he pores over her manuscript, edits her sentences, leaves comments in the margins.
“I see you can be an honest critic, if you want to,” she says, looking at him. “Thank you. It’s rare, a precious gift.”
She drifts into the study one rainy afternoon in her wide gray linen trousers. She is carrying an armful of unopened envelopes she has scooped up from beside her bed. “Can you sort these out?” she asks him, dropping the heap of letters onto the desk. They are from her bank, from magazines, newspapers, and her agent.
He has a good memory and a facility with figures. He knows how to read a balance sheet. He arranges her bank statements in chronological order. He sorts out the incoming checks, which tumble out of many envelopes. He balances her checkbook. He writes down sums in long columns. “So many of them!” he says, showing her the high pile he has made by that evening when she emerges with her drink.
“Let me sign a few over to you. You work so hard,” she says, coming over to the desk, putting down her drink, plucking a pen from the blue vase. “I forget about them half the time.”
“If you really want to give me money, I would prefer a monthly sum sent to an account in my name on a regular basis. Something small,” he says, looking up at her.
“Of course,” she says. “We’ll go to the bank tomorrow, first thing,” and they do go, though in the afternoon. Together they walk up the road to the Société Générale on the Rue d’Assas. She introduces him to the manager, an elderly gentleman in an elegant gray suit who ushers them into his office. She leans forward and tells him she wants to open anaccount for this young man. The bank manager smiles at him graciously from behind his wide desk, bowing his head and murmuring, “
Oui, bien sûr, avec plaisir, monsieur, bien sûr, monsieur.
” She arranges something generous to be deposited monthly to his account. He is given a checkbook, for the first time in his young life.
The first check he writes is for Asfa. He sends it to the apartment in Clichy-sous-Bois with a note with his thanks for taking him in, feeding him, giving him a place to sleep. He tells him to give little Takla a kiss and buy him some new clothes. He promises to come and see them all, but he does not. He does not take the long bus ride to the dangerous
banlieue
. Though he feels ashamed, he cannot bring himself to leave the comfortable
sixième
, where he is beginning to feel safe in his elegant clothes, shiny shoes, and affluence as he walks through the orderly streets. Nor does he write his return address on the letter.
Instead, he goes to the
boulangerie
and buys himself three
pains au chocolat
, and eats one after the other on the spot, as though someone might take them from him if he walked out into the street. He buys a big tin of sweets, too, which he hides under his bed in his room.
Then he sits down on a rented iron chair in the Gardens in the sunshine, all through the afternoon. Fascinated, he watches the grave French children in their long white socks and long smocked dresses, their knickers and shirts, being led back and forth, their little feet sticking out in their lace-up shoes, sitting on fat donkeys. The following Sunday, he stands on a corner and observes the smartly dressed couples with their small children, the father bearing a big bouquet of flowersfor the grandparents, perhaps. The order of French bourgeois life is like a balm, though he studies it from a lonely distance.
He establishes a routine. Every morning he rises early, runs, buys a croissant and a café au lait from the café on the corner, and then returns to work at M.’s desk. He opens her mail for her, answers it, takes out the books she is sent.
There are packets from her agent, who sends M. her books in translation. “What language is this?” he asks M., taking a book out of a packet, lifting it up.
“No idea,” she says and laughs. “I can’t even remember which book it
“I see you can be an honest critic, if you want to,” she says, looking at him. “Thank you. It’s rare, a precious gift.”
She drifts into the study one rainy afternoon in her wide gray linen trousers. She is carrying an armful of unopened envelopes she has scooped up from beside her bed. “Can you sort these out?” she asks him, dropping the heap of letters onto the desk. They are from her bank, from magazines, newspapers, and her agent.
He has a good memory and a facility with figures. He knows how to read a balance sheet. He arranges her bank statements in chronological order. He sorts out the incoming checks, which tumble out of many envelopes. He balances her checkbook. He writes down sums in long columns. “So many of them!” he says, showing her the high pile he has made by that evening when she emerges with her drink.
“Let me sign a few over to you. You work so hard,” she says, coming over to the desk, putting down her drink, plucking a pen from the blue vase. “I forget about them half the time.”
“If you really want to give me money, I would prefer a monthly sum sent to an account in my name on a regular basis. Something small,” he says, looking up at her.
“Of course,” she says. “We’ll go to the bank tomorrow, first thing,” and they do go, though in the afternoon. Together they walk up the road to the Société Générale on the Rue d’Assas. She introduces him to the manager, an elderly gentleman in an elegant gray suit who ushers them into his office. She leans forward and tells him she wants to open anaccount for this young man. The bank manager smiles at him graciously from behind his wide desk, bowing his head and murmuring, “
Oui, bien sûr, avec plaisir, monsieur, bien sûr, monsieur.
” She arranges something generous to be deposited monthly to his account. He is given a checkbook, for the first time in his young life.
The first check he writes is for Asfa. He sends it to the apartment in Clichy-sous-Bois with a note with his thanks for taking him in, feeding him, giving him a place to sleep. He tells him to give little Takla a kiss and buy him some new clothes. He promises to come and see them all, but he does not. He does not take the long bus ride to the dangerous
banlieue
. Though he feels ashamed, he cannot bring himself to leave the comfortable
sixième
, where he is beginning to feel safe in his elegant clothes, shiny shoes, and affluence as he walks through the orderly streets. Nor does he write his return address on the letter.
Instead, he goes to the
boulangerie
and buys himself three
pains au chocolat
, and eats one after the other on the spot, as though someone might take them from him if he walked out into the street. He buys a big tin of sweets, too, which he hides under his bed in his room.
Then he sits down on a rented iron chair in the Gardens in the sunshine, all through the afternoon. Fascinated, he watches the grave French children in their long white socks and long smocked dresses, their knickers and shirts, being led back and forth, their little feet sticking out in their lace-up shoes, sitting on fat donkeys. The following Sunday, he stands on a corner and observes the smartly dressed couples with their small children, the father bearing a big bouquet of flowersfor the grandparents, perhaps. The order of French bourgeois life is like a balm, though he studies it from a lonely distance.
He establishes a routine. Every morning he rises early, runs, buys a croissant and a café au lait from the café on the corner, and then returns to work at M.’s desk. He opens her mail for her, answers it, takes out the books she is sent.
There are packets from her agent, who sends M. her books in translation. “What language is this?” he asks M., taking a book out of a packet, lifting it up.
“No idea,” she says and laughs. “I can’t even remember which book it
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