I got out of the shower and cleared a circle of steam from the mirror so I could shave. When I opened the bathroom door, you were sitting on the hallway floor, holding your fat arm up for me to inspect. Just above your elbow, on the inside of your arm, there were the angry pink welts of a sharp pinch.

I knelt down to you. ‘Did Tilda do that?’

Your blue eyes were wide, jewelled with tears. Your long white lashes were clumped together. You nodded yes.

‘What did you do to antagonize her?’ I asked.

Confused, you only continued to nod.

‘Did you hit your sister? Did you ruin her game?’ You were always knocking over her towers, chewing her puzzle pieces or stripping the clothing off her dolls.

You nodded yes, vigorously. Not yet old enough to lie. ‘I hit Tilda,’ you said.

‘Why?’

‘Yes.’

I picked you up and shifted you to my hip, and carried you into our bedroom. I put you down on the bed and took my underwear from where I’d slung it over the back of a chair, and stepped into it.

‘You have fur,’ you said to me, pointing to my groin.

‘Yes I do,’ I said. ‘And one day you will too.’ I put on my trousers and undershirt, and selected a fresh, short-sleeved shirt from the closet. I doused my palms with cologne and patted my cheeks and neck, then oiled my hair and combed it back. My skin, invigorated by the sea and then the hot shower, buzzed like music.

‘Do me too,’ you said, pointing to the bottle of cologne.

With the bottle sealed, I pretended to dab more cologne on to my hands, and patted your cheeks, still tear-damp. ‘All better?’ I asked.

‘You didn’t,’ you said. ‘You didn’t put any.’ You clumped the bedspread in your strong hands.

‘Ah,’ I said. ‘You’re right.’ I pulled the top from the cologne bottle and measured the tiniest bit into my hand, and spread it on your cheek, admonishing myself for playing you for a fool.

11

L’Inconnue

Paris, 1898

Sundays, there was the river. Of course it was always there, pumping through the city, involuntary and vital as a heartbeat, but on Sundays we would take the omnibus as far as the Jardin des Tuileries and walk along paths lined with rhododendrons and roses, then cross over the Pont Royal to the Quai d’Orsay. It was the only time Madame Debord would willingly leave the apartment. She may have been paranoid but she was still a Parisienne; watching people was sport. Seeing what they were wearing. Who was out. Passing judgement. Sometimes we would see people whom Madame knew, or used to know, and they would treat her with caution, as if she were feral. But as far as I could see, she was only a little touched with nerves. While we walked she stayed close to me, her fingers clamped to the crook of my arm. These walks got her talking. She spoke a little about her husband, about how they used to go to the theatre in the evenings, eat in restaurants. She told me that once, she too was new to Paris, that she had been born on the north coast, in Wissant. She told me that on a clear day, you could see across La Manche, all the way to England, to the white cliffs. She told me about how, when the tide was low, she and her brother would walk out on the mudflats with buckets and sticks, and she would hike her skirts up high and they would dig cockles out of the sand.