She slowly closes the robe. So he really hadn’t meant for them to sleep together at all. Maybe it’s the leg. Maybe he doesn’t like the thought of screwing a cripple. She’s met others like that. Well, to hell with him. She doesn’t care.

While he is rinsing out the cup and emptying the coffee-maker in the kitchen, she makes herself comfortable on the sofa and pulls the heavy blankets over her. Only when the delicious weight is pressing on her does she realize how tired she is. It almost hurts her bones to relax.

On his way to the bedroom, he turns off the gas. “You don’t need it while you’re sleeping. It’s bad for the lungs.”

Who the hell does he think he is? Her father?

When he turns off the overhead light, the windows that seemed black become gray with the first damp light of dawn. He pauses at the bedroom door. “What’s your name, by the way?”

Sleepiness already rising in the dry wick of her fatigue, she mutters, “Marie-Louise.”

“Well… good night then, Marie-Louise.”

She hums, half annoyed by the fact that he keeps talking. It doesn’t occur to her to ask his name.

4

Even before he opens his eyes, he knows it is late. Something in the quality of the sounds out in the street is wrong for getting-up time. He sits on the edge of his bed and groggily reaches for his bathrobe. It is not there. Only then does he remember the girl sleeping in his robe out in the living room.

He tiptoes through on his way to the kitchen, fully dressed, although he usually takes his coffee before dressing. He doesn’t want her to see him padding around in his underwear.

She lies on her side, curled up, the blankets so high that only her mop of frizzed hair is visible. From the line of her body beneath the blankets, he can tell that her hands are between her legs, the palms touching the sides of her thighs. He remembers sleeping like that when he was a kid.

His cup is on the drainboard, where it always is, but he has to rummage about in the cupboard to find another. He puts too little water in the kettle, underestimating the amount needed for two cups, but he decides not to boil more because the coffee already made will get cold. Pouring from one cup to another to make equal shares doesn’t work out well, and he loses about a quarter of a cup. He grumbles “Merde” with each accident or miscalculation. It’s really a nuisance having someone living with you. Staying with you, that is.

Because the cups are only half full, he has no difficulty balancing them as he carries them into the living room.

She is still asleep as he places the cups carefully on the table by the window. The worn springs of his chair clack; he grimaces and settles down more slowly. Maybe he shouldn’t wake her; she is sleeping so peacefully. But what’s the point of making coffee for two if you don’t give it to her? But, no. It’s best to let the poor kid sleep.

“Coffee?” he asks, his voice husky.

She doesn’t move.

All right. Let her sleep, then.

“Coffee?” he asks louder.

She half hums, half groans, and her head turns under the blankets.

Poor kid’s worn out. Let her sleep.

“Marie-Louise?”

A hand slips out and tugs the blanket from her cheek. Her eyelids flutter, then open. She blinks twice and frowns as she tries to remember the room. How did she get here?

“Your coffee will get cold,” he explains.

She looks at him Wearily, not recognizing him at first. “What?” she asks, her voice squeaky. “Oh… you.” She presses her eyes shut before opening them again. The puffiness of her black eye has gone down, and the purplish stain has faded toward green.

“Your coffee’s ready. But if you’d rather sleep, go ahead.”

“What?”

“I said… you can go back to sleep, if you want.”

She frowns dazedly. She can’t believe he woke her up to tell her that. She puts her hand over her eyes to shade them from the cold light as she recollects, then turns and looks at him, wondering what he is up to. He didn’t want it last night, so he’s probably after a little now.

But he’s just sitting there, sipping his coffee.

When she sits up, she notices that her robe is open to the nipples; she tugs it back around her. She accepts the cup he hands her and looks into it bleakly. “Do you have any milk?”

“No. Sorry.”

She sips the thick dark brew. “How about sugar?”

“No. I don’t keep sugar in the house. I don’t use it, and it attracts ants.”

She shrugs and drinks it anyway. At least it’s hot.

