The smell of mustiness in the parlor… and the heavy, sickening smell of flowers. And Grandpapa. Grandpapa…

Whenever a random image or sound on the Main triggers his memory in such a way as to carry him back to his grandfather, he always pulls himself back from the brink, away from dangerous memories. Of all the family, he had loved Grandpapa most… needed him most. But he had not been able to kiss him goodbye. He had not even been able to cry.

“…still mad?”

“What?” LaPointe asks, surfacing from reverie. They have rounded the park and are approaching the gate across from his apartment.

“Are you still mad?” Marie-Louise asks again. “You haven’t said a word.”

“No,” he laughs. “I’m not mad. Just thinking.”

“About what?”

“Nothing. About being a kid. About my grandfather.”

“Your grandfather! Tabernouche!”

That is a coincidence. He hasn’t heard anyone but himself use that old-fashioned expletive since the death of his mother. “You think I’m too old to have grandparents?”

“Everyone has grandparents. But, my God, they must have been dead for ages.”

“Yes. For ages. You know something? I wasn’t mad at you this morning. I was sick.”

“You?”

“Yes.”

She considers this for a while. “That’s funny.”

“I suppose so.”

“Hey, what do you want to do? Let’s go somewhere, do something. Okay?”

“I don’t really feel like going anywhere.”

“Oh? What do you usually do on Sundays?”

“When I’m not working, I sit around in the apartment. Read. Listen to music on the radio. Cook supper for myself. Does that sound dull?”

She shrugs and hums a descending note that means: yes, sort of. Then she squeezes his arm. “I know why you’re leading me back to the apartment. You didn’t get enough last night, did you?”

He frowns. He wishes she wouldn’t talk like a bar slut. He can hardly direct her to the apartment after she has said something like that, so they leave the park and stroll through back streets between Esplanade and the Main. This day of sunshine after weeks of pig weather has brought out the old people and the babies, making it seem almost like summer. In winter, the population of the Main seems to contract at its extremities; the old and the very young stay indoors. But in summer, there are babies in prams, or toddlers in harnesses, their leashes tied to stoop railings, while old, frail-chested men in panama hats walk carefully from porch to porch. And on the Main merchants stand in their open doorways, occasionally stepping out onto the sidewalk and looking up and down the street wistfully, wondering where all the shoppers could be on such a fine day. If one stops and looks in the window, the owner will silently appear beside him, seeming to examine the merchandise with admiration, then he will drift toward the door, as though the magnetism of his body can draw the customer after him.

The weight of her arm through his is pleasant, and whenever they cross a street, he presses it against his side, as though to conduct her safely across. They walk slowly down the Main, window-shopping, and sometimes he 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 café, 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 Rivières 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.