no longer at home in your pigsty called Paris. Maybe you could fill him in a bit.”
At last she was off, happy to have left the two of them together. Claude studied Florent with interest; his gaunt, diffident face seemed to Claude to be an original. Madame François's introduction was all he needed, and with the familiarity of a street hustler experienced in chance encounters, he calmly said, “I think I'll join you. Where are you going?”
Florent was still awkward. He did not open up so quickly. On the other hand, he had had a question on his lips ever since his arrival. Deciding to risk it, though he feared a disagreeable response, he asked, “Does the rue Pirouette still exist?”
“It certainly does,” the painter answered. “That street is a curious corner of old Paris. It bends and turns like a dancer, and the houses have huge bellies like fat women … I did a pretty good etching of it. I'll show it to you when you come by my place … Is that where you're going?”
Florent, heartened by the news that the rue Pirouette still existed, admitted that it was not his destination and that in fact, he had no place to go. But his distrust was reawakened by Claude's insistence. “Who cares?” said Claude. “Let's go to rue Pirouette anyway. It's the most wonderful color at night … Let's go, it's just a short hop.”
Florent had to follow him. They walked side by side, like two old friends, stepping over baskets and piles of vegetables. On the pavement at rue Rambuteau, there were mounds of gigantic cauliflowers, stacked with surprising orderliness like cannonballs. The delicate white cauliflower flesh opened like enormous roses, surrounded by large green leaves, so that the mounds resembled bridal bouquets on display on a flower stand. Claude stopped and emitted little whimpers of appreciation.
Then, in front of them, was the rue Pirouette, where he pointed to the houses, one by one, with stories and information about them. One gas lamp burned by itself in a corner. The peeling houses crammed together, their overhangs protruding above the groundfloor, as the painter had said, like the bellies of fat women, while the gables above them tilted back as though leaning on their neighbors for support. Three or four others, placed farther back at the edge of the shadows, leaned forward as if about to fall on their faces. The gas lamp lit one house, making it appear very white, newly whitewashed, but still resembling a decrepit old woman freshly powdered and made up to look young. The other houses stretched into the darkness, cracked and green-streaked from the rain in the gutters, in such a hodgepodge of different colors and attitudes that it made Claude laugh.
Florent had stopped at rue de Mondétour, in front of the next to last house on the left. All three stories, each with two shutterless windows neatly covered by white curtains, appeared to be asleep. On the top floor, a faint light could be seen through the curtain moving back and forth.
The shop beneath the overhang seemed to have a tremendous effect on Florent. It was starting to open, a shop with prepared greens. At the far end, shiny bowls could be seen, while on the display shelf in front, round domes and conical towers of spinach and chicory were placed in bowls, each notched in the back to leave space for flat serving spatulas, showing only their white metal handles.
Florent felt as though he had been struck motionless, riveted to the pavement by this sight. He did not recognize the shop. Reading the merchant's name on a red sign, Godebœuf, he felt even more dismayed. With his arms hanging limp at his sides, he studied the cooked spinach with the air of a cursed man.
From the opened window above, a little old woman leaned out and looked up at the sky and then at the market in the distance.
“Ah, Mademoiselle Saget is an early bird,” said Claude, looking up. And he added, turning to Florent, “I once had an aunt living in that house. That place
At last she was off, happy to have left the two of them together. Claude studied Florent with interest; his gaunt, diffident face seemed to Claude to be an original. Madame François's introduction was all he needed, and with the familiarity of a street hustler experienced in chance encounters, he calmly said, “I think I'll join you. Where are you going?”
Florent was still awkward. He did not open up so quickly. On the other hand, he had had a question on his lips ever since his arrival. Deciding to risk it, though he feared a disagreeable response, he asked, “Does the rue Pirouette still exist?”
“It certainly does,” the painter answered. “That street is a curious corner of old Paris. It bends and turns like a dancer, and the houses have huge bellies like fat women … I did a pretty good etching of it. I'll show it to you when you come by my place … Is that where you're going?”
Florent, heartened by the news that the rue Pirouette still existed, admitted that it was not his destination and that in fact, he had no place to go. But his distrust was reawakened by Claude's insistence. “Who cares?” said Claude. “Let's go to rue Pirouette anyway. It's the most wonderful color at night … Let's go, it's just a short hop.”
Florent had to follow him. They walked side by side, like two old friends, stepping over baskets and piles of vegetables. On the pavement at rue Rambuteau, there were mounds of gigantic cauliflowers, stacked with surprising orderliness like cannonballs. The delicate white cauliflower flesh opened like enormous roses, surrounded by large green leaves, so that the mounds resembled bridal bouquets on display on a flower stand. Claude stopped and emitted little whimpers of appreciation.
Then, in front of them, was the rue Pirouette, where he pointed to the houses, one by one, with stories and information about them. One gas lamp burned by itself in a corner. The peeling houses crammed together, their overhangs protruding above the groundfloor, as the painter had said, like the bellies of fat women, while the gables above them tilted back as though leaning on their neighbors for support. Three or four others, placed farther back at the edge of the shadows, leaned forward as if about to fall on their faces. The gas lamp lit one house, making it appear very white, newly whitewashed, but still resembling a decrepit old woman freshly powdered and made up to look young. The other houses stretched into the darkness, cracked and green-streaked from the rain in the gutters, in such a hodgepodge of different colors and attitudes that it made Claude laugh.
Florent had stopped at rue de Mondétour, in front of the next to last house on the left. All three stories, each with two shutterless windows neatly covered by white curtains, appeared to be asleep. On the top floor, a faint light could be seen through the curtain moving back and forth.
The shop beneath the overhang seemed to have a tremendous effect on Florent. It was starting to open, a shop with prepared greens. At the far end, shiny bowls could be seen, while on the display shelf in front, round domes and conical towers of spinach and chicory were placed in bowls, each notched in the back to leave space for flat serving spatulas, showing only their white metal handles.
Florent felt as though he had been struck motionless, riveted to the pavement by this sight. He did not recognize the shop. Reading the merchant's name on a red sign, Godebœuf, he felt even more dismayed. With his arms hanging limp at his sides, he studied the cooked spinach with the air of a cursed man.
From the opened window above, a little old woman leaned out and looked up at the sky and then at the market in the distance.
“Ah, Mademoiselle Saget is an early bird,” said Claude, looking up. And he added, turning to Florent, “I once had an aunt living in that house. That place
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