“Three hundred francs?”
Vivian stared at the few lonely silver coins on the table, her eyes nearly popping out.
“And that’s before taxes.”
Inspector Jacques sprawled on the officeโs leather sofa, with even darker circles under his eyes than Vivian.
“According to the โRegulations on Rewards for Non-staff Police Assistanceโโฆ” Jacques feebly pulled out a crumpled receipt from his breast pocket.
“After deducting personal income tax, accident insurance withholdings, andโฆ”
He shot a guilty glance at Cicero, “And the ‘weapon wear fee’ and ‘mental distress compensation’ for you snatching my service pistol that night. Whatโs left is all here.”
“Weapon wear fee?” Vivian slapped the table and jumped up.
“I only fired three shots! What did I wear out? Did I shave the barrel thin?”
“It’s procedure, miss, just procedure.” Jacques pressed his temples in pain.
“Do you know how many โStatements of Public Property Damage Due to Force Majeureโ I had to write to get that hunk of scrap metal reimbursed? One thousand two hundred pages! My hand is still shaking!”
To prove his point, he picked up his teacup with a hand that really was trembling violently, spilling tea all over his lap.
“Damn itโฆ Now Iโll have to fill out another โUniform Cleaning Requestโโฆ” Jacques let out a wretched moan.
Cicero sat behind the desk, carefully wiping his monocle with a piece of deerskin. Sunlight streamed through the window onto his infuriatingly smug face, making him look like a charlatan about to swindle money.
“Be grateful, Vivian.” Cicero said flatly, returning his gleaming monocle to his nose.
“At least the police sent over a banner.”
He pointed to the corner of the wall, where a red banner with golden characters was rolled up. On it, in crooked oversized script, were the words: [Enthusiastic Citizen, Protector of Peace].
“Can you eat that? Can you buy pants with it?” Vivian lost it. “My pants have three holes burned through them!”
“Thatโs called artistic sacrifice.” Cicero pulled a thick ledger from the drawer and opened it.
“Since Inspector Jacques is here, letโs settle some internal accounts.”
Vivian warily took half a step back. “What internal accounts?”
“Cost accounting for this operation.” Cicero dipped his quill in ink.
“First, the cab fare back to the office that night. Night double-rate, plus the hush money for the driverโafter all, your look at the time nearly scared the horses to death. Total, fifteen francs.”
“And I have to pay for that?”
“You’re the assistant, itinerary is your responsibility.” Cicero didnโt look up.
“Next, my cane. To break the golden barrier, the ruby core cracked. Estimated repair cost: two hundred francs.”
“Youโre the one who wanted to show off!”
“And who was chasing a side job?” Cicero lifted his eyes, gaze sharp as a knife.
“If we had rescued a cat, at least the cat wouldโve meowed at me in thanks.”
Vivian opened her mouth, then muttered sheepishly, “Meow.”
Jacques let out a snort, then hurriedly covered it with a cough.
“Very good.” Cicero continued scribbling in the ledger.
“Finally, and most importantlyโ”
He pointed to the floor.
Vivian looked down.
The once intricately elegant pure-wool rug was now stamped with a trail of black footprintsโthe ones theyโd left coming back from the Garnier Opera House that night.
Especially where Vivian had collapsed, there was a distinct human-shaped stain, like a chalk outline at a crime scene.
“I had that shipped in from Istanbul by a friend. One thousand knots per square inch.” There was a trace of heartache in Ciceroโs voice.
“Now it looks like a herd of wild boars held a party on it.”
“Cleaning fee, plus depreciation.” Cicero drew a heavy line in the ledger and turned it to face Vivian.
“In summary, after deducting your base salary and that three hundred franc bonus, you now owe the agency seventy-five francs and sixty centimes.”
A deathly silence.
Vivian stared at the red negative number, feeling her soul split in two.
A week of back-breaking work and not only did she not earn a cent, she ended up in debt?
Is this the evil of capitalism? Is this exploitation?
“I quit!”
Vivian flung the “Enthusiastic Citizen” banner to the floor.
“I resign! Iโm changing jobs!” She planted her fists on her hips and shouted at Cicero.
“Isnโt that so-called ‘Dusk Society’ hiring? That eggplant-looking count may be pretentious, but heโs loaded! Iโm taking this pan and defecting to the enemy!”
She actually pulled out the battle-scarred Louis XV frying pan from behind her back.
“Letโs not be rash, letโs not be rash.” Jacques tried to mediate.
“Dusk Society doesnโt offer benefits, and if you get caught, the paperworkโs three times asโ”
“Shut up! I just want money now!” Vivianโs eyes were red.
Cicero watched the girl teetering on the edge of an outburst, the corners of his mouth curving up.
“Youโre going to defect to Count Saint-Germain?” He calmly closed the ledger.
“Then youโd better prepare a full set of Louis XV court dresses, learn sixteen kinds of bows, and get up at four every morning to polish his utterly useless medals.”
“And most importantly,” Cicero paused.
“He absolutely will not allow you to eat in the office.”
“Huh?” Vivian froze. “Whatโs that supposed to mean?”
Cicero didnโt answer, just gently clapped his hands.
The door to the living room opened, and a rich aroma instantly filled the office.
Vivianโs nose twitched.
It was the scent of butter sizzling at high heat, the depth of rosemary mingling with roast meat, andโฆ the sweet aroma of freshly-baked caramel pudding!
Two waiters in white aprons pushed in a silver cart.
The cart was laden with food.
A whole golden roast chicken, a platter of black truffle risotto piled like a small mountain, a basket of steaming croissants, and a cream cake covered with strawberries.
