You see, Justin, my working life had been spent in the literary salons of Paris and, later, New York. I had never really come face-to-face with such a woman before. She had her hands on her hips and was tapping the stone step with the toe of her enormous platform sandal. She thrust her hand in mine and said, “Sandrine Matton, at your service,” and walked into the entryway, straight past me. She was tiny, even in heels, possibly just a little over five feet tall. Her bleached blonde hair was curly and gathered up, with a gold-colored elastic, at the top of her head. She was giving my house the once-over, straining to see the painting in the stairway and running her fingers along the surfaces as if checking for dust. And, yes, there was dust, as I hadn’t done a single thing since she cleaned the house, before my arrival. She tapped one of her heels on the ancient—very ancient—black-and-white tile floor. “Cracked tiles,” she said. “You’ll be wanting to change these, no doubt. I’d put in shiny new ones. Marble is classy. Orange. Nice and bright.”
I was so stunned that I could not reply.
“Still sleepy?” she said, laughing. “That’s all right, as everything’s up here—isn’t it?” she said, pointing to the side of her head. “You must be up in the clouds, inventing those stories of yours.”
I looked at her, not knowing if I should scold her or laugh. Had she read my books? And which ones? The books that made my name, like The Receptionist, or the books that made me rich?
“I brought my office with me!” she exclaimed, holding up a bucket of cleaning supplies and still laughing. “I’ll get the coffee on, and then we can talk shop,” she said, walking right through the living room toward the kitchen. “Looks like you could use some.”
I followed like a punished child. I almost told her about the nightly visitor, or visitors, in my house, but she was already displeased with my apparent laziness, and I didn’t want any more shame. But I knew at some point, if the visitations continued, that I could talk to her about it. And that she would be able to help me. That’s how cagoles are. It’s pronounced “cagaule” and it’s slang in Marseille. The cagole is the girlfriend of the little Marseille kéké, the dude who has bad taste, isn’t well educated, and is mostly interested in fast cars and drinking pastis and watching soccer. And she’s even more vulgar than her male counterpart. She’s loud. She swears. She’s provocatively dressed in colors that I must admit look good in sun- and sea-soaked Marseille: neon yellow, hot pink, apple green. None of your Parisian black or gray. Are you getting the picture? Lots of makeup and jewelry, you ask? Right on, Justin. I think you have it. But here’s the thing, and it’s especially true in the case of Sandrine Matton: cagoles can be the sweetest women on earth. They’re affectionate and caring; they’ll rest a hand on your shoulder as they talk and ask about how you are feeling. And they’ll really listen to your answer. They’re hard workers, often far more than their kéké boyfriends and brothers. They’re fearless and make no apologies for their appearance or foul language. A sort of “take me as I am” attitude. That’s it—I’ve just thought of it. They’re honest. You can trust your life with them.
So I sat down at the wooden kitchen table that had been in the bastide for decades and watched Sandrine strike a match, light the burner, and get to work. Most girls from Marseille are dark, revealing their Italian or North African roots, but Sandrine had soft pale skin, big blue eyes, full lips covered in shiny gloss, a wide smile, and a little upturned nose. She was wearing an impossibly short skirt, its fabric covered in the stars and stripes of the good ole USA, and I almost wondered aloud how she was going to do housework in that getup. She wore a halter top, shiny green, which revealed a midriff that was taut and muscular, as were her thighs and calves. She whistled while she made the coffee, and I sat there twiddling my thumbs. I was exhausted and still thinking of the blanket being torn off me in the middle of the night.
“What a wind last night, eh?” she asked, as if she was reading my mind.
“Was it windy?”
She laughed again and shook her finger at me. “What, you didn’t notice? It wasn’t only wind but a mistral!”
Was it the mistral that had tugged at the bedclothes? I’m a grown man and do know the difference between the wind and someone tugging at blankets, like Agathe used to do. Sandrine poured coffee into two café-au-lait bowls and added hot milk. She looked at me as she poured, seeing my fatigue and possibly other things too.
I took a sip of the coffee—she made it better than I did—and actually smiled. I felt better. “So, Mlle Matton, have you read my books?”
She sat down and crossed her legs, a sandal hanging loose off her right foot as she rocked it back and forth. “Have I!” She sighed and pretended to fan herself, and I knew then which books she had read. “I think my favorite is Everything We Said,” she told me. “Such a sad ending, but somehow you don’t feel bad. And I loved Postcard Romance. Such a good idea, to write a love story between travel writers who send postcards to each other! My sister Josy’s favorite is April in Paris. We read it when we were teens dreaming of going to Paris.” She shrugged and drank some coffee. “Maybe someday.”
I stared at her. “You’ve never been to Paris?”
“Imagine that,” she answered. “I’m thirty-six years old and have never been to our capital.”
“But
