one of the clerks. "Get the interpreter, would you?"
"I wish to know where Félix Carvell's room is. Félix CARVELL," the boy said loudly.
"Sir, we can't tell you where Mr Carvell is -- "
"I hope you rot in hell!" the boy spat. Oscar found himself at the counter before he'd fully realised what he was doing.
"Excuse me," he said to the concierge. "I think I can sort this out. Why do you want to find Mr Carvell?" he asked, and the boy sneered at him.
"Your French sucks," he retorted.
"It's better than your English. Who are you, and why do you want to find Mr Carvell?"
Oscar saw the concierge reaching for the speed-dial to call security, and grabbed his wrist. "I'm speaking to the boy," he said sharply. The kid looked almost impressed.
"I don't have to tell you," the kid said.
"No, you don't have to, but if you don't, you can wait here until he calls the police and takes you away," Oscar said. The boy considered.
"I have to speak with Mr Carvell on a matter of buisness," he said primly. Oscar realised why the kid looked so familiar -- if you took ten years off Félix's voice and added a sweater-vest and some designer khakis...
"You're Malo," he said, and the boy's eyes widened.
"If my parents sent you -- "
"Don't be a little fool, I'm Oscar. I work for your brother," he said. The concierge was gently trying to disentangle himself, but building architectural models was good for the hands. "What are you doing in New York?"
"I want to see Félix," the boy sulked.
"I'll handle him," Oscar said to the concierge. "He's looking for my boss."
"Sir, we can't just let you take him somewhere, he's clearly a child -- "
"You could take it up with Mr Carvell. I'm sure he'd be more than happy to know you were going to have his brother arrested for speaking French," Oscar said. The concierge glanced at the kid, then at Oscar, and nodded.
"Shall we add him to the list of residents in your suite?" he asked snidely.
"You do that," Oscar answered, taking Malo by the arm. "Come on, we're going to see your brother."
Malo was silent in the elevator ride up to the suite, but once Oscar had let them into the atrium, he dropped the bag he was carrying and ran for his brother, who was just settling in by the window with a glass of wine. "Félix!"
"What on earth -- Malo?" Félix demanded, glancing from his brother to Oscar and back. "Oscar -- ?"
"He was in the lobby, shouting at the concierge," Oscar explained.
"He must take after your father," Portia muttered.
"Malo, how did you get to New York? Where's maman and -- "
"I ran away," Malo said defiantly. Félix looked horrified. "What? You did it!"
The horror deepened.
"I am in so much trouble," Félix said softly. "Malo, come here, sit down."
Malo obeyed, sitting next to his brother eagerly.
"Why did you run away?"
"I hate Danielle. I hate my tutors. I hate France," Malo declared. "I want to live with you and your girlfriend," he added, with an oddly respectful nod at Portia, who leaned back in the chair and stared meditatively at the ceiling.
"You don't hate Danielle, she's our sister."
"She's horrible. She's always shouting, and my tutors are making me do accounting and I hate accounting, Félix. I don't want to run a business. I want to go to nightclubs -- "
"Malo, you're thirteen."
"Maman said you were -- "
Félix coughed, then, and Malo shut his mouth.
"What I did or did not do when I was thirteen is not the point," he continued sternly. "Does maman know where you are?"
"Nobody knows," Malo said triumphantly. "I bought a plane ticket with Danielle's credit card and flew all the way here by myself because they said you were in New York, and I found the hotel -- "
"Yes, you're quite the detective," Félix sighed. "I have to at least tell them you're safe, Malo, they'll worry."
"They don't care about me."
"Of course they care about you."
"No, they have a family heir and they have someone to run the business, I'm just a -- an emergency backup Félix," Malo sulked. Oscar coughed.
"I'll just...be...painting...in my room, or something," he said. "Portia, come model for me."
"If you think I'm missing this happy families moment, you're fucking insane, Oscar," Portia said, without moving. Oscar crossed to her chair, poked her in the stomach, and then picked her up bodily when she curled into a ball. She shrieked, and Malo began to laugh.
