teapot from the night before. Klervie poured some into a bowl and brought it to Maman, biting her lower lip as she tried not to spill.
Maman drank a sip or two and then sank back, as if the effort had drained her.
“Does that make you feel better, Maman?” Klervie asked earnestly. Papa had told her to look after Maman and she was doing her best to obey his wishes.
Maman tried to stroke Klervie’s cheek but her hand dropped back limply onto the threadbare blanket. “You’re a good girl, Klervie,” she said, her voice so faint that Klervie had to lean in close to hear her. Her eyes closed. Klervie climbed up on the bed and snuggled up to her mother, seeking comfort. But soon she rolled away, seared by the fever heat that was burning through her mother’s body.
“What will become of us?” she heard Maman murmur.
Klervie awoke with a gnawing pain in her belly. A cloudy daylight lit the attic chamber. Klervie jumped off the bed and went to search in their bag of food. There was only a stale crust of bread left. The fire in the grate had burned itself out, and the scale-encrusted kettle had only a trickle of water inside.
“Maman, I’m hungry,” Klervie said.
There came no answer. Klervie went back to the bed and began to tug at Maman’s hand, which was lying limply over the side. Maman gave a dry little moan.
“I’m
hungry,
” Klervie insisted. “My tummy hurts.”
“Go…and ask…downstairs…”
Klervie shook her head. She was afraid of the old woman who had so grudgingly given them shelter. Her jaundiced eyes were cold and disapproving.
“What d’you mean, your mother’s sick?” The concierge dropped her broom. “I’m not having anyone sick in this hostelry; it’s bad for business. You’ll have to leave.” She clapped a handkerchief over her nose and mouth. “Keep your distance, girl. And tell your mother to pack your bags.”
“I don’t think she’s well enough,” said Klervie in a small voice.
“Then I’ll call the carrier,” said the concierge, backing away. “Haven’t you got any family to go to? Didn’t your mother mention a sister?”
“Tante Lavéna?” Klervie shook her head doubtfully. “I d—don’t remember where she lives.”
“Then go out and find where. Go on.” She took up her broom and began to jab it at Klervie’s toes. “Be off with you. And don’t come back until you’ve found your auntie.”
Klervie hesitated, not wanting to leave Maman, yet frightened of the old woman and her broom.
She backed away. Then she turned and fled.
It was growing dark and Klervie was lost. She had wandered up and down the tree-lined avenues for hours, searching for Tante Lavéna’s house. She had asked but no one knew her aunt’s name. Now it was starting to rain. She crept into a doorway for shelter, sliding down with her back to the door, hugging her knees to her chest.
She was so sleepy…
When Klervie awoke, cold and stiff, it was night. The wet street gleamed in the light of a lantern.
The scent of cooking meat drifted on the damp breeze. Her empty stomach growled. She could not remember the last time she had eaten. The scent drew her, enticing her out of her hiding place and down a winding alley.
A man was sitting in an archway, hunched over a small brazier, slowly turning a spit on which were skewered two plump chickens, their skins a crisp golden brown. He looked up and saw her.
“You’re hungry, aren’t you?”
Klervie nodded. The unbearably mouthwatering smell of the roasting fowl, the dripping juices sizzling into the fire, drew her closer. The aching hollow in her empty belly made her want to moan. But there was something about the man’s eyes as he watched her that made her skin crawl.
“Come closer, little girl.” He beckoned, smiling at her. “I’ll bet you’d like to share a slice or two of this with me.” He produced a long loaf of fresh-baked crusty bread, and broke off
Maman drank a sip or two and then sank back, as if the effort had drained her.
“Does that make you feel better, Maman?” Klervie asked earnestly. Papa had told her to look after Maman and she was doing her best to obey his wishes.
Maman tried to stroke Klervie’s cheek but her hand dropped back limply onto the threadbare blanket. “You’re a good girl, Klervie,” she said, her voice so faint that Klervie had to lean in close to hear her. Her eyes closed. Klervie climbed up on the bed and snuggled up to her mother, seeking comfort. But soon she rolled away, seared by the fever heat that was burning through her mother’s body.
“What will become of us?” she heard Maman murmur.
Klervie awoke with a gnawing pain in her belly. A cloudy daylight lit the attic chamber. Klervie jumped off the bed and went to search in their bag of food. There was only a stale crust of bread left. The fire in the grate had burned itself out, and the scale-encrusted kettle had only a trickle of water inside.
“Maman, I’m hungry,” Klervie said.
There came no answer. Klervie went back to the bed and began to tug at Maman’s hand, which was lying limply over the side. Maman gave a dry little moan.
“I’m
hungry,
” Klervie insisted. “My tummy hurts.”
“Go…and ask…downstairs…”
Klervie shook her head. She was afraid of the old woman who had so grudgingly given them shelter. Her jaundiced eyes were cold and disapproving.
“What d’you mean, your mother’s sick?” The concierge dropped her broom. “I’m not having anyone sick in this hostelry; it’s bad for business. You’ll have to leave.” She clapped a handkerchief over her nose and mouth. “Keep your distance, girl. And tell your mother to pack your bags.”
“I don’t think she’s well enough,” said Klervie in a small voice.
“Then I’ll call the carrier,” said the concierge, backing away. “Haven’t you got any family to go to? Didn’t your mother mention a sister?”
“Tante Lavéna?” Klervie shook her head doubtfully. “I d—don’t remember where she lives.”
“Then go out and find where. Go on.” She took up her broom and began to jab it at Klervie’s toes. “Be off with you. And don’t come back until you’ve found your auntie.”
Klervie hesitated, not wanting to leave Maman, yet frightened of the old woman and her broom.
She backed away. Then she turned and fled.
It was growing dark and Klervie was lost. She had wandered up and down the tree-lined avenues for hours, searching for Tante Lavéna’s house. She had asked but no one knew her aunt’s name. Now it was starting to rain. She crept into a doorway for shelter, sliding down with her back to the door, hugging her knees to her chest.
She was so sleepy…
When Klervie awoke, cold and stiff, it was night. The wet street gleamed in the light of a lantern.
The scent of cooking meat drifted on the damp breeze. Her empty stomach growled. She could not remember the last time she had eaten. The scent drew her, enticing her out of her hiding place and down a winding alley.
A man was sitting in an archway, hunched over a small brazier, slowly turning a spit on which were skewered two plump chickens, their skins a crisp golden brown. He looked up and saw her.
“You’re hungry, aren’t you?”
Klervie nodded. The unbearably mouthwatering smell of the roasting fowl, the dripping juices sizzling into the fire, drew her closer. The aching hollow in her empty belly made her want to moan. But there was something about the man’s eyes as he watched her that made her skin crawl.
“Come closer, little girl.” He beckoned, smiling at her. “I’ll bet you’d like to share a slice or two of this with me.” He produced a long loaf of fresh-baked crusty bread, and broke off
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