The thieving magpie

Chapter Three - The Mustaches

Let's return to our story... or rather, to our lunch. Back to where we left Anna and Ivan before the Red Chapter.

Before we begin, for those who enjoy reading with a bit of music, here's the playlist for this new chapter: Le grand cahier by Alexander Litvinovsky, performed by Metamorphose String Orchestra and Pavel Lyubomudrov; Schwanengesang, D957: No.4 Serenade by Franz Schubert, performed by Eugene Ormandy and the Philadelphia Orchestra; Once upon a time by Autin Farwell.

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Chapter Three
The Mustaches

Sitting quietly in her chair, she looked like a porcelain doll. A brand-new one, like those often displayed in the shop windows around the neighborhood.

Like the ones with ribbons in their hair and big dresses, the kind little girls dream about, their tiny fingers pressed against the transparent glass, eyes wide and sparkling, on their way home from school, excited as can be from the sugar of apple juice and the chocolate croissants they had for their afternoon snack.

Like those placed in the center—always the prettiest—surrounded by stuffed animals and electric trains. And no train, not even the brightest red, puffing steam, could ever steal the spotlight from them—never. They had the children's full attention, every single one of them, from Christmas through June. They even caught the attention of the ladies, who gazed at them almost like rivals, sideways glances filled with envy, while the young women... They, they mourned their childhoods and their toy chests the moment they saw those dolls. Some would stop for a moment, sighing, one hand on their chest as if to say, "How time flies," before walking away, tears in their eyes, bent over the pram they were gently pushing in front of them. Even the men, who would grumble under their breath at not having yet crossed paths—or perhaps, having once crossed paths—with a woman as lovely as that, their fists and jaws clenched, a hazy memory of their first love surfacing, the sting of their last kiss still pinned to their disappointed hearts.

Like the ones with rosy lips and cheeks, sometimes with little patent leather shoes, and even a painted beauty mark—a small brown spot just above one cheek. Anna looked like a little doll like that, and before her, it seemed like the precious tea set of a well-mannered little girl, perfectly laid out for lunchtime, just for her and her favorite doll.

Everything was so perfect, it didn't seem real. It all looked like a paper-mache set, a dollhouse... The secret, enchanted village of a bored little girl who had all the time in the world to imagine every last detail of this tiny paradise... Anna, the bright yellow sun, the flower-filled square, the church bells, the restaurant with its checkered tablecloths, copper dishes, and dark wooden chairs with carved backs. The uneven cobblestones, with tall grass and daisies growing up in between, no one knowing quite how. The names of lovers carved into the bark of plane trees doing their best to stretch their not-quite-green branches over the square. The birdsong, the clicking of heels from lost passersby, almost running. The scent of flowers carried in the warm air.

Ivan thought he was dreaming. Even if he had tried, he couldn't have painted anything more beautiful than this. Of course, painting Anna was beyond his ability—at least, that's what he told himself. He had already mourned the thought earlier on the boulevard. He knew he could never paint her perfectly... But what he meant—he thought all of this while pouring water for his lovely walking companion, who must have been dying of thirst after such a long stroll—was that he could never have hoped for better. In fact, he would never have dared imagine such a perfect setting, such a lovely day. The painting in which he now found himself, as if by some miracle, sketched at her side.

He had no idea who the artist behind this masterpiece was, the one who had captured him in this scene, and even less idea why this artist had chosen him as a model—but sitting across from Anna, he had already thanked the unknown painter a thousand times for his talent. He had already thanked him a thousand times for choosing him to be part of this charming pastel-colored scene. He only hoped this mystery painter wouldn't tire of painting Anna and him, for a hundred years at least.