"We'll get out of your hair," Oscar said politely, over Portia's outraged shouts, and carried her out of the room to the sound of Malo exclaiming that he liked Félix's girlfriend and his friend Oscar.
***
"Are you hungry?" Félix asked, when Oscar and Portia were gone. Malo nodded. "We'll feed you, then perhaps you won't be so cranky."
"I'm not cranky," Malo said. "I'm declaring my independence."
"You're declaring yourself an idiot, but we'll deal with that in a minute," Félix said, leading him to the little kitchen. There were crackers in the cupboard and cheese in the little fridge, and Félix set to slicing it while Malo leaned on the other side of the bar.
"It's good to see you, Félix," he said ingratiatingly.
"Yes, and I'm glad to see you, all the more so because you could have been killed. This is New York, you know, they eat French people here."
"Yeah, the cabdriver swore at me a lot, I think," Malo said. "Either that or he was telling me dirty jokes, I couldn't tell."
"How in the world did you find me?"
Malo shrugged. "I asked a woman on the plane what the most expensive hotel in New York was."
Félix laughed. "And told the cabdriver to take you there?"
"Yes."
"Well, you've got the Carvell resourcefulness. Why'd you run away?"
"I told you. I hate -- "
" -- everything, fine. This is the danger of raising rich children, they don't fuck around when they decide to run away," Félix said, eating a piece of cheese. "And I suppose you thought I'd take you in and give you shelter and defend you from our horrible parents?"
"Yes," Malo said promptly.
"Malo, you're thirteen! You can't just drop out of the family. Besides, they're already angry at me."
"So there's going to be shouting anyway, they might as well shout at you for me while they're at it. I thought this through, you know."
"I should be furious," Félix groaned.
"But you won't be, because you know you were doing lots of worse stuff when you were thirteen. Danielle told me all about the tattoo," Malo said. "Can I see it? You never showed it to me."
"That's because it was a very stupid thing to do," Félix said. "And anyway I was seventeen when I got that. Why'd you even bother? You do know we're flying back tomorrow, don't you?"
"Back to Paris?" Malo looked dismayed.
"Yes! I told you I was in trouble. They caught me trying to leave France for good. So you see neither of us are successful runaways."
"But you could marry your girlfriend -- "
"Why does EVERYONE think she's my girlfriend?"
" -- and stay in New York! She's a citizen, and anyway you have lots of money."
Félix scattered the slices of cheese on the crackers, and ate one, contemplatively.
"I can't do that, Malo."
"Why not?"
"Because in the grown-up world, people don't just abandon their family responsibilities. I thought they wouldn't care what I did; clearly I was wrong, but that doesn't mean I get to ignore them when they tell me to come home."
Malo ate a few crackers before replying. "This is awful cheese."
"Welcome to America," Félix said, wryly. "Just wait until you taste what they think passes for an omelette. What's really the problem, Malo?"
Malo crossed his arms and rested his chin on them, and Félix recognised his own mannerism.
"My tutors hate me. They say I'm stupid and I'm not trying. Danielle isn't running the company at all well, I can tell, and nobody wants to talk to me, they just want to shout at each other, and I missed you."
"And....?"
"And there's a girl," Malo said shyly.
"Aha. And you wanted to impress her?"
"She dared me."
"Who is this girl who dared you to risk life and limb in a New York taxicab?"
Malo shrugged. "Aline Perillard."
Félix was impressed. The Perillard family were friends of their parents, and moved in all the right circles. "Good match."
"Shut up."
"So Aline Perillard dared you to run away from home?"
Malo sulked. "I said I was going to, at a party, because it was a stupid party and that's all I do anymore, go to stupid parties maman and papa put on, and all Danielle's obnoxious friends were there. And Aline was there with her parents, and she said I never would."
