Searching for Juliette

By Marilyn Ludwig

Sixteen-year-old Dietrich (Duffy) Stillman, abandoned by his father in Quebec City, becomes intrigued by a young street violinist. His involvement with this lonely girl causes him to become embroiled in a dangerous plot by Quebecois separatists. While resolving problems of the present, Duffy also comes to terms with the violence of his own past.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marilyn Ludwig
• Release date: Oct 15, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310513343

Book preview

Prologue

An arctic blast, following two full days of falling snow, had turned the Château Frontenac into a castle of crystal this mid-February night.  Bewitching, Dietrich Stillman decided, viewing the famous hotel from the upper level of the Governor’s Promenade. He secured the top button of the gray overcoat that covered his tall frame and wound the matching wool scarf, a gift from his wife, an extra time around his neck. He shivered—from the icy eeriness of the scene as well as from the biting cold.

Ahead, the snow-white Plains of Abraham seemed to coax him in their direction. But he’d walked far enough. He turned back toward the hotel, past the large snowman mascot of the Carnaval, past pink-cheeked tobogganers who shouted "Bonjour" and waved at him with their brightly mittened hands.

Before entering the Château, he stopped at the deserted funicular station. In season, one could ride straight down the cliff to the lower town. This is where he’d first seen her. This is where the search and the danger had begun. But it had been June then, and the summer sun had blazed fiercely on the many tourists crowding Dufferin Terrace.

The snow and the years seemed to vanish, and he could almost see her standing there—giving her sorrowful, solo concert. "Je me souviens, he whispered. I remember."

Chapter One

Dried figs, Jordan nuts, imported Dutch chocolates— Dietrich Stillman, what have you done?

Dietrich, better known as Duffy, looked up from the plush carpet where he was constructing a model of Quebec City’s famous Château Frontenac and met his father’s disapproving eyes. What? he said in an innocent voice, trying to cover the candy and nut wrappers with a piece of balsa wood.

Not the best strategy. Harve Stillman glared at his son. Haven’t you learned yet that everything has a price tag? He pulled out a long, itemized list from the well-stocked basket of gourmet goodies that had welcomed Duffy to their suite. Let’s see, I figure you now owe the hotel fifty-five Canadian dollars.

I what? Duffy got up with an effort, knocking over one of the Château’s towers. I thought it was a good-will gesture. You mean we have to pay? What a gyp!

His father shook his head. One day, you’ll learn to look before you leap, or in this case, read before you eat.

Duffy sat down again and picked up his toppled tower. No harm done. The model was progressing nicely, but he didn’t wish to be interrupted. He’d purchased the glue, paint, and strips of balsa wood in Quebec City, and from home he’d brought along the terrific knife set he’d received on his last birthday. Between the food basket and the soda in the small refrigerator, he need never leave the room while his father was off interviewing members of the new Parti Québécois government. Duffy was all set, or so he’d thought.

Mr. Stillman had a different agenda. How do you propose to pay your bill?

Duffy gasped. You’re not serious?

Not entirely. I’ll settle the account—providing you offer proof you can spend your days in a worthwhile manner. No, not models, his father said, as Duffy opened his mouth to comment. That’s all you ever do since your mother . . . He stopped abruptly. That, and eat, of course. I don’t want to nag, son, but you’re putting on entirely too much weight. You’re becoming . . .

Fat?

I was going to say puffy.

Puffy, to rhyme with Duffy?

Mr. Stillman sighed. Duffy, give Quebec a chance. This could be one of the most crucial times in its history. The people have elected a political party that champions Quebec’s separation from Canada. They’ve made French the official language of the province and are promising a referendum for independence soon. It’s a revolution. A quiet one, but a revolution just the same, and we have the chance to witness it . . . Duffy.

Duffy had returned to the problem of making his towers free standing. Oh, sorry. You were saying something?

Give me your hotel key.

This captured Duffy’s attention. Why?

From now on, and for as long as we remain in Quebec, when I go to work, you go to work. No more staying in this room. Explore, meet people, have adventures, learn something. In other words, start acting like a normal kid. I’ll give you ten dollars a day, which should be enough for food and entertainment. We’ll meet downstairs for dinner every night at seven o’clock. And we’ll spend our evenings together.

But my model . . .

. . . will be better if you study the Frontenac from outside this room. No, Duffy, I’ve made up my mind. Your behavior isn’t normal for a boy your age.

His father held out his hand, and Duffy gave up the key. He accepted the ten Canadian dollars and, reluctantly, followed his father into the hall and watched him close and lock the door.

Outside the Frontenac, Mr. Stillman gave him a cheer-up kind of smile before heading off in the direction of Parliament. Duffy walked across the boardwalk and confronted the enormous statue of Champlain. Now what? he said. How do you have an adventure?

Chapter Two

Later, Duffy credited Champlain, the founder of Quebec, with the idea: buy a guidebook and visit all the sights mentioned. Probably boring, but a way to kill time until his mean and unreasonable father allowed him back into the hotel room. He joined the other tourists on the boardwalk—all seemingly determined to have a good time, in spite of the mid-morning heat. Couples strolled arm in arm eating ice cream cones, watching the entertainers, and gazing at the view of the St. Lawrence River.

