actually know how much fat there is in those things?â)
Rosalie, who had her own idea of what makes for a happy life (which did not necessarily include power training, muesli, or soy milkshakes), was not at all impressed, and all her boyfriendâs missionary efforts had so far failed miserably. Rosalie just couldnât see why she should eat âgrain.â âGrain is cow fodder and Iâm not a cow,â she used to say and then spread thick layers of butter and jelly on a piece of croissant and stick it in her mouth.
René watched her with a pained expression.
âAnd anyway, nothing tastes better with a café crème than a croissant or a baguette,â she went on, brushing a few crumbs off the bedclothes. âYou have to admit that.â
âThen just leave out the café crème, a kiwi and spinach smoothie is healthier in the morning anyway,â retorted René, and Rosalie nearly choked on her croissant with laughter. That was really the most absurd thing sheâd ever heard. A morning without coffee was likeâRosalie tried to find a suitable comparisonâwas ⦠just unimaginable, she concluded to herself.
At the very beginning, when sheâd only just met René, she had allowed herself to be persuaded to join him on his early-morning run through the Jardin du Luxembourg. âItâll be greatâyouâll see,â he had said. âAt six in the morning Paris is a totally different city!â
He might well have been right, but the old, pleasantly familiar Paris, where you stayed up late at night and drew, wrote, read, debated, and drank red wine, then began the next day comfortably in bedâbest of all with a large cup of milky coffeeâwas much more to Rosalieâs taste. And while René ran beside her under the old chestnut trees with great gazellelike strides, trying to involve her in relaxed conversation (âyou should only run at a pace that allows you to chat properlyâ), she started to puff after the first hundred meters and finally stopped with a stitch.
âThe beginning is always the hardest,â said her coach. âDonât give up now!â
Like everyone whoâs in love and tries very hard at the outset to merge symbiotically with their partner and adopt their preferences, Rosalie had even given in to Renéâs entreaties and tried it one more timeâbut alone, and not at six oâclock in the morningâbut after a centenarian with a tottering gait, his body bent terrifyingly forward, his arms swinging wildly, had overtaken her, she finally said goodbye to the idea of becoming sporty.
âI think my walks with William Morris are enough for me,â she explained with a laugh.
âWhoâs William Morris? Should I be jealous?â René was concerned. (At that point he had not yet been in her shop, and he had no clue about William Morris the artist. But that was forgivableâafter all, she didnât know the name of all the bones and ligaments in her body, either.)
Sheâd given René a kiss and explained that William Morris was her little dog, whom sheâas the owner of a stationery storeâhad named after the legendary Victorian painter and architect, among other reasons because he had produced the most wonderful designs for fabrics and wallpaper.
William Morrisâthe dogâwas an extremely agreeable Lhasa Apso, and he was now almost as old as the postcard store. During the day he lay peacefully in his basket near the entrance; at night he slept behind the kitchen door on a blanket, and sometimes, when he was dreaming, his paws would jerk in his sleep and bang against the door frame. As the man from the animal shelter had explained to her when she got him, this small breed of dog was so particularly peaceful because they had in the past accompanied wandering Tibetan monks who had taken a vow of silence.
René liked the Tibetan connection, and William