"I think I'm going to have a word with the Perillards when we get back to Paris," Félix decided. "What did you think I was going to do with you, Malo? Did you really think I'd...hide you?"
"You haven't called them yet," Malo pointed out.
"Well," Félix temporised, "they haven't called me yet either."
"That's the brilliance of the plan! Nobody would think I'd run away from my family straight to the rest of my family!"
"Yes, a regular criminal mastermind, you are," Félix said. "Will you come quietly back to Paris with us, or am I going to have to lock you in a bedroom tonight?"
"You don't have to lock me up," Malo said, eating another cracker. "Really, going back tomorrow?"
"Yes."
"How early?"
"Why, did you want to take in a peep show, big man?" Félix asked drily.
"No," Malo replied. "I wanted to try a real New York hot dog, that's all."
Félix burst into laughter.
"It's not funny!"
"It's so terribly funny, Malo, you have no idea," Félix snorted with laughter. "You're just like me without the subconscious death wish. I'd go to New York for the party scene, you came here for the hot dogs."
He grinned and rubbed his eyes, then reached into his pocket for his mobile phone. "We'll take you out for a hot dog tonight, but I'm going to call them and let them know you're all right. If you're going to bolt, Malo, please do it before I call."
While Félix had been convulsed with laughter, Malo had slipped off the stool he was sitting on, and was rifling through a pile of paper on the table.
"These are good," he said. "Did your girlfriend -- "
"She isn't my girlfriend," Félix said, dialing Paris.
"Did she do these?"
"No, Oscar did."
"Is he the one who burned your hotel down?"
"He didn't burn it down," Félix said irritably. "He -- maman? It's Félix," he said, as his mother answered the telephone. "I thought I'd let you know I've found Malo."
"Found him, dear?" his mother asked. Félix paused.
"Yes..." he said slowly. "Are you all right? You can call off whoever you've got searching."
"Searching?" his mother asked.
"You were looking for him, weren't you?" Félix said, an awful feeling rising in the pit of his stomach.
"Félix, what are you talking about? Where are you? Are you drunk?"
"I'm not drunk, maman, I'm standing here in New York, looking at Malo," Félix blurted.
"What?" his mother screeched.
"You didn't miss him?" Félix asked, horrified. Malo looked triumphant. "Maman, it takes six hours to fly from Paris to New York, where did you think he was?"
Silence on the other end. Finally, his mother again, sounding strained. "Is he all right?"
"He's fine," Félix said shortly. "I'm bringing him home. I'll call you from the airport in Paris."
He shut the telephone on her protestations, and switched the ringer off. Malo was beaming at him.
"Told you I wouldn't get caught," he said trumphantly. "They didn't even know I was gone, did they?"
"I remember why I started going out to nightclubs when I was thirteen," Félix said sadly. "It was because nobody was there to tell me not to."
***
In New York City, it was possible to get a real New York hot dog anywhere.
Vendors on every street corner made that American dream possible. Mixed with the smell of fried nuts, over-salted, giant, doughy pretzels, and the gasp and belch of car exhaust, there wafted the faint and lingering scent. It bloomed eternal. Sometimes it was diluted by knishes or falafel, but like a tree in Brooklyn, it survived.
"However," Oscar said, "there is something you must know about a real New York hot dog." It was disconcerting talking to Malo, because talking to Malo was rather like talking to a tiny, costumed midget wearing a Félix mask, and it made Oscar feel old and uncomfortable.
Malo simply nodded, looking like a tourist. (How that was, Oscar couldn't ever explain. It was a New Yorker's instinct; he was born with it, a set of prejudices and honing mechanisms that could uncover even the most skilled of foreigners for what he was. And Malo was hardly skilled.)
Oscar got the odd impression of babysitting. The awkward silences, the eagerness of both parties to please, the lack of connection somewhere fundamental. Oscar was not a good babysitter. His mother had the idea one summer that he ought to be -- apparently she'd discovered from some friend that it was a booming industry -- and had veritably pimped him out to everyone she knew, including random women she'd met on the bus, so that he had become very comfortable with being uncomfortable around children.
