exchanges a word or two with people on the street. He notices that she automatically bends her knee to disguise her limp when a youngish man approaches, though she doesn’t bother when they are alone.
Around noon they take lunch at a small cafe, then they go back to the apartment.
For the past hour, Marie-Louise has puttered about, taking a bath, washing her hair, rinsing out some underclothes, trying on various combinations of the clothes she bought yesterday. She does not do domestic chores; the coffee cups go unwashed, the bed unmade. She has tuned the radio to a rock station which serves an unending stream of clatter and grunting, each bit introduced by a disc jockey who babbles with obvious delight in his own sound.
LaPointe finds the music abrasive, but he takes general pleasure in her busy presence. For a time he sits in his chair, reading the Sunday paper, but skipping the do-it-yourself column, which he finds less interesting than it used to be. Later, the paper slides from his lap as he dozes in the afternoon sunlight.
The burr of the doorbell wakes him with a snap. Who in hell? He looks out the window, but cannot see the caller standing under the entranceway. The only cars parked in the street are recognizable as those of neighbors. The doorbell burrs again.
“Yes?” he calls loudly into the old speaking tube. He has used it so seldom that he doubts its functioning.
“Claude?” the tinny membrane asks.
“Moishe?”
“Yes, Moishe.”
LaPointe is confused. Moishe has never visited him before. None of the cardplayers has ever been here. How will he explain Marie-Louise?
“Claude?”
“Yes, come in. Come up. I’m on the second floor.”
LaPointe turns away from the speaking tube to look over the room, then turns back and says, “Moishe? I’ll come down…” But it is too late. Moishe has already started up the stairs.
Marie-Louise enters from the bedroom, wearing Lucille’s quilted robe. “What is it?”
“Nothing,” he says grumpily. “Just a friend.”
“Do you want me to stay in the bedroom?”
“Ah, no.” He might have suggested it if she hadn’t, but when he hears it on her lips, he realizes how childish the idea is. “Turn the radio off, will you?”
There is a knock at the door, and at the same time the rock music roars as Marie-Louise turns the knob the wrong way.
“Sorry!”
“Forget it.” He opens the door.
Moishe stands in the doorway, smiling uneasily. “What happened? You dropped something?”
“No, just the radio. Come in.”
“Thank you.” He takes off his hat as he enters. “Mademoiselle?”
Marie-Louise is standing by the radio, a towel turbaned around her newly washed hair.
LaPointe introduces them, telling Moishe that she is from Trois Rivieres also, as if that explained something.
Moishe shakes hands with her, smiling and making a slight European bow.
“Well,” LaPointe says with too much energy. “Ah… come sit down.” He gestures Moishe to the sofa. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“No, no, thank you. I can only stay a moment. I was on my way to the shop, and I thought I would drop by. I telephoned earlier, but you didn’t answer.”
“We took a walk.”
“Ah, I don’t blame you. A beautiful day, eh, mademoiselle? Particularly after all this pig weather we appreciate it. The feast and famine principle.”
She nods without understanding.
“Why did you phone?” LaPointe realizes this sounds unfriendly. He is off balance because of the girl.
“Oh, yes! About the game tomorrow night. The good priest called and said he wouldn’t be able to make it. He’s down with a cold, maybe a little flu. And I thought maybe you wouldn’t want to play three-handed cutthroat.”
On the rare occasions when one of them cannot make the game, the others play cutthroat, but it isn’t nearly so much fun. LaPointe is usually the absent one, working on a case, or dead tired after a series of late nights.
“What about David?” LaPointe asks. “Does he want to play?”
“Ah, you know David. He always wants to play. He says that without the burden of Martin he will show us how the game is really played!”
“All right, then let’s play. Teach him a lesson.”
“Good.” Moishe smiles at Marie-Louise. “All this talk about pinochle must be dull for you, mademoiselle.”
She shrugs. She really hasn’t been paying any attention. She has been engrossed in gnawing at a broken bit of thumbnail. For the first time, LaPointe notices that she bites her fingernails. And that her toenails are painted a garish red. He wishes she had gone into the bedroom after all.
“You realize, Claude, this is the first time I have ever visited you?”
“Yes, I know,” he answers too quickly.
There is a short silence.
“I’m not surprised that Martin is ill,” Moishe says. “He looked a little pallid the other night.”
“I didn’t notice it.” LaPointe cannot think of anything to say to his friend. There is no reason why he should have to explain Marie-Louise to him. It’s none of his business. Still… “You’re sure you won’t have some coffee?”
Moishe protects his chest with the backs of his hands. “No, no. Thank you. I must get back to the shop.” He rises. “I’m a little behind in work. David is better at finding work than I am at doing it. See you tomorrow night then, Claude. Delighted to make your acquaintance, mademoiselle.” He shakes hands at the door and starts down the staircase.
Even before Moishe has reached the front door, Marie-Louise says, “He’s funny.”
“In what way funny?”
“I don’t know. He’s polite and nice. That little bow of his. And calling me mademoiselle. And he has a funny accent. Is he a friend of yours?”
LaPointe is looking out the window at Moishe descending the front stoop. “Yes, he’s a friend.”
“Too bad he has to work on Sundays.”
“He’s Jewish. Sunday is not his Sabbath. He never works on Saturdays.”
Marie-Louise comes to the window and looks down at Moishe, who is walking down the street. “He’s Jewish? Gee, he seemed very nice.”
LaPointe laughs. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know. From what the nuns used to say about Jews… You know, I don’t think I ever met a Jew in person before. Unless some of the men…” She shrugs and goes back to the gas fire, where she kneels and scrubs her hair with her fingers to dry it. The side closest to the fire dries quickly and springs back into its frizzy mop. “Let’s go somewhere,” she says, still scrubbing her hair.
“You bored?”
“Sure. Aren’t you?”
“No.”
“You ought to get a TV.”
“I don’t need one.”
“Look, I think I’ll go out, if you don’t want to.” She turns her head to dry the other side. “You want to screw before I go?” She continues scrubbing her hair.
She doesn’t notice that he is silent for several seconds before he says a definite “No.”
