Baguette Rhymes with Dead || ONC 2024 | ✔

Chapter 5: Footnote

The man stalking towards us crossed the Moulin Rouge's seating space as if the building belonged to him. His face was a stone mask and I had no clue what he could be thinking, though he most certainly looked unamused, reminding me of the strictest teachers I'd had in school. Though his black blazer gave him an air of stuffiness rather than one of danger, his presence set off alarms in my head.

Béatrice, twisting in her seat and craning her neck to see the man for herself, produced a whispered merde. "Stay calm," she reassured us in that same quiet tone right after. "I will handle this. You needn't worry."

But every time someone told me I 'needn't worry', worrying was exactly what I did.

The man came to a halt by our table, eyes darting between the three of us. "Good evening, Béatrice." His voice was a deep rumble, audible remnants of what I pegged for a German accent embedded in his English words. "I didn't expect to see you here tonight. With company, no less."

"Friedrich. I didn't expect to run into you tonight, either." Béatrice greeted our visitor with a curt nod, rummaging through the purse she'd brought inside and grabbing a packet of cigarettes, proceeding to light one. Indoors. No lung cancer in the afterlife, I supposed, but I'd always loathed the smell of cigarette smoke. I would've requested she wait until we stood outside again, but Béatrice clenched the cigarette between her fingers with such cramped tenseness that I wouldn't test her limits.

"You two, um... know each other?" I tried instead, hoping to discover just what was going on here and what Luc and I could expect.

"Oh, Friedrich and I met in this class we both take. On twenty-first century gender identity, very fascinating." Béatrice lowered her voice conspiratorially, but not so much that Friedrich wouldn't be able to understand what she said. "The blithering fool doesn't understand the added value of normalizing the singular 'they' pronoun. Can you believe that?"

"That is crazy," Luc told Friedrich without a hint of fear. "Come on, man, you don't even need to understand something to respect it."

If they were trying to bait Friedrich into showing emotion, it didn't work. The man retained his statuesque appearance, rigidly unwilling to stray from the course he intended to chart. "I won't debate this outside of class. But..." His eyes narrowed ever so slightly. "I know what you do on the cusp of All Saints' and All Souls', woman. These boys are alive. And surely you remember your instructions, what they requested you do on the off-chance living people came to our city again?"

Who the hell were they?

"I'm aware." Béatrice blew out some smoke. "I simply decided I would rather make my own plans. Perhaps you could take notes?"

"Mein Gott, Béatrice–"

"I will not tolerate that horrid tongue in my presence," Béatrice interrupted. "A barbaric language for barbaric men, German. Keep it far away from me."

I made a mental note to stay on Béatrice's good side, as I got the idea she was capable of holding massive grudges.

"I was born in 1957," Friedrich grumbled in his defense. "In Switzerland."

"And still I don't want to hear it." Béatrice rose from her seat, giving us a tight smile. "Now, if you'll excuse us, Friedrich, I promised I'd introduce Luc and Nick to my friend Mélanie backstage. After that, I'll follow my instructions. Please trust me to do so."

She gestured for us to follow, scurrying away from our table and the man whose appearance had disturbed us. I didn't want to go after her, my faith in our spirit guide shaken by Friedrich's words; his talk of instructions she'd apparently neglected to tell us about made me question her integrity and wonder what else she could be keeping from us. But Luc obeyed her command, and no matter how much I could or couldn't trust Béatrice, I trusted Friedrich even less. So I, too, followed suit while Friedrich's pensive gaze dug into our backs. He didn't chase after us, but I could sense his scepticism about Béatrice's assurance.