Fleur De Lies(67)

            “Whatever,” said Cal. “Just don’t go wandering off. When we head out, we head out together.”

            “But if the rain doesn’t stop in the next thirty seconds, I’m gonna shoot across to that shoe store to browse,” warned Bernice. “Pick me up when you head back.”

            “Ewww!” cried Dawna as she followed Bernice’s gaze. “You can pick me up there, too. They’ve got boots on sale.” She hesitated. “Does Vente mean sale?”

            “It means the place is air-conditioned,” said Bernice.

            “It does not,” countered Virginia. “If the store were air-conditioned, why would they throw the front doors wide open?”

            “It doesn’t seem to bother you at home,” Victor commented with some snark. “I thought you rather enjoyed cooling off the neighborhood with our central air unit. I can’t think of a better way for you to waste my money. Can you? ”

            “I’ll work on it.” She leveled a menacing look at him, eyes narrow and splintered with ice.

            While the deserters waited out the storm, the rest of us ventured out into the pelting rain, splashing past centuries-old buildings that were timbered in pink and red and inset with tiers of arched windows. We passed an optician, a tobacconist, jewelers, clothiers, shoe shops, and a confection shop whose specialty chocolates and pastel macaroons were stacked in sumptuous pyramids in the display window, filling the air with the aromatic scent of cocoa beans. Just beyond Foot Locker and the Swatch store, the mall opened up to a huge square that bore the look of an Old World market with its fresh flower stalls and farm produce. Sidewalk cafés sat cheek to jowl on the cobblestones, their boundaries blurred by their sheer numbers, their menus chalked onto freestanding blackboards, their tables empty in the rain. A children’s carousel stood deserted, while directly behind it, a structure shaped like the curved sidewall of a skateboard arena rose above a trio of shade trees. In a city where the architecture was as delicate as spun sugar, this piece, whatever it might be, looked as out of place as hiking boots at a prom.

            As we traipsed behind Madeleine, past the square’s many cafés, I realized that the odd structure was actually a roof that looked like Darth Vader’s imperial flagship landing atop a squat concrete building that was being slowly crushed beneath its prodigious weight. After skirting an area in front of the building, where the ruins of an ancient stone foundation poked up from the ground, we detoured right, heading for cover beneath the extended roof of the building’s portico. As the handful of us who remained collapsed our umbrellas, Madeleine resumed her spiel.

            “This is the Church of St. Joan of Arc and it sits atop the place where she was burned at the stake in 1431. Six hundred years ago, this lovely square was the site for public executions, so where tourists dine today, the people of Rouen once gathered to watch justice meted out to convicted criminals. The actual spot where St. Joan died is marked by a plaque just there.” She pointed to a fenced garden just beyond the church where a notably austere cross towered skyward. “I would recommend that you visit the spot and take a picture once it stops raining.”

            “Is this church very old?” I asked, guessing the answer before Madeleine gave it.

            “It was built in 1979, so by Rouen standards, it is brand new. The roof, with all its unusually placed points and peaks, is supposed to represent the flames that consumed St. Joan, but most people say it looks like the underside of an overturned boat, or, if you ask my twelve-year-old son, Darth Vader’s imperial flagship.”

            I guess that clinched it. I had the imagination of a twelve-year-old boy. I was obviously spending way too much time with my five nephews.

            “You can step inside the church to see the interior if you like. The inside is much more impressive than the outside. Do you have any questions before I turn you loose?”