“There is one there for one euro.” The cashier gestured to a stack of reusable tote bags in the same bright orange as her smock and printed with one giant sunflower.
“Thank you,” said Rosalyn.
The woman handed her a small device, with her card stuck into one end of it. “Please put in your number.”
Again with the code.
“It’s a credit card. It has no number,” Rosalyn said with a shake of her head, feeling so flustered that she defaulted to the Spanish word for number—número—instead of the French.
“You must have a code,madame.”
“I’m sorry. Apparently the American cards don’t have codes.”
Letting out a long sigh, the cashier reached beneath the counter and came up with an old-fashioned credit card machine, the kind that made an imprint of the card using carbon paper. She placed Rosalyn’s card on the metal plate, laid a charge slip on top of it, rolled the metal arm over the two, and then filled out the slip with the amount owed.
Rosalyn felt like a bumbling tourist in a town unaccustomed to outsiders. But surely in the summer months, tourists came to Cochet in search of champagne, right? Surely she wasn’t the first American to arrive in town with a credit card but no code.
“You are staying here in Cochet?” the woman asked as she handed the charge slip to Rosalyn to sign.
“Yes. At Gaspard Blé’sgîte.”
“He’s out of town,” she said, tearing off the top copy, slipping it in the cash register drawer, and handing the carbon paper and bottom copy to Rosalyn. “Did Pietro let you in?”
“Yes.” Rosalyn began to pack her own groceries in her new bright orange bag. The cashier seemed to approve.
As Rosalyn was placing a bag of chips on top, the shopkeeper said: “I am Dominique Cheveaux. A friend of Gaspard’s. That was his daughter, Blondine, there, talking about theboulangerie—she’ll be backtout de suite.”
“Oh... I’m Rosalyn Acosta. Nice to meet you.”
“You are Portuguese?”
“Excuse me?” Rosalyn wasn’t sure she understood her properly.
“You sound Portuguese. You look Portuguese.”
“I’m from California. But I speak Spanish, and sometimes my Spanish comes through instead of French when I speak. Well, nice to meet you.”
Rosalyn turned to leave.
“Attendez, s’il vous plaît.”Dominique asked Rosalyn to wait. She called toward the refrigerated section: “Blondine, this is the American from yourgîte!”
“Coming,” called a muffled voice from the other side of the store.
Dominique started ringing up the middle-aged woman’s purchases while Rosalyn waited at one side, feeling awkward.
“Do you know the man who has fields to the north of town, the one who practices biodynamic agriculture?” Rosalyn asked.
“Of course. Everyone knows him,” said Dominique. “Why?”
“I owe him some money—he helped me out the other day. Do you know how I can get in touch with him?” Rosalyn supposed she could try to connect with the man on one of her early-morning walks, but there was something almost sacred about that predawn hour; she hesitated to sully it with such prosaic concerns.
“Oof, that one,” said the woman in the puffy purple coat. “He has been in a bad mood since his wife left.”
The woman in the short skirt joined them, and nodded. “He keeps to himself,” she said. “But you are staying in mygîte? You are the American Rosalyn Acosta?”
Rosalyn nodded.
“I am going there right now. My name is Blondine. I am the daughter of Gaspard Blé.” She kissed Rosalyn on each cheek.“Enchantée.”
