M. PUJOL TOSSES an orange high into the air. He believes he is alone; he hums a tune; he tosses the orange higher and higher, so that when it grazes the foot of a dryad frisking on the ceiling, and a little bit of painted plaster comes tumbling down from above, M. Pujol freezes, and then, with the toe of his elegant shoe, guides the bit of plaster behind a column. He drops the orange.
Are you going to eat that? Madeleine asks. She is standing outside in the sunlight, a small fierce shadow looking in.
Oh yes! The flatulent man stoops to retrieve it.
What a pleasure it is, he says, to eat an orange in the afternoon.
Seating himself on a wrought iron chair, he presses his thumbnail into the rind. Madeleine continues to stare at him, hungry and implacable.
Forgive me, M. Pujol cries in embarrassment. We will both have oranges!
And moving through the trees, he cups oranges in his hands, brings them up to his nose. After sniffing, he decides; he grasps and pulls; the little tree bends forward and then snaps back, shivering.
Catch! he says, throwing the orange at the girl, the orange arcing like a sun, the girl catching it in the great dull mitts of her hands.
He resumes peeling.
She looks down at her hands, at the intractable orange.
His long fingers ease the rind from the flesh, sending up a mist, a sigh, a tearing sound. As M. Pujol peels, he releases into the air the scent of oranges. He is absorbed in keeping the rind whole, a rough skin unfurling from his fingers.
He glances up at Madeleine. She is still standing there, mute, studying her orange.
Oh! His embarrassment is complete.
Would you allow me? he asks, starting from his chair, reaching out to the girl, spilling his orange from his lap, and watching it bounce across the floor. M. Pujol falters, unsure of whether to rescue Madeleine from her predicament, or the orange from the floor, which he then might offer to her in apology. But the orange will be dirtied and bruised; the girl will be made more unhappy; the orange has rolled its way to the feet of the girl. He must pick it up, must make amends, and so he stands and bends at the waist, attempting in his confusion to both bow to the girl and recover the orange, and as he does so, as he is bending over, she sees the soft hair growing along the back of his neck, just as it would on the neck of a boy, and she is surprised.