An Extra-Ordinary Beginning, Page 2

  Chapter 2 - On the Rooftops of Paris

  Ursula stood on the flat roof of the Palais Omnisports indoor stadium. Four floors below was the busy Boulevard de Bercy but up on the roof all was calm. Her black pony tail reached the warm tiles on which she sat, and she could feel the heat through the holes in her jeans. A thin layer of moisture stuck her white vest to her back and, as she wiped her dirty hands across its front, railway tracks of grey appeared where her ribs protruded. From her stomach came a deep rumbling. She tried to ignore it as she had more important things to think about. Gingerly she placed her dark hand into the front pocket of her grubby jeans. As her bony fingers felt the edge of the small cardboard box, she let out a sigh of relief and lay back to look at the sky.

  It was a beautiful day in Paris. The sky was bright blue, and fluffy clouds drifted aimlessly, creating shapes for anyone who had a mind to see them. Ursula loved watching the clouds. She fixed her chocolate brown eyes upon them and before long could make out a fire-breathing dragon, a long-eared rabbit and the outline of Italy. These gradually became a horse on a cold day, a round teddy bear and a lady’s pointed boot, before merging together and blowing into the distance.

  Her grandmother and neighbours had been moaning about the heat since it had risen to tropical temperatures three weeks previously. It was the subject of conversation every time they met on the graffiti-covered passageways outside their flats. Anyone nearby would happily join in with their own opinions on the ‘stifling temperatures.’ At first Ursula had been honest and told the adults how much she loved the heat and felt energized by the sun. However, after the tuts, disapproving looks and comments such as, ‘you’re only eleven; you wait until you’re our age,’ she decided it was probably best to agree and just enjoy the sun in private.

  For Ursula, nowhere was more private than the rooftops of Paris. She would have liked to have been there with someone else, but no one she knew could do the things she could do. Her grandparents had said that her skills were genetic, and as she had no other explanations, she had to believe them.

  High above the busy streets, tooting cars, grumpy commuters, lost tourists and stressed shoppers she was alone. Behind billboards, advertising products people did not need, she felt safe. There were no disapproving glances or nasty comments, and she was hidden away from prying eyes. She relaxed and took the little Sudoku book and pencil from her back pocket. She flicked to the only one she had not yet completed and rolled onto her front to do it. As the sun beat down on her back, her brain came to life, and she set about solving the puzzle in front of her. It was rated ‘very difficult.' Within two minutes, it was almost complete. She wrote the last number in a small square on the page and allowed a thin smile of satisfaction to creep across her slim face.

  Just a bit longer then I’ll go home, she thought to herself, appreciating her solitude.

  However, Ursula was not completely alone, she was being watched. On a tall floodlight overlooking the advertising boards was a CCTV camera, and it was trained firmly on the Palais roof.

  “Geez, this kid is something else,” exclaimed Agent Hoover in the near darkness.

  He relaxed his bloated body into the swivel chair that was his home every day.

  “I mean she’s a worthless thieving little punk, who deserves a brief stretch in the joint, but you’ve got to admire her style.”

  He sat forward again and placed his podgy elbows on the glass desk in front of him. He rested his head in his swollen hands and watched.

  Ursula returned the pencil and book to her back pocket and sat up, unaware of the attention she was receiving. She was on a small screen marked ‘Boulevard de Bercy, Paris, France.’ Surrounding it, on a wall the size of a tennis court, were thousands upon thousands of similar tiny screens all marked with the names of streets, towns and countries in Europe. The flickering pictures provided the only light in the air-conditioned room and reflected off Agent Hoover’s blotchy red face. Behind him, lurking in the shadows, a short sinewy figure remained silent. Agent Hoover continued talking to himself.

  “I tell you something for nothing. Next time I see her I’m going to bring her down. She may be a skinny little runt, but that’s about twelve drug stores she’s held up now.”

  Suddenly, he felt as if someone had just stabbed his brain with a pin, and then he heard his own voice in his head.

  “We are not looking for juvenile, petty criminals in France.”

  He pulled his eyes away from the screen showing Ursula, slumped back in his chair and took in all the screens in front of him. He did not know how he could watch and process so many at once, but he thanked the stars and stripes that he had been born into this TV nation.

  Ursula stood up and walked across the tiles on the gym roof. Without making a sound she knelt down beside a large skylight and peered into the indoor stadium below. The Palais Omnisports was holding a gymnastic event. Parallel bars, hoops, beams, a blue floor mat, and a host of other gymnastic equipment filled the arena. Around the edges, underneath flags and billboards, people clapped and applauded. In the centre, two boys stood on the podium with a bronze and silver medal around their necks. They belonged to a world that Ursula dreamed of joining, but she knew she would never be welcomed into it. She loved her home and her family, but she hated being part of les exclus - the people whom no one wanted.

