71983The little boy stood on his tiptoes to look inside the window. The glass was fogged up with condensation because Aline, the cleaning lady, was washing some curtains in the big metal sink and using gallons of boiling water. Billows of steam rose up from the sink, obscuring her face. But it was not Aline’s face that Laurent was looking at. He was watching her body, specifically her breasts, which were generous and on the verge of spilling out of her work-dress as she bent to her washing.
He was five. His mother was long dead, and he yearned to have Aline’s attention for more than a few minutes. Longed for her to stop working and stroke his hair and comfort him, to take him on her lap and allow him to rest his head on her bosom. To tell him she would take him away from Monsieur Broussar
