Her response didn’t come straight away and then I was too into the weekday routine of classes, study, and work, with the occasional late tennis match, to notice. Then Wednesday I came home, dripping in my tennis flannels, to find a letter waiting.
“It arrived last night,” Uncle Théophile said. He pursed his lips. “If you’d come home at a decent hour, I would have told you.”
“I’m sorry, Uncle.” I reached past him for the envelope on the hall table. “It’s been a busy week. I’ve been studying a lot and I’ve been working a lot. I must pay my tuition somehow.”
He looked pointedly at my racket. “I can see that.”
Without changing, I took the letter and racket straight back out the door. Rather than sit across the table from my sour-faced uncle, I’d eat supper at the café after my shift. Again. The other boys in my turne, they always teased that I had it easier living in the city rather than boarding at the university, the way they all did. As draconian as the rules were for boarders, they couldn’t be any worse than Uncle Théophile’s. Home by seven, lights out by eight, no sugar in my coffee, no wine on weekdays. And absolutely no gramophone music.
Gaspard, the owner, rolled his eyes at my tennis flannels, but passed me an apron. “Clear those three tables, and I’ll have Hugues make a plate for you.”
I tucked Clare’s letter into my apron pocket, unread, and went with damp towel to clear the tables for the next customer. Of course, it wasn’t until three hours later that I finally had a corner table, a plate of lentils with tomatoes, a glass of cheap wine, and a moment to read her letter.
Dear Monsieur Crépet,
I don’t believe that it is as dreary as you say. You’re in Paris, after all. Universities, clean socks, unexpected letters. Living on your own rather than with someone telling you what you should or shouldn’t do. What can be better than that?
I haven’t been reading my Callisthenes either (should I be?). Your mother did give me a copy of Les Contes de Ma Mère l’Oye to keep me company. I can’t read more than a handful of words (l’ogre, les roses, la petite princesse) but it’s as marvelous as I remember. It makes me feel that I’m sitting in my nursery with Nanny Proud, my old nurse. She couldn’t read any of the French either, but always pulled me onto her lap to trace the pictures and tell me the stories in her own words. I think she made up half of them.
You know, I remember when your mother brought me the book. It must have been right after it was published, now that I think back on it. Of course then I had no idea your papa was the illustrator. Only that the nice lady who spoke with the lovely accent had visited from France and brought me a beautiful present. You were there, too, on that visit, weren’t you? You and your papa. You brought a rubber ball, but Nanny Proud told me that laddies were too wild to play with. I always wished that I had tried anyway. I’d never had a friend before.
And here I’ve rambled on. Hopefully this letter will give you a moment or two between your essays. If you’re able, maybe you’ll be back at Mille Mots this weekend? At least your mother hopes.
Sincerely,
Miss Clare Ross
The chair across from me squeaked. “What’s this, Crépet?” Stefan Bauer leaned over the back of the chair, fingers laced. “A letter from a girlfriend?”
“No.” I folded the letter and stuffed it back in the envelope. “Just a girl. Who is also a friend.”
