The landlord’s
housemaids are gradually becoming more loving.
And thus more terrifying. I try
to creep up the four flights of stairs to our apartment without breathing, but
am inevitably caught by my name screamed in varying tones of ecstasy, depending
on what I’m wearing, if my hair is down, or if I’m carrying groceries.
The most recent
order of business is English (though I’ve also been graciously offered the
chance to do primary school maths and technology homework); one day the
youngest maid asked me in careful English what my name was.
First of all, they
have never really understood my name (like half the population here) and offer
me vague semblances to which I deign to respond because the alternative is
to... talk to them. Furthermore, I
generally dislike my name, but in French, it is unutterably worse – the harsh
‘r’ forever sounds as if people are angry with me.
“[Kerrrrrmit]!”
“I didn’t do it,
I swear! Please don’t write an Incident Report!”
