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303 pages, Paperback
First published August 1, 2005
Satan is such a suburban name, sniffed Samba's matron as we edged our way by on a lakeside path. Scirocco's glamorous owner agreed, using a gloved finger to indicate the unfashionable outskirts on the far side of the park, where Satan and his tattooed owner, la patronne, as she put it, appeared to be heading...The two ageing socialites, who did not seem to know each other previously, now shared conspiratorial confidences as their purebred animals licked and mounted each other.I have four older siblings, and all four of them suffered through a middle-school French class taught by the legendary Madame Kluckner. According to my older siblings, she was old as dust, boring as hell and absolutely unforgiving of a thirteen-year-old's mangling of her mother tongue. So I entered her class with great trepidation, though it turned out not to be so bad. All I remember is that she was old enough that her lower lip dangled somewhat free of the rest of her face and was coated in stunningly red lipstick, which wasn't really in fashion at the time. At least five times a day, it seemed, she referred to LeJardinDe Looooxembooooouuuuuurrg, her lower lip flopping around alarmingly during these drawn-out syllables. Many years later, I enjoyed my visit there and enjoyed the essay with which Downie kicked off this book.
On one side of the pool sat a solitary young man pretending to read Le Monde. Across from him posed a comely young woman, the real object of his attention. She looked wistfully at the white marble sculptures of Acis and Galatea embracing rapturously in the fountain's grotto. Above them lurks the menacing Polyphemus, a greenish bronze monster twice their size. The young woman's eyes swept over the pool to the ivy garlands, to the half-opened newspaper and finally to the young man's handsome face. Each time her gaze fell upon him, Le Monde trembled.I could continue quoting chunks of this, but if you're the appropriate audience for this, you already know.