And Then Came Paulette Read Free Page B

Well, all right, it hadn’t been a very broad smile. And she wasn’t such a pretty girl—to be honest she looked a bit skanky, with her high heels, tight skirt and the spare tire around her waist—but that wasn’t important; he had won his smile for the day.
    The clock was now showing a quarter to four. Only three quarters of an hour till they came out of school. Looking up at the sky he realized that the two gray clouds had merged into a single, ominously dark, mass. He remembered the laundry he had put out to dry; he told himself there was still time to go home before it started pouring down. He was going to have to step on it to make it in time.
    He was annoyed with himself for having stayed for so long outside the café. His legs were stiff. It took a while to stretch them and when finally he managed to stand up, his son, Roland, appeared. He came and stood right in front of him, with his paunch sticking out.
    “What are you doing here?”
    “What are you talking about? You know I live just opposite.”
    If Roland had stirred himself to come over, it was bound to mean he had something important to talk about. But as usual his son didn’t know how to handle it or where to begin. To gain time he shifted from one foot to the other and cleared his throat. Really irritating.
    “So?”
    “Well I was just thinking that if you keep on messing around with that stick of yours, you’re gonna cause an accident.”
    Ferdinand sat down again with a sigh, took out his pipe and pouch of tobacco.
    “That it?”
    “No . . .”
    “Well?”
    “Well, Mireille and I, we can understand it if you don’t want to come into the dining room, but we both think it’d be a lot better if you came and had your drink on our terrace. It’d be more normal, don’t you think?”
    “Sounds like an invitation.”
    He took his time, drawing a few times on his pipe. To wind him up just that little bit more. Roland hated to see him smoking.
    “That’s nice of you, son. I appreciate that. Only thing is this white wine, I don’t know why, but it’s better here. There’s no getting away from it.”
    Roland did not take the bait. Once again he felt a sharp pain in the left side of his ribcage but nothing that could be seen as suspicious or completely abnormal (he had checked it out with Doctor Lubin, who assured him it was just tachycardia). Then after instinctively clearing his throat several times he turned abruptly to go back home. To his own restaurant. On the other side of the square, fifty yards away at the most. With its own terrace for smokers. He took great care to maintain a natural, dignified walk. His head held high, shoulders back, the bottle-opener dangling from the end of a string, beating against his thighs to the rhythm of his step—neat. Except that very soon he felt something awkward. Something seemed to be stuck in the middle of his back, right between the shoulder blades. And it began to seriously get to him. If he had followed his instincts he would have turned around there and then, and gone and punched the idiot’s lights out, standing there smirking behind his curtains. Made him swallow that patronizing little expression. Christ, it got on his nerves! But he hadpromised his wife he would keep his cool. Quick. Calm down. Think. Try to . . . In any case, if his rival’s old goat of a father had come over for a drink on his terrace, he’d have been wearing the stupid little smile himself. Just to annoy him.
    Yes, it was true, now he came to think of it. He felt calmer. Strangely, the thought cheered him up.
    But as he was about to enter the restaurant, he caught the expression on his wife’s face, at the back of the dining room. Here we go again, feeling very small. No family stuff in public, Roland, we’ve already discussed it. Yes, but you see, Mireille, P’pa winds me up. He pushed open the door. The bell tinkled. Mireille turned away without saying a word. Anyway, he already knew what she thought. That if