The French Girl Read Free Page B

be a Pig Woman.
    I suddenly had trouble swallowing and pushed the bowl away.
    “Are you buying bread today, Madame, or just squeezing it?” Monsieur Segal asked watching her.
    “I should not think you would mind my making sure the bread was fresh, Monsieur Segal,” Mrs. Lavasseur answered. I watched the roll of skin under her chin vibrate as she spoke.
    “Have you ever bought bread from my shop that was not fresh?”
    “Only because I check each loaf before I buy it,” Mrs. Lavasseur replied. Her thick hands squeezed yet another loaf.
    “Humph.”
    “For what you charge, Monsieur, I should think all of your customers would want to check the freshness of the bread,” Mrs. Lavasseur said as she turned and her ample bottom nearly knocked over a display of jellies that was stacked nearby.
    “If all of my customers checked the bread the way you do, Madame, I would have to sell it at half price for being damaged merchandise.”
    “Perhaps you should sell it at half price to give your customers a break,” she said as she took not one, but three loaves and shoved them into her basket.
    “But I see my prices do not stop you from buying it,” Monsieur Segal said.  He snickered and turned towards me to see if I had heard him.  He saw I was not eating and frowned.
    “ Qu'est-ce que c'est ? What is it, Etoile?” he asked.  “You do not like?”
    “I…I…” I tried to speak but no words came out. I just kept staring at Mrs. Lavasseur’s ankles hanging over the edge of her shoes.
    I jumped off the stool and ran out the front door.
    “Etoile!” I heard Monsieur Segal call.
    ***
    Running through the back alleys, I stumbled over an empty box of Boston Baked Beans, a discarded copy of The Thorn Birds in French, fish wrap, a single clog, and the body of a dead seagull as I ran back towards the apartment.
    The curtains were still drawn but I did not care.  I needed to ask Maman if she really thought I was a pig and not a real French woman.  Stumbling, I ran up the stairs trying not to lose my footing as my well-worn shoes hit the carpeted treads.  I unlocked the front door with the key I kept on a chain around my neck and banged on Maman’s bedroom door.
    “Maman!” I said, “I need you.  Please, Maman.”
    Anais bedroom door suddenly opened up and there was Luc Paul, sitting on the edge of Anais’ bed, shoving his big feet into his boots and lacing them up.
    Anais fumbled with the buttons on her blouse as she grabbed me hard by the shoulder and dragged me out into the hall, shutting the door behind her.
    “What are you doing?” she asked shaking me.
    “I…I need to talk to Maman,” I said.
    “She is sleeping.  Stop banging so on doors or you will wake up the dead.”
    “What are you doing, Anais? Why is he in your room?”
    “We were just…talking. Stop asking so many questions and tais-toi ! Be quiet!”
    “But Anais, please, I need to talk to Maman!” I said.  She folded her arms and it struck me that it could have been Maman standing there; they looked so much alike with the same dark curly hair and the brown, chestnut-shaped eyes.
    “Go!” she said giving me a shove towards the door.
    I turned.  “But Anais, please,” I begged.
    She looked over her shoulder towards her bedroom door, reached into her front pocket and took out a wad of money wrapped in the same scrimshaw clip I’d seen Luc Paul take out of his pocket.
    “Where did you get that?” I asked.  Anais peeled off a few dollars and shoved them in the palm of my hand.
    “Ssshh.  Go buy us some milk and bread and stop asking so many questions,” she said, her eyes flaring.  I heard a shuffling movement by the bedroom door.  “ Rapidement ! Quickly!” Anais said, glancing back towards her bedroom door.
    I left and headed back towards the markets, but I did not want to go into Le Gateau again.  I did not want Monsieur Segal staring at me with his gray eyes and asking me about what I’d seen or dangle anymore of his ice