to fourth-floor height at least, covered completely by a flourishing dark green ivy whose tentacles were just beginning to encroach on the adjacent houses.
‘No wonder,’ Edward thought, feeling his first inkling of sympathy for Mademoiselle Iskarov, ‘no wonder she had made such a point of not living next to the wall.’ The closer he came to it, the more overbearing it seemed; the last two houses looked grimly overshadowed.
Number Nine, like all the other houses, was a pompous seven storeys of stone wreaths and stone fruit: pebbly grapes and fossil pineapples. Because he had been looking at Paris apartment houses for nearly three extremely long weeks, Edward noticed it had been built, like its neighbours, in 1901 and the architect was one F. AD. Bocage. Bocage! Small wood or copse? Edward felt a sudden warmth for the man who had covered his otherwise dull creations with his own bucolic symbols. That, surely, must be the explanation of the stone greenery up and down the street: Bocage’s trademark across Bocage’s facades. In the moment before he arrived at the front door and rang the brass bell coldly labelled “Ring then Push”, he indulged in a very brief but entertaining fantasy in which houses built by Monsieur Rat were adorned with rodents, by Monsieur Dubonnet with appropriate bottles and by Monsieur Lamour with erotica. It was the sort of joke which, if Guy and Roland had been there with him, would have gone on for days. It put him, as he rang then pushed the immensely heavy glass and green ironwork front door, in the first spontaneous good mood he had been in for a fairly long time.
The lift was at the ground floor waiting for him so, as Mademoiselle Iskarov had told him her flat was up on the fifth floor, he took it and, as it rose, shivering and givingout a weird mechanical moan, he thought that he wouldn’t mind living in this building at all. Immediately, even before the lift had travelled another floor, he remembered that the flat he was coming to view was, of course, somewhere else entirely.
The door was opened by a handkerchief. Or at least that was Edward’s first impression, as a muted honking noise behind the door gave way to a small woman obviously suffering from an outsize cold. Her face was almost entirely covered by a man’s checked handkerchief. Apart from her watering brown eyes, he could not see anything of her looks or even particularly of her age. He registered vaguely that she was wearing a rather fashionable and dramatic black and maroon knitted outfit, which did not, to his taste, go awfully well with her tinted auburn hair.
He said, “Oh dear, I’m Edward Wainwright. It doesn’t look as if I’ve chosen an awfully good day to come.”
After a severe spluttering cough behind her handkerchief, the woman let out a dramatic groan. “I completely forgot you were coming.” She hesitated, one hand on the edge of the door and the other still clamping her burka-like handkerchief to her face. “I’m afraid I can’t possibly come over there with you. I’ve got the most terrible cold.”
“I can see that,” Edward answered, he was aware, a trifle ungraciously. “But can’t you give me the key and tell me how to get there? I mean, I’ve taken time off work specially to come over here and see it.”
The woman eyed him up and down and, unexpectedly, considering her indignities of streaming eyes and spluttering, Edward felt at a sudden disadvantage for she was so protected by the handkerchief.
“Come in,” she said, evidently not needing any further persuasion, which he couldn’t help but be marginally flattered by. “I’ll find the keys and I’ll explain to you how to go there.”
She shut the door behind him and led him through an overfurnished hall, sneezing so explosively, he really did feel rather sorry for her.
He said, “Gosh, I hope you’re treating yourself to a couple of days off work with this.”
She nodded miserably and then said quite distinctly through
‘No wonder,’ Edward thought, feeling his first inkling of sympathy for Mademoiselle Iskarov, ‘no wonder she had made such a point of not living next to the wall.’ The closer he came to it, the more overbearing it seemed; the last two houses looked grimly overshadowed.
Number Nine, like all the other houses, was a pompous seven storeys of stone wreaths and stone fruit: pebbly grapes and fossil pineapples. Because he had been looking at Paris apartment houses for nearly three extremely long weeks, Edward noticed it had been built, like its neighbours, in 1901 and the architect was one F. AD. Bocage. Bocage! Small wood or copse? Edward felt a sudden warmth for the man who had covered his otherwise dull creations with his own bucolic symbols. That, surely, must be the explanation of the stone greenery up and down the street: Bocage’s trademark across Bocage’s facades. In the moment before he arrived at the front door and rang the brass bell coldly labelled “Ring then Push”, he indulged in a very brief but entertaining fantasy in which houses built by Monsieur Rat were adorned with rodents, by Monsieur Dubonnet with appropriate bottles and by Monsieur Lamour with erotica. It was the sort of joke which, if Guy and Roland had been there with him, would have gone on for days. It put him, as he rang then pushed the immensely heavy glass and green ironwork front door, in the first spontaneous good mood he had been in for a fairly long time.
The lift was at the ground floor waiting for him so, as Mademoiselle Iskarov had told him her flat was up on the fifth floor, he took it and, as it rose, shivering and givingout a weird mechanical moan, he thought that he wouldn’t mind living in this building at all. Immediately, even before the lift had travelled another floor, he remembered that the flat he was coming to view was, of course, somewhere else entirely.
The door was opened by a handkerchief. Or at least that was Edward’s first impression, as a muted honking noise behind the door gave way to a small woman obviously suffering from an outsize cold. Her face was almost entirely covered by a man’s checked handkerchief. Apart from her watering brown eyes, he could not see anything of her looks or even particularly of her age. He registered vaguely that she was wearing a rather fashionable and dramatic black and maroon knitted outfit, which did not, to his taste, go awfully well with her tinted auburn hair.
He said, “Oh dear, I’m Edward Wainwright. It doesn’t look as if I’ve chosen an awfully good day to come.”
After a severe spluttering cough behind her handkerchief, the woman let out a dramatic groan. “I completely forgot you were coming.” She hesitated, one hand on the edge of the door and the other still clamping her burka-like handkerchief to her face. “I’m afraid I can’t possibly come over there with you. I’ve got the most terrible cold.”
“I can see that,” Edward answered, he was aware, a trifle ungraciously. “But can’t you give me the key and tell me how to get there? I mean, I’ve taken time off work specially to come over here and see it.”
The woman eyed him up and down and, unexpectedly, considering her indignities of streaming eyes and spluttering, Edward felt at a sudden disadvantage for she was so protected by the handkerchief.
“Come in,” she said, evidently not needing any further persuasion, which he couldn’t help but be marginally flattered by. “I’ll find the keys and I’ll explain to you how to go there.”
She shut the door behind him and led him through an overfurnished hall, sneezing so explosively, he really did feel rather sorry for her.
He said, “Gosh, I hope you’re treating yourself to a couple of days off work with this.”
She nodded miserably and then said quite distinctly through
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