The Belly of Paris - Emile Zola [48]
Since Gavard had not shown up, she arranged some lard de poitrine17 on a little marble shelf at the end of the counter and straightened out the crock of saindoux18 and the crock of fat drippings from the roasts, wiped down the platters on each side of the balance scales, and poked around the waning fire in the food warmer. The perfume of meat rose and overtook her in a heavy truffle-scented calm. That particular day there was a wondrous freshness to Lisa. The crisp whiteness of her apron and sleeves reflected in the whiteness of the plates around her, and above, her plump neck and rosy cheeks showed, echoing the pastel of the hams and the paleness of the transparent fats.
Florent began to feel intimidated by the sight of her, made uneasy by her primness. He stole looks at her from the mirrors around the shop. He could see her from behind, in front and in side view, and even from the ceiling, which showed the tightly rolled chignon and the bangs along her temples. The shop was packed with a crowd of Lisas, showing their broad shoulders, the strength of their arms, their round breasts so stiff and inexpressive that they aroused him no more than the sight of a belly would. He stopped himself, settling on one of the side views at the mirror next to him, between two sides of pork. Along the line of marble and mirrors ran hooks from which hung sides of pork and rolls of larding fat, and Lisa, with her strong neck, her round hips, and her swelling bosom, in side views, looked like a trussed-up queen in the midst of lard and raw flesh. Then the beautiful charcutière leaned forward and smiled warmly at the two goldfish forever swimming circles in the aquarium in the window.
Gavard came in. With an air of urgency he looked in the kitchen for Quenu. As soon as he had installed himself sidesaddle at a marble table, with Florent still in his chair, Lisa still at her counter, and Quenu leaning against a side of pork, Gavard announced that at last he had found a job for Florent. And that they would laugh when they heard about it and the government would be stung.
Suddenly he stopped, seeing Mademoiselle Saget push open the shop door only because she had seen from the street such a well-attended meeting at the Quenu-Gradelles'. The little old woman in the faded dress with her ever-present black bag on her arm, in a ribbonless black straw hat that cast a furtive shadow over her pale face, nodded to the men and gave Lisa a caustic smile.
She was an acquaintance who still lived in the house on rue Pirouette as she had for the past forty years, doubtless on some meager income, though she never discussed it. She had once mentioned Cherbourg, saying that she had been born there, but nothing more than that was ever learned about her. She spoke only of other people, of every aspect of their lives, down to how many shirts they had laundered per month, taking her need to peer into her neighbors' existence to the point of listening at doors and opening letters. Her tongue was feared from rue Saint-Denis to rue Jean-Jacques-Rousseau and from rue Saint-Honoré to rue Mauconseil. All day long she drifted through the streets with her empty basket, as though she were shopping but buying nothing just trading news, keeping up to date on the most trivial of facts, thereby managing to store in her head the complete history of every house, every floor, every person in the neighborhood. Quenu had always accused her of being the one who had spread the story of Gradelle dropping dead on the chopping block, and he had borne her a grudge ever since.
As it happened, she was extremely well informed on the subject of Uncle Gradelle and about Quenu as well. She had collected all the details, examined them from every possible angle, and committed them to memory. But for the last fifteen days, the appearance of Florent had been confusing her and a raging curiosity was consuming her. It made her physically ill when she hit a blank spot in her intelligence. Yet she could have sworn that she had seen this tall loafer before somewhere.