the glass panes, using a pointy tool to try to replace a clump of hair in a wig. Red flames roared in the fireplace. The sun shone through the glass, but its weak rays faded before the aggressive fire. He watched, marveling at how the heat had ripened her cheeks until they glowed, before he tapped a finger on the window, grinning.
Madame Leyster looked up from her seat. A white snood pinned at the top of her head restrained her hair, but a few golden strands, a shade darker than Henri’s, escaped to trickle down her breasts. Her sharp face wore a frown, but her large brown eyes were so innocent that it looked as if she had stolen them from a baby. She didn’t seem to recognize him. He pointed at the barrel and grinned again. They were only a few steps away from each other.
“What is it?” she asked. Her voice sounded small behind the thick window.
“Madame, your bath,” he said, keeping the words short and simple.
A hint of recognition appeared on her face.
“Has it been one month already?” she asked, examining her nails. “My hands are not yet dirty.”
As if to prove her point, she pressed her palms against the window to show him. Between her fingers, he could see the discoloration of grime, but he was not about to argue with her.
“I’m sorry, Madame,” he said. “I’ll come again next week.”
He pushed the cart away from her house.
“Hey, Auvergnat boy, wait!”
She glided through the room to meet him at the entrance. Her red underskirt dragged along the path, hiding her feet.
“How much heated water do you have?” she asked.
Henri stepped away from his wagon, at the same time lifting the heavy covering behind the barrel to reveal a copper pail of simmering water on top of a small stove.
“Thirty liters,” he said, and thought,
If you wish, I could make more
.
“Then what are you waiting for?” she said. “Carry the water to the basement and prepare my bath. You remember how I like it, don’t you?”
He had memorized every detail of her bathing habit. He knew how to pour just the right amount of water in the tub so it would not spill when she submerged her body. He learned to place the hard soap with soda—the scented kind from the Mediterranean coast that smelled like a field of hyacinths—on the floor within her reach. Now, as he stood near the bathroom door, he could hear her moans of pleasure coming from the other side, the water splashing. Through the gap under the door, steam escaped in fragrant wisps, a good indication that the temperature had met her satisfaction.
He inspected the bathroom door. It had a crack in one of the corners, the dark rim gawking back at him. His common sense told him to leave. When a lady took her bath, he had no right to linger. But the basement was empty. There was no one in sight, except for a small yellow cat taking a nap. Its furry body was stretched out by the foot of the stairs. He knew that as long as the cat slept undisturbed, he was safe.
Excitement and fright shot through his body. He held his breath and crept closer to the door until his cheek brushed against the rough surface of the unfinished wood. It was a tense, feeble grope for the right angle, but eventually his eye found the crack. Inside, the mist was heavy. He looked. And his mouth went dry.
For a moment, he thought he saw Madame Leyster soaring through the air. Her white blouse, the bodice, and the scarlet skirt rose through the fog, floating as though she were dancing. The writhing figure twirled and trembled like a ghost, stopping his heart. Then he saw the clothesline that held the items suspended in space and realized he was seeing just the garments, not her. Even so, the rippling air gave them an eerie aliveness.
He heard her soft voice, humming. In the middle of the room sat the large tub, made of wood and bound with hoops like his barrel. He saw her fair body steeping in the water. Her back was to him. Her lovely blond hair was wrapped inside a cap. He could see the
Madame Leyster looked up from her seat. A white snood pinned at the top of her head restrained her hair, but a few golden strands, a shade darker than Henri’s, escaped to trickle down her breasts. Her sharp face wore a frown, but her large brown eyes were so innocent that it looked as if she had stolen them from a baby. She didn’t seem to recognize him. He pointed at the barrel and grinned again. They were only a few steps away from each other.
“What is it?” she asked. Her voice sounded small behind the thick window.
“Madame, your bath,” he said, keeping the words short and simple.
A hint of recognition appeared on her face.
“Has it been one month already?” she asked, examining her nails. “My hands are not yet dirty.”
As if to prove her point, she pressed her palms against the window to show him. Between her fingers, he could see the discoloration of grime, but he was not about to argue with her.
“I’m sorry, Madame,” he said. “I’ll come again next week.”
He pushed the cart away from her house.
“Hey, Auvergnat boy, wait!”
She glided through the room to meet him at the entrance. Her red underskirt dragged along the path, hiding her feet.
“How much heated water do you have?” she asked.
Henri stepped away from his wagon, at the same time lifting the heavy covering behind the barrel to reveal a copper pail of simmering water on top of a small stove.
“Thirty liters,” he said, and thought,
If you wish, I could make more
.
“Then what are you waiting for?” she said. “Carry the water to the basement and prepare my bath. You remember how I like it, don’t you?”
He had memorized every detail of her bathing habit. He knew how to pour just the right amount of water in the tub so it would not spill when she submerged her body. He learned to place the hard soap with soda—the scented kind from the Mediterranean coast that smelled like a field of hyacinths—on the floor within her reach. Now, as he stood near the bathroom door, he could hear her moans of pleasure coming from the other side, the water splashing. Through the gap under the door, steam escaped in fragrant wisps, a good indication that the temperature had met her satisfaction.
He inspected the bathroom door. It had a crack in one of the corners, the dark rim gawking back at him. His common sense told him to leave. When a lady took her bath, he had no right to linger. But the basement was empty. There was no one in sight, except for a small yellow cat taking a nap. Its furry body was stretched out by the foot of the stairs. He knew that as long as the cat slept undisturbed, he was safe.
Excitement and fright shot through his body. He held his breath and crept closer to the door until his cheek brushed against the rough surface of the unfinished wood. It was a tense, feeble grope for the right angle, but eventually his eye found the crack. Inside, the mist was heavy. He looked. And his mouth went dry.
For a moment, he thought he saw Madame Leyster soaring through the air. Her white blouse, the bodice, and the scarlet skirt rose through the fog, floating as though she were dancing. The writhing figure twirled and trembled like a ghost, stopping his heart. Then he saw the clothesline that held the items suspended in space and realized he was seeing just the garments, not her. Even so, the rippling air gave them an eerie aliveness.
He heard her soft voice, humming. In the middle of the room sat the large tub, made of wood and bound with hoops like his barrel. He saw her fair body steeping in the water. Her back was to him. Her lovely blond hair was wrapped inside a cap. He could see the
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