corner. The Iskarovs’ flat was only two or three houses along, in a low, by Paris standards, shabbily off-white house. Its neighbours were a similar house and a small, workaday baker’s shop. He had come via Mademoiselle Iskarov’s recommended route, walking along the bustling commercial length of the rue Saint Dominique. The neighbourhood seemed to him much closer to what he was looking for than anywhere else he had yet been. Behind thesefaçades, he could imagine muzzled poodles and simmering tripes à la mode de Caen, but not marbled stairwells or bidets on silver-gilt paws. When he identified the house, he felt almost frustrated that somewhere so eminently appropriate had to be out of the question because of his scruples.
Standing in his future living-room, he abandoned them. For everything about the flat delighted him: it consisted of three partially inter-connecting rooms, with double doors between them, like a jigsaw puzzle or some elementary set of children’s cubes. He walked through them, enjoying the clever satisfactory way the living-room led into the elbow-shaped kitchen, and from the further bedroom you could look back at the living-room windows. The flat was on the ground floor; overshadowed but not gloomy, it took up the right-hand side and half the back of a small, dingy courtyard and the left-hand side was occupied by someone whose name on the letter-box was Dupont. Edward found it all thoroughly cheery and authentic and congenial. He grinned at the lingering curry smells in his kitchen and the burnt-out joss sticks by the front door and felt positively grateful to the American “follower of Hinduism” for having had himself evicted at such a timely juncture. A straight choice between this flat and the marble pudding was no choice at all.
When he rang the front door bell of Mademoiselle Iskarov’s flat to return the keys and to tell her, to his surprise, that he would like to rent the flat, there was at first no answer. He rang the bell again and waited for a long time. Maybe in her scatty way she had gone out and forgotten about him? Or maybe she was bombed out of her mind with the French equivalent of Night Nurse? He began to scribble a message on a sheet of his pocket notepad. On the other side of the door, there was an undeniable rustle. Remembering the possibly crazed old grandmother, he shouted, “It’s me, Edward Wainwright. About the flat.”
Mademoiselle Iskarov’s voice answered him. “You can’t come in.”
‘What now?’ thought Edward. And what on earth was going on inside? Mademoiselle Iskarov was in no fit state to have got herself into any compromising situation. Maybe the aged grandmother had run amok?
He shouted, “I’ve brought the keys back.”
“Put them in the letter-box downstairs,” Mademoiselle Iskarov replied in a muffled voice.
“But I have to talk to you,” Edward protested. “I want to rent the flat. We need to discuss arrangements and things.”
“Good. I’m very pleased you’re going to take it,” came Mademoiselle Iskarov’s voice. “But I’m afraid I can’t let you in. We’ll discuss it all on the phone.”
“Why can’t you let me in?” Edward exploded. “It’ll take three minutes.”
There was a very long pause, such a long pause that he wondered if he hadn’t blown it. Goodbye, rue Surcouf.
“I realise you’re not feeling well,” he added placatingly. “But, really, it won’t take any time. I’d just like to have it all settled before I go back to the office.”
Behind him, he was aware of inquisitive footsteps coming to the door of the flat opposite.
Lowering his voice, he said, “Listen, I don’t want to be a pain. So long as it’s definite I can have the flat.” And lastly, a bit guiltily, he asked, “Nothing’s the matter, is it? You are OK?”
Inside, there was a noise which was either a cough or a laugh. “I can’t let you see me in this condition,” Mademoiselle Iskarov answered. “It is too
Standing in his future living-room, he abandoned them. For everything about the flat delighted him: it consisted of three partially inter-connecting rooms, with double doors between them, like a jigsaw puzzle or some elementary set of children’s cubes. He walked through them, enjoying the clever satisfactory way the living-room led into the elbow-shaped kitchen, and from the further bedroom you could look back at the living-room windows. The flat was on the ground floor; overshadowed but not gloomy, it took up the right-hand side and half the back of a small, dingy courtyard and the left-hand side was occupied by someone whose name on the letter-box was Dupont. Edward found it all thoroughly cheery and authentic and congenial. He grinned at the lingering curry smells in his kitchen and the burnt-out joss sticks by the front door and felt positively grateful to the American “follower of Hinduism” for having had himself evicted at such a timely juncture. A straight choice between this flat and the marble pudding was no choice at all.
When he rang the front door bell of Mademoiselle Iskarov’s flat to return the keys and to tell her, to his surprise, that he would like to rent the flat, there was at first no answer. He rang the bell again and waited for a long time. Maybe in her scatty way she had gone out and forgotten about him? Or maybe she was bombed out of her mind with the French equivalent of Night Nurse? He began to scribble a message on a sheet of his pocket notepad. On the other side of the door, there was an undeniable rustle. Remembering the possibly crazed old grandmother, he shouted, “It’s me, Edward Wainwright. About the flat.”
Mademoiselle Iskarov’s voice answered him. “You can’t come in.”
‘What now?’ thought Edward. And what on earth was going on inside? Mademoiselle Iskarov was in no fit state to have got herself into any compromising situation. Maybe the aged grandmother had run amok?
He shouted, “I’ve brought the keys back.”
“Put them in the letter-box downstairs,” Mademoiselle Iskarov replied in a muffled voice.
“But I have to talk to you,” Edward protested. “I want to rent the flat. We need to discuss arrangements and things.”
“Good. I’m very pleased you’re going to take it,” came Mademoiselle Iskarov’s voice. “But I’m afraid I can’t let you in. We’ll discuss it all on the phone.”
“Why can’t you let me in?” Edward exploded. “It’ll take three minutes.”
There was a very long pause, such a long pause that he wondered if he hadn’t blown it. Goodbye, rue Surcouf.
“I realise you’re not feeling well,” he added placatingly. “But, really, it won’t take any time. I’d just like to have it all settled before I go back to the office.”
Behind him, he was aware of inquisitive footsteps coming to the door of the flat opposite.
Lowering his voice, he said, “Listen, I don’t want to be a pain. So long as it’s definite I can have the flat.” And lastly, a bit guiltily, he asked, “Nothing’s the matter, is it? You are OK?”
Inside, there was a noise which was either a cough or a laugh. “I can’t let you see me in this condition,” Mademoiselle Iskarov answered. “It is too
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