13 Little Blue Envelopes(39)

“Lots of colors,” Ginny said. “It’s probably a collage. Maybe made of . . . trash?”

“Trash?”

“Well, kind of . . . trash.”

“I will ask him.”

The chef waited patiently for his turn, then translated

Ginny’s question for her. Michael Pienette nodded furiously and chewed on his cigar.

“Les petits chiens,” he growled. “Les petits chiens.”

That, Ginny knew, meant “the little dogs,” which made no

sense. The chef seemed to feel this way as well and questioned Mr. Pienette again. This resulted in a minor explosion, and Mr.

Pienette spun around and snatched a head of lettuce from

another shopper’s hand and shouted something over his shoulder.

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“He says the café is called The Little Dogs,” the chef said. “I think he’s getting annoyed. I may not get my eggplant now.”

“Does he know where it is?”

He did, but the question made him visibly angrier. He

pointed a stubby finger at an alleyway to the left of the market.

“That way,” he said. “But please . . . I do need my eggplant.”

“Thanks,” Ginny said, backing away quickly. “I’m sorry.”

The alley was not promising. It was narrow, and the buildings along it were all the same off-white, with small unmarked doorways. Nothing looked like a restaurant. Also, motorcycles kept coming up behind her—actually riding on the sidewalk—to get around the parked cars. So it also seemed like this route might get her killed. Maybe that was what Michel Pienette intended.

But the road widened a bit, and there were a few boutiques and very tiny pastry shops. And then she saw it, a building so tiny that it could hardly have housed four tables. A huge tree sat in front of it, nearly blocking it from view. But it was the window curtains made out of little kitchen aprons that told her this was the place. The front windows were filled with framed clips from magazines, some with pictures. The inside looked to be completely empty, and no lights were on. But when she tried the door, it was open.

It was immediately clear when she got inside why the place was called The Little Dogs. The walls were devoted to the tiny dogs of Paris. Aunt Peg had made a crazy collage of hundreds of magazine pictures of them, then painted around the pictures with big glops of black and hot pink paint. Then, in white, she’d sketched in a few crazy cartoons of poodles. Every table and every chair was painted up in a different set of colors. It 177

seemed like she must have just been working her way through a set of a hundred different tints of paint. Purple with sunny yellow. Lime with candy pink. Fire truck red with navy blue. She spotted the funny Roman orange paired with a deep burgundy.

A man’s head popped out from behind the bar, startling

Ginny. The French he barked at her sounded vaguely familiar, but it was spoken too quickly and thickly to be understood. She shook her head helplessly.

“We are not serving yet,” he said, in English. It was strange how people here knew to do that. It was amazing how they all could.

“Oh . . . that’s okay.”

“Not until dinner. And you need a reservation. Tonight is impossible. Next week, perhaps.”

“It’s not that,” Ginny said. “I’m here to see the decorations.”

“You are writing a paper?”

“My aunt did them.”

A little bit more of the man was revealed. She could see his shoulders now.“Your aunt?” he asked.

Ginny nodded.

Head, shoulders, most of the chest, and the arms up to the elbows. He was wearing a worn purple T-shirt with a blue-and-white apron thrown loosely over it.

“Your aunt is Margaret?”

“Yes.”

Everything changed very quickly. Suddenly, the whole man

appeared, and Ginny found herself being forced into a seat.

“I am Paul!” the man said, stepping back behind the bar and producing a small tumbler and a bottle of yellowish liquor.

“Wonderful! Let me get you a drink.”

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After the other night, Ginny had no desire for another drink.

“I don’t really . . .” she began.

“No, no. Lillet. Very nice. Light. Lovely taste. And a little piece of orange.”

He pronounced it aw-runge. Plunk. A piece of orange rind went into the glass. He pushed it over and watched intently as Ginny took a cautious sip. It did taste good. Kind of like flowers.

“Now, I will be honest with you,” he said, pouring himself some of the Lillet and then sitting opposite her. “I was not so sure about your aunt. She showed me these things that she draws. Little dogs. But wait! Something to eat. Come with me.”

He waved Ginny into the kitchen, which was a space the

size of a walk-in closet just beyond the bar. And there, as he filled a plate with various items pulled from the refrigerator—

cold chicken, lettuces, cheeses—he explained that Aunt Peg’s weird paint job had turned a failing four-table restaurant into a highly desirable boutique four-table restaurant with a long reservation list.

“It was a strange thing,” he said. “This woman I did not

know, offering to stay in my restaurant. To sleep in my restaurant. To make it new, to cover it with pictures of dogs. I should have thrown her out!”