"Yes," Malo said, "I'm listening."
Oscar steered him away from a bum in a blanket and tried to keep the corner of his left eye from twitching. (That reaction to taking a tourist around was also inherently New Yorker.)
"The reason they call it hot dog," Oscar explained, "is so they don't really have to tell you what's in it."
"Ah," Malo said. "I see."
It was obvious that he didn't. Oscar rubbed the side of his chin. "Uh," he said. "Well -- you said you wanted the real thing."
"I'm in New York!" Malo explained, with the same sort of cheerful naivety all the more disturbing when it had none of Félix's human understanding behind it. "I will eat a real, New York hot dog."
"Well, you see," Oscar attempted, "the thing is -- about this real New York hot dog you're so hung up on--"
"What is that man doing?" Malo asked, pointing cheerfully.
Oscar cringed. "No no -- don't point -- all right! Let's buy one from this man, over here." Luckily enough, Malo was easy to steer. He wouldn't last an hour on his own -- there were certain misimpressions of the streets of New York, but one thing was certain: if you were a pointer, you were doomed from the start. They'd be all right if Oscar kept him distracted.
The truth about the real New York hot dog could wait for later. Or never. What Malo didn't know about by-products and germs and intestine and the questionable sausage industry and the even more questionable "mystery meat" that composed your average hot dog couldn't hurt him. At least, not until he was already on a plane heading back to France, and by then, there were certainly going to be doctors who could take care of it for him.
"You know this man?" Malo asked, in what might have passed for a conspiratory stage whisper, if nothing else. Luckily, it was hushed over the sound of a knish sizzling.
"Oh, yes," Oscar said. "Best real hot dogs in New York City."
At least Malo looked delighted.
Oscar wondered how to pretend to eat a hot dog and feed it to the pigeons, instead -- who by now had the constitution of little goats with wings, and would one day, Oscar was sure of it, take over the world, along with cockroaches, and Tupperware.
Because the truth was, in New York City, it wasn't possible to get a real New York hot dog anywhere.
"Gyro?" the vendor asked him, waving a menacing skewer.
"Two hot dogs, please," Oscar said, before realizing suddenly he'd been abroad so long, he sounded like a tourist, too.
Chapter Eighteen
"Is it just," Félix asked, as they left the brownstone, "that I'm tired, or was that...eerie?"
Alf sighed. "If I had a nickel for every time someone said that..."
They emerged into the crisp New York day with mild looks of relief; Oscar had enjoyed talking to Alf while Félix and Portia wandered all over the old building, but all four of them had spoken in hushed whispers while inside. Even Oscar's enthusiasm over potentially doing some restoration work for his cousin was dampened by the heavy, foreboding air that pervaded even the brightly-painted room that had clearly once belonged to the children in the house.
"Listen, I didn't want to tell you because it creeps out potential clients, and then they won't even look at the place, but there's something wrong with that building," Alf continued.
"Wrong...?" Portia asked. "Aren't you legally required to tell us about stuff like that?"
"No, not in the pipes," Alf said. "Listen, have you ever seen Rosemary's Baby?"
"Oooh, I love that mov -- no way," Portia said. "Were there cannibals living there? I mean did Satanists have dinner parties there and stuff?" she turned around to look at the house, which Félix swore was looking back at them. "That's cool!"
"Nothing was ever confirmed, but I'm telling you, no place gets that horror-film creepy on its own," Alf said.
"It didn't want us there," Félix agreed, as they climbed into the limousine. They were all silent the rest of the way back to the hotel, Portia itching idly at some sort of bug bite she'd picked up in the house, until Alf grabbed Oscar's arm as Félix and Portia disembarked.
"I see why you like traveling with him," Alf said with a grin. "I could get used to this."
Oscar grinned. "You'd miss the family."
