then, with cruel patience, “I
live
. In. A.
Truck
.”
“Kids don’t want it?”
“
She
won’t,” said Sid. He shook his head. He’d been sitting like a human being. Now he wheeled around in the chair and draped his legs over one arm and leaned on the other. Some wine slopped and he sucked it off the back of his hand. The armchair seemed to falter with its burden. “Spent the morning tearing down the piggery,” he said.
“You have a piggery?”
“Had a piggery. Hated the piggery. The piggery is no more.”
“I thought you lived in a truck.”
“There’s this house,” said Sid. “Nearby Manville, this side of the river.”
“When did you buy that?”
“Haven’t yet. Will do. The
mairie
’s deciding whether it’s habitable. I’m getting a jump on the work. Night, mostly.”
“What if they decide it isn’t?”
“They will.”
“You’re renovating a house you don’t own in secret—”
Sid sighed dramatically. “I am,” he declared, “over France. Isn’t that what they say? I am so
over
France.”
“Leave,” said Tony. He moved to the sofa.
“My kids are here,” said Sid. “I might drink a pineau.”
He looked a bit cross-eyed, Tony thought, but maybe it was Tony who was drunk.
Apparently all American university lecturers slept with their students, but Sid, bored by the timorous bad behavior of the Yanks, who knew how to fuck up only a semester—a real man took pains to fuck up his
life
—had carried one off to Las Vegas and married her. That was how he’d lost his job. “Should have waited till final grades were in,” he’d once told Tony. “That, or not married her at all.” They’d moved to France with plans to open an English-language theater near Eymet. Tony had no notion when they’d given up on the idea. Now they had two little kids, a son and a daughter, and Sid made his living as a chippie’s assistant: he toted wood for a friend who was a master carpenter.
“Perhaps I’ll take that pineau,” Sid prodded.
So Tony got the pineau. It was sweet and thick and cold, and he and Sid drank it in big gulps, though it was meant to be an apéritif.
“The angels weep,” said Sid.
“I don’t know who gave us this bottle,” said Tony, looking at the label.
“
Bonjour
,” said the bird.
Sid fought to sit up. His stomach seemed to be the sun around which the rest of his body orbited. “Pay her off and she’ll love you forever. Isn’t that how it works in the slave-girlmovies? Tony,” he said, “I hate to hound you, but—I’d ask Malcolm—”
“I don’t have it.”
“Izzy have it?”
“Izzy has the same no-money I have.”
“The budgie room,” said Sid dreamily. “That sounds nice. Let’s go see the budgie room and talk to Izzy.”
“We’re not going to the budgie room.”
“I like budgies,” said Sid, hurt.
“I don’t.”
But Sid was already struggling to his feet.
“Je t’aime,”
said the bird again, and Sid said, “Kid, you’re breaking my heart.”
Tony followed Sid, and Aldo followed Tony, and Macy, yawning, followed Aldo. They walked down the hallway Indian file. From behind, Sid had the tight-arsed bullish strut of a smuggler. His bare back looked strong; he hitched up his sweatpants with one hand and almost kicked a passing kitten down the hallway. “You seem to be infested with kittens,” he observed. “Hello, you,” he said to it, leaning down and plucking it from under Aldo’s snuffling nose. It was one of the little kittens. Tony could hear its ingratiating purr. It was true: they were infested with kittens.
“You want a kitten?” he asked.
“I
still
live in a truck,” said Sid. In a kingly fashion, he handed Tony his empty wine glass, as though it were a decree he wanted enacted instantly. He held on to the kitten.
“Izzy might be asleep,” said Tony.
“Oh, she’ll see
me
.”
Sid had epaulets of steel-gray hair on his shoulders. Thekitten, high on the curve of his stomach, looked dwarfish
live
. In. A.
Truck
.”
“Kids don’t want it?”
“
She
won’t,” said Sid. He shook his head. He’d been sitting like a human being. Now he wheeled around in the chair and draped his legs over one arm and leaned on the other. Some wine slopped and he sucked it off the back of his hand. The armchair seemed to falter with its burden. “Spent the morning tearing down the piggery,” he said.
“You have a piggery?”
“Had a piggery. Hated the piggery. The piggery is no more.”
“I thought you lived in a truck.”
“There’s this house,” said Sid. “Nearby Manville, this side of the river.”
“When did you buy that?”
“Haven’t yet. Will do. The
mairie
’s deciding whether it’s habitable. I’m getting a jump on the work. Night, mostly.”
“What if they decide it isn’t?”
“They will.”
“You’re renovating a house you don’t own in secret—”
Sid sighed dramatically. “I am,” he declared, “over France. Isn’t that what they say? I am so
over
France.”
“Leave,” said Tony. He moved to the sofa.
“My kids are here,” said Sid. “I might drink a pineau.”
He looked a bit cross-eyed, Tony thought, but maybe it was Tony who was drunk.
Apparently all American university lecturers slept with their students, but Sid, bored by the timorous bad behavior of the Yanks, who knew how to fuck up only a semester—a real man took pains to fuck up his
life
—had carried one off to Las Vegas and married her. That was how he’d lost his job. “Should have waited till final grades were in,” he’d once told Tony. “That, or not married her at all.” They’d moved to France with plans to open an English-language theater near Eymet. Tony had no notion when they’d given up on the idea. Now they had two little kids, a son and a daughter, and Sid made his living as a chippie’s assistant: he toted wood for a friend who was a master carpenter.
“Perhaps I’ll take that pineau,” Sid prodded.
So Tony got the pineau. It was sweet and thick and cold, and he and Sid drank it in big gulps, though it was meant to be an apéritif.
“The angels weep,” said Sid.
“I don’t know who gave us this bottle,” said Tony, looking at the label.
“
Bonjour
,” said the bird.
Sid fought to sit up. His stomach seemed to be the sun around which the rest of his body orbited. “Pay her off and she’ll love you forever. Isn’t that how it works in the slave-girlmovies? Tony,” he said, “I hate to hound you, but—I’d ask Malcolm—”
“I don’t have it.”
“Izzy have it?”
“Izzy has the same no-money I have.”
“The budgie room,” said Sid dreamily. “That sounds nice. Let’s go see the budgie room and talk to Izzy.”
“We’re not going to the budgie room.”
“I like budgies,” said Sid, hurt.
“I don’t.”
But Sid was already struggling to his feet.
“Je t’aime,”
said the bird again, and Sid said, “Kid, you’re breaking my heart.”
Tony followed Sid, and Aldo followed Tony, and Macy, yawning, followed Aldo. They walked down the hallway Indian file. From behind, Sid had the tight-arsed bullish strut of a smuggler. His bare back looked strong; he hitched up his sweatpants with one hand and almost kicked a passing kitten down the hallway. “You seem to be infested with kittens,” he observed. “Hello, you,” he said to it, leaning down and plucking it from under Aldo’s snuffling nose. It was one of the little kittens. Tony could hear its ingratiating purr. It was true: they were infested with kittens.
“You want a kitten?” he asked.
“I
still
live in a truck,” said Sid. In a kingly fashion, he handed Tony his empty wine glass, as though it were a decree he wanted enacted instantly. He held on to the kitten.
“Izzy might be asleep,” said Tony.
“Oh, she’ll see
me
.”
Sid had epaulets of steel-gray hair on his shoulders. Thekitten, high on the curve of his stomach, looked dwarfish
Similar Books
