round, nose to rear end. The poodle’s owner, an older woman wearing a shirtwaist dress and carrying a market basket, smiled and said hello. She looked like a bourgeoise from head to toe, but she delightedly watched the two dogs smelling each others’ butts.
“This is why I like France,” I said to Rachel, in French. “The French love dogs.”
“Even their nasty habits,” said the woman.
The two dogs touched noses.
“Pardon,” the woman said, “I am pressed for time.” She tugged at the poodle’s leash and he reluctantly followed her as she walked down the street.
“Foxy has no problem with the language,” I said to Rachel. “He loves the French. They give him food. Like Agatha. Agatha gave him little morsels from her plate. Foxy loved Agatha. And not just because of the food.” As the magnitude of Agatha’s death struck me again, I added, my voice shaking, “How could she die like that! In her bed, yes. I could imagine that. But she was sprawled there, in the bathroom.”
“I didn’t know her very well,” Rachel said. “But I’m sad about it.” She didn’t look very sad: her face, as usual, was composed, with her lips folded neatly together.
I could feel myself trembling internally with an aftermath of shock, as I had intermittently all afternoon. “She had a needle in her tongue, Rachel!” It burst from me, and I was immediately sorry, but I also knew that my seemingly spontaneous remark was at bottom deliberate—I wanted to see how Rachel would react.
“What!” Rachel replied, horror in her face and in her voice. She stopped walking, and Foxy, ears raised, looked up at her. She’s a good actor, I thought, or else perhaps she really wasn’t Agatha’s killer. Perhaps.
“Maybe it was a kind of mortification,” I said. “But Agatha? Not her.”
“Not like her. Not like her at all,” agreed Rachel.
Foxy put his nose in my hand. “No, not at all. But maybe I really didn’t know her,” I said, patting Foxy on the head—the nose meant sympathy.
“She is—was—so . . . hearty,” said Rachel,
“Good word. Heart-y. She had heart. No nonsense, either. Practical. She’d think it was senseless to do such a thing. It just wasn’t like her. She would stick out her tongue but not impale it. What would it accomplish to stick a needle through it? Why would God—if there is a God—want you to hurt yourself? Mutilate your body—the body he had theoretically made? I can just hear her!” I paused, thought about what I wanted to say, then said it, “In any case, the needle was not inserted until after she got to the archive. She was talking normally. Greeted me when I came into the archive. She couldn’t do that with a needle in her tongue. I keep thinking that maybe someone wanted to sew her mouth shut.”
And maybe it was you, I thought.
We resumed walking, in silence, to the Café Minette, where we sat inside to get out of the cold. I ordered pastis, Rachel coffee. While we were waiting for the drinks to arrive, Rachel brought up the needle again, “I can’t imagine anyone we know stabbing Agatha’s tongue with a needle,” she said.
“Someone did, though,” I replied. Then I said, dredging it out of my childhood, “‘Who knows what evil lies in the hearts of men.’”
“Who said that?” asked Rachel.
“My mother. She was quoting from an old 1930s-1940s radio show called ‘The Shadow.’ The answer is, ‘The Shadow knows.’ The Shadow was a detective.”
Rachel measured me with her eyes, and as she did, her face, usually so composed, crumpled.
Had she decided she could trust me? People have always told me secrets—I am not sure why. She was turning out to be no exception. She said abruptly, “While your mother was listening to ‘The Shadow,’ mine was escaping from the Nazis. She was only four then.”
“Oh,” I said, then added, not knowing what else to say, “Then she really knew about the evil in the hearts of men.”
The drinks came.
As I
“This is why I like France,” I said to Rachel, in French. “The French love dogs.”
“Even their nasty habits,” said the woman.
The two dogs touched noses.
“Pardon,” the woman said, “I am pressed for time.” She tugged at the poodle’s leash and he reluctantly followed her as she walked down the street.
“Foxy has no problem with the language,” I said to Rachel. “He loves the French. They give him food. Like Agatha. Agatha gave him little morsels from her plate. Foxy loved Agatha. And not just because of the food.” As the magnitude of Agatha’s death struck me again, I added, my voice shaking, “How could she die like that! In her bed, yes. I could imagine that. But she was sprawled there, in the bathroom.”
“I didn’t know her very well,” Rachel said. “But I’m sad about it.” She didn’t look very sad: her face, as usual, was composed, with her lips folded neatly together.
I could feel myself trembling internally with an aftermath of shock, as I had intermittently all afternoon. “She had a needle in her tongue, Rachel!” It burst from me, and I was immediately sorry, but I also knew that my seemingly spontaneous remark was at bottom deliberate—I wanted to see how Rachel would react.
“What!” Rachel replied, horror in her face and in her voice. She stopped walking, and Foxy, ears raised, looked up at her. She’s a good actor, I thought, or else perhaps she really wasn’t Agatha’s killer. Perhaps.
“Maybe it was a kind of mortification,” I said. “But Agatha? Not her.”
“Not like her. Not like her at all,” agreed Rachel.
Foxy put his nose in my hand. “No, not at all. But maybe I really didn’t know her,” I said, patting Foxy on the head—the nose meant sympathy.
“She is—was—so . . . hearty,” said Rachel,
“Good word. Heart-y. She had heart. No nonsense, either. Practical. She’d think it was senseless to do such a thing. It just wasn’t like her. She would stick out her tongue but not impale it. What would it accomplish to stick a needle through it? Why would God—if there is a God—want you to hurt yourself? Mutilate your body—the body he had theoretically made? I can just hear her!” I paused, thought about what I wanted to say, then said it, “In any case, the needle was not inserted until after she got to the archive. She was talking normally. Greeted me when I came into the archive. She couldn’t do that with a needle in her tongue. I keep thinking that maybe someone wanted to sew her mouth shut.”
And maybe it was you, I thought.
We resumed walking, in silence, to the Café Minette, where we sat inside to get out of the cold. I ordered pastis, Rachel coffee. While we were waiting for the drinks to arrive, Rachel brought up the needle again, “I can’t imagine anyone we know stabbing Agatha’s tongue with a needle,” she said.
“Someone did, though,” I replied. Then I said, dredging it out of my childhood, “‘Who knows what evil lies in the hearts of men.’”
“Who said that?” asked Rachel.
“My mother. She was quoting from an old 1930s-1940s radio show called ‘The Shadow.’ The answer is, ‘The Shadow knows.’ The Shadow was a detective.”
Rachel measured me with her eyes, and as she did, her face, usually so composed, crumpled.
Had she decided she could trust me? People have always told me secrets—I am not sure why. She was turning out to be no exception. She said abruptly, “While your mother was listening to ‘The Shadow,’ mine was escaping from the Nazis. She was only four then.”
“Oh,” I said, then added, not knowing what else to say, “Then she really knew about the evil in the hearts of men.”
The drinks came.
As I
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