"I would, at that. All right then -- I'll catch a cab from here," Alf said, accepting cab fare from Félix, who thanked him politely and said they'd be in touch. "There's no way he's going to buy it, is there?" he added, to Oscar.
"Sorry, Alf."
"It's all right, it was a relief to have someone who didn't immediately try to drop the cost because the door squeaks," Alf said cheerfully.
"Oscar?" Félix called, from the doorway.
"I'll be right there, let me get Alf in a cab," Oscar said. Félix nodded and followed Portia into the hotel.
"Hey listen, Iz said something to me..." Alf began, hesitantly. Oscar sighed. "It's okay, you know. I mean your dad's going to have a heart attack and your ma's probably going to cry about never having grandkids, but family's family. I mean we'll back you, Oscar."
"He's my boss," Oscar said. "Just my boss. He pays me to be an architect. That's all."
"Sure thing. Invite me to the civil union ceremony, though, huh?" Alf said, as he climbed into a cab. The engine rattled and roared, drowning out Oscar's exhausted protestations, as the taxi pulled off.
He really ought to take up smoking. He didn't precisely want to go in yet, but loitering on the front steps of this kind of hotel was strictly out, so he shoved his hands in his pockets, turned, and was nearly run over by some kid who pushed past him into the revolving door.
"Punk," he muttered, in the great echoing lobby. The kid had shoved his way to the front desk and was demanding something of the hotel concierge. Oscar narrowed his eyes as the sounds drifted back -- it sounded almost like French, and that voice was sort of familiar...
"You must tell me," the boy was insisting in French, pounding a silver-ringed finger on the counter.
"I don't know what he's saying," the concierge said helplessly, to one of the clerks. "Get the interpreter, would you?"
"I wish to know where Félix Carvell's room is. Félix CARVELL," the boy said loudly.
"Sir, we can't tell you where Mr Carvell is -- "
"I hope you rot in hell!" the boy spat. Oscar found himself at the counter before he'd fully realised what he was doing.
"Excuse me," he said to the concierge. "I think I can sort this out. Why do you want to find Mr Carvell?" he asked, and the boy sneered at him.
"Your French sucks," he retorted.
"It's better than your English. Who are you, and why do you want to find Mr Carvell?"
Oscar saw the concierge reaching for the speed-dial to call security, and grabbed his wrist. "I'm speaking to the boy," he said sharply. The kid looked almost impressed.
"I don't have to tell you," the kid said.
"No, you don't have to, but if you don't, you can wait here until he calls the police and takes you away," Oscar said. The boy considered.
"I have to speak with Mr Carvell on a matter of buisness," he said primly. Oscar realised why the kid looked so familiar -- if you took ten years off Félix's voice and added a sweater-vest and some designer khakis...
"You're Malo," he said, and the boy's eyes widened.
"If my parents sent you -- "
"Don't be a little fool, I'm Oscar. I work for your brother," he said. The concierge was gently trying to disentangle himself, but building architectural models was good for the hands. "What are you doing in New York?"
"I want to see Félix," the boy sulked.
"I'll handle him," Oscar said to the concierge. "He's looking for my boss."
"Sir, we can't just let you take him somewhere, he's clearly a child -- "
"You could take it up with Mr Carvell. I'm sure he'd be more than happy to know you were going to have his brother arrested for speaking French," Oscar said. The concierge glanced at the kid, then at Oscar, and nodded.
"Shall we add him to the list of residents in your suite?" he asked snidely.
"You do that," Oscar answered, taking Malo by the arm. "Come on, we're going to see your brother."
Malo was silent in the elevator ride up to the suite, but once Oscar had let them into the atrium, he dropped the bag he was carrying and ran for his brother, who was just settling in by the window with a glass of wine. "Félix!"
"What on earth -- Malo?" Félix demanded, glancing from his brother to Oscar and back. "Oscar -- ?"
"He was in the lobby, shouting at the concierge," Oscar explained.
"He must take after your father," Portia muttered.
