In broken English, the security manager described how a guard who’d just started his morning shift had found the nearly naked Guillaume fast asleep in a room near the tower’s south pillar. They couldn’t imagine how he had snuck in, as security at the tower had been tight since 2001. It had taken the guard several minutes to wake the snoring Guillaume; he had then alerted his superior and escorted the singer to the security office. That’s when Guillaume began doing his little tap-dance routine.
“He continued to say he was Fred Astaire,” said one of the guards, scratching his head. “And he began to sing a song about tomatoes, tomahtoes, potatoes, and potahtoes.”
“That is when I realized that it wasn’t just some bum,” the security manager interrupted, leaning forward conspiratorially. “It was Guillaume Riche! One of the most famous celebrities in France!”
I sighed. “Yes. That’s why an incident like this could really be a problem for his image, you understand.”
The manager exchanged glances with his two deputies.
“I thought so,” he said with a nod, looking back at me. He lowered his voice. “That’s why we’re prepared to . . . negotiate.”
I looked at him blankly. “Negotiate?”
His eyes darted from side to side then settled on me. “Oui,” he said. “We can do a little, how you say, exchange? And we can forget that this happened. We have not called the police yet.”
“Okay,” I said slowly, not quite understanding what he meant by an exchange. “But the police obviously know there’s something going on, right? I mean, there are dozens of reporters outside.”
“Oui,” the security chief said. “But we are willing to say that this was all a misunderstanding. We can say that Guillaume Riche had our permission to be here.”
“You would do that?” I asked.
“Oui,” he said. “If we can reach an agreement.” He rubbed his hands together and winked at me.
“And if he promises to put his pants on,” one of the guards muttered.
“And not to dance anymore,” said the other. All three men nodded vigorously.
Suddenly I understood.
“Are you talking about a bribe?” I asked incredulously.
The three men exchanged looks.
“A bribe?” the security chief asked. “What does this mean? I do not know this word.”
Okay, so obviously he was going to play dumb. I took a deep breath and nodded. “Let me see what I can do,” I said. “I need to talk to Guillaume, okay? I’m sure we can work this out.”
“Oui, mademoiselle,” the manager said, still looking confused.
I asked them to hold on for a moment. I knocked on Guillaume’s door. “Are you dressed?”
“Do you want me naked?” he shouted back. I rolled my eyes and opened the door. Thankfully, he had managed to find his way into the T-shirt and pants. He had one of the flip-flops on his feet; he was holding the other one in his hands, examining it as if it were the key to the universe. “It’s amazing how they put these things together,” he said, gazing at the flip-flop in awe. Inexplicably, he was also still wearing the top hat.
I shook my head. There was seriously something wrong with the guy. “Guillaume, I think the security guards are asking for a bribe to let you out of this,” I said. I felt a little ill; I couldn’t believe that I was about to resort to bribery to extract my insane client from a potentially disastrous situation. I wondered vaguely what the penalties were in France for such an offense. I sighed. “Do you have any money on you?”
I realized as soon as the words were out of my mouth what a ridiculous question it was. Of course he didn’t. He didn’t have any clothes on until I’d brought him the Celio garb. Where would he keep his money?
But clearly I had underestimated Guillaume Riche.
“Of course,” he responded with a shrug. “I always keep some cash in my underwear.”
“You . . . you do?” I had no idea whether he was kidding.
“Of course,” Guillaume said. He reached down the front of his pants, felt around for a moment, and pulled out a thick fold of bills. “Do you want to borrow some?” he asked pleasantly, holding up the bills. I stared. “To buy a souvenir or something?”
“Um, no, not a souvenir.”
Guillaume shrugged and tossed the fold to me. I caught it reluctantly, trying not to think about the fact that it had spent the night down his briefs. I tried to remember that desperate times called for desperate measures, and if being responsible for a naked, top-hatted rock star trapped in a major monument wasn’t a desperate time, I didn’t know what was.
“I don’t know how much is there.” He shrugged. “Take what you want. I don’t care.”
While he returned his attention to his apparently intriguing flip-flop, I looked down at the bills in my hands. My eyes widened when I realized that the bill on top was a hundred. I quickly counted the rest.
“Guillaume, you keep twenty-eight hundred euros in your underwear?” I asked after a moment, looking up at him in confusion.
He shrugged. “So what?” he asked. “You never know what you might need a little cash for.”
He smiled at me like nothing was wrong.
I shook my head. “Um, okay.” I didn’t know what to make of this guy.
“Night and day, you are the one!” Guillaume suddenly broke into song again and began to dance around.
“Guillaume!” I said sharply.