Silent Bird Read Free Page A

shortage. I hadn’t considered the flood of students living in the South of France, hadn’t done my research, and now would have to lay my head in the lack of bed I had made for myself.
    El que corre, se cae, Grandma would say. He who runs, falls. In other words, forget problems finding a bagel; I was getting my Just Desserts…
    Then, suddenly, the dim twist of cobblestones I was following opened into an unexpected swish of sunshine and vivacity. The plaza, tucked into one of Montpellier’s deepest side pockets, with a For Rent sign directly in front of the loveliest building.
    Talk about fate! My heart whooped. I would have whooped and run along with it if my toe wasn’t itching so damn much.
    Oh please be nice inside , I thought, as I limped past café tables alive with students, families, elders, teenagers and dogs; past the scents of beef and baking bread along with something earthy and dank, maybe wildflowers or dog shit, which was also part of the panoply of sensations; past a door cheerfully ajar into a simply appointed rental office.
    A middle-aged man sat at the lone desk. He glanced up at my entrance. A young man standing over him smiled briefly in my direction too but kept talking; he was demanding something in a mishmash of sounds that seemed to end in the word frigo.
    Fridge? Take me fridge?
    The older man held up a hand to the man with the food storage problem and stood. “Mademoiselle,” he said, following with a long string of nonsense.
    “ Appartement ?” I tried in French, pointing at the sign and sounding like a toddler with a speech impediment. I fought down a surge of panic. Why didn’t these people speak English? This French stuff would never come out of my mouth; Mom had been right. I should have chosen Connecticut for my little adventure….
    Th e man pushed a few strands of over-ambitious hair aside and stepped forward to welcome me. He was a businessman, nervous but nice enough. He wore a well-made button-down shirt and creased white slacks. The younger man stood as well, his hair tousled as if he’d just climbed out of bed. He wore a white T-shirt over jeans, and old-fashioned rubber flip flops, black. He also wore dark blond stubble and a grin so bright I wanted to grab it and stuff it inside my purse.
    “ Appartement ,” I said again, emphasizing a different part of the word. Apart ment . “Sorry, my French…”
    The man at the desk said, “ Oui, oui, l’appartement ,” and scratched at his head as if trying to unearth a new way of communicating. He settled on small sentences spoken very loudly. “No problem! Small! This is good, yes?”
    “Small is good ,” I said, sort of. “Small is perfect.”
    The tall, lean young man wait ed patiently for me to finish. I placed a crumple of francs on the desk. To my surprise, the rental agent didn’t ask for a passport or count the money though he did un-crumple the bills, smooth them out, and anchor the pile under what looked like a Pet Rock. Then he stroked his comb-over again and lifted a set of brass keys from the wall.
    The young man said something else about his refrigerator — My “frigo” is broken? It cracked itself? —and the disagreement seemed to escalate. Both men gesticulated with genuine thespian talent.
    I zoned out. If the apartment worked out I’d haul my stuff from the Hôtel de la Gare to this charming plaza. I’d drink my morning coffee looking at that café and working on art. Corinthian columns outside; wainscoting inside. Maybe this building had been an estate house once. Maybe the plaza and café had replaced a seventeenth-century carriage house.
    The blond guy’s voice rose. My fridge is lost, he might have said. Or: My fridge has lost itself.
    Had it been stolen? Could be studios in France didn’t come with appliances. I’d have to buy my own or beg like this guy. Will Sketch for “ Frigo ,” my panhandling sign would say.
    Su ddenly Blondie heaved himself into a chair and crossed his arms. Not