Spectacle(27)

“Business.” He glanced at the door and scratched his palm.

“Isn’t that a sign you’ll receive a letter?”

M. Gagnon returned his gaze to her with arched brows. “What?”

“Your palm.” Nathalie silently thanked Maman for training her so well on the art of changing the subject. “There’s an old wives’ tale that an itchy palm means a letter is on its way. Or money. I forget which.”

He patted his palms together and flashed a quick smile. “You’re not going to explain the trousers and cap, are you?”

Nathalie folded her arms. She had never met anyone who was equal parts attractive and irksome. Each time she saw him, a different side emerged. What was this today? Was he being polite? Inquisitive? Awkward? Maybe he was all three. Simone had told Nathalie he was probably enamored with her, at least somewhat, but Simone often floated on a cloud of romantic thoughts. Not that Nathalie would mind if M. Gagnon were enamored with her. “I’d rather not.”

“I won’t pry,” he said, shifting his weight. “Good day, Mademoiselle Baudin. See you at the morgue, I expect. Since you go every day.”

“I—”

“It’s understandable,” he said. “There’s a lot to see.”

With that he turned on his heel and began to walk away.

“Monsieur Gagnon, weren’t you on your way into the bureau de poste?”

He faced her again. “Oh yes,” he said. He rolled his eyes in a deliberately amusing fashion. “Have a wonderful afternoon.”

Nathalie grinned as he passed her and went inside. She didn’t know what to make of him, but she was very glad he’d been noticing her.



* * *



When Maman brought in the letter from Agnès three days later, Nathalie tore it open so hastily she made Stanley jump. She had no memory of what she’d written Agnès—how much she had or hadn’t told her about the visions—and had been anxiously awaiting her response these past few days.

Her heart pounded as she read.

Dear Nata,

Yes, I’ve heard about the murders and am astounded. First Pranzini, now this. What is becoming of our beloved Paris?

There are plenty of whispers in Bayeux about it, and Papa receives the Sunday edition of Le Petit Journal by post once weekly. How can you be so casual about this affair? I can’t think of anything more compelling, especially for the journalist who covers the morgue. Incidentally, your articles are superb—clearly expressed and thoughtful without lapsing into sensationalism. Consider yourself fortunate to experience this moment in journalism. I myself would be queasy seeing the victims, but you … Nata, you have the constitution for it. Are you not thrilled?

It is hot here, but being a few kilometers inland, we have the benefit of an ocean breeze. We have gone to the beach twice thus far; once nearby, and once on a trek to the Deauville resort, where we stayed two nights. I met a strapping curly-haired boy from Rouen and flirted with him quite a bit. We had lunch together the first day, and he sang to me in Italian. You know what singing means to me—I do miss the choir at Notre-Dame—so this utterly charmed me. I was truly taken, ready to let him kiss me. Then he called me “Anastasia.” I asked who she was, and after much prodding, he sputtered that Anastasia was a girl he’d met at the resort last week. He assured me she’d since gone home. I nevertheless sauntered off, pleased with myself for not kicking sand on him like I wanted to, and read Dostoevsky the rest of the trip.

As for the ocean, it is as breathtaking as ever. That’s the thing about the sea, isn’t it? It never really changes, and neither does its power to inspire awe. I suppose your father has a hundred stories to go with that sentiment. I cannot wait to see your face next summer when you lay eyes on the ocean for the first time.

Bayeux is small and intimate and full of history. Lace is produced here, and I have never seen so much lace in my life. (I am rather sick of it.) The cathedral is striking on the outside, though not as remarkable as some I’ve been fortunate enough to see. Vikings were here, can you imagine? And there’s a tapestry depicting the Battle of Hastings. I saw it a few years ago. It’s interesting, I suppose, but whoever sewed the horses did not concern himself much with accuracy.

The dialect here is unusual, but I’ve grown accustomed to it. There are several English-speaking shopowners here, so I have been practicing. We don’t get to use German and English very often, but I’m still glad we have courses in them. I hope to become fluent in both. Then I can eavesdrop on tourists.

Oh, and there’s a confectioner who makes the most delectable violet-flavored sweets. They are both smooth and crisp with some kind of jam. If you can believe it, Roger shared with me some he’d gotten for his birthday. I suppose he isn’t completely terrible. Only mostly.

Are you taking part in the Bastille Day celebrations?

Tell me more about these murders—even that which you cannot include in your column. Could you send some newspaper articles, old and new, to fill in the blanks? Once weekly doesn’t suffice.

Bisous,

Agnès



By the time she was done, she thought for sure both Stanley and Maman could hear her thumping heart. She held the letter to her chest.

So she hadn’t told Agnès about the visions. That meant there was a part of her life, at least one part, that hadn’t been tainted by them.