food and wine, they would be invited to purchase regional delicacies.
Over the next hour, the only car to pull into the lot was a Saab with German plates, which disgorged two obese parents and three blond teenagers, eerily slim and androgynous. The teenagers bickered over a mound of knapsacks and duffel bags before sulking into the auberge. The muddy Renault turned in to park in front of the bar. Dressed in white shirts, red scarves, and berets, the innkeeper’s two friends climbed out. The hound-faced man was holding a tambourine, and the other retrieved a wide-bodied guitar from the backseat. They carried their instruments into the bar.
N slipped his book into the satchel and ran a comb through his hair and straightened his tie before leaving the room. Downstairs, the fire in the dining room had burned low, and the sheep turning on the grill had been carved down to gristle and bone. The bus tourists companionably occupied the first three rows of tables. The German family sat alone in the last row. One of the children yawned and exposed the shiny metal ball of a tongue piercing. Like water buffaloes, the parents stared massively, unblinkingly out into the room, digesting rather than seeing. The two men in Basque dress entered from the bar and moved halfway down the aisle between the first two rows of tables. Without preamble, one of them struck an out-of-tune chord on his guitar. The other began to sing in a sweet, wavering tenor. The teenagers put their sleek heads on the table. Everyone else complacently attended to the music, which migrated toward a nostalgic sequence and resolved into “I Hear a Rhapsody,” performed with French lyrics.
Outside, N could see no one at the kitchen counter. The air felt fresh and cool, and battalions of flinty clouds marched across the low sky. He moved nearer.
“Pardon? Allô?”
A rustle of female voices came from within, and he took another step forward. Decisive footsteps resounded on a wooden floor. Abruptly, the older woman appeared in the doorway. She gave him a dark, unreadable look and retreated. A muffled giggle vanished beneath applause from the dining room. Softer footsteps approached, and the girl in the bright blue dress swayed into view. She leaned a hip against the door frame, successfully maintaining an expression of indifferent boredom.
“I wish I had that swing in my backyard,” he said.
“Quoi?”
In French, he said, “A stupid thing we used to say when I was a kid. Thank you for making that sandwich and bringing it to my room.” Ten feet away in the brisk air, N caught rank, successive waves of the odor flowing from her and wondered how the other women tolerated it.
“Nadine said you thanked me.”
“I wanted to do it in person. It is important, don’t you agree, to do things in person?”
“I suppose important things should be done in person.”
“You were thoughtful to notice that I was not here for dinner.”
Her shrug shifted her body within the tight confines of the dress. “It is just good sense. Our guests should not go hungry. A big man like you has a large appetite.”
“Can you imagine, I will be out late tonight, too?”
Her mouth curled in a smile. “Does that mean you’d like another sandwich?”
“I’d love one.” For the sake of pleasures to come, he took two more steps into her stench and lowered his voice. “We could split it. And you could bring a bottle of wine. I’ll have something to celebrate.”
She glanced at his satchel. “You finished what you are writing?”
She had questioned her boss about him.
“It’ll be finished by tonight.”
“I never met a writer before. It must be an interesting way of life. Romantic.”
“You have no idea,” he said. “Let me tell you something. Last year I was writing a piece in Bora Bora, and I talked to a young woman a bit like you, beautiful dark hair and eyes. Before she came to my room, she must have bathed in something special, because she smelled like moonlight
Over the next hour, the only car to pull into the lot was a Saab with German plates, which disgorged two obese parents and three blond teenagers, eerily slim and androgynous. The teenagers bickered over a mound of knapsacks and duffel bags before sulking into the auberge. The muddy Renault turned in to park in front of the bar. Dressed in white shirts, red scarves, and berets, the innkeeper’s two friends climbed out. The hound-faced man was holding a tambourine, and the other retrieved a wide-bodied guitar from the backseat. They carried their instruments into the bar.
N slipped his book into the satchel and ran a comb through his hair and straightened his tie before leaving the room. Downstairs, the fire in the dining room had burned low, and the sheep turning on the grill had been carved down to gristle and bone. The bus tourists companionably occupied the first three rows of tables. The German family sat alone in the last row. One of the children yawned and exposed the shiny metal ball of a tongue piercing. Like water buffaloes, the parents stared massively, unblinkingly out into the room, digesting rather than seeing. The two men in Basque dress entered from the bar and moved halfway down the aisle between the first two rows of tables. Without preamble, one of them struck an out-of-tune chord on his guitar. The other began to sing in a sweet, wavering tenor. The teenagers put their sleek heads on the table. Everyone else complacently attended to the music, which migrated toward a nostalgic sequence and resolved into “I Hear a Rhapsody,” performed with French lyrics.
Outside, N could see no one at the kitchen counter. The air felt fresh and cool, and battalions of flinty clouds marched across the low sky. He moved nearer.
“Pardon? Allô?”
A rustle of female voices came from within, and he took another step forward. Decisive footsteps resounded on a wooden floor. Abruptly, the older woman appeared in the doorway. She gave him a dark, unreadable look and retreated. A muffled giggle vanished beneath applause from the dining room. Softer footsteps approached, and the girl in the bright blue dress swayed into view. She leaned a hip against the door frame, successfully maintaining an expression of indifferent boredom.
“I wish I had that swing in my backyard,” he said.
“Quoi?”
In French, he said, “A stupid thing we used to say when I was a kid. Thank you for making that sandwich and bringing it to my room.” Ten feet away in the brisk air, N caught rank, successive waves of the odor flowing from her and wondered how the other women tolerated it.
“Nadine said you thanked me.”
“I wanted to do it in person. It is important, don’t you agree, to do things in person?”
“I suppose important things should be done in person.”
“You were thoughtful to notice that I was not here for dinner.”
Her shrug shifted her body within the tight confines of the dress. “It is just good sense. Our guests should not go hungry. A big man like you has a large appetite.”
“Can you imagine, I will be out late tonight, too?”
Her mouth curled in a smile. “Does that mean you’d like another sandwich?”
“I’d love one.” For the sake of pleasures to come, he took two more steps into her stench and lowered his voice. “We could split it. And you could bring a bottle of wine. I’ll have something to celebrate.”
She glanced at his satchel. “You finished what you are writing?”
She had questioned her boss about him.
“It’ll be finished by tonight.”
“I never met a writer before. It must be an interesting way of life. Romantic.”
“You have no idea,” he said. “Let me tell you something. Last year I was writing a piece in Bora Bora, and I talked to a young woman a bit like you, beautiful dark hair and eyes. Before she came to my room, she must have bathed in something special, because she smelled like moonlight
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