13, Rue Therese - Elena Mauli Shapiro [14]
From the third floor, Louise cannot tell what color his eyes are, but she can tell that he has a startlingly beautiful mouth, ripe with pinkness. The proportions of his lithe body are Greek in perfection. Her gaze is attracted even by his bare forearms; he has rolled up his shirtsleeves to the elbows. Truly, she cannot see a damn thing wrong with his looks. He must be the woman’s husband. He must be the head of the house. He gives Louise a brief tight smile and a small nod in greeting, and does not wait for a greeting to be returned before he goes back to his business of directing the movers.
“Good Lord,” Louise says softly, “you’re right. His face alone is a war crime against all women.”
The girl is cringing in embarrassment, attempting to shrink her body as if to hide. She whispers: “Do you think he heard what I said?”
“He heard your voice, since he looked up, but from down there, I’m sure he couldn’t make out your words.”
“You think so?”
“I know it.”
This assertion seems to calm the girl, and the two of them return to their gazing. They agree, after a few more minutes, that there are in fact three distinct boys in this new family, but not more. There are no girls to be seen.
A car pulls into the narrow one-way street, right behind the moving truck and the furniture that is constantly being poured out of the back of it. The car can decidedly not go forward; its path is irredeemably blocked. The lone man inside is upset by this, and gives a succinct honk. When he gets no response, he leans on his horn. Two of the movers come around to take a look at him. Yelling ensues, with colorful language. Louise and Garance are entertained by this new development. The impotent displays of male fury go on unabated for a good half minute, until the man of the house comes around the side of the truck himself, and stands in front of all of them, with his arms crossed over his chest.
“Are you the boss?” the fellow in the car demands.
“In a manner of speaking,” the man says.
“You have to get this bloody mess out of the street!”
“Not for a while. I would appreciate if all of you would refrain from using such language in front of my sons, please.”
The man’s simple civility disarms all of them. They are quiet.
“But I must get through,” the fellow in the car says rather plaintively.
“Well, you cannot, and such is the state of things. You will have to back up, and find another way around; it can’t be that complicated. Or are you such a shoddy pilot that you do not know how to engage your machine into reverse?”
The man enunciates clearly enough that Louise and Garance can hear his every word, though he does not raise his voice. His tone is not angry: it is merely a statement of what must be, with an edge of mocking dismissal rising into the last question. His voice admits no objection—Louise thinks its authority is even more attractive than that of the black-suited man on the metro. She is dizzy with admiration.
The fellow and his car back away swiftly and disappear with a great grinding of gears.
“Oh, that was magnificent!” Garance laughs as the furniture-hauling in the street down below resumes. “Louise, I think I’ve fallen in love, haven’t you?”
LATER, LOUISE HAS TO run an errand. On the way out of the building, she stops by the mailboxes, on the off chance that the new family has already bothered putting their name up by their slot. She thinks that this is unlikely, but is pleasantly surprised. The name is already there, on a tiny metal placard. The type is white on navy blue, in all capitals.
LANGLAIS
the type spells.
The placard is clearly something they had wrought for this very purpose. It is a well crafted and charming object. Louise thinks it a bit terse, for her own placard reads:
M. & Mme Henri Brunet
There is no monsieur on the Langlais sign, nor a madame. But perhaps this is reflective of the nature of the head of the house: he does not indulge in unnecessary words. Every letter must count. Still, Louise is disappointed that his first name is not displayed. To learn it, she will just have to wait