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riveting that she froze like a forest animal who’d just heard a twig snap.
    “Bonjour, Patron!”
she managed to gasp, wanting to flee and yet rooted to the spot.
    With his almond-shaped face, blunt nose and barrel of a chest, this man seemed like a primitive figure carved out of dark wood.
Like a savage from Africa or Polynesia
, Ondine could not help thinking, reminded of the missionary books in the convent—because it seemed as if this man belonged in animal skins and a headdress made of hawk’s feathers, instead of the good-quality jacket and cap that he wore.
    “Bonjour,”
he replied, still studying her boldly. When finally he smiled, it was like warm sunlight suddenly filling the room with invigorating energy. Ondine exhaled in relief, for he looked more human now as he removed his jacket. In fact, his clothes belonged to a fairly conservative middle-aged man: open-collared shirt, pullover sweater, wool pants neatly belted.
    As he drew nearer she realized that for a man, he really was terribly short, even shorter than she was. He took off his wool cap, not to tip it at her as other men might, but merely to toss on a chair with his jacket. Absently he ran a hand over his thinning hair, which was parted on one side and combed over the top of his head; yet it was longish and floppy, indicating the freedom of an artist.
    Still the
Patron
did not speak. He continued staring in a way that most people would think rude. It was almost challenging, the way he seemed to take her in—not simply her clothes and appearance, but her thoughts and feelings, too. Part of her wanted to run and hide; yet there was such intelligence and vitality in his magnetic gaze that she found herself moving toward him, as if he were the planet Jupiter and she was a new little moon caught by his gravitational pull and turned into a willing satellite.
    “You are the girl from the café?” he now asked politely. His voice was cultured but slightly nasal. Although he spoke French easily, he hit his consonants harder and, to her ear, exaggerated the vowels.
    “Excusez-moi
,
Patron,”
she murmured, guiltily putting the seashell back on the table. She knew that she should bow her head and not stare back at him; this was what her father and the village elders expected a woman to do when confronted by male authority.
    But then she remembered the red pepper he’d drawn on his note. How could a pepper look so playful? And yet it did. Thinking about that jaunty, cartoony pepper and the friendly words underneath it, Ondine suddenly could not hold back a smile.
    “I am happy to serve you. And, next time I’ll remember to add more red peppers,” she said.
    He appeared surprised. “Oh, so you are the cook? Well, you do good work for one so young.”
    Ondine hadn’t meant to claim credit for her mother’s
bouillabaisse,
but she could see no graceful way to retract it, so instead she gestured toward his pages on the table and said shyly, “Sorry to intrude on your work.”
    “Do you know the story of the Minotaur?” he asked, his voice low and compelling as if reading aloud a fairy tale. “He reigns over an island. The locals sacrifice their prettiest girls from the village to service the Minotaur in his decadent villa. He can’t decide if he wants to ravish them or kill them. Sometimes he does both. But he also invites poets and artists and musicians to play and sing and dance for him; everyone feasts on champagne and fish, and their orgies continue all day and night. The Minotaur rules by force over
all
the women, young and old—but they fear him, so he can never truly be loved for himself. But one Sunday, a young fisherman from the mainland will find his way through the Minotaur’s labyrinth, and kill the sacred monster with a dagger.”
    He lunged forward at the pictures and made a thrusting move as if with a sword. “But there will always be another minotaur to replace him,” he said matter-of-factly, “because all women love a