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Authors: NANCY FAIRBANKS
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attempt on my husband, but Sylvie, wearing a black-and-white polka dot dress, breezed in and whisked me away to her little sports car, a gleaming, silver blue, missing only the top. I’d never have known the car was very old if she hadn’t told me.
Before we could climb in, I was introduced to Winston Churchill, a small pug dog who greeted me by racing around my ankles and jumping up on my legs. “You know Albertine Guillot and her dog Charles de Gaulle?” Sylvie asked as she picked up Winston Churchill. “Winnie met Charles de Gaulle when he was a puppy and Charles a horrid adolescent, to whom Winnie took an immediate dislike. Immediately I decided that I’d call my dog Winston Churchill. Not very nice of me. But Albertine and I are not compatible. She says unpleasant things about Winston Churchill, both the prime minister and my dog.
“My camera equipment is in the backseat, so you won’t mind letting Winnie sit in your lap, will you? If he does something you don’t like, just say ‘No’ or ‘Non’ loudly. He’ll stop.” She opened the door for me and, without waiting for my consent, plopped her dog on my knees. Winnie licked my hand, which I really didn’t like, but before I could say no , he circled once, curled up, and went to sleep. “He loves to sleep in the car, just like a baby,” said his mistress affectionately.
I decided that any dog who disliked Charles de Gaulle was a dog I could tolerate, but if he licked me again, I’d certainly say no loudly.
As she drove away from the university, Sylvie explained that her father had once had just such a car as hers. His wasn’t new even then, but she had loved to ride in it along the cliffs overlooking the sea in England, and she was his helper in the many repairs that had to be made. Her father bad been English, her mother French.
“So imagine my happiness when an elderly widow in our neighborhood inherited this car. It had been her husband’s, but she herself could not drive it, so I fixed it up for her and took her for a ride several times a week. It made us both happy, and then she died and left it to me. Of course, Raymond wanted me to sell it since it is old and always breaking down. But why would I do that? My own car, and I know how to fix it, so you mustn’t be alarmed, Madam Blue, if it stops unexpectedly. I am an expert mechanic, at least for this car, and I carry tools and spare parts.
“Now as I drive through these streets, look at the ends of the buildings. They all have murals. This is the project of Tony Garnier, the architect.”
I peered at the sepia-toned murals depicting neighborhoods, buildings, and towers. Occasionally, Sylvie whipped the car to a curb and took a picture of me in front of a mural holding Winston Churchill’s leash. She must have had a very fast camera, because the dog would not pose. He never stopped moving, tugging at the leash, or barking at me in a friendly manner. You had to like him, even if he was hyperactive, for he did mind. Perhaps a bit of Ritalin would do him good.
Since she seemed the least likely person to attack us, I told her about Jason’s experience that morning and confessed that I thought we were being stalked but couldn’t imagine by whom.
“Ah, well,” said Sylvie, “Albertine is capable of anything. She told us of your problems with Charles de Gaulle. And then he was so tiresome when they got back to Lyon. He bit a policeman. The Guillots had to hire a lawyer to keep the dog from being put down, and then they had to send him to school to learn better manners. You may find him a nicer dog, but Albertine is the same always. She says she is not angry with you, but she probably is.”
“But why would she try to attack Jason?” I asked.
“Maybe it was Victoire. What color was the car?”
“Black,” I replied. “But why would Madam Laurent—”
“She has a black car. Ah, here it is, Le Mur des Canuts. Canuts were those who worked the silk looms, very skilled. They
Before we could climb in, I was introduced to Winston Churchill, a small pug dog who greeted me by racing around my ankles and jumping up on my legs. “You know Albertine Guillot and her dog Charles de Gaulle?” Sylvie asked as she picked up Winston Churchill. “Winnie met Charles de Gaulle when he was a puppy and Charles a horrid adolescent, to whom Winnie took an immediate dislike. Immediately I decided that I’d call my dog Winston Churchill. Not very nice of me. But Albertine and I are not compatible. She says unpleasant things about Winston Churchill, both the prime minister and my dog.
“My camera equipment is in the backseat, so you won’t mind letting Winnie sit in your lap, will you? If he does something you don’t like, just say ‘No’ or ‘Non’ loudly. He’ll stop.” She opened the door for me and, without waiting for my consent, plopped her dog on my knees. Winnie licked my hand, which I really didn’t like, but before I could say no , he circled once, curled up, and went to sleep. “He loves to sleep in the car, just like a baby,” said his mistress affectionately.
I decided that any dog who disliked Charles de Gaulle was a dog I could tolerate, but if he licked me again, I’d certainly say no loudly.
As she drove away from the university, Sylvie explained that her father had once had just such a car as hers. His wasn’t new even then, but she had loved to ride in it along the cliffs overlooking the sea in England, and she was his helper in the many repairs that had to be made. Her father bad been English, her mother French.
“So imagine my happiness when an elderly widow in our neighborhood inherited this car. It had been her husband’s, but she herself could not drive it, so I fixed it up for her and took her for a ride several times a week. It made us both happy, and then she died and left it to me. Of course, Raymond wanted me to sell it since it is old and always breaking down. But why would I do that? My own car, and I know how to fix it, so you mustn’t be alarmed, Madam Blue, if it stops unexpectedly. I am an expert mechanic, at least for this car, and I carry tools and spare parts.
“Now as I drive through these streets, look at the ends of the buildings. They all have murals. This is the project of Tony Garnier, the architect.”
I peered at the sepia-toned murals depicting neighborhoods, buildings, and towers. Occasionally, Sylvie whipped the car to a curb and took a picture of me in front of a mural holding Winston Churchill’s leash. She must have had a very fast camera, because the dog would not pose. He never stopped moving, tugging at the leash, or barking at me in a friendly manner. You had to like him, even if he was hyperactive, for he did mind. Perhaps a bit of Ritalin would do him good.
Since she seemed the least likely person to attack us, I told her about Jason’s experience that morning and confessed that I thought we were being stalked but couldn’t imagine by whom.
“Ah, well,” said Sylvie, “Albertine is capable of anything. She told us of your problems with Charles de Gaulle. And then he was so tiresome when they got back to Lyon. He bit a policeman. The Guillots had to hire a lawyer to keep the dog from being put down, and then they had to send him to school to learn better manners. You may find him a nicer dog, but Albertine is the same always. She says she is not angry with you, but she probably is.”
“But why would she try to attack Jason?” I asked.
“Maybe it was Victoire. What color was the car?”
“Black,” I replied. “But why would Madam Laurent—”
“She has a black car. Ah, here it is, Le Mur des Canuts. Canuts were those who worked the silk looms, very skilled. They
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