A young black lab, tail wagging, jumped all over him, barking and licking his face—then scrambled to Sabine and Marlow to do the same.
“Babka, non!”a woman scolded from the other room.
Yakiv strode into the kitchen. The dog raced between him, the kitchen, and them, in and out of their legs, colliding with corners and doorways, leaping up to lick their faces, sliding around on the tile floor. Marlow and Sabine followed Yakiv.
Sausage sizzled on the stove. Pots bubbled away. The smell of baking bread enveloped Marlow like a blanket. A woman, maybe early thirties, in jeans, T-shirt, and bare feet, long black hair in a single braid, was trying to control the enthusiastic puppy. It was having none of it.
“Maman, regarde!”said Yakiv, pointing to Marlow and Sabine.
“Bonjour!”the woman said in heavily accented French. And then, to Yakiv,“T’as trouvé des nouvelles voisines?”Yakiv had indeed found new neighbors.
In broken French, Marlow explained how they’d found him snacking in their kitchen.
“Vous parlez anglais?”asked the woman, hearing Marlow’s accent. “I am Lali. Fedir, my husband, will be home soon for lunch. And this is Babka, the happy dog.”
Marlow and Sabine introduced themselves.
“I am sorry, Yakiv invites himself into other people’s homes. I have told him to stop, but he is curious. Here, this is not a problem, because there are not many people, and they are friends. This is better than where we were from.”
“Where is that?” asked Marlow.
“Ukraine.”
“Yakiv took us on a tour of Mirabelle,” said Sabine.
“He likes to take the long way,” said Lali. “I sent him to get mint up by the castle. Instead he let himself into your house, ate your food, showed you the whole village on the way back, and did not bring the mint. Which house is yours? What is its name?”
“Maison Perdue,” said Marlow. “Yours?”
“Presque au Château,” said Lali. “It means ‘almost at the castle.’ ”
“How many people live in Mirabelle?”
“We are here since a year. There is Madame Belleville, the one who stares through her window and may give you a smile, may not.”
“Today, not so much,” said Marlow.
“Tomorrow may be better. We take each day new. There is also Luc Celeste.”
“Yes. What’s his story?” Marlow tried not to sound too interested, or picture Luc in his towel … or without it.
“He is an artist.”
“Really? Not just a terrible driver for a travel company?”
“I see you have met,” said Lali, laughing. “He was born here, his parents, too, but they are gone now, passed away. He studied art history to please them. They did not want him to become a painter, and he did not want to become an art historian.”
So Luc was an art historian. Painter. Rebel.
“And there is you, too, living here in Mirabelle.”
“Maybe,” ventured Marlow. “I bought Maison Perdue over the internet, but I can’t keep it. So I will work over the summer to fix it up and hopefully resell in September.”
“That is sad. We also bought our house for one euro. It was an answer to many problems. And even though everything is not perfect, it is perfect enough.”
“I have so many questions,” said Marlow.
Lali heard the sound of the front door opening. “This is my husband, Fedir, home for lunch. You must stay and ask them all. We will tell you everything we know.”
