my head at the class. She crossed herself demonstratively, keeping time with the hallowing gestures of the shepherd as he laved us with the grace of God.
Then it was time for break. I wanted to go up to her, but she hurried off to the coat rack by the door, put on a cardigan (which didn’t go very well with the dress, I noticed), and crossed to the priest’s side.
There had been a heavy shower, but now the sun had come out again. Everyone was relieved that the ceremony could be held out of doors after all. The village worthies stepped into the courtyard and shook the raindrops off their umbrellas. Miss Veegaete sailed towards them gushing words of welcome and shaking hands. She seemed to swell up all over. Where could she have hidden the letter?
Not on her desk, for it was bare except for the inkwell nextto the blotting paper and the tray of pens with crystal handles. In one of her drawers, maybe. The knobs, polished monthly, gleamed invitingly, but I hung back. What if I was caught red-handed?
The platform filled up with bow ties and Sunday hats. The pupils were herded into the rows of wooden benches. The headmaster gave his speech in a voice akin to a wailing siren owing to the faulty microphone, but I was so distracted that I barely noticed. Miss Veegaete was sitting in the front row close to the yellow paper frill, conversing with her neighbour, the priest, who, so the grandmother had confided in me, was not averse to speaking French from time to time.
What had she done with my letter? She must have hidden it about her person, I thought. Slipped it under the elastic of her bloomers, say, in which case it was closer to the secret hairs between her thighs than any human being could conceivably come. Or further up, tucked into the waistband. Perhaps the eagle was hovering over her navel. What if it sought refuge in her bosom, where it would rub against her nipples along with Marcel and his tomatoes as sweet as apples?
There was a burst of applause and everyone turned to stare at me. Only Miss Veegaete went on chattering. Before I knew it I was heading toward the platform together with another boy – he was top of his class, I of mine. We were carrying a heavy basket of fruit between us.
“In gratitude,” it said on a card sticking out of the mound of fruit.
Miss Veegaete looked up. For an instant her smile seemed to freeze on her face. Perhaps I was staring at her too fixedly. My cheeks were ablaze. My jaws itched, my tongue groped for something to say, something razor-sharp that would slash her dress to shreds.
The shepherd leaned forward, turned his oily smile on the pair of us, patted us on the head and graciously accepted the basket of fruit.
I was presented with a book about the tundra, entitled
Polar Bears and Volcanoes
. The local photographer turned up to make a group portrait. There was no need to use a flash, as the sun was shining with dazzling brightness – but not brightly enough for me to be able to see through Miss Veegaete’s dress.
Afterwards the courtyard was deserted once more. The older boys carried the benches into the school, the potted palms were loaded onto wheelbarrows and taken away.
*
I set off home, and as I went past Miss Veegaete’s kitchen window I caught the reek of chips frying in boiling fat, and I could hear meat sizzling in a pan. Louise would be cooking supper. In my mind’s eye I saw her patting her wig and glancing furtively at her reflection in the shiny paint on the kitchen cupboards.
No one came to the door – not that I had knocked. Somehow I thought she would appear on the doorstep of her own accord, but there was no sign of life behind the net curtains. Miss Veegaete had made a breach in my soul, a letterbox, envelope-sized.
I turned into the lane leading out of the village, where theasphalt gave way to sand. I looked round one last time, expecting to see her tottering to the corner on her dainty shoes, out of breath and red-faced, waving the envelope.
Then it was time for break. I wanted to go up to her, but she hurried off to the coat rack by the door, put on a cardigan (which didn’t go very well with the dress, I noticed), and crossed to the priest’s side.
There had been a heavy shower, but now the sun had come out again. Everyone was relieved that the ceremony could be held out of doors after all. The village worthies stepped into the courtyard and shook the raindrops off their umbrellas. Miss Veegaete sailed towards them gushing words of welcome and shaking hands. She seemed to swell up all over. Where could she have hidden the letter?
Not on her desk, for it was bare except for the inkwell nextto the blotting paper and the tray of pens with crystal handles. In one of her drawers, maybe. The knobs, polished monthly, gleamed invitingly, but I hung back. What if I was caught red-handed?
The platform filled up with bow ties and Sunday hats. The pupils were herded into the rows of wooden benches. The headmaster gave his speech in a voice akin to a wailing siren owing to the faulty microphone, but I was so distracted that I barely noticed. Miss Veegaete was sitting in the front row close to the yellow paper frill, conversing with her neighbour, the priest, who, so the grandmother had confided in me, was not averse to speaking French from time to time.
What had she done with my letter? She must have hidden it about her person, I thought. Slipped it under the elastic of her bloomers, say, in which case it was closer to the secret hairs between her thighs than any human being could conceivably come. Or further up, tucked into the waistband. Perhaps the eagle was hovering over her navel. What if it sought refuge in her bosom, where it would rub against her nipples along with Marcel and his tomatoes as sweet as apples?
There was a burst of applause and everyone turned to stare at me. Only Miss Veegaete went on chattering. Before I knew it I was heading toward the platform together with another boy – he was top of his class, I of mine. We were carrying a heavy basket of fruit between us.
“In gratitude,” it said on a card sticking out of the mound of fruit.
Miss Veegaete looked up. For an instant her smile seemed to freeze on her face. Perhaps I was staring at her too fixedly. My cheeks were ablaze. My jaws itched, my tongue groped for something to say, something razor-sharp that would slash her dress to shreds.
The shepherd leaned forward, turned his oily smile on the pair of us, patted us on the head and graciously accepted the basket of fruit.
I was presented with a book about the tundra, entitled
Polar Bears and Volcanoes
. The local photographer turned up to make a group portrait. There was no need to use a flash, as the sun was shining with dazzling brightness – but not brightly enough for me to be able to see through Miss Veegaete’s dress.
Afterwards the courtyard was deserted once more. The older boys carried the benches into the school, the potted palms were loaded onto wheelbarrows and taken away.
*
I set off home, and as I went past Miss Veegaete’s kitchen window I caught the reek of chips frying in boiling fat, and I could hear meat sizzling in a pan. Louise would be cooking supper. In my mind’s eye I saw her patting her wig and glancing furtively at her reflection in the shiny paint on the kitchen cupboards.
No one came to the door – not that I had knocked. Somehow I thought she would appear on the doorstep of her own accord, but there was no sign of life behind the net curtains. Miss Veegaete had made a breach in my soul, a letterbox, envelope-sized.
I turned into the lane leading out of the village, where theasphalt gave way to sand. I looked round one last time, expecting to see her tottering to the corner on her dainty shoes, out of breath and red-faced, waving the envelope.
Similar Books
