The Steppes of Paris by Helen Harris Page A

the handkerchief, with surprising vehemence, “That lycée is the source of every sort of sickness.”
    She showed him into a huge living-room and said formally, “Please sit here. I’ll go and get the keys.”
    Like the hall, the living-room was crowded well beyond the point of cosiness with dark bulky furniture, overloaded bookcases and dressers and standard lamps trailing a tangle of flexes across Oriental carpets. At first, as in any house he might have found himself in, Edward got up to look at the view from the living-room windows, but since it was only a mirror image in the form of Number Ten, Cité Etienne Hubert across the street, he turned his attention back to the living-room. It struck him as an inappropriate backdrop for someone as relatively young and dynamic as Mademoiselle Iskarov; it must surely be the family home. She was distinctly too old, though, however old she was, still to be living at home with her parents. Edward began to examine the contents of the living-room considerably more closely. Whereupon it dawned on him, belatedly, that a high proportion of the objects in the room were indeed Russian: there was a silver samovar and some old photographs of bearded men in boots and smocks on one of the dressers; some of the pictures turned out on proper investigation to be icons and, yes, all the books in the bookcases were in Russian.
    When Mademoiselle Iskarov came back, she had changed her handkerchief. She had also, Edward was astonished to notice, combed her hair and pulled her knitted top and skirt into shape so that he could see, whatever her indeterminate age, she had a well-endowed if round figure.
    She held the keys out to him. “I’ve written down the address for you. It’s not difficult to find. It’s off the rue Saint Dominique. You can either go up the Boulevard de Latour-Maubourg or Avenue Bosquet. Bosquet is less direct but more pleasant, I think, less –” she hesitated and squared her shoulders, “less designed for victorious military processions, you know.”
    Edward laughed. “I know exactly.”
    He unfolded his map and Mademoiselle Iskarov pinpointed the rue Surcouf. It all sounded excellent: two bedrooms, agood-sized sitting-room, the rent was reasonable. Edward thought what a pity it was that if the flat were even halfway decent, he would still feel obliged to turn it down because of his scruples about mixing work connections and housing.
    As Mademoiselle Iskarov showed him to the front door, he thought he heard a very faint noise somewhere off the hall. Through an open doorway, he thought, but wasn’t certain, he caught a grey blur of movement. He must have looked concerned for Mademoiselle Iskarov raised her voice to call something in Russian in the direction of the open doorway and she explained to Edward: “My grandmother.” While they stood at the front door and clarified the final details of locks and keys and concierges , Edward became clearly conscious of a quavering voice holding forth uninterruptedly from the unseen room.
    He had his hand above the ground-floor button of the lift when he heard the door of the Iskarovs’ flat flung open. With one of the worst pronunciations of his name he had yet heard, Mademoiselle Iskarov called, “Mister Wenwright! Mister Wenwright! Please stop!”
    Edward pushed open the lift door and said, “Yes?”
    “You don’t cook a lot with curry, do you?” she panted and then, seeing the exasperated bemusement on his face, explained, “Our last tenant was an American follower of Hinduism. He made the most awful mess of the kitchen. The neighbours complained of his smells. We had to tell him to leave. Well, he was mad too.”
    “No,” Edward answered shortly. “I don’t.”
    “Very good,” said Mademoiselle Iskarov. “Then, if you wish, you may rent our flat.” And, in a flurry of horrible coughing, she vanished behind the front door.
    The appropriateness of the rue Surcouf was obvious as soon as he turned the street