Sell Some Lives

Bus 🚌

The day I left for school (Duperré School of Applied Arts, the Rue Dupetit-Thouars, in the third of Paris), Mr Buscarino gave me a very special present. It was an ancient Egyptian alabaster amulet, carved into a God with a falcon's head.

"It was made a thousand and sixty nine years before Christ. They stitched them to the mummy's bandages." Mr Buscarino said for the fifth time. We were at his house, with the steeply pitched roof, the two tall brick chimneys which the chimney sweeper cleaned twice a week, and the goldenrod-orange-painted outside walls.

"Thank you, master." I hung the amulet round my neck and picked up my cardboard suitcase. "But I really really have to go now. I'll miss my bus."

The horse-drawn bus (painted yellow, with a door in the back) had been parked outside for five minutes now.

"I'll miss you!" My Buscarino was almost crying. He tipped my huge orange satin guipure hat up to look at my face and then frowned. 

"Tali! Your rouge is too pigmented and your strap is coming undone." He pulled the pink tulle in opposite directions, tying it tightly to my chin and then briskly rubbed at my cheeks.

"There! You look... presentable! Certainly not pretty but it will do."

What was he talking about? He picked my traveling clothes. I was wearing a short double-breasted coat of royal blue wool with a teal velvet lapel, a turquoise skirt and long white gloves with button fasteners. Mr Buscarino loved the exotic.

I gave him a quick hard hug and ran to the bus.

"Child get on the bus! I was going to drive off." The bus driver growled. "Where to? The big school?" 

"Yes, how did you know?" I asked, astonished. 

"Everyone is going there, it's the beginning of term." 

I got my ticket and went to sit down in the middle. The seats were just wooden slats, sturdy but comfy. I leaned my head on the window and stared out, ready to go.