Spectacle(14)

She opened the small box and took out the letter from Agnès that had arrived a few days before the postcard.

Dear Nata,

We’ve been here five days and Grandmother has baked on four of them—bread, croissants, a tart, and bread again. “We Jalberts put ovens to good use,” she likes to say. Starting tomorrow I’ll be her apprentice. If I should come home in August resembling a hot air balloon, you’ll know why.

Roger is already driving me mad. He talks constantly, and none of it is terribly interesting. He’s also been mischievous (he put a frog in my shoe yesterday) and clumsy (he spilled tea on my journal this morning). We are celebrating his tenth birthday next week, and I quite think I’ll give him leaves or rocks or some such as a prank. My real gift to him will be a tart, if my apprenticeship goes well.

Incidentally, the journal survived the tea. Alas, the page with my latest short story on it did not. I suppose it’s just as well, because it wasn’t a very good story.

On the topic of writing: Tell me about yours. I want to know everything about the newspaper, the morgue report, and what it’s been like to wear trousers. Save for that, I envy your marvelous opportunity.

Must go. Papa is calling me to help Maman weed the garden. He thinks it’s a good “experience with the earth.” Bending over in the hot sun and getting covered in dirt is an experience with the earth, but I would not classify it as good. A few days ago there was a snake in there, and I screamed. I have made excuses ever since to avoid working the garden, but unfortunately I think my luck has slithered away like that awful snake.

I’ll send a postcard soon. Write to me, my friend.

Bisous,

Agnès



If Simone was a rose—bright, feminine, and alluring—then Agnès was a lily. Sweet, elegant, and pure. Whereas Nathalie had known Simone her whole life, she’d only known Agnès since the start of this past school year when Agnès changed schools; they’d taken to each other right away. As someone who’d traveled all over France, and even to England and Germany, Agnès had an explorer’s spirit, always eager to find something new or special or different, even in the everyday. Simone and Agnès didn’t cross paths with each other often, but when they did, they got on well enough. Nathalie loved the way each of them viewed the world.

She put the letter back in the envelope and took out some blank stationery from the box. Leaning back, she let her gaze drift to the shimmering night sky. What was she going to say to Agnès now? Writing that postcard at the café had been a mistake. She didn’t want to tell Agnès what had happened at the morgue, not until she made sense of it. Or maybe not at all. Agnès was on holiday, after all, and that vision was too much to put into a letter. But she had to explain away what she’d written.

Stanley hopped off the ledge and came over to her, pawing at her pencil.

“Is this encouragement or a warning that you’re about to break the no-pencil promise?” She scratched his chin, picked up the pencil, and began to write.

Dear Agnès,

I have always wanted to ride in a hot air balloon, and they are rather pretty, so there are worse resemblances. I shall look for you in the sky upon your return.

Baking … well now. You must teach me everything you know. If you show me how to make a tart, I’ll show you a few things I’ve learned about sewing. Even trousers. Maybe for next year’s birthday gift for bothersome Roger, whose antics make me glad I don’t have a younger brother.

Is it hot there like it is in Paris during the summer? Have you gone to the beach yet? I want to hear all about the ocean. I long to see it someday. And smell it, and hear it. (I could do without the tasting.) I should think standing in the waves and feeling that powerful water pulling away is amazing.

Writing for the newspaper is an adventure, what with the obligation of a daily column, the constant buzz of the activity in the newsroom, and my wish to impress M. Patenaude. I’ve grown accustomed to wearing trousers but cannot say I like them.

I suppose word has made its way to northern France about the murder victim, yes? The queue to get into the morgue was long and my goodness, Agnès. You can’t imagine how ripped up she was, this ill-fated girl so very close in age to us. What I saw I will continue to see for days. I sent you the postcard shortly after the viewing; that’s why I was so very shaken.

What’s it like to stroll the streets of Bayeux? Tell me in great detail, my good friend, so that I feel like I’m there with you.

Bisous,

Nata



As she was writing out the envelope, the chatter from the tavern grew louder and more forceful, pulling her out of her thoughts. Two men started yelling at each other, and the sounds of a brawl erupted. Nathalie tucked the letter into the envelope and crept to the edge of the roof. A gap between buildings framed one of the men as a fist struck him and he fell. The puncher came into view but was soon pinned by the barkeep. The first man struggled to his feet while stroking his jaw, yelled something in a drunken voice, and ambled away. She wondered if he’d remember any of it in the morning.

And then she had an idea.

She revisited the thought she’d had earlier, that perhaps the morgue incident stemmed from a memory. Needless to say, she didn’t remember seeing anyone slash a girl to death. Then again, she also didn’t remember buying flowers. Who could say what the mind did and didn’t suppress? Maman had told her about a tailor whose visit to a hypnotist unlocked long-forgotten details of the day his childhood friend drowned. And Nathalie had once read a story about a woman who, during a fever, recalled pushing her baby brother out a window when she was three.