“Je suis un petit chat dans la grande ville,”
she
said with a world-weary shake of the head,
casting a thankful glance at Georges
as
he set a martini in front of her with the instinctive
reverence of a heirodule placing an
icon in an alcove.
“Being a world-class ski photographer, it is so –
how
do you say? – so tiring,” she said.
“Sans
doute,” I murmured.
“I shoot and shoot and shoot,” she said.
“I shoot skiers.
I shoot boarders.
I shoot skaters.
I shoot the mountain.
I
shoot the sky.”
“Le tireur d'élite
de la montagne,” I smiled.
She laughed, a sound so bubbling and merry
that all of Le Perigord felt suddenly brighter.
“Oui,”
she smiled. “Le tireur d’elite de la montagne,
c’est moi.”
She picked up a roll as though
it were
her beloved Leica D-Lux 3,
snapping an imaginary picture
of the waiters
arrayed against the far wall.
They smiled
and waved, bowing her way as one.
“Nous vous aimons, peu de neige photographe,”
one said for them all.
She raised her glass in salute.
"Et Je t'aime trop," she
said, and smiled.
