questions, they’re capable of churning out a sackload at least ten times a day.
Besides, I didn’t want to annoy her, so I just said:
“I wouldn’t mind… if I had any answers!”
“Oh, you will not always be able to find answers… It is posing the question that matters, don’t you think, Germain?”
Oh dear, I thought, if my opinion matters then we’re really in deep shit.
But at the same time—and this is what’s surprising—it’s impossible not to answer Margueritte’s questions. You should see her, the way she waits patiently, her hands resting in her lap, her back straight. Her way of saying: Don’t you agree,Germain? (or a different name if it’s you she’s talking to) and you feel you have to come up with something. Anything, so long as you can think of something, and fast. Because if you didn’t say anything, you’d feel like a bastard. Like Santa Claus showing up empty handed on Christmas Eve.
So I said:
“Well, the thing is, I don’t really see what good it does to spend your whole time asking questions and never knowing the answers, not that I’m trying to boast.”
“And yet I’m sure it is something you have often experienced…”
“What?”
“Come, come… Surely there must be times when you feel you don’t completely understand? During a conversation, for example?”
And I thought, Bingo! She’s finally realized I’m a brainless moron. And that knocked the stuffing out of me.
She went on:
“I know that whenever it happens to me, it makes me want to search for a solution. I suffer from spadework syndrome.”
“From what?” I said, though it was only about the last word, because I know all about spadework.
She laughed.
“Spadework syndrome: when I come up against a problem, I try to thin things out.”
I know a lot about thinning out too—I thin out my turnips.
Margueritte went on:
“That’s simply the way it is: I have a need to understand. It’s the same with words. I adore dictionaries!”
“Me too,” I said.
I only said it to make her happy. I mean, I’m not a barbarian. Only it was a barefaced lie, because if there’s one book that makes me queasy it’s a dictionary.
She opened her eyes wide and said:
“You too?”
I was glad to have made her happy by getting the answer right.
“Yes, yes…” I said, trying not to sound like I was bragging in case she asked me trick questions to see if I’d read it right through to the end.
But she just nodded.
Afterwards, we talked about this and that and finally came to pigeons and animals in general. One thing led to another and in the end I rummaged in my pocket and took out a cat I had whittled from an apple branch Marco gave me.
Margueritte said:
“Oooooh…”
And then:
“It’s so beautiful! It really is striking. So delicate, so natural…”
I said, “No, no, it’s nothing.”
She said, “Oh, but it is, Germain, it is lovely.”
So I said:
“Go on then, you have it. It’s a present.”
“I couldn’t possibly accept,” she said, holding up her hand, “It must have taken you hours…”
I said:
“Did it heck, I knocked it up in nothing flat.”
Which wasn’t true, seeing as how I’d worked my arse off for two days solid to make that cat. Particularly on the ears and the paws.
I only said it so she wouldn’t feel awkward, and it worked, because after that she didn’t make any objections.
Sometimes, if you let people know you’re attached to something, it stops them from accepting it. It’s not what you give, it’s how you give, as my mother used to say, and she never gave anyone anything.
I DON’T REALLY KNOW why I do it. Whittle pieces of wood, I mean. It started when I got my first penknife at about twelve or thirteen. I’d seen it in a display case at the tobacconist’s. A beautiful Opinel No. 8, stainless steel blade, beechwood handle. Thinking back, I thought about it all the time.
It’s weird, there are things that become as important to you
Besides, I didn’t want to annoy her, so I just said:
“I wouldn’t mind… if I had any answers!”
“Oh, you will not always be able to find answers… It is posing the question that matters, don’t you think, Germain?”
Oh dear, I thought, if my opinion matters then we’re really in deep shit.
But at the same time—and this is what’s surprising—it’s impossible not to answer Margueritte’s questions. You should see her, the way she waits patiently, her hands resting in her lap, her back straight. Her way of saying: Don’t you agree,Germain? (or a different name if it’s you she’s talking to) and you feel you have to come up with something. Anything, so long as you can think of something, and fast. Because if you didn’t say anything, you’d feel like a bastard. Like Santa Claus showing up empty handed on Christmas Eve.
So I said:
“Well, the thing is, I don’t really see what good it does to spend your whole time asking questions and never knowing the answers, not that I’m trying to boast.”
“And yet I’m sure it is something you have often experienced…”
“What?”
“Come, come… Surely there must be times when you feel you don’t completely understand? During a conversation, for example?”
And I thought, Bingo! She’s finally realized I’m a brainless moron. And that knocked the stuffing out of me.
She went on:
“I know that whenever it happens to me, it makes me want to search for a solution. I suffer from spadework syndrome.”
“From what?” I said, though it was only about the last word, because I know all about spadework.
She laughed.
“Spadework syndrome: when I come up against a problem, I try to thin things out.”
I know a lot about thinning out too—I thin out my turnips.
Margueritte went on:
“That’s simply the way it is: I have a need to understand. It’s the same with words. I adore dictionaries!”
“Me too,” I said.
I only said it to make her happy. I mean, I’m not a barbarian. Only it was a barefaced lie, because if there’s one book that makes me queasy it’s a dictionary.
She opened her eyes wide and said:
“You too?”
I was glad to have made her happy by getting the answer right.
“Yes, yes…” I said, trying not to sound like I was bragging in case she asked me trick questions to see if I’d read it right through to the end.
But she just nodded.
Afterwards, we talked about this and that and finally came to pigeons and animals in general. One thing led to another and in the end I rummaged in my pocket and took out a cat I had whittled from an apple branch Marco gave me.
Margueritte said:
“Oooooh…”
And then:
“It’s so beautiful! It really is striking. So delicate, so natural…”
I said, “No, no, it’s nothing.”
She said, “Oh, but it is, Germain, it is lovely.”
So I said:
“Go on then, you have it. It’s a present.”
“I couldn’t possibly accept,” she said, holding up her hand, “It must have taken you hours…”
I said:
“Did it heck, I knocked it up in nothing flat.”
Which wasn’t true, seeing as how I’d worked my arse off for two days solid to make that cat. Particularly on the ears and the paws.
I only said it so she wouldn’t feel awkward, and it worked, because after that she didn’t make any objections.
Sometimes, if you let people know you’re attached to something, it stops them from accepting it. It’s not what you give, it’s how you give, as my mother used to say, and she never gave anyone anything.
I DON’T REALLY KNOW why I do it. Whittle pieces of wood, I mean. It started when I got my first penknife at about twelve or thirteen. I’d seen it in a display case at the tobacconist’s. A beautiful Opinel No. 8, stainless steel blade, beechwood handle. Thinking back, I thought about it all the time.
It’s weird, there are things that become as important to you
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