  Upset by her thoughts, Ursula crept back from the skylight. She jumped up purposefully, twisted before she landed and ran towards the blue, metal supports that crisscrossed around the arena’s roof. The moment she reached the edge she sprang up like a cat and launched herself into the air. From the Palais below, she heard a man’s nasal voice announce that the gold medal winner in the under thirteen category was Eric Meyer.

  Eric walked confidently towards the other two medal winners with his head held high. He brushed his blond hair away from his high forehead and used the movement as an excuse to look briefly at the audience. He could not see his parents, but it was a big crowd, and he decided to look again once he was on the podium. Eric jumped up on to the step reserved for the gold medal winner. He raised his toned arm in the air and while acknowledging the clapping and cheering, slowly turned on the spot. His dark brown eyes searched the audience as he turned, but his parents were nowhere to be seen. On the outside, his body remained tall and powerful but on the inside Eric deflated.

  “Please welcome today’s sponsor who will present the gold medal,” said the announcer over the stadium’s speaker system.

  A grey-haired man in an ill-fitting grey suit approached Eric. The tender skin on Eric’s palms stung as the man limply shook his hand. Together they posed for the cameras which flashed around them. Eric then bowed towards the sponsor and his prize was placed delicately over this head. The ribbon slid over his ears and the gold medal hung around his neck. As he stood up to his full height, he saw his nanny, maid and driver, standing beside the exit. Her skin was so pale that she stood out in a crowd, especially in the summer time when everyone else was sporting a tan. She wasn’t his parents, but at least someone Eric knew had been there to see him win. In fact Miss Duna, or Andrea as she liked to be called, was always there. Whether it was picking Eric up from school or gymnastic competitions or sports matches or guitar performances it didn’t matter, she was there.

  The national anthem began and flags, half the size of the adverts that ringed the arena, began their slow journey towards the ceiling. Eric lowered his head respectfully and stared at his feet.

  It was always better to look down than try to sing along, he thought.

  He knew the words but also knew that he couldn’t sing and hated the idea of making a fool of himself in front of a large crowd, or anyone for that matter. To the spectators he looked like a model gymnast, tall and slim with muscles starting to develop on his young body. He also looked deep in thought. Most people watching felt he was enjoying this winning moment but he wasn’t.

  Eric’s
thoughts were hijacked by the list of broken promises that his parents had made. They had promised with hands on hearts that they would be here today, and the time before and the time before that. His mind wandered. Despite all his achievements maybe they just weren’t proud of him. He had always tried to be the best but maybe he had to try even harder to be even better. Maybe only then would they notice him and reward him with some recognition.

  The anthem finished, and Eric hopped down from the podium. He stumbled with tiredness as he hit the floor and hoped that no one had seen. Nobody had, and he was relieved to see the spectators streaming towards the exits oblivious to his near fall. Wearily he picked up his heavy gym bag, slung it over his shoulders and walked towards his leather clad nanny. It never ceased to amaze him that whatever the weather Andrea would be wearing the same leather trousers and same leather jacket. The only item that seemed to change was the long-sleeved T-shirt she wore under the jacket. Today she was wearing a Nirvana one from her never-ending supply.

  “I would like to leave now, Andrea,” ordered Eric.

  “We will leave immediately,” she answered in an accent that had been formed behind the Communist Iron Curtain and added as an afterthought, “you did well today, Eric.”

  “Of course I did. Everyone says I am a natural talent,” replied Eric and then paused. “Why am I so good at everything?”

  He looked pensive and though he sounded arrogant he was genuinely asking a question.

  “You are good at things because you have the best coaches, best teachers, best trainers, have the best facilities, best equipment, best food and attend the best school. You also do much practise.”

  Eric shrugged and handed Andrea his heavy gym bag. She barely noticed the weight and turned to lead Eric out of the stadium. For a moment, Eric forgot the crowds around him and gazed solely at Andrea. She was a petite, elf-like woman and barely one metre fifty centimetres tall. Eric often thought that she had once been a tall woman who had shrunk in the rain. In spite of her size, she was not puny, and she was as solid as a rock from head to toe. One of Eric’s earliest memories was of the difference between being held by his soft and warm mother and being held by Andrea.

  “Please keep up,” she said over her shoulder.

  Without barging or pushing, his nanny walked calmly into the throng of people with Eric loping behind her. He appreciated the path she had created for him through the crowd.

  Once outside in the sun Eric’s tiredness seemed to drift away and his plan to become even better began to take shape. The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. His father was the best poker player on the planet, and his mother was a former Miss World. They were, therefore, used to being the best and for them only the best would do.

  Eric continued to follow Andrea along the busy Boulevard de Bercy, but his thoughts were elsewhere. His idea needed some direction and, as he reviewed his achievements, he set himself new goals. In gymnastics, as of today, he was the European champion, so his next step had to be World Champion. That would put him on par with his parents.

