eyes, dumbfounded, miming an incredulous admiration that unfurled like a flag across the old castratoâs face; and in that controlled voice, experienced in the lightning ellipses of the old languages, yet resonant and strong from being deployed so long over the seas of uproar, like Neptune exclaiming Quos ego , he said something like âWell, isnât that remarkable! Isnât that amazing! So youâre already reading Flaubert?â The boyâs face lit up like his mop of hair, the big chin hesitated between laughter and tears, the precious book, the terrible, duplicitous book weighed heavily in his awkward hand; well then, reading was good, so many hours of assiduous distress were worth suffering for that one instant. The baldold man and the tousle-haired boy walked together a part of the way, they moved off toward the dark corridor, full of cooking smells, which led from the dining hall to the main courtyard, and from time to time Achilles could still be seen stopping, taking a step or two backward to better take in the boy with the magisterial regard of his approving, naked eyes. He disappeared into the stench of soup, ruminating over Flaubert, affection, or who knows what, and the boy, left there to his confused intoxication, wandered about a little, sat down and reopened the book, understanding nothing.
Over the course of the years, this surprising friendship was maintained. Achilles later became Rolandâs guardian, which is to say he came to fetch him at the school on Thursdays and Sundays at about two oâclock, and the boy spent the afternoon with him, in his childless home, near his wife whom I never saw, but whom I believe I can guess to have been a good maker of cakes and a patient, staunch supporter of an absurd old man whose disgrace had afflicted her, so that in the past she had no doubt bitterly reproached him in secret, but now, with age, which subjects us all equally to absurdity, she had become a smiling old woman with compassion for all things and a kind of gaiety, yes, that slightly crazed gaiety of being so often defeated, as seen in drunken old women and nuns. Much more than his Roman authors and histories, it was this gaiety that reflected back on him and that might be glimpsed sometimes in the midst of an uproar, that no doubt kept Achilles going. I do not know how the man and boy occupied themselves in this time together, but one Thursday when we were âout on our walkâ along the Pommeil road â one of those dreary marches in rows, herded by a school monitor, outings that, apparently, benefited our lungs â I sawthem walking slowly down a forest ride, the high arch of the branches forming over them like a painted paradise, and âunder the trees full of a gentle music,â deep in discussion like scholars, Achilles gesticulating, the scowling little puritan interrupting him, setting him off again; and the autumn wind that lifted their coats carried off their learned words, their slightly ridiculous metaphysics, but so gently that over them the attentive leaves leaned in, deaf and friendly. From the lines of walkers, Rémi shot pained glances, stretching the length of the walking path to those two small points, and perhaps his heart was with them when his exasperated mouth attempted sarcasms, sneered.
But that was in the upper grades, I should say, when the Bakroots were already older. Before that time, there had been the books, the ones that Achilles gradually began to offer Roland, pulling them out of his enormous leather bag where, from among the sad, worn out Plutarchs with the missing pages, the limp, outdated exegeses, they burst forth suddenly in new wrapping paper, sometimes tied with a ribbon, such an odd contrast to the Latinistâs old paws. Thus there were the Jules Verne, a Salammbô of course, a bowdlerized, illustrated Michelet where we saw Louis XI with his niggardly little hat, leaning over the heavy chronicles that the monks of
Over the course of the years, this surprising friendship was maintained. Achilles later became Rolandâs guardian, which is to say he came to fetch him at the school on Thursdays and Sundays at about two oâclock, and the boy spent the afternoon with him, in his childless home, near his wife whom I never saw, but whom I believe I can guess to have been a good maker of cakes and a patient, staunch supporter of an absurd old man whose disgrace had afflicted her, so that in the past she had no doubt bitterly reproached him in secret, but now, with age, which subjects us all equally to absurdity, she had become a smiling old woman with compassion for all things and a kind of gaiety, yes, that slightly crazed gaiety of being so often defeated, as seen in drunken old women and nuns. Much more than his Roman authors and histories, it was this gaiety that reflected back on him and that might be glimpsed sometimes in the midst of an uproar, that no doubt kept Achilles going. I do not know how the man and boy occupied themselves in this time together, but one Thursday when we were âout on our walkâ along the Pommeil road â one of those dreary marches in rows, herded by a school monitor, outings that, apparently, benefited our lungs â I sawthem walking slowly down a forest ride, the high arch of the branches forming over them like a painted paradise, and âunder the trees full of a gentle music,â deep in discussion like scholars, Achilles gesticulating, the scowling little puritan interrupting him, setting him off again; and the autumn wind that lifted their coats carried off their learned words, their slightly ridiculous metaphysics, but so gently that over them the attentive leaves leaned in, deaf and friendly. From the lines of walkers, Rémi shot pained glances, stretching the length of the walking path to those two small points, and perhaps his heart was with them when his exasperated mouth attempted sarcasms, sneered.
But that was in the upper grades, I should say, when the Bakroots were already older. Before that time, there had been the books, the ones that Achilles gradually began to offer Roland, pulling them out of his enormous leather bag where, from among the sad, worn out Plutarchs with the missing pages, the limp, outdated exegeses, they burst forth suddenly in new wrapping paper, sometimes tied with a ribbon, such an odd contrast to the Latinistâs old paws. Thus there were the Jules Verne, a Salammbô of course, a bowdlerized, illustrated Michelet where we saw Louis XI with his niggardly little hat, leaning over the heavy chronicles that the monks of
Similar Books
