Mouroir

This Little Flea

My acquaintance, Monsieur Keuner, had this little flea. A wonderful little chap not much bigger than a pittance with curly hair and chubby cheeks. To look at you would say just straw and stray, but so full of life and laughter. I got to know them from drinking my first cup of black coffee every morning in the same bistro they stopped at for their café crème and pain beurré on their way to school. Yes, I envied Monsieur Keuner his flea. And so I cultivated their friendship, hailed them with a bouncing bonjour, laughed with their laughing, nodded with their unimportant projects for the future of the day. Until Monsieur Keuner allowed me occasionally to accompany them part of the way, even to carry and fondle the flea. One day, a Saturday just before school, I invited them to come and see where I live. My flat was on the top floor of an old town house only a few numbers down the same street from the bistro on the corner. One entered through the big porte-cochère giving on to the roughly paved inner courtyard with at the other end the broad staircase leading up to the étages. I took them through the green-dark courtyard and at the foot of the stairs I held up the flea in my hand to explain how one climbed and climbed until one reached my front door. Yes, I was tracing all of this with the hope that the flea now laughing in my hand would perhaps remember to come visit me, who knows, all on his own. At that moment the door of the first-floor apartment opened with a black noise and Madame Gasolini appeared on the landing. Ah, the bitch! Always was one, in barren heat, quarrelling, snarling, sniping and snooping. She screamed a stream of words to the effect that she would certainly not allow any flea to enter this building, and many other imprecations. I wanted to stand my ground, should have, felt like telling her to go and have a crap in her best infertile bloomers. But didn’t. Madame Gasolini is an imposing woman with very thick lungs. I found myself back with Monsieur Keuner at the street entrance to the building and to my sudden horror realized that I must inadvertently have dropped the flea among the paving stones. I bent over here and stooped there and all to no avail. I even felt with my fingers along the crack until all at once a hairy red spider crawled out and bit me in the index. Monsieur Keuner had two silent thin eyes. The wonderful little flea was lost and just another flea by now. And yet one knew that it was piteously crying out for succour somewhere near at hand. If only one could see as far as one’s nose!