and enlarged his picture.
He resembled me, his firm mouth and soft chin, and I packed him in my satchel and returned to the Dupaignes'.
The clock had been shattered by my travel so the afternoon felt like midnight to me, the hazy, glorious day lost behind my shuttered windows in this shadowed canyon of unlikely high-rise apartments. Herbert was awake now—6 A.M., 7 A.M.? —bellowing his fragmented songs, washing in a tub of ankle-deep cold water—a ritual I discovered when we were made to share a hotel room in Philadelphia on some little junket of his. Neither of us was very comfortable with the arrangement, and Herbert dealt with it by simply pretending I wasn't there. We lay side by side in the gargantuan beds, reading, and then he turned the light off and began to snore. I lay half asleep, pleased with the clean cotton sheets (Paris now), until the boy knocked on my door and called me to dinner.
D inner was served in an alcove which hung from the third-floor kitchen like an oversized flower box, seeming to hover in the air above the small courtyard. Beneath this alcove's sloped roof, built-in benches surrounded a low table. Windows on all three sides let the light in, and candles made multiple reflections in the uneven glass. Cushions lined the benches and we slid into our places. "Like dining in the prow of a ship," Per said.
"I sit by the house," the boy pointed out. He slipped onto the near bench, hair toweled and combed behind his big ears, in a fresh white T-shirt and khaki shorts. I sat down beside him. Serge—compact and handsome in a white cotton shirt tucked neatly into belted wool slacks with leather loafers and no socks (and with a great shock of white hair)—looked well beyond sixty. The family mathematics did not add up, but I put the equation out of mind for the time being, smiling at the pleasure of their company.
"English is our lingua franca whenever there are guests," Miriam announced. "Even when there are no guests Per doesn't really like French at all, and naturally Serge doesn't know a word of Danish."
"If you prefer French we can speak it," Per allowed. "Some guests of the university are disappointed to find the meals aren't in French." In fact it was a relief. I dismissed his offer with a generous shrug.
"No, the English is excellent, everyone's English."
Together with two musty bottles of brackish red wine from Normandy and a winter stew, Serge served a basket of warm baguettes and yogurt in a cool earthen crock. Stéphane , who seemed to have warmed up to me, now that we were at the dinner table, leaned close and unfurled his napkin.
"I am the devil," the boy offered, apropos of nothing.
Miriam apologized. "Sometimes the level of conversation here is very low."
"It is a lyric from Metallica," Stéphane explained, flush from the effort. With a delicate gesture he pointed at its source. "Per played it for me."
The boy's shoulder brushed mine. The stew and its fine perfume, the great piggish grunt of a wine, plus the good company, blurred a little beside the demanding clarity of this point of contact. I shifted against the boy as we maneuvered through dinner. Pleasantries fluttered from my lips like butterflies, alighting here on Serge, there on Miriam, while my mind retreated into exile, camped out in the monastery of my upper thigh where his hip now touched me. Pinioned to him throughout the conversation, I missed a great deal of what was said.
"Were you also in Paris during the manifestations?" I asked Per, trying to keep up. Stéphane reached for the stew and Miriam swatted his hand from it, then pushed the crock of yogurt toward him.
"I was at sea."
"For many years," Serge put in. "Per was a pilot of a masted ship the Danish navy used to train its sailors." The boy squished yogurt through his teeth, making a sound, then stopped, mocking boredom with a great yawn. " Fils , if you are bored by us you can leave and do your work in your room," Serge reminded him. "Such
He resembled me, his firm mouth and soft chin, and I packed him in my satchel and returned to the Dupaignes'.
The clock had been shattered by my travel so the afternoon felt like midnight to me, the hazy, glorious day lost behind my shuttered windows in this shadowed canyon of unlikely high-rise apartments. Herbert was awake now—6 A.M., 7 A.M.? —bellowing his fragmented songs, washing in a tub of ankle-deep cold water—a ritual I discovered when we were made to share a hotel room in Philadelphia on some little junket of his. Neither of us was very comfortable with the arrangement, and Herbert dealt with it by simply pretending I wasn't there. We lay side by side in the gargantuan beds, reading, and then he turned the light off and began to snore. I lay half asleep, pleased with the clean cotton sheets (Paris now), until the boy knocked on my door and called me to dinner.
D inner was served in an alcove which hung from the third-floor kitchen like an oversized flower box, seeming to hover in the air above the small courtyard. Beneath this alcove's sloped roof, built-in benches surrounded a low table. Windows on all three sides let the light in, and candles made multiple reflections in the uneven glass. Cushions lined the benches and we slid into our places. "Like dining in the prow of a ship," Per said.
"I sit by the house," the boy pointed out. He slipped onto the near bench, hair toweled and combed behind his big ears, in a fresh white T-shirt and khaki shorts. I sat down beside him. Serge—compact and handsome in a white cotton shirt tucked neatly into belted wool slacks with leather loafers and no socks (and with a great shock of white hair)—looked well beyond sixty. The family mathematics did not add up, but I put the equation out of mind for the time being, smiling at the pleasure of their company.
"English is our lingua franca whenever there are guests," Miriam announced. "Even when there are no guests Per doesn't really like French at all, and naturally Serge doesn't know a word of Danish."
"If you prefer French we can speak it," Per allowed. "Some guests of the university are disappointed to find the meals aren't in French." In fact it was a relief. I dismissed his offer with a generous shrug.
"No, the English is excellent, everyone's English."
Together with two musty bottles of brackish red wine from Normandy and a winter stew, Serge served a basket of warm baguettes and yogurt in a cool earthen crock. Stéphane , who seemed to have warmed up to me, now that we were at the dinner table, leaned close and unfurled his napkin.
"I am the devil," the boy offered, apropos of nothing.
Miriam apologized. "Sometimes the level of conversation here is very low."
"It is a lyric from Metallica," Stéphane explained, flush from the effort. With a delicate gesture he pointed at its source. "Per played it for me."
The boy's shoulder brushed mine. The stew and its fine perfume, the great piggish grunt of a wine, plus the good company, blurred a little beside the demanding clarity of this point of contact. I shifted against the boy as we maneuvered through dinner. Pleasantries fluttered from my lips like butterflies, alighting here on Serge, there on Miriam, while my mind retreated into exile, camped out in the monastery of my upper thigh where his hip now touched me. Pinioned to him throughout the conversation, I missed a great deal of what was said.
"Were you also in Paris during the manifestations?" I asked Per, trying to keep up. Stéphane reached for the stew and Miriam swatted his hand from it, then pushed the crock of yogurt toward him.
"I was at sea."
"For many years," Serge put in. "Per was a pilot of a masted ship the Danish navy used to train its sailors." The boy squished yogurt through his teeth, making a sound, then stopped, mocking boredom with a great yawn. " Fils , if you are bored by us you can leave and do your work in your room," Serge reminded him. "Such
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