likes it.”
He stops moving, his chin on his fist. “Then why…? Was there something else she wanted?”
I shrug.
“Didn’t she mention a crocodile handbag? But she has so many handbags. Didn’t she get a lizard skin one in September?”
“If she wants a crocodile one,” I say, “she’ll get it for herself.”
“Maybe,” he says. “Maybe not.”
He looks so sad. I kiss him, and go out to get my bike. I don’t feel like calling Coralie or Eléonore. I pedal to the end of the back street, down the slope along Eléonore’s parents’ orchard, across the outer boulevard, into the vineyards. I’m pushing against the north wind, which is wild today. My plaits are undone, my hair flies. I decide that I’ll never want a gift. Or anything, from anybody.
Communist
Our friends Monique and Nicole live at the top of the Maison Bousquet on the avenue. It’s a large townhouse, higher than the rest and divided into apartments. Monique and Nicole are on the top floor. Usually, when we go to fetch them, we run up the four flights of stairs, and our footsteps resonate all through the staircase. Before we get to the top, under the glass roof, Monique and Nicole have come out and we can all barrel down the stairs immediately.
But this Thursday morning, when Coralie and I get to the fourth floor, only Monique is out on the landing. “Can you wait?” she says. “Nicole isn’t dressed. Two buttons are missing from her blouse, Mother needs to sew them on. Or tell me where you’re going, we’ll join you soon.”
Now her mother comes out too, holding a needle and thread. Her eyes look tired behind thick round glasses. “Come in,” she says, “I won’t be a moment, come into the kitchen and sit down. Would you like some coffee?”
Coffee? For us? Monique has been loitering on the landing, but now she follows us into the kitchen, takes out three glasses, fills them with water from the tap, and sets them on the table. She leaves the door open, and I soon realize why: there are no windows in this room, no windows that open. Just a square piece of translucent glass through which a little light comes in, so the room is not completely dark but nearly. The air doesn’t move at all. Monique’s mother goes on with her sewing. There’s only one bulb hanging from a wire above the table, and it doesn’t give off much light either. Coralie has drunk all her water and is fidgeting in her chair. “Where’s Nicole?” she asks.
“In the bedroom,” Monique says. “I’ll get her.”
Outside the kitchen door, beyond a narrow passage, there’s another door. Monique opens it, and Coralie follows her. “Don’t!” I say. But she’s quick, and to stop her I have to follow her into the passage, from which I get a glimpse of the bedroom: a double bed on one side, where the father is asleep, and another where Nicole is feeding her teddy bear with a tiny bottle. The bedroom is exactly like the kitchen, but without any window. I pull Coralie back into the kitchen.
“Why can’t I?” she cries.
“Hush!” I say. “We need to wait here. Can’t you see that monsieur Delpech is asleep?”
“He’s resting,” madame Delpech says, cutting the thread with her teeth. “He hasn’t been well. It’s his chest.”
Nicole and Monique are back in the kitchen. Monique helps her sister put on her blouse. “Okay, let’s go,” she says. They both kiss their mother, we say goodbye, and as we walk down the stairs I wonder: Monique and Nicole have been my friends for ever and until today I had no idea how they lived when we weren’t playing together. There must be so much more I don’t know. It makes me dizzy.
Roseline and Eléonore are waiting for us in the back street, playing hopscotch, and we all walk to an abandoned stone hut in the middle of the vineyards that we’ve decided to clean out and set up as our new base. It’s beautiful, a perfect square with a tile roof, but full of chaff, dung, and broken tools.
He stops moving, his chin on his fist. “Then why…? Was there something else she wanted?”
I shrug.
“Didn’t she mention a crocodile handbag? But she has so many handbags. Didn’t she get a lizard skin one in September?”
“If she wants a crocodile one,” I say, “she’ll get it for herself.”
“Maybe,” he says. “Maybe not.”
He looks so sad. I kiss him, and go out to get my bike. I don’t feel like calling Coralie or Eléonore. I pedal to the end of the back street, down the slope along Eléonore’s parents’ orchard, across the outer boulevard, into the vineyards. I’m pushing against the north wind, which is wild today. My plaits are undone, my hair flies. I decide that I’ll never want a gift. Or anything, from anybody.
Communist
Our friends Monique and Nicole live at the top of the Maison Bousquet on the avenue. It’s a large townhouse, higher than the rest and divided into apartments. Monique and Nicole are on the top floor. Usually, when we go to fetch them, we run up the four flights of stairs, and our footsteps resonate all through the staircase. Before we get to the top, under the glass roof, Monique and Nicole have come out and we can all barrel down the stairs immediately.
But this Thursday morning, when Coralie and I get to the fourth floor, only Monique is out on the landing. “Can you wait?” she says. “Nicole isn’t dressed. Two buttons are missing from her blouse, Mother needs to sew them on. Or tell me where you’re going, we’ll join you soon.”
Now her mother comes out too, holding a needle and thread. Her eyes look tired behind thick round glasses. “Come in,” she says, “I won’t be a moment, come into the kitchen and sit down. Would you like some coffee?”
Coffee? For us? Monique has been loitering on the landing, but now she follows us into the kitchen, takes out three glasses, fills them with water from the tap, and sets them on the table. She leaves the door open, and I soon realize why: there are no windows in this room, no windows that open. Just a square piece of translucent glass through which a little light comes in, so the room is not completely dark but nearly. The air doesn’t move at all. Monique’s mother goes on with her sewing. There’s only one bulb hanging from a wire above the table, and it doesn’t give off much light either. Coralie has drunk all her water and is fidgeting in her chair. “Where’s Nicole?” she asks.
“In the bedroom,” Monique says. “I’ll get her.”
Outside the kitchen door, beyond a narrow passage, there’s another door. Monique opens it, and Coralie follows her. “Don’t!” I say. But she’s quick, and to stop her I have to follow her into the passage, from which I get a glimpse of the bedroom: a double bed on one side, where the father is asleep, and another where Nicole is feeding her teddy bear with a tiny bottle. The bedroom is exactly like the kitchen, but without any window. I pull Coralie back into the kitchen.
“Why can’t I?” she cries.
“Hush!” I say. “We need to wait here. Can’t you see that monsieur Delpech is asleep?”
“He’s resting,” madame Delpech says, cutting the thread with her teeth. “He hasn’t been well. It’s his chest.”
Nicole and Monique are back in the kitchen. Monique helps her sister put on her blouse. “Okay, let’s go,” she says. They both kiss their mother, we say goodbye, and as we walk down the stairs I wonder: Monique and Nicole have been my friends for ever and until today I had no idea how they lived when we weren’t playing together. There must be so much more I don’t know. It makes me dizzy.
Roseline and Eléonore are waiting for us in the back street, playing hopscotch, and we all walk to an abandoned stone hut in the middle of the vineyards that we’ve decided to clean out and set up as our new base. It’s beautiful, a perfect square with a tile roof, but full of chaff, dung, and broken tools.
Similar Books
