“Nothing,” he says grumpily. “Just a friend.”
“Do you want me to stay in the bedroom?”
“Ah, no.” He might have suggested it if she hadn’t, but when he hears it on her lips, he realizes how childish the idea is. “Turn the radio off, will you?”
There is a knock at the door, and at the same time the rock music roars as Marie-Louise turns the knob the wrong way.
“Sorry!”
“Forget it.” He opens the door.
Moishe stands in the doorway, smiling uneasily. “What happened? You dropped something?”
“No, just the radio. Come in.”
“Thank you.” He takes off his hat as he enters. “Mademoiselle?”
Marie-Louise is standing by the radio, a towel turbaned around her newly washed hair.
LaPointe introduces them, telling Moishe that she is from Trois Rivières also, as if that explained something.
Moishe shakes hands with her, smiling and making a slight European bow.
“Well,” LaPointe says with too much energy. “Ah… come sit down.” He gestures Moishe to the sofa. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“No, no, thank you. I can only stay a moment. I was on my way to the shop, and I thought I would drop by. I telephoned earlier, but you didn’t answer.”
“We took a walk.”
“Ah, I don’t blame you. A beautiful day, eh, mademoiselle? Particularly after all this pig weather we appreciate it. The feast and famine principle.”
She nods without understanding.
“Why did you phone?” LaPointe realizes this sounds unfriendly. He is off balance because of the girl.
“Oh, yes! About the game tomorrow night. The good priest called and said he wouldn’t be able to make it. He’s down with a cold, maybe a little flu. And I thought maybe you wouldn’t want to play three-handed cutthroat.”
On the rare occasions when one of them cannot make the game, the others play cutthroat, but it isn’t nearly so much fun. LaPointe is usually the absent one, working on a case, or dead tired after a series of late nights.
“What about David?” LaPointe asks. “Does he want to play?”
“Ah, you know David. He always wants to play. He says that without the burden of Martin he will show us how the game is really played!”
“All right, then let’s play. Teach him a lesson.”
“Good.” Moishe smiles at Marie-Louise. “All this talk about pinochle must be dull for you, mademoiselle.”
She shrugs. She really hasn’t been paying any attention. She has been engrossed in gnawing at a broken bit of thumbnail. For the first time, LaPointe notices that she bites her fingernails. And that her toenails are painted a garish red. He wishes she had gone into the bedroom after all.
“You realize, Claude, this is the first time I have ever visited you?”
“Yes, I know,” he answers too quickly.
There is a short silence.
“I’m not surprised that Martin is ill,” Moishe says. “He looked a little pallid the other night.”
“I didn’t notice it.” LaPointe cannot think of anything to say to his friend. There is no reason why he should have to explain Marie-Louise to him. It’s none of his business. Still… “You’re sure you won’t have some coffee?”
Moishe protects his chest with the backs of his hands. “No, no. Thank you. I must get back to the shop.” He rises. “I’m a little behind in work. David is better at finding work than I am at doing it. See you tomorrow night then, Claude. Delighted to make your acquaintance, mademoiselle.” He shakes hands at the door and starts down the staircase.
Even before Moishe has reached the front door, Marie-Louise says, “He’s funny.”
“In what way funny?”
“I don’t know. He’s polite and nice. That little bow of his. And calling me mademoiselle. And he has a funny accent. Is he a friend of yours?”
LaPointe is looking out the window at Moishe descending the front stoop. “Yes, he’s a friend.”
“Too bad he has to work on Sundays.”
“He’s Jewish. Sunday is not his Sabbath. He never works on Saturdays.”
Marie-Louise comes to the window and looks down at Moishe, who is walking down the street. “He’s Jewish? Gee, he seemed very nice.”
LaPointe laughs. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know. From what the nuns used to say about Jews… You know, I don’t think I ever met a Jew in person before. Unless some of the men…” She shrugs and goes back to the gas fire, where she kneels and scrubs her hair with her fingers to dry it. The side closest to the fire dries quickly and springs back into its frizzy mop. “Let’s go somewhere,” she says, still scrubbing her hair.
“You bored?”
“Sure. Aren’t you?”
“No.”
“You ought to get a TV.”
“I don’t need one.”
“Look, I think I’ll go out, if you don’t want to.” She turns her head to dry the other side. “You want to screw before I go?” She continues scrubbing her hair.
She doesn’t notice that he is silent for several seconds before he says a definite “No.”
“Okay. I don’t blame you. You worked hard last night. You know, it was real good for me. I was…” She decides not to finish that.
“You were surprised?” he pursues.
“No, not exactly. Older men can be real good. They don’t usually blow off too quickly, you know what I mean?”
“Jesus Christ!”
She looks up at him, startled and bewildered. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing! Forget it.”
But her eyes are angry. “You know, I get sick and tired of it, the way you always get mad when I talk about… making love.” Her tone mocks the euphemism. “You know what’s wrong with you? You’re just pissed because someone else a fait sauter ma cerise before you could get at it! That’s what’s wrong with you!” She rises and limps strongly into the bedroom, where he can hear her getting dressed.
Twice she speaks to him from the other room. Once repeating what she thought was wrong with him, and once grumbling about anybody who didn’t even have a goddamned TV in his pad…
He answers neither time. He sits looking out over the park, where the sun is already paling as the skies become milky again with overcast.
When she comes back into the living room, she is wearing the long patchwork dress she bought yesterday. As she puts on her new coat, she asks coldly, “Well? Coming with me?”
“Do you have your key?” He is still looking out the window.
“What?”
“You’ll need your key to get back in. Do you have it?”
“Yes! I’ve got it!” She slams the door.
He watches her from the window, feeling angry with himself. What’s wrong with him? Why is he fooling around with a kid like this anyway, like a silly old fringalet? There’s only one thing to do; he’s got to find her a job and get her the hell out of his apartment.
Marie-Louise walks huffily down the street, not bothering to flex her knee to conceal the limp, because she knows he’s probably looking down at her and will feel sorry for her. She is angry about not getting her own way, but at the same time she is worried about spoiling a good thing. It’s dull and boring, that frumpy apartment, but it’s shelter. He lets her have money. He doesn’t ask much of her. Shouldn’t ruin a good thing until you’ve got something better. She recalls how the young Greek boy played the tripoteux with her under the table last night. Perhaps the old man noticed. Maybe that’s why he’s so irritable.
Anyway, she’ll let him stew about it for a while, then she’ll come back to the apartment. He’ll be glad enough to see her. They don’t get all the young stuff they want, these old guys.
Maybe she’ll walk over to the Greek restaurant. See if anyone’s around.
Beyond the window, evening has set in, fringing the layers of yeasty cloud. The morning’s sunlight was a trick after all, a joke.