“Wake up, wake up!” When Frouch and Zou ran into the converted wardrobe known as the lutinarium and up the stairs into the common sleeping area, the snooze pile was still nearly intact.
Lutins don’t really care for separate bedrooms – or for actual beds, as it goes. The whole lot of them were snoring away in one shifting heap, caps and bare feet and pillow corners protruding from an assortment of brightly coloured blankets.
But the early bird catches the worm. Frouch and Zou were always the first to rise, and so they were the ones who found themselves entrusted with a crucial mission over breakfast.
“Get up! The big guy needs us!”
The pile dispersed into two dozen dishevelled lutins. Caps askew, dozy and bleary-eyed, they yawned through the dynamic duo’s explanations.
“He wants us to inspect the back wall of the warehouse,” Frouch shouted, jumping up and down with all the excitement.
“There’s a leak. Or not. We need to find it. Or something.” Zou hadn’t really been paying attention. All he had heard was that Josse was going to unlock the hatch that led to the space behind the plasterboard.
There was fun to be had! Still rubbing their eyes, the assembled lutinry ran off to prepare. Headlamps! Helmets! Rappelling gear! Breakfast could wait.
***
Minuit seemed none the worse for wear after the cord-cutting incident. There had been some sputtering and some muttering, along with much denying of nightmares involving murine vigilantes – flying or other – and then it was ready to report on Mr Obnoxious.
Not that it had found anything new. The mysterious spymaster had indeed frequented the bar. Minuit had only viewed footage going back six months, but there was a vibe of “favourite spot, regular order” when he first appeared in the recordings. Since the spying skit, he hadn’t been back.
Their patron seemed perfectly unremarkable, Josse thought as he studied a close-up. Neither young nor old, neither tall nor small. Cropped, nondescript hair; very little of it left. There was nothing noticeable about the man, other than that he might as well face facts and buy suits big enough to accommodate his spreading waist.
“I do have one useful clue, though,” Minuit added, calling up another close-up. “He may well be in real estate.”
In this new image, the guy appeared to be scrolling through floor plans on his tablet.
“Ah,” said Josse. “A schieven architek. It’s been a while.”
He watched as Minuit’s gaze suddenly went wide, as if the AI cat was listening to some distant sound.
“Are you OK?”
“I’ve had these weird streams coming in since that business with the cable,” Minuit explained. “Sadness, I think – I can’t tell without visual clues or text input. I don’t know where it’s coming from.”
“Is it a problem?”
“No. And I’ll figure it out sooner or later,” Minuit explained.
“OK. Let me know how it goes. Meanwhile, anything else you can tell me about the guy?”
“Not really. He doesn’t come in often, but when he does it’ll be around 11h. And then he shouts into his mobile for half an hour or so. Usually on a Wednesday or a Friday, although that may be a coincidence.”
“I’ll ask the bar staff. Maybe someone will recognise him.”
“I did see something else, though. Did you know that things move about in the bar area at night?”
“Sure! That’s Ladrache, our poltergeist. I thought you knew.”
“Nobody tells me anything,” Minuit sniffed.
***
“Purée, ça pue encore plus que d’habitude…”
Seated in front of the twin make-up mirrors in their shared dressing room, Cara and Zelda were tweaking their wigs.
“Faudrait ouvrir une fenêtre,” said Cara.
“Faudrait déjà en avoir une,” Zelda replied. In the far, deep reaches behind the stage, right where the cabaret backed up against the building next door, daylight was a rare commodity indeed.
The mildewy smell of well-established water damage, in contrast, was a constant companion, and a menace to their wardrobes.
“J’espère qu’ils vont enfin trouver d’où ça vient,” said Cara. “Ça commence à faire cher en nettoyage à sec.”
She took a final glance at her expert contouring, then reached for her shoes. Which were not where she had left them.
“Pffff… Mes chaussures? Où as-tu mis mes chaussures?”
“Qui – moi? Je les ai pas vues.” Zelda barely looked up. She was far too busy rifling through a stiff carrier bag she had found on Cara’s side.
Cara went from one likely spot to another, looking under and over and into things in search of the missing footwear, all the while stepping gingerly to avoid laddering her tights. A faint giggle caught her attention, but on second thoughts, it was probably some noise from the ancient building’s rickety pipes.
“Tu sais que c’est vraiment pas drôle? Au début, peut-être, mais là, ça commence à bien faire!”
“Oh, ça va. Elles sont dans mon sac bleu; sais pas comment elles sont arrivés là. Par contre, c’est quoi, tout ceci?”
“J’ai fait quelques courses,” Cara said non-committally while she retrieved a pair of sequinned stilettos.
“Tu vas pas mettre ça, quand même!” Zelda unfolded the charcoal skirt and jacket and the three ample, patterned tops, the better to despise them. There was a pair of lady’s moccasins as well.
Why prevaricate, Cara thought. Might as well tell her.
“Si,” she replied. “C’est ma nouvelle tenue de bureau.”
Zelda’s eyes shot wide open, her jaw dropped. The expression of surprise quickly morphed into a look of concern. Both clashed with her trademark snark.
“D’aaaaaccord. C’est toi qui vois. Mais t’es vraiment sûre?”
“Pas vraiment, mais bon. Sais pas. C’est plus fort que moi.”
A brief moment while the twenty-something punk mermaid just stared at the sixty-something diva in the sparkly aubergine gown.
“OK, je comprends. Le tailleur, c’est pas pour ici.”
“Ben non. C’est pour l’étude. J’ai commandé une perruque aussi.”
A short pause while Zelda regrouped.
“Tu sais, j’ai un foulard qui sera parfait pour compléter le look. Un truc classe que j’ai récupéré chez ma grand-mère. Je te l’apporte demain.”
They exchanged a brief smile.
* The expression ‘schieven architek’ – twisted, wonky or crooked architect – isn’t a dismissal of a person’s construction skills. It’s a local insult that means someone can’t be trusted. The term was coined in reference to the mastermind of the demolition, in the 19th century, of a part of the Marolles neighbourhood in Brussels to make way for the construction of the Palace of Justice.