"Malo, how did you get to New York? Where's maman and -- "
"I ran away," Malo said defiantly. Félix looked horrified. "What? You did it!"
The horror deepened.
"I am in so much trouble," Félix said softly. "Malo, come here, sit down."
Malo obeyed, sitting next to his brother eagerly.
"Why did you run away?"
"I hate Danielle. I hate my tutors. I hate France," Malo declared. "I want to live with you and your girlfriend," he added, with an oddly respectful nod at Portia, who leaned back in the chair and stared meditatively at the ceiling.
"You don't hate Danielle, she's our sister."
"She's horrible. She's always shouting, and my tutors are making me do accounting and I hate accounting, Félix. I don't want to run a business. I want to go to nightclubs -- "
"Malo, you're thirteen."
"Maman said you were -- "
Félix coughed, then, and Malo shut his mouth.
"What I did or did not do when I was thirteen is not the point," he continued sternly. "Does maman know where you are?"
"Nobody knows," Malo said triumphantly. "I bought a plane ticket with Danielle's credit card and flew all the way here by myself because they said you were in New York, and I found the hotel -- "
"Yes, you're quite the detective," Félix sighed. "I have to at least tell them you're safe, Malo, they'll worry."
"They don't care about me."
"Of course they care about you."
"No, they have a family heir and they have someone to run the business, I'm just a -- an emergency backup Félix," Malo sulked. Oscar coughed.
"I'll just...be...painting...in my room, or something," he said. "Portia, come model for me."
"If you think I'm missing this happy families moment, you're fucking insane, Oscar," Portia said, without moving. Oscar crossed to her chair, poked her in the stomach, and then picked her up bodily when she curled into a ball. She shrieked, and Malo began to laugh.
"We'll get out of your hair," Oscar said politely, over Portia's outraged shouts, and carried her out of the room to the sound of Malo exclaiming that he liked Félix's girlfriend and his friend Oscar.
***
"Are you hungry?" Félix asked, when Oscar and Portia were gone. Malo nodded. "We'll feed you, then perhaps you won't be so cranky."
"I'm not cranky," Malo said. "I'm declaring my independence."
"You're declaring yourself an idiot, but we'll deal with that in a minute," Félix said, leading him to the little kitchen. There were crackers in the cupboard and cheese in the little fridge, and Félix set to slicing it while Malo leaned on the other side of the bar.
"It's good to see you, Félix," he said ingratiatingly.
"Yes, and I'm glad to see you, all the more so because you could have been killed. This is New York, you know, they eat French people here."
"Yeah, the cabdriver swore at me a lot, I think," Malo said. "Either that or he was telling me dirty jokes, I couldn't tell."
"How in the world did you find me?"
Malo shrugged. "I asked a woman on the plane what the most expensive hotel in New York was."
Félix laughed. "And told the cabdriver to take you there?"
"Yes."
"Well, you've got the Carvell resourcefulness. Why'd you run away?"
"I told you. I hate -- "
" -- everything, fine. This is the danger of raising rich children, they don't fuck around when they decide to run away," Félix said, eating a piece of cheese. "And I suppose you thought I'd take you in and give you shelter and defend you from our horrible parents?"
"Yes," Malo said promptly.
"Malo, you're thirteen! You can't just drop out of the family. Besides, they're already angry at me."
"So there's going to be shouting anyway, they might as well shout at you for me while they're at it. I thought this through, you know."
"I should be furious," Félix groaned.
"But you won't be, because you know you were doing lots of worse stuff when you were thirteen. Danielle told me all about the tattoo," Malo said. "Can I see it? You never showed it to me."
"That's because it was a very stupid thing to do," Félix said. "And anyway I was seventeen when I got that. Why'd you even bother? You do know we're flying back tomorrow, don't you?"
"Back to Paris?" Malo looked dismayed.
"Yes! I told you I was in trouble. They caught me trying to leave France for good. So you see neither of us are successful runaways."
