She could almost ignore the bright sunlight, the sweat that ran from her temples, that coursed down her back. She could almost ignore the painful itching and the bitter taste of coffee and acid in her mouth.
Anne Marie stepped into the road and would probably have been run over if the young soldier driving a coach—Transport d’enfants stenciled on the sides—had not braked sharply. He looked at Anne Marie in amazement from behind the high windscreen and shook his head, tapping his temple with a finger.
Anne Marie did not even look at him. She hurried across Place de la Victoire. The shade from the sandbox trees was of no help.
Beads of sweat trickled down her face. A couple of women cleaners, dwarfed beneath their straw hats, watched her. They wore rubber boots and leaned on their brooms. One said something, and the other threw back her head to laugh. She covered her mouth with a plump hand.
“Fabrice,” Anne Marie murmured under her breath, and the traffic seemed to draw apart as she crossed over the road and walked along the rue Alsace-Lorraine. She reached number 31, rang the bell, pushed open the heavy iron door. It moved reluctantly, scraping the bolt across the floor. Anne Marie went up the stairs. Sweating but a cold chill in her back. She called out, “Mamie.”
The sound of her shoes echoed hollowly against the empty walls.
There were still breakfast things on the table. A coffee pot and the remains of toasted bread. Flies danced along the edge of the open jam jar.
“Mamie!”
Her mother-in-law held a woman’s magazine and was wearing reading glasses.
“I can’t find Fabrice.”
Mamie had put her bare feet up on the edge of a stool. There was a look of surprise on her face.
“I can’t find Fabrice. He should be at school. I’ve just been there, and I’ve seen the surveillant. Fabrice’s not at school. I had to get up early this morning. I phoned home. There’s nobody there—not even Béatrice. I don’t know where Fabrice is.” She took hold of Mamie’s hand. “He should be at school. I’d’ve taken him myself, but I had to go to Gosier. He should be at school—I don’t understand. Mamie, I don’t understand.”
“Fabrice’s with his papa.”
Anne Marie stood with her mouth open.
“Don’t you ever listen to what your husband says? Fabrice’s gone with his papa. He told you—last Wednesday he couldn’t take the boy to the beach with you. So today he decided to let Fabrice take the day off from school. They’ve gone to the beach.”
“He didn’t tell me anything. He didn’t tell me.…” Anne Marie stopped.
It did not matter.
“My Fabrice,” she said. She put her arms around Mamie’s neck and cried with relief.