  In school, he was quite certain that he was top of the class in every subject but he would now get top marks in every test to be certain of it. When competing in tennis and swimming for the school, he would beat all opponents and in football he would be the star player of the team. He would stand out from all his other classmates and be admired because of it. During the guitar and kick boxing lessons that his parents arranged for him in his free-time, he would also excel. Admittedly he was already at Grade seven for guitar and a black belt in kickboxing but this did not mean he could not improve further.

  Eric was too caught up in his thoughts to notice the world around him. One step behind him was a man in red, baseball cap worn low over his eyes. In front of Eric, Andrea suddenly stopped. Eric clattered into the back of her. A rock being hit by a toy, action man would have moved more.

  “Andrea! Why did you stop?”

  “Because we are at the car,” she replied matter-of-factly.

  The man behind side-stepped the pair tutted and walked off into the distance.

  Andrea had stopped in front of the Meyer’s new top of the line Range Rover. It was silver with dark tinted windows and grey door handles. She opened the rear door and seemed to strain not to wrench it from its hinges. The new car smell, mixed with the leather aroma of the seats, wafted out of the vehicle as Eric climbed in.

  Once Andrea had sat down on the driver’s seat, she turned like a clockwork toy to face Eric.

  “I will repeat what I said earlier. You did well today. You are only eleven years old, and you are now the under thirteen European champion. That is an advanced achievement.”

  A hint of a smile briefly appeared on her face, and she raised her non-existent eyebrows. There was not one hair on her pale face, and Eric was sure that her short, blonde bob was a wig. In spite of how she looked Eric felt safe and secure around her. If Andrea said she would do something she did it, if Andrea were asked to do something she did it and on the very rare occasions that she could not she would say so beforehand. If only his parents could be the same.

  “Thank you,” said Eric quietly, “I’m glad you were there.”

  “I would not be anywhere else.”

  Andrea started the car. The V8 supercharged engine roared into life, and she pulled cautiously away into the afternoon traffic.

  On the back of Andrea’s headrest and fixed into a Mahogany casing was an LCD screen. It was showing a map of their journey home, and as she took lefts and rights, Eric followed the Galileo satellite navigation system. They were just coming onto Place Felix Eboue when ‘Incoming Call’ flashed three times on the screen. The screen flickered with colour and then a woman’s beautiful face smiled at Eric.

  His mother’s jet black hair cascaded down over her shapely figure, and she flicked it over her shoulder before she spoke.

  “Erika, Bambino,” she purred.

  “Mother,” replied Eric through clenched teeth. He hated being called ‘Erika’ and ‘Bambino’ more than he hated losing.

  “Did you win?” she asked with the Latin accent that Eric knew turned grown men to gibbering wrecks.

  “Yes.”

  “I knew you would, that’s why I knew it would not be a problem if I was not there.”

  “You said you would!” Eric replied angrily.

  “I know what I said Bambino but I managed to get a last minute appointment with Pierre La Vache before he flew off for the Milano show. He is such an exciting young fashion designer, with so many wonderful ideas on how to use fabrics for women that I just had to meet him. If I hadn’t met him today, it could have been up to two weeks before I got another appointment.”

  “Oh, lucky you,” Eric didn’t know what else to say.

  “I knew you would be happy for me, Erika. I have to go as I’m half way through being measured. Ciao Bambino, see you at home.”

  No sooner had the screen turned blank than it filled with colour again. This time a man appeared. He had a long, angular face and blond hair in a side parting, similar to Eric’s.

  “Hi son,” Eric’s father never called him by his name, “Andrea’s been telling me you vere great today.”

  “I won,” was all Eric could think of to reply.

  “You von,” Eric’s father could not say ‘w’. “Of course you did. I expect nothing but the best from my boy.”

  “It would have been nice if you had been there father.” Eric almost swallowed the words as he said them.

  On the screen, Eric’s father appeared to squirm.

  “Sorry son, you know I vood have loved to but these rich Parisians have, how do you say in English, so much money and so little hours.”

  “Time. So little time,” corrected Eric. “What happened?”

  “I von.” Eric’s dad leaned forward and looked around him to make sure no one was listening and whispered, “Six point seven million.”


  “Well done,” said Eric but there was no conviction in his praise.

  “Thanks, son. It vill make sure your mother has clothes for a few more days, no?”

  Eric’s father laughed falsely and then raised his voice, “Can you hear me, Andrea?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Good job on the competition in the newspaper, vell done,” congratulated Mr Meyer. “I saw it was in Le Monde, El Pais, Das Bild and The Times in the hotel tabac vhere I vas playing poker.”

  “Thank you, Sir It was in every national newspaper in Europe.”

  “Including, San Marino?”

  “Of course.”

  “What competition was this father?” asked Eric, suddenly concerned that there was something he did not know about.

  Once again Eric’s father began to squirm, and Eric knew he wasn’t going to like whatever his father had to say.

  “At home I vill tell you.”

  After his father had signed off, Eric asked Andrea semi-seriously if it was possible to divorce his parents.

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