The Doll Maker Read Free Page A

Marseille had thought of making our invitation on Winter Street, but decided against it. Too many busybodies to ruin our surprise.
    At just after noon the bus pulled over near the corner of Sixteenth and Locust. The teenage girls – about a dozen in number, all dressed alike in their school uniforms – disembarked. They lingered on the corner, chatting about everything and nothing, as girls of an age will do.
    After a short time, a few cars showed up; a number of the girls drove off in backseats, carpooled by one mother or another.
    The girl who would be our guest walked a few blocks south with another of her classmates, a tall, lanky girl wearing a magenta cardigan, in the style of a fisherman’s knit.
    We drove a few blocks ahead of them, parked in an alley, then marched briskly around the block, coming up behind the girls. Girls at this age often dawdle, and this was good for us. We caught them in short order.
    When the tall girl finally said goodbye, on the corner of Sixteenth and Spruce, Mr Marseille and I walked up behind our soon-to-be guest, waiting for the signal to cross the street.
    Eventually the girl looked over.
    ‘Hello,’ Mr Marseille said.
    The girl glanced at me, then at Mr Marseille. Sensing no threat, perhaps because she saw us as a couple – a couple of an age not significantly greater than her own – she returned the greeting.
    ‘Hi,’ she said.
    While we waited for the light to change, Mr Marseille unbuttoned his coat, struck a pose, offering the well-turned peak lapel of his suit jacket. The hem was a pick stitch, and finely finished. I know this because I am the seamstress who fitted him.
    ‘Wow,’ the girl added. ‘I like your suit. A lot .’
    Mr Marseille’s eyes lighted. In addition to being sartorially fastidious, he was terribly vain, and always available for a compliment.
    ‘What a lovely thing to say,’ he said. ‘How very kind of you.’
    The girl, perhaps not knowing the correct response, said nothing. She stole a glance at the Walk signal. It still showed a hand.
    ‘My name is Marseille,’ he said. ‘This is my dearest heart, Anabelle.’
    Mr Marseille extended his hand. The girl blushed, offered her own.
    ‘I’m Nicole.’
    Mr Marseille leaned forward, as was his manner, and gently kissed the back of the girl’s fingers. Many think the custom is to kiss the back of a lady’s hand – on the side just opposite the palm – but this is not proper.
    A gentleman knows.
    Nicole reddened even more deeply.
    When she glanced at me I made the slightest curtsy. Ladies do not shake hands with ladies.
    At this moment the light changed. Mr Marseille let go of the girl’s hand and, in a courtly fashion, offered her safe passage across the lane.
    I followed.
    We continued down the street in silence until we came to the mouth of the alley; the alley in which we parked our car.
    Mr Marseille held up a hand. He and I stopped walking.
    ‘I have a confession to make,’ he said.
    The girl, appearing to be fully at ease with these two polite and interesting characters, stopped as well. She looked intrigued by Mr Marseille’s statement.
    ‘A confession?’
    ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Our meeting was not by accident today. We’re here to invite you to tea.’
    The girl looked at me for a moment, then back at Mr Marseille.
    ‘You want to invite me to tea?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said.
    Mr Marseille smiled. He had a pretty smile, brilliantly white, almost feminine in its deceits. It was the kind of smile that turned strangers into cohorts in all manner of petty crime, the kind of smile that puts at ease both the very young and the very old. I’ve yet to meet a young woman who could resist its charm.
    ‘Every day, about four o’clock, we have tea,’ Mr Marseille said. ‘It is quite the haphazard affair on most days, but every so often we have a special tea – a thé dansant , if you’ll allow – one to which we invite all our friends, and always