"But you could marry your girlfriend -- "
"Why does EVERYONE think she's my girlfriend?"
" -- and stay in New York! She's a citizen, and anyway you have lots of money."
Félix scattered the slices of cheese on the crackers, and ate one, contemplatively.
"I can't do that, Malo."
"Why not?"
"Because in the grown-up world, people don't just abandon their family responsibilities. I thought they wouldn't care what I did; clearly I was wrong, but that doesn't mean I get to ignore them when they tell me to come home."
Malo ate a few crackers before replying. "This is awful cheese."
"Welcome to America," Félix said, wryly. "Just wait until you taste what they think passes for an omelette. What's really the problem, Malo?"
Malo crossed his arms and rested his chin on them, and Félix recognised his own mannerism.
"My tutors hate me. They say I'm stupid and I'm not trying. Danielle isn't running the company at all well, I can tell, and nobody wants to talk to me, they just want to shout at each other, and I missed you."
"And....?"
"And there's a girl," Malo said shyly.
"Aha. And you wanted to impress her?"
"She dared me."
"Who is this girl who dared you to risk life and limb in a New York taxicab?"
Malo shrugged. "Aline Perillard."
Félix was impressed. The Perillard family were friends of their parents, and moved in all the right circles. "Good match."
"Shut up."
"So Aline Perillard dared you to run away from home?"
Malo sulked. "I said I was going to, at a party, because it was a stupid party and that's all I do anymore, go to stupid parties maman and papa put on, and all Danielle's obnoxious friends were there. And Aline was there with her parents, and she said I never would."
"I think I'm going to have a word with the Perillards when we get back to Paris," Félix decided. "What did you think I was going to do with you, Malo? Did you really think I'd...hide you?"
"You haven't called them yet," Malo pointed out.
"Well," Félix temporised, "they haven't called me yet either."
"That's the brilliance of the plan! Nobody would think I'd run away from my family straight to the rest of my family!"
"Yes, a regular criminal mastermind, you are," Félix said. "Will you come quietly back to Paris with us, or am I going to have to lock you in a bedroom tonight?"
"You don't have to lock me up," Malo said, eating another cracker. "Really, going back tomorrow?"
"Yes."
"How early?"
"Why, did you want to take in a peep show, big man?" Félix asked drily.
"No," Malo replied. "I wanted to try a real New York hot dog, that's all."
Félix burst into laughter.
"It's not funny!"
"It's so terribly funny, Malo, you have no idea," Félix snorted with laughter. "You're just like me without the subconscious death wish. I'd go to New York for the party scene, you came here for the hot dogs."
He grinned and rubbed his eyes, then reached into his pocket for his mobile phone. "We'll take you out for a hot dog tonight, but I'm going to call them and let them know you're all right. If you're going to bolt, Malo, please do it before I call."
While Félix had been convulsed with laughter, Malo had slipped off the stool he was sitting on, and was rifling through a pile of paper on the table.
"These are good," he said. "Did your girlfriend -- "
"She isn't my girlfriend," Félix said, dialing Paris.
"Did she do these?"
"No, Oscar did."
"Is he the one who burned your hotel down?"
"He didn't burn it down," Félix said irritably. "He -- maman? It's Félix," he said, as his mother answered the telephone. "I thought I'd let you know I've found Malo."
"Found him, dear?" his mother asked. Félix paused.
"Yes..." he said slowly. "Are you all right? You can call off whoever you've got searching."
"Searching?" his mother asked.
"You were looking for him, weren't you?" Félix said, an awful feeling rising in the pit of his stomach.
"Félix, what are you talking about? Where are you? Are you drunk?"
"I'm not drunk, maman, I'm standing here in New York, looking at Malo," Félix blurted.
"What?" his mother screeched.
"You didn't miss him?" Félix asked, horrified. Malo looked triumphant. "Maman, it takes six hours to fly from Paris to New York, where did you think he was?"
