Foreign Tongue by Vanina Marsot

walked up the street and into his store, and yet again, I stood alone among the piles of books as Monsieur Laveau leaped to answer the phone in his office, slamming the door behind him. I picked up a collection of short stories and sat down on a rickety chair in the corner. The cowbell pealed, and a tall man came in and said, “Bonjour.”
    “Bonjour,” I answered politely, not looking up from the book.
    “Vous attendez Bernard?” he asked, gesturing at the closed door.
    “Oui,” I said, glancing at him. He looked familiar, with a rugged, handsome face: olive skin under a mop of brown hair, beaky nose, square jaw, and hooded, brown eyes. Around forty, he wore jeans, a T-shirt, and a velvet jacket, an old leather portfolio tucked under his arm.
    “Il nous fait toujours attendre, ce sacré Bernard,” he said with a rueful, dimpled smile. He always makes us wait. I gave a quick smile and lookedaway, feeling shy. “Qu’est ce que vous lisez?” he asked, tucking sunglasses into his pocket. I held up the book and read the spine.
    “Stendhal, Chroniques italiennes, ” I said.
    “‘C’est la cristallisation, comme dit Stendhal,’” he said, sounding like he was quoting someone. I squinted at him, puzzled.
    “Une chanson de Gainsbourg cite la fameuse théorie de Stendhal sur la cristallisation de l’amour,” he said, explaining that a Gainsbourg song referenced some theory Stendhal had. I shook my head: I didn’t know it, either the theory or the song. He studied me for a moment.
    “Ah, vous n’êtes pas française,” he observed. “Italienne?” I shook my head. “Espagnole?” I shook my head again. “Je sais,” he said, tapping the side of his nose. “Grecque.” I shook my head again. “Dites-moi, alors,” he asked, giving up.
    “Américaine.”
    “Really? You don’t sound American. You don’t look American, either,” he said, switching into accented but fluent English. “How do you know Bernard?”
    “I’m doing some work for him. Translation.”
    “Ah.” His speculative look said, So, it’s you. I wondered if he was Monsieur Laveau’s famous secretive writer.
    “What’s cristallisation ?” I asked.
    “It’s a theory Stendhal came up with to describe the process of falling in love. There’s a delightful drawing he made, comparing it to a journey from Bologna to Rome.”
    His phone beeped, and as he studied the screen, I realized where I’d seen his face: he was an actor. I’d seen him in a TV movie about police corruption, where he’d played an Algerian cop with a heroin problem. He caught me staring and held the look. A warm liquid pooled in my stomach.
    “Olivier! Navré de vous avoir fait attendre,” Monsieur Laveau apologized, emerging from his den.
    “Mais pas du tout, mon ami. Je parlais avec cette charmante demoiselle—” Olivier said, still looking at me and leaving a silence open for my name. Monsieur Laveau’s head swiveled around in alarm. He placed his hands on his hips, the picture of arms-akimbo vexation.
    “Vous êtes toujours là?” You’re still here? My jaw dropped open. It was pathological, the way he always forgot about me. Olivier folded his arms and grinned, finding this hugely entertaining. Monsieur Laveau muttered something unintelligible, took an envelope from his office, and thrust it at me.
    “Tenez, mademoiselle. A bientôt,” he said. He took my arm and hustled me outside. On the sidewalk, he apologized for being brusque and explained that he had a meeting with an important client. Then he reminded me that the translation was confidential. I nodded, bewildered.
    “Bien. Vous n’avez rien dit?” You didn’t say anything? he asked, cocking his head toward the store.
    “Non,” I said, wondering if telling Olivier I was translating counted.
    “Bien. Bien, bien.” He rubbed his hands together. “A mercredi prochain,” he added, reminding me to come back next Wednesday, and went back in. I walked away, turning over pieces of