mother how I was keeping.
I passed one stall with what I thought were plucked birds strung up between two posts. The meat smelt gamy and I asked the seller what it was. He scratched his head and tried to draw the creature in the air with his finger before he remembered the French term: le hérisson . Hedgehog. I recoiled and scurried away. The bodies resembled Bonbon too much for my liking.
A seagull squawked overhead. I followed its path through the sky and watched it land on the dock. At the same time I noticed Camille standing at a fruit wagon on the corner of Rue Breteuil. She held a bunch of irises wrapped in newspaper in one arm, and pointed out some grapes to the grocer with the other. Her blondeness stood out amongst all the dark faces like a streetlamp in a dim alley. She was wearing her green dress with an Indian shawl draped over her shoulders and her hair swept back from her face with a ribbon. After collecting her purchase, she glanced in my direction. But if she saw me, she gave no indication of it and turned in the direction of the Canebière.
She must be on her way to the music hall, I thought. Bonbon wriggled in my arms and I set her down on the ground. She scampered her way through the tangle of legs, running towards Camille and tugging me after her. It was a strange thing for Bonbon to do, for she was much more attached to me than to her mistress. I wondered if she understood how much Camille stimulated my curiosity and was giving me a chance to talk to her away from the house.
The Canebière was crowded at the best of times but it was especially so that night because of the gypsies. For once I was thankful for my unfeminine height because Icould just make out Camille’s blonde head bobbing among the sea of others in front of us. She turned into an avenue shaded by plane trees; Bonbon and I followed behind. The street was crowded with well-turned-out women walking arm in arm with their sophisticated companions. Food vendors lined up their carts against the gutters and ripe melons and peaches scented the air. Bonbon pranced on, ignoring the bejewelled poodles and fox terriers that wagged their tails and sent her longing glances. Had she travelled this way before? I wondered. Was she remembering her way home?
It seemed devious to be following Camille but I couldn’t get close enough to her to call out. At each corner I hoped that she would turn around and see me, but she never did. She marched on, fixed on her destination. After a while, she turned into a narrow street whose houses blocked the last rays of sun. The cobblestones reeked of alcohol and vomit. The façades of the houses—those that weren’t covered with ivy—were eyesores of peeling paint. Prostitutes, much scrawnier than those who lived next door to us, peered from the doorways, beckoning to the groups of sailors loitering on the streets. I picked up Bonbon and glanced over my shoulder, wary of going any further into the side streets but too scared to turn back either.
Camille disappeared around a corner and I broke into a run to keep up with her. I found myself in a square with a fountain in the centre. At the end of it was an enormous stone building with four columns and a carved panel of dancing nymphs on either side of its double doors. Le Chat Espiègle, the sign above it read. The building was grand in size but dilapidated in detail. The columns were cracked and stained and the reliefs, probably once white, were black with grime. I reached the fountain in time to see Camille enter an alley at the side of the building. I bolted across the square in pursuit, and was about to call out to her when she ran up some stairs and disappeared through a door. I hesitated a moment, wondering if I should followher. I climbed the steps and turned the latch, but the door was locked. The faint strains of piano chords and a tappety-tap sound drifted out through an open window on the second floor. Bonbon pricked up her ears and I stopped to
I passed one stall with what I thought were plucked birds strung up between two posts. The meat smelt gamy and I asked the seller what it was. He scratched his head and tried to draw the creature in the air with his finger before he remembered the French term: le hérisson . Hedgehog. I recoiled and scurried away. The bodies resembled Bonbon too much for my liking.
A seagull squawked overhead. I followed its path through the sky and watched it land on the dock. At the same time I noticed Camille standing at a fruit wagon on the corner of Rue Breteuil. She held a bunch of irises wrapped in newspaper in one arm, and pointed out some grapes to the grocer with the other. Her blondeness stood out amongst all the dark faces like a streetlamp in a dim alley. She was wearing her green dress with an Indian shawl draped over her shoulders and her hair swept back from her face with a ribbon. After collecting her purchase, she glanced in my direction. But if she saw me, she gave no indication of it and turned in the direction of the Canebière.
She must be on her way to the music hall, I thought. Bonbon wriggled in my arms and I set her down on the ground. She scampered her way through the tangle of legs, running towards Camille and tugging me after her. It was a strange thing for Bonbon to do, for she was much more attached to me than to her mistress. I wondered if she understood how much Camille stimulated my curiosity and was giving me a chance to talk to her away from the house.
The Canebière was crowded at the best of times but it was especially so that night because of the gypsies. For once I was thankful for my unfeminine height because Icould just make out Camille’s blonde head bobbing among the sea of others in front of us. She turned into an avenue shaded by plane trees; Bonbon and I followed behind. The street was crowded with well-turned-out women walking arm in arm with their sophisticated companions. Food vendors lined up their carts against the gutters and ripe melons and peaches scented the air. Bonbon pranced on, ignoring the bejewelled poodles and fox terriers that wagged their tails and sent her longing glances. Had she travelled this way before? I wondered. Was she remembering her way home?
It seemed devious to be following Camille but I couldn’t get close enough to her to call out. At each corner I hoped that she would turn around and see me, but she never did. She marched on, fixed on her destination. After a while, she turned into a narrow street whose houses blocked the last rays of sun. The cobblestones reeked of alcohol and vomit. The façades of the houses—those that weren’t covered with ivy—were eyesores of peeling paint. Prostitutes, much scrawnier than those who lived next door to us, peered from the doorways, beckoning to the groups of sailors loitering on the streets. I picked up Bonbon and glanced over my shoulder, wary of going any further into the side streets but too scared to turn back either.
Camille disappeared around a corner and I broke into a run to keep up with her. I found myself in a square with a fountain in the centre. At the end of it was an enormous stone building with four columns and a carved panel of dancing nymphs on either side of its double doors. Le Chat Espiègle, the sign above it read. The building was grand in size but dilapidated in detail. The columns were cracked and stained and the reliefs, probably once white, were black with grime. I reached the fountain in time to see Camille enter an alley at the side of the building. I bolted across the square in pursuit, and was about to call out to her when she ran up some stairs and disappeared through a door. I hesitated a moment, wondering if I should followher. I climbed the steps and turned the latch, but the door was locked. The faint strains of piano chords and a tappety-tap sound drifted out through an open window on the second floor. Bonbon pricked up her ears and I stopped to
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