They don’t talk, and instead of looking at one another, they both look out the window at the park across the street. A woman is pushing a pram along the path while a spoiled child dangles from her free hand, twisting and whining. She gives it a good shake and a splat on the bottom that seems to improve its humor.

Marie-Louise can see the bench where he found her. It’s going to be cold and damp again today, and she won’t be able to make a score until dark, if then. Maybe he would let her stay. No, probably not. He’d be afraid she might steal something. Still, it’s worth a try.

“You feel better this morning?” she asks.

“Better?”

“If you don’t have to rush off, we could…” Palm up, her hand saws the air between them horizontally in an eloquent Joual gesture.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says.

“It won’t cost you. Just let me stay until dark.” She produces a childish imitation of a sexy leer that is something between the comic and the grotesque, with that black eye of hers. “I would be good to you.” When he does not respond, another thought occurs to her. “I’m all right,” she promises. “I mean… I’m healthy.”

He looks at her calmly for several seconds. Then he rises. “I have to go to work. Would you like more coffee?”

“No. No, thank you.”

“Don’t you like coffee?”

“Not really. Not without milk and sugar.”

“I’m sorry.”

She lifts her shoulders. “It’s not your fault.”

He pulls out his wallet. “Look…” He doesn’t know exactly how to say this. After all, it doesn’t matter to him one way or the other if she stays or goes. “Look, there’s a store around the corner. You can buy things for your breakfast. The… the stove works.” What a stupid thing to say. Of course the stove works.

She reaches up and takes the offered ten-dollar bill. This must mean she can stay until night.

He takes up his overcoat. “Okay. Good, then.” He goes to the door. “Oh, yes. You’ll need a key to get back in after your shopping. There’s one on the mantel.” It occurs to him that it must seem stupid to leave the extra key on the mantel, because you would have to be in the apartment to get it. And if you’re already in the apartment… But Lucille had always left it there, and he never misplaced his own key, so…

As he is leaving, she asks, “May I use your things?”

“My things?”

“Towel. Deodorant. Razor.”

Razor? Oh, of course. He has forgotten that women shave under their arms. “Certainly. No, wait a minute. I use a straight razor.”

“What’s that?”

“You know… just a… straight razor.”

“And you don’t want me using it?”

“I don’t think you can. Why don’t you buy yourself a razor? There’s enough money there.” He closes the door behind him and gets halfway down the stairs before something occurs to him.

“Marie-Louise?” He has opened the door again.

She looks up. She has been pawing through her shopping bag of clothes, planning to take this chance to wash out a few things and dry them in front of the gas heater before he comes back. She acts as though she’s been caught at something. “Yes?”

“The stove. The pilot light doesn’t work. You have to use a match.”

“Okay.”

He nods. “Good.”

When he arrives at the Quartier Général, the workday is in full swing. The halls outside the magistrate’s courts are crowded with people standing around or waiting on benches of dark wood, worn light in places by the legs and buttocks of the bored, or the nervous. One harassed woman has three children with her, separated in age by only the minimal gestation period. She hasn’t made up that day; perhaps she has given up making up. The youngest of her kids clings to her skirt and whimpers. Her tension suddenly cracking, she screams at it to shut up. For an instant the child freezes, its eyes round. Then its face crumples and it howls. The mother hugs and rocks it, sorry for both of them. Two young men lounge against a window frame, their slouching postures meant to convey that they are not impressed by this building, these courts, this law. But each time the door to the courtroom opens, they glance over with expectation and fear. There are a few whores, victims of a street sweep somewhere. One is telling a story animatedly; another is scratching under her bra with her thumb. A girl in her late teens, advanced pregnancy dominating her skinny body, chews nervously on a strand of hair. An old man rocks back and forth in misery, rubbing his palms against the tops of his legs. It’s his last son; his last boy. Youngish lawyers in flowing, dusty black robes and starched collars crossed at the throat, their smooth foreheads puckered into self-important frowns, stalk through the crowd with long strides calculated to give the impression that they are on important business and have no time to waste.