“In light of yourโฆ brutish but effective survival skills during this operation,” Cicero tapped the table.
“This is employee welfare.”
Vivian made a suspicious gulping sound.
Her resolute revolutionary spirit was crumbling at a visible rate before this feast.
“Youโฆ youโre testing cadres with this?” She pointed at herself, her eyes glazed.
“If you donโt want it, Inspector Jacques looks more than willing.”
“Who said I donโt want it!”
Vivian tore off a drumstick and stuffed it in her mouth.
“Mmm-mmm-mmmโฆ” (So delicious)
The hot juices exploded in her mouth, and tears of joy welled up in Vivianโs eyes. She hadnโt had a proper meal in days and had been chased around by onionsโnow this was what it meant to be alive!
Jacques gazed longingly at the risotto. His stomach growled on cue.
“Inspector, if you donโt mind.” Cicero gestured to the chair beside him.
“I imagine youโll need some extra brainpower to deal with all those forms.”
“Praise the Lord, praise Cicero!” Jacques sat down without hesitation and grabbed a croissant.
“If you donโt reimburse this meal, Iโll write you up as a miser in the ‘Police-Citizen Cooperation Report.'”
“You already did.” Cicero poured himself a glass of red wine and swirled it.
“In dossier number three hundred and forty-two.”
The only sounds left in the office were chewing and the clink of cutlery.
Vivian clutched a drumstick in her left hand, dug into the cake with her right, and stuffed her cheeks so full she looked like a hoarding hamster.
When she finally burped and slumped back in her chair, thoroughly content, Cicero spoke again.
“Full now?”
“Mm.” Vivian licked the cream from her lips. “It was great, but it doesnโt cancel that seventy-five franc debt. Iโm still broke.”
“About that.”
Cicero pulled open the drawer and took out a fresh sheet of parchment.
This one looked brand new, densely packed with words.
“Given the manyโฆ unreasonable points in your previous employment contract,” Cicero slid the paper in front of Vivian.
“For instance, it didnโt account for the possibility of an employee tearing skirts, going berserk, or beating up French historical figures with a frying pan.”
“So?” Vivian eyed him warily.
“This is a new contract.”
Cicero tapped the title with his finger.
Gone was the “Temporary Assistant Employment Agreement”โin its place were three ornate words:
[Partnership Agreement]
“Partner?” Vivian was stunned. Her fork slipped from her hand and clanged onto her plate.
“Base pay doubled.” Cicero tossed out the bait like the devil.
“Case commission increased from five to twenty percent. Full medical insuranceโsince your methods tend to get you hurt. Andโฆ”
He glanced at Vivian, “The carpetโs still on you, but you can pay in installments. No interest.”
Vivian looked at the contract, then at the guy across from herโsharp-tongued, stingy, but always stepped in front of her in danger.
He was a charlatan, a capitalist.
But in this Paris full of strange tales and madness, this contract felt more reassuring than any exorcism spell.
“Thirty percent,” Vivian suddenly said.
“What?”
“Commission,” Vivian sat up straight.
“If itโs a partnership, then letโs do it properly. Thirty percent, or Iโll report you for illegally hiring child laborโmy body may be eighteen, but my mental age is only twelve!”
Jacques nearly spat out his wine at this.
Cicero shook his head helplessly and gave a light laugh.
“Deal.”
He handed over the quill.
Scratch scratch scratchโฆ
Vivian solemnly signed her name on the parchment.
“Happy partnership, boss.” Vivian extended a hand still slick with chicken grease.
“Itโs partner,” Cicero muttered in disgust at her hand, but still reached out and gave her fingertips a light shake.
“Also, that was the original contract. You got it dirty. Iโm docking your pay.”
“You old bastard!”
Inspector Jacques, belly full and spirit somewhat soothed, took his leave.
The office quieted down again.
Vivian was helping Cicero clear the leftovers from the table.
“By the way, boss,” Vivian asked while wiping the table.
“That Queen Marieโฆ is she really free now?”
“Who knows.” Cicero stood at the window, gazing at the bustling street below.
The Parisian mist was dissipating, and the white dome of the Sacrรฉ-Cลur gleamed in the sunlight.
“Maybe she just found a better dream.”
“Thatโs good enough.” Vivian hung the frying pan back on her belt.
“Isnโt living just about chasing a good dream?”
“Well said.” Cicero turned around.
“And to help you dream well tonight, scrub that carpet first.”
“โฆ”
At that moment, a breeze pushed open the half-closed window.
A colorful flyer fluttered in, spiraled around, and landed softly next to the freshly signed [Partnership Agreement].
Vivian picked it up curiously.
It was an opera house flyer.
The artwork was eerie and magnificent, showing a man in a half-mask standing center stage, countless overlapping shadows behind him.
The title was embossed in gold:
[Paris Opera House World Premiereโ”The Phantomโs Twelfth Curtain Call”]
Deep in the darkness of the Paris underground.
A faint candle flickered, lighting up an exquisite walnut table.
A bandaged hand toyed with aโฆ head.
It was the Queenโs puppet head, eyes closed, a faint smile at its lips.
“Interestingโฆ truly interesting.”
The true form of Count Saint-Germain sat in the shadows.
He wasnโt, as Vivian imagined, furious. In fact, he seemed in quite good spirits.
“Though you ruined my script, I must admitโthe โcakeโ ending wasโฆ more splendid than mine.”
The count snapped his fingers. The candle went out.
In the darkness, a high note from an aria echoed through the empty underground, like a knife about to pierce the curtain.
[End of Volume Zero]