mother’s Sunday hat.
“In nature it’s usually the males that go in for display,” Miss Veegaete said in her teaching voice. “With humans it’s the other way round.”
There was also someone who had brought a photograph of a crown pigeon, a very silly-looking bird with an absurd fluffy pom-pom on its head, but Miss Veegaete was enchanted. “Animals in faraway countries are so much prettier than they are here, I always think. In this part of the world it’s dreary old raincoats all year round for man and beast alike.”
The vibrant blue of her dress made her stand out from her surroundings. Keenly aware that the end was near, I had eyes for none but her. The Day of Judgement was upon us. The sheep would be separated from the goats. We had yet to hear which of us would go home laden with prizes and which would be given homework for the holidays. A few hours from now summer would yawn like a chasm, in the depths of which Master Norbert would be waiting in his grey dustcoat, grinning and reciting multiplication tables.
The bird on the cover of Marcel’s letter lay right under Miss Veegaete’s nose, on the corner of my desk. One of its wing tips overlapped the postage stamp. I had raised and lowered a corner of the envelope several times with my finger, I had tapped it gently and had even rubbed it withmy cuff – in vain I knew – to wipe away the particles of ancient dust that had settled in the creases.
Miss Veegaete ignored me – deliberately, I was sure. From the pheasant she turned to the guinea pig, from the guinea pig to the partridge. I stared at her knees, where a fluttering hand appeared at regular intervals to adjust the hem of her skirt, as if she knew how mesmerised I was by her secrets.
“And what have you got there?” she inquired at long last.
I didn’t hear what she said at first, and she had to repeat her question.
I was startled.
“A bird, Miss. The eagle.” I picked the envelope up gratefully and laid it in her extended hand.
She gave no sign of surprise. Aside from the faintly knitted brow her expression was blank.
“It’s not very clear, I know. It’s the postmark. And the envelope’s been wet.”
“The eagle …” she echoed, feigning enthusiasm. She looked straight past me at the class. “When we see a bird with huge claws and a curved beak, what does that tell us? What kind of bird is it?”
“A bird of prey!” shrieked a trio of voices.
“Precisely. A predator …”
“It’s carrying something in its claws,” I said. “See? It looks like an alarm clock with four hands, they look like they’re broken …”
“I hardly think it’s an alarm clock,” Miss Veegaete said. “Eagles are rapacious creatures, but they don’t fancy alarm clocks. Sometimes they pounce on babies in their cradles.Not where we live, there aren’t any eagles here, but in the mountains there are plenty and everybody knows they snatch babies.”
“Perhaps it’s a spider, Miss, a fat spider.”
Miss Veegaete laid the envelope on her desk.
“It isn’t a spider, my boy.”
She lowered her eyes, and then, in an oddly quiet voice, she said “It’s a swastika.”
I had never heard of an animal called swastika. Perhaps they lived in the mountains. Better a swastika than a newborn babe, surely. I was wondering whether I should ask her to tell me more when there was a loud knock on the door. In came the shepherd of souls.
The boys sat up straight. Miss Veegaete drew herself up. She waited for the priest to shut the door behind him and then, just as he swung round to face the classroom, she snapped her fingers.
“Good afternoon Reverend Father,” the boys droned.
He motioned with both hands for us to sit down. His cassock stopped just short of his ankles. He wore thick knitted socks and black high-cut shoes with chunky heels, in which he managed to walk without making a sound. He planted his feet firmly one after the other on the green-and-brown speckled floor, zigzagged among
“In nature it’s usually the males that go in for display,” Miss Veegaete said in her teaching voice. “With humans it’s the other way round.”
There was also someone who had brought a photograph of a crown pigeon, a very silly-looking bird with an absurd fluffy pom-pom on its head, but Miss Veegaete was enchanted. “Animals in faraway countries are so much prettier than they are here, I always think. In this part of the world it’s dreary old raincoats all year round for man and beast alike.”
The vibrant blue of her dress made her stand out from her surroundings. Keenly aware that the end was near, I had eyes for none but her. The Day of Judgement was upon us. The sheep would be separated from the goats. We had yet to hear which of us would go home laden with prizes and which would be given homework for the holidays. A few hours from now summer would yawn like a chasm, in the depths of which Master Norbert would be waiting in his grey dustcoat, grinning and reciting multiplication tables.
The bird on the cover of Marcel’s letter lay right under Miss Veegaete’s nose, on the corner of my desk. One of its wing tips overlapped the postage stamp. I had raised and lowered a corner of the envelope several times with my finger, I had tapped it gently and had even rubbed it withmy cuff – in vain I knew – to wipe away the particles of ancient dust that had settled in the creases.
Miss Veegaete ignored me – deliberately, I was sure. From the pheasant she turned to the guinea pig, from the guinea pig to the partridge. I stared at her knees, where a fluttering hand appeared at regular intervals to adjust the hem of her skirt, as if she knew how mesmerised I was by her secrets.
“And what have you got there?” she inquired at long last.
I didn’t hear what she said at first, and she had to repeat her question.
I was startled.
“A bird, Miss. The eagle.” I picked the envelope up gratefully and laid it in her extended hand.
She gave no sign of surprise. Aside from the faintly knitted brow her expression was blank.
“It’s not very clear, I know. It’s the postmark. And the envelope’s been wet.”
“The eagle …” she echoed, feigning enthusiasm. She looked straight past me at the class. “When we see a bird with huge claws and a curved beak, what does that tell us? What kind of bird is it?”
“A bird of prey!” shrieked a trio of voices.
“Precisely. A predator …”
“It’s carrying something in its claws,” I said. “See? It looks like an alarm clock with four hands, they look like they’re broken …”
“I hardly think it’s an alarm clock,” Miss Veegaete said. “Eagles are rapacious creatures, but they don’t fancy alarm clocks. Sometimes they pounce on babies in their cradles.Not where we live, there aren’t any eagles here, but in the mountains there are plenty and everybody knows they snatch babies.”
“Perhaps it’s a spider, Miss, a fat spider.”
Miss Veegaete laid the envelope on her desk.
“It isn’t a spider, my boy.”
She lowered her eyes, and then, in an oddly quiet voice, she said “It’s a swastika.”
I had never heard of an animal called swastika. Perhaps they lived in the mountains. Better a swastika than a newborn babe, surely. I was wondering whether I should ask her to tell me more when there was a loud knock on the door. In came the shepherd of souls.
The boys sat up straight. Miss Veegaete drew herself up. She waited for the priest to shut the door behind him and then, just as he swung round to face the classroom, she snapped her fingers.
“Good afternoon Reverend Father,” the boys droned.
He motioned with both hands for us to sit down. His cassock stopped just short of his ankles. He wore thick knitted socks and black high-cut shoes with chunky heels, in which he managed to walk without making a sound. He planted his feet firmly one after the other on the green-and-brown speckled floor, zigzagged among
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