The Art of Regret by Mary Fleming

Author:Mary Fleming
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: She Writes Press
Published: 2019-12-16T16:00:00+00:00

THREE

MICHEL’S RELEASE FROM prison got closer and closer, and I still had no plan for hiding the dog. With Hautebranche excluded as a possibility, where else could I look? Who else could I ask? My bleak personal landscape left me high and dry. I thus awaited Michel’s return like a bankrupt man anticipating the bailiff’s knock. Imminent dread hung over every day.

Finally one afternoon, with Piotr out to lunch, he came. I had just hoisted a bike on the repair stand for a gear adjustment when the Tibetan chimes chimed. I popped my head around the corner of the workshop, and there was Michel, with Claude looking on eagerly.

“You’re out,” I said, wiping my hands on a cloth.

“I am. And I want Leffe back.” He leaned down to Cassie, who by now was dancing around him. She hadn’t forgotten. “Hey, that’s my girl.”

“Leffe?”

“My favorite beer, when I can afford it. Anything wrong with that? That’s my girl,” he repeated.

“Not really,” I said. “You’ve been gone a long time.”

“And now I’m back. Where’s the leash?” Claude was watching this exchange as if he were at a tennis match. “I want the leash and the bowl and the bed.”

There was an awkward silence. Claude began his little dance, hopping from one foot to another in his laceless boots. “He’s got the leash, I’ve seen it,” he offered helpfully.

Still I didn’t move.

But then I had an idea.

“Okay,” and I went to get Cassie’s leash. Michel was smiling; Claude looked disappointed that game, set, match had been settled so quickly. Michel attached the dog and tried to pull her toward the door. Cassie leaned back, legs stiff, paws firmly planted, just as she did with me if I tried to deny her a turn through the Tuileries gardens on our morning walk. The harder Michel tugged, the more the loose skin of her neck wrinkled her face in stubborn resistance. When he eased up for a second, she sat down and began scratching, sticking her back paw right into her ear with concentrated attention. Just as I’d hoped, she did not want to leave the person who had been feeding her the last months. Michel’s face fell.

“She won’t come with me,” he said helplessly.

I shook my head. I felt sorry for him, but I have to admit, it was the supercilious pity of the victor.

“I told you. It’s been a long time.” I paused before moving into Phase Two of my plan. “But I’ll tell you what.” I paused again. “She was your dog, after all, and you should be compensated accordingly. I should pay you for the dog.” He didn’t say anything for a minute. He fiddled with the end of the leash. “Come on,” I said more softly, “she’s happy here. You won’t have to worry about taking care of her, but you can see her all the time.” The leash slackened. “How about five hundred francs.”

“She’s worth more than that,” said ever-helpful Claude.

“The woman gave you five hundred,” I reminded Michel.

“A guy in prison told me these dogs go for more like five thousand francs.

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