Part Two: Lina
The figure in the doorway was small.
This was the first thing he registered — the specific smallness of a child, the proportions wrong for an adult, the head at a height that his eyes had not been aimed at. He had to adjust his gaze downward, and in the adjustment he took in, in sequence: worn sneakers with a worn-through patch on the left toe, pants far too large and gathered at the waist with a knot, a cleaning uniform jacket whose sleeves covered most of the hands that were holding — he looked twice — a spray bottle and a folded cloth.
A face. Dark eyes. Hair in two braids, one slightly more even than the other. An expression of concentrated effort in the style of someone working up to something they had been practicing.
“Good morning, sir,” she said. “I’ve come to work.”
Alexandre Delorme, who had managed eight markets across seventeen countries without losing his composure, did not immediately respond.
He looked at this child.
She looked at him.
“I’m replacing my mother today,” she said. “She couldn’t come.”
He found his voice. “Replacing your — who is your mother?”
“Sofia Martins. She cleans this floor. And the floor below.” She held up the spray bottle with a seriousness that was almost professional. “I know how to clean. She showed me.”
Alexandre was aware of several simultaneous responses occurring in him: confusion, which was unusual; something that might have been amusement, which he did not often feel before eight in the morning; and something underneath both of those that he did not immediately identify.
“How old are you?” he said.
“Five,” she said. Then, with precision: “Five and a half.”
He looked at her for another moment.
“Come in,” he said. “And close the door.”