A sign in the distance advertised Le Magasin. He’d be able to buy a guidebook there. He walked in its direction. Magasin—magazine, French wasn’t so hard. He passed le funiculaire, a cable car housed in a small building. He couldn’t tell where the ride went. He’d check it out sometime.

Next to the funicular station, Duffy noticed a girl playing the violin. Her instrument case lay open on the ground next to her, no doubt to encourage listeners to show their appreciation by dropping in a few coins. Duffy pulled a tissue from his pocket and wiped the perspiration from his brow. Darn hot, he thought. I’ll bet she doesn’t play much longer.

What he’d thought would be a newspaper/magazine stand turned out to be a small store that sold fruit, candy, and soda pop, as well as souvenir booklets and cartes de Québec. A carte was a map, Duffy discovered, and he purchased one, along with a small guidebook. He checked his finances. Seven dollars left. He had skipped breakfast this morning in favor of sleep, but his snack from the gourmet basket should last him until lunchtime. Or maybe he’d skip lunch, too, and really save money. Dad’s comment about his weight had bothered him, although he’d pretended it hadn’t. He’d be in for a miserable time at school if the kids ever thought of Puffy Duffy.

Duffy returned to the boardwalk and claimed an empty bench. The violinist was still playing. Tchaikovsky, he thought. She wasn’t bad. Let’s see, where am I? He studied the map. What a coincidence. The name of the boardwalk was La Terrasse Dufferin. He was Duffy of Dufferin Terrace. That had a ring to it. He formed a plan. He’d walk from one end of his terrace to the other—from the statue of Champlain all the way to where a steep staircase, called the Governor’s Promenade, led to the Citadel and the Plains of Abraham. First, he’d drop some coins into the violinist’s case. He admired hard work—especially if other people were doing it—and he appreciated good music, too.

"Merci." She didn’t look up. She didn’t even glance in the case to see that he had given her a whole dollar. Instead, she began to play a complicated Mozart piece Duffy recalled his mother playing on the piano.

You’re welcome, he said, thinking that might trigger more of a response. Nothing.

Maybe if he could say you’re welcome in French, she’d look at him. He wondered why he cared.

She wasn’t pretty exactly, but she had a sensitive face—kind of like a frightened deer. She was pale and much too thin, although he bet she had a nice figure hidden under that oversized dress that reached to her ankles. It was tan-colored and drab, and her sandals looked even older and more worn. Duffy guessed she was somewhere between fifteen and eighteen, though not as tall as he. Maybe about five-four. Her light brown hair was pulled back into a bun, but it was threatening to escape and fall free. Duffy couldn’t tell the color of her eyes, for they stayed fixed on the violin she held under her sharp little chin. There was something spooky—no, Duffy grasped for a better word—something haunted about her, almost as if she were part of the music she played.

Mozart came to an end, but instead of taking a break, the violinist began another number. Duffy had never heard the melody before. Sad and dreamy—it suited her. Duffy changed his mind. She wasn’t like a deer. More like one of the terrace’s sparrows, always scratching, never pausing in its search for handouts. He walked away, the strange music and the mournful girl still in his head.

Many other entertainers were stationed on the boardwalk, but unlike the violinist, they seemed to be having fun and receiving more coins. An accordionist, a juggler, two clowns on stilts, and pan pipers all the way from Peru. In Duffy’s opinion, the violinist was the only true artist.

He knew a lot about classical music from his mother, who had been a fine pianist. Once she’d even played at Carnegie Hall, and Duffy had been in the audience. Mother would have wanted to know more about the violinist. Who was she? And why was someone with her talent playing on Dufferin Terrace this hot June morning?

Ahead, Duffy noticed a fervor of activity. Wooden booths, and it looked like—oh good, a used-book sale, just like the ones held in his church back home. Duffy examined the titles eagerly, searching for anything to wile away the afternoon hours. He’d find a quiet park and a cool shade tree and . . . oh darn . . . all the books were in French.

But he had an idea. Do you know where I can find a French-English dictionary? he asked a woman selling cookbooks. Funny, no one seemed to have any trouble speaking or understanding English; they just refused to read it. The woman nodded and pointed to a nearby stall. Thank you. Merci. At least he knew one word.

Duffy bought a well-used paperback dictionary, Petit Larousse, for thirty cents. He was beginning to wish he’d brought along his backpack to carry his purchases. Now to find you’re welcome. He thumbed through the back section where English words were listed first. Il n’ya pas de crois, he read. He followed the pronunciation guide and mouthed out the expression a few times. Il-nee-yah-pa-duh-kwa.

He’d give the violinist another chance, but he’d throw in small change this time. After all, he didn’t want his pocket weighted down with coins. He’d stop at the store on the way back and buy a soda—or maybe two. The girl must be thirsty. But perhaps she had quit playing by now.

No, she was still