Silence on the other end. Finally, his mother again, sounding strained. "Is he all right?"
"He's fine," Félix said shortly. "I'm bringing him home. I'll call you from the airport in Paris."
He shut the telephone on her protestations, and switched the ringer off. Malo was beaming at him.
"Told you I wouldn't get caught," he said trumphantly. "They didn't even know I was gone, did they?"
"I remember why I started going out to nightclubs when I was thirteen," Félix said sadly. "It was because nobody was there to tell me not to."
***
In New York City, it was possible to get a real New York hot dog anywhere.
Vendors on every street corner made that American dream possible. Mixed with the smell of fried nuts, over-salted, giant, doughy pretzels, and the gasp and belch of car exhaust, there wafted the faint and lingering scent. It bloomed eternal. Sometimes it was diluted by knishes or falafel, but like a tree in Brooklyn, it survived.
"However," Oscar said, "there is something you must know about a real New York hot dog." It was disconcerting talking to Malo, because talking to Malo was rather like talking to a tiny, costumed midget wearing a Félix mask, and it made Oscar feel old and uncomfortable.
Malo simply nodded, looking like a tourist. (How that was, Oscar couldn't ever explain. It was a New Yorker's instinct; he was born with it, a set of prejudices and honing mechanisms that could uncover even the most skilled of foreigners for what he was. And Malo was hardly skilled.)
Oscar got the odd impression of babysitting. The awkward silences, the eagerness of both parties to please, the lack of connection somewhere fundamental. Oscar was not a good babysitter. His mother had the idea one summer that he ought to be -- apparently she'd discovered from some friend that it was a booming industry -- and had veritably pimped him out to everyone she knew, including random women she'd met on the bus, so that he had become very comfortable with being uncomfortable around children.
"Yes," Malo said, "I'm listening."
Oscar steered him away from a bum in a blanket and tried to keep the corner of his left eye from twitching. (That reaction to taking a tourist around was also inherently New Yorker.)
"The reason they call it hot dog," Oscar explained, "is so they don't really have to tell you what's in it."
"Ah," Malo said. "I see."
It was obvious that he didn't. Oscar rubbed the side of his chin. "Uh," he said. "Well -- you said you wanted the real thing."
"I'm in New York!" Malo explained, with the same sort of cheerful naivety all the more disturbing when it had none of Félix's human understanding behind it. "I will eat a real, New York hot dog."
"Well, you see," Oscar attempted, "the thing is -- about this real New York hot dog you're so hung up on--"
"What is that man doing?" Malo asked, pointing cheerfully.
Oscar cringed. "No no -- don't point -- all right! Let's buy one from this man, over here." Luckily enough, Malo was easy to steer. He wouldn't last an hour on his own -- there were certain misimpressions of the streets of New York, but one thing was certain: if you were a pointer, you were doomed from the start. They'd be all right if Oscar kept him distracted.
The truth about the real New York hot dog could wait for later. Or never. What Malo didn't know about by-products and germs and intestine and the questionable sausage industry and the even more questionable "mystery meat" that composed your average hot dog couldn't hurt him. At least, not until he was already on a plane heading back to France, and by then, there were certainly going to be doctors who could take care of it for him.
"You know this man?" Malo asked, in what might have passed for a conspiratory stage whisper, if nothing else. Luckily, it was hushed over the sound of a knish sizzling.
"Oh, yes," Oscar said. "Best real hot dogs in New York City."
At least Malo looked delighted.
Oscar wondered how to pretend to eat a hot dog and feed it to the pigeons, instead -- who by now had the constitution of little goats with wings, and would one day, Oscar was sure of it, take over the world, along with cockroaches, and Tupperware.
Because the truth was, in New York City, it wasn't possible to get a real New York hot dog anywhere.
"Gyro?" the vendor asked him, waving a menacing skewer.
"Two hot dogs, please," Oscar said, before realizing suddenly he'd been abroad so long, he sounded like a tourist, too.