Palais-Royal, Paris1942
Mornings, I show up at the bakery, before school, for breakfast. Samir goes into the alley for his cigarette break—it astonishes me, Samir smoking, Samir working. Samir’s pudgy belly, smooth as lambskin, hanging over his apron and out under his T-shirt, a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, like a grown man, and not a nice one. He brings me whatever goods have fallen onto the floor or been crushed in the morning rush. Sometimes he carries out a chipped demitasse and I take a sip of Turkish coffee and wrinkle my nose, like a baby, to show that I know that Samir is the head of the family now.
One morning Samir says: M. Lefond’s hands are bothering him.
He says: I told M. Lefond you’re good at that, at the hand-rubbing.
I massaged my father’s hands from the time I was six until he died. He said it was a useful skill. He said: Some people have not even that to offer.
