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They strolled farther, enjoying the breeze off the river. Anjali noticed some long, low boats tied up alongside the quais. They looked like workboats in a way, but they had lace curtains in the windows, giving them a domestic air. What’s more, many of them had cars and motorboats on the roofs of the cabins. How did they get the car off the roof and on to land?
“What are those boats? They’re so weird,” she asked.
“Those are péniches, barges,” Aasha said. “Some carry cargo, and some are turned into floating homes. People live on them year round, take them through the canal system that meanders through the French countryside, come back up the Seine, whatever they feel like.”
“I want to talk to them,” Anjali said. “I need money—I’ll write an article about life on a péniche and get paid. Maybe. If some newspaper buys it.”
“People still read newspapers?”
“Funny.”
“Is this article going to help you be immortal?”
“I doubt it. If it gets into print, it will end up under somebody’s cockatoo. But I learn from everything I write.”
They were passing one especially beautiful péniche, white hull scrubbed down to the waterline, brass trim sparkling. A man sat on the spacious teak deck reading a newspaper. Anjali approached the edge of the quai gingerly. The man bounced slightly in his big péniche as the wake of a passing bateau mouche hit it.
Anjali stood at the end of the gangway and called to him.
“Excuse me, do you speak English?”
He looked her slowly up and down. Finally he deigned to nod.
Anjali didn’t like his attitude already, but persisted.
“I’d like to interview you about life on a péniche. Could we schedule a time to talk?”
“What newspaper are you from?”
“I’m writing an article on speculation.”
He shook his head and returned to his paper.
“Don’t give up,” Aasha said. “See? There’s another péniche with a woman.”
The next péniche had a black hull and dark red cabin. Window boxes of pink and red geraniums hung from a metal railing around a deck that sported a potted palm and teak garden furniture.
Anjali caught the woman just as she stepped off the gangway, before she disappeared among the people strolling.
“You have a lovely boat,” Anjali said, trying not to let her gaze shift to the white one upstream, which obviously had more money poured into it.
“Thank you, dear,” the woman said with a British accent. Her blonde hair, gray at the roots, was wild and frizzy and flopped around in the breeze off the Seine.
“It must be nice to live on a boat in the heart of Paris,” Anjali said.
“Yes, quite...”
Anjali sensed the woman was ready to scurry off, so she jumped to ask her for an interview.
“What newspaper are you with?” the woman asked.
“None. I’d just like to do an article and send it to The Guardian, in London, or maybe The New York Times, places like that, see what happens,” Anjali said.
An extremely long, black-hulled péniche labored past, obviously a working boat, though it had lace curtains on the cabin windows. In its wake, the woman’s péniche bounced and tugged at its lines. The metal gangway of the boat rose, fell, and clanged at the wake.
“Well, I’m just off to do errands,” the woman said. “Le fromagerie, le patiserrie, le charcuterie, and so forth.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean now! I’d come back when it’s convenient for you. On a weekend or after five o’clock.” When it was convenient for Anjali.
“Okay, let’s talk,” the woman replied. “It’ll be fun. I’m Marjorie.”
“Thanks!”
The breeze coming downriver flopped Marjorie’s frizz to the opposite side of her head.
“I’ll introduce you to some other péniche owners. Not my neighbor,” Marjorie said with a smile, pointing to the white boat just upriver. “He’s a bit full of himself, isn’t he.”
“I know.” Anjali giggled. She’d lucked out. This woman was as friendly as an American.
Marjorie took her phone out of her purse, and they worked out a date.
“Thank you!” Anjali said. She was surprised when Marjorie gave her the traditional bisous, one on each cheek. Wow, we’re officially friends, she thought. That done, Marjorie hurried off.
Anjali watched her, then turned to Aasha. “Whatever people say about that French kissing tradition, it certainly gets people better acquainted.” She had gotten a whiff of the woman’s breath. “Great way to gather clues. Date of last shower, how much garlic in last night’s dinner, favorite cologne, how much wine at lunch. Important data.”
“Too much information,” Aasha said, smiling.
