“Who?”
“Either of these girls. They’re MondeFocus activists.”
Bernard shook his head.
A dead end. If Bernard didn’t recognize her, well . . . Disappointed, she picked up the ripe slice of Reblochon in its white waxed-paper wrapper, slipped it inside the baby bag, and turned to go.
“Attends,” he said, scanning the photo more closely. “ She seems familiar.” He pointed to Nelie, sitting next to Orla.
“Did you see her yesterday?”
“Those students sneak cigarettes at the café. Try there.”
AIMÉE NODDED TO the older woman, wearing a green sweater set and wool scarf knotted around her neck despite the heat, behind the zinc counter of her corner café. One of the handful on the island sure to stay open late in winter. A few empty tables and booths stood in the rear room, which normally catered to the lunch crowd. Now only a single couple sat there, deep in conversation over a carafe of wine. The decor, redone in the seventies when smoked-glass dividers were introduced, didn’t hide the Art Nouveau banister of the staircase leading down a flight to the phone and bathrooms.
“Bonjour, Sabine , un café, s’il vous plaît.”
“Right away,” Sabine said, rubbing the milk-steamer wand with a wet dishcloth. She was a typical Auvergnat—brusque, born into the business, accustomed to watching every franc.
“Nico still on vacation ? ” Aimée asked. Nico, the co-owner, took February off.
Sabine nodded, setting down a demitasse of steaming espresso with a respectable tan foam head and pushing the aluminum ball holding sugar cubes toward her. Stella was asleep, her soft breaths just audible to Aimée.
“Merci,” Aimée said, unwrapping two sugar cubes and letting them plop into her cup. She moved the baby sling to the side, leaning toward her, as if to speak in confidence. As in Bernard’s cheese shop, not much went on in the café without Sabine’s knowledge.
“Not your usual style,” Sabine said, glancing at Stella.
“I’m helping my friend. You know how that goes!”
“Thought so,” Sabine said.
“ Et alors, but I’ve got to work, Sabine.”
“Bit off more than you could chew this time?”
Little did she know.
“You could say that, Sabine.” She slid the photo onto the zinc countertop. “I need to find these girls to babysit for me. Bernard said he’s seen them here. You wouldn’t happen to have seen her this morning, would you?”
She pointed to Nelie.
Sabine shook her head. “Not this morning.”
“I hope they’re not out of town.” Aimée paused as if in thought. “What about last night, did you see either one last night?”
“Janou closed up as usual , ” Sabine said, rinsing dirty cups in the sink and stacking them in the small dishwasher under the counter.
Janou, her brother, wearing a blue workman’s coat and his habitual frown, wheeled a handcart of stacked Orangina cartons past the staircase leading down to the bathrooms and phone.
“Ça va, Janou,” Aimée called to him. “Remember seeing either of these girls last night?” She held out the photo.
“A lot of students come here.” He straightened up, paused, pulled his chin. “A blonde, a young fille , with a baby thing like yours. Could have been her last night.”
“Was she wearing a jean jacket with blue beads embroidered on the pocket?”
He shrugged. “I didn’t pay much attention. The mecs were watching the motocross rally replays on the télé . You know how loud they get.”
That meant a bunch of beer-swilling motorcycle enthusiasts and a crowded, steamy café if Janou hadn’t noticed much. But she wouldn’t give up. A sharp-eyed Auvergnat, Janou reminded her of a crow, a nice crow with his close-set black eyes, who’d spot the shine of a franc lying in the gutter a street away.
Sabine, now with her glasses on, stared at the photo. “That blonde one. I remember now. She wiped her denim jacket sleeve on the fogged-up window. Her jacket was trimmed with funny blue beads
“Either of these girls. They’re MondeFocus activists.”
Bernard shook his head.
A dead end. If Bernard didn’t recognize her, well . . . Disappointed, she picked up the ripe slice of Reblochon in its white waxed-paper wrapper, slipped it inside the baby bag, and turned to go.
“Attends,” he said, scanning the photo more closely. “ She seems familiar.” He pointed to Nelie, sitting next to Orla.
“Did you see her yesterday?”
“Those students sneak cigarettes at the café. Try there.”
AIMÉE NODDED TO the older woman, wearing a green sweater set and wool scarf knotted around her neck despite the heat, behind the zinc counter of her corner café. One of the handful on the island sure to stay open late in winter. A few empty tables and booths stood in the rear room, which normally catered to the lunch crowd. Now only a single couple sat there, deep in conversation over a carafe of wine. The decor, redone in the seventies when smoked-glass dividers were introduced, didn’t hide the Art Nouveau banister of the staircase leading down a flight to the phone and bathrooms.
“Bonjour, Sabine , un café, s’il vous plaît.”
“Right away,” Sabine said, rubbing the milk-steamer wand with a wet dishcloth. She was a typical Auvergnat—brusque, born into the business, accustomed to watching every franc.
“Nico still on vacation ? ” Aimée asked. Nico, the co-owner, took February off.
Sabine nodded, setting down a demitasse of steaming espresso with a respectable tan foam head and pushing the aluminum ball holding sugar cubes toward her. Stella was asleep, her soft breaths just audible to Aimée.
“Merci,” Aimée said, unwrapping two sugar cubes and letting them plop into her cup. She moved the baby sling to the side, leaning toward her, as if to speak in confidence. As in Bernard’s cheese shop, not much went on in the café without Sabine’s knowledge.
“Not your usual style,” Sabine said, glancing at Stella.
“I’m helping my friend. You know how that goes!”
“Thought so,” Sabine said.
“ Et alors, but I’ve got to work, Sabine.”
“Bit off more than you could chew this time?”
Little did she know.
“You could say that, Sabine.” She slid the photo onto the zinc countertop. “I need to find these girls to babysit for me. Bernard said he’s seen them here. You wouldn’t happen to have seen her this morning, would you?”
She pointed to Nelie.
Sabine shook her head. “Not this morning.”
“I hope they’re not out of town.” Aimée paused as if in thought. “What about last night, did you see either one last night?”
“Janou closed up as usual , ” Sabine said, rinsing dirty cups in the sink and stacking them in the small dishwasher under the counter.
Janou, her brother, wearing a blue workman’s coat and his habitual frown, wheeled a handcart of stacked Orangina cartons past the staircase leading down to the bathrooms and phone.
“Ça va, Janou,” Aimée called to him. “Remember seeing either of these girls last night?” She held out the photo.
“A lot of students come here.” He straightened up, paused, pulled his chin. “A blonde, a young fille , with a baby thing like yours. Could have been her last night.”
“Was she wearing a jean jacket with blue beads embroidered on the pocket?”
He shrugged. “I didn’t pay much attention. The mecs were watching the motocross rally replays on the télé . You know how loud they get.”
That meant a bunch of beer-swilling motorcycle enthusiasts and a crowded, steamy café if Janou hadn’t noticed much. But she wouldn’t give up. A sharp-eyed Auvergnat, Janou reminded her of a crow, a nice crow with his close-set black eyes, who’d spot the shine of a franc lying in the gutter a street away.
Sabine, now with her glasses on, stared at the photo. “That blonde one. I remember now. She wiped her denim jacket sleeve on the fogged-up window. Her jacket was trimmed with funny blue beads
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