‘Kind of cheesy, but you can have it filled with curried peas if you like. Very popular around here.’
‘It smells delicious.’
‘Not English, are you?’
‘No. French. In fact, I wonder if you might know where to find a room to stay. I’m hoping to become a performer here.’
He grinned. ‘You saw one of my son-in-law’s adverts? Married to my daughter Karmena he is.’
‘I certainly saw an advert.’
‘Always on the lookout for foreign artistes he is. Tell him you met me. Karmena has a lodgin’ ’ouse in St Joseph Street. The British called it that when they arrived, but we always call it the street of the French. She’ll rent you a bed.’ He frowned. ‘A bit rough for a lady though.’
‘Why is it the street of the French?’
‘On account of being near the French Curtain on the waterfront. A fort.’
‘Well, thank you for your help.’
‘Any time. My name is Nikola, but everyone calls me Kola.’
He told her the price and she felt in her bag for her purse, paid, finished her deliciouspastizz, drank her coffee, and got up to leave. The British pound was the currency used on the island and thank goodness she had changed some of her francs while still in Paris.
‘Oh,’ she called to him. ‘How do I find St Joseph Street?’
‘Easy. Go to the bottom of Old Bakery Street, turn right, then second left. Strada San Giuseppe is at the very end of Strait Street. It’s only 400 metres long and runs parallel between Fountain Street and Republic Street. See you around,’ he said, and gave her a wave.
She followed his directions but when she arrived in the street of the French her heart sank. She had expected something akin to the perhaps shabby but nevertheless elegant streets she was accustomed to seeing in Paris. This dingy row of tenement buildings, six floors high, with washing hanging from wooden balconies, half-dressed barefoot children running wild, and a repulsive smell of stale cooking mixed with the stink of lavatories was the last thing she’d hoped for. She heard a shout and leapt out of the way of a man whose mule was pulling a cart at speed, piled high with cans of paraffin just in time.
She wondered if this was the sort of place Irène had lived in back in Paris. If it was, Irène deserved a medal for being as well turned-out as she was. Rosalie sigheddeeply. She missed her friend. But there was no point thinking of Paris. Not now, not ever. And yet this place! She glanced up at the tenements again and, filled with nostalgia, pressed a hand to her heart. It was so different from her home. What had she been thinking? As usual she’d made an impulsive snap decision without giving any thought to the consequences, and it was now too late for regrets.
CHAPTER 13
Inside the lodging house it didn’t get any better. A small scraggy woman was descending the stairs carrying an overflowing bucket and the hallway smelt of something Rosalie couldn’t at first identify.
‘I’m looking for Karmena,’ she said in English.
The woman nodded and pointed to a door that was slightly ajar. Rosalie pushed it open. ‘Karmena?’ she asked.
The woman, who was almost as round as she was high, nodded. ‘Who wants to know?’
‘Kola sent me. I need a room. Do you have one available?’
The woman frowned. ‘You could say I have. But best if I show you.’
Rosalie trailed her up the stairs and through a warren of corridors, past dormitories, family rooms and up even more stairs. She asked where the bathrooms were but was told there were no toilets, no bathrooms, and no kitchens as such.
‘So how do people cook then?’
‘On akuc?iniera,’ the woman said, and instantly Rosalie could smell the paraffin that fired such stoves mixed with the pong of a strong disinfectant. Of course, that had been what she’d smelt.
‘A paraffin cart comes round most days.’
‘I saw it. The mule nearly ran me over.’
Karmena laughed. ‘That would be Spiru’s mule. Can be a bit spirited.’
Rosalie glanced around. ‘Where do people wash clothes?’
