from the house to the road. Our dash had always seemed endless, exhausting, but we were extremely proud of ourselves when we made it to the end, either in front of or behind the other. Looking up at Lélé’s terrace where she sat every morning wrapped in a blanket watching the sun rise, Gaspard and I saw only her feet peeking out over the edge, encased in the lace-shaped clerestory trim.
‘I’m not going to leave her,’ he said. ‘After the baby’s born, we’ll see where we can go.’
He raised his hands as if to wave in Lélé’s direction, but she was looking past us, towards the mountains, framed by a halo of indigo sky.
‘She wants to bury the child here,’ he said. ‘She wants it to have spent its whole life here in your parents’ house. I suppose she feels that if she’d never left, none of this would have happened. She’d be here like you, alone, but safe from the things you document so well.’
‘It’s still questionable how well I do with the documenting,’ I said.
‘She admires you,’ he said, ‘and she thinks you do well.’
When I said nothing else, he added, ‘Among the trees. She wants to bury the child among the almond trees.’
Just then I noticed that he was not speaking to me at all. He was speaking to Lélé. She had turned her gaze away from the mountains and was looking straight at him, at us, her gaze unwavering, almost like a challenge, a dare.
‘It’s a fungus,’ Gaspard said.
‘I thought you didn’t know what caused it,’ I said.
‘Not the baby,’ he said, ‘the frogs.’
The day before, when he’d been visiting with Lélé, she had told him to try to find out for her what could have killed the river frogs. He’d gone back home and telephoned several people including one of his childhood friends, a Haitian-Canadian botanist who had told Gaspard that, given the descriptions and circumstances, he could only imagine that the frogs had probably died from a fungal disease that’s caused by the hotter than usual weather.
‘Is there anything we could have done for them?’ Gaspard had asked his friend.
‘No,’ the friend had said. ‘We all have our paths to tread and this was theirs.’
The Liar
Aleksandar Hemon
The crowd is whirring in a cloud of brazen afternoon dust; they have waited too long already. Finally, the Procurator steps down to the penultimate stair, spreads his feet and installs his arms akimbo to assume a routine pose of authority. His impressively rotund belly is outlined under the sweaty toga, the shadow of the navel at its center. He scans the crowd with contempt, the eye of the navel following his gaze as he turns a little to the left, a little to the right. The din dies down. With their swords, the soldiers push forward two tattered men - the men’s shackles rattle as they totter - and position them on each side of the Procurator, who doesn’t even glance at them. It all looks like a well-rehearsed performance.
‘People!’ the Procurator shouts. ‘People! Look at me!’
The crowd has been looking at him all along, but now it tightens, as if each man were a blood vessel and the air has just become colder. The dust is slowly settling down, coating their bodies, biting their eyes.
‘These two caitiffs here have violated the laws of the Empire,’ the Procurator thunders. ‘They ought to be punished with the utmost severity. But they are just men and the Empire is merciful - one of them shall live.’
The crowd rumbles with excitement. The Procurator points at the man on the right: he is scrawny, with long, narrow arms and broken teeth, his left eye turgid with blood and pus. ‘This man is a thief,’ the Procurator says. ‘He has robbed men of their sustenance. He has sneaked up on them at night. He has stolen their meager property. Fathers have become destitute, mothers have wept, because of this scoundrel.’
The thief looks at the crowd with as much innocence in his right eye as he can muster. The crowd knows his ilk,
‘I’m not going to leave her,’ he said. ‘After the baby’s born, we’ll see where we can go.’
He raised his hands as if to wave in Lélé’s direction, but she was looking past us, towards the mountains, framed by a halo of indigo sky.
‘She wants to bury the child here,’ he said. ‘She wants it to have spent its whole life here in your parents’ house. I suppose she feels that if she’d never left, none of this would have happened. She’d be here like you, alone, but safe from the things you document so well.’
‘It’s still questionable how well I do with the documenting,’ I said.
‘She admires you,’ he said, ‘and she thinks you do well.’
When I said nothing else, he added, ‘Among the trees. She wants to bury the child among the almond trees.’
Just then I noticed that he was not speaking to me at all. He was speaking to Lélé. She had turned her gaze away from the mountains and was looking straight at him, at us, her gaze unwavering, almost like a challenge, a dare.
‘It’s a fungus,’ Gaspard said.
‘I thought you didn’t know what caused it,’ I said.
‘Not the baby,’ he said, ‘the frogs.’
The day before, when he’d been visiting with Lélé, she had told him to try to find out for her what could have killed the river frogs. He’d gone back home and telephoned several people including one of his childhood friends, a Haitian-Canadian botanist who had told Gaspard that, given the descriptions and circumstances, he could only imagine that the frogs had probably died from a fungal disease that’s caused by the hotter than usual weather.
‘Is there anything we could have done for them?’ Gaspard had asked his friend.
‘No,’ the friend had said. ‘We all have our paths to tread and this was theirs.’
The Liar
Aleksandar Hemon
The crowd is whirring in a cloud of brazen afternoon dust; they have waited too long already. Finally, the Procurator steps down to the penultimate stair, spreads his feet and installs his arms akimbo to assume a routine pose of authority. His impressively rotund belly is outlined under the sweaty toga, the shadow of the navel at its center. He scans the crowd with contempt, the eye of the navel following his gaze as he turns a little to the left, a little to the right. The din dies down. With their swords, the soldiers push forward two tattered men - the men’s shackles rattle as they totter - and position them on each side of the Procurator, who doesn’t even glance at them. It all looks like a well-rehearsed performance.
‘People!’ the Procurator shouts. ‘People! Look at me!’
The crowd has been looking at him all along, but now it tightens, as if each man were a blood vessel and the air has just become colder. The dust is slowly settling down, coating their bodies, biting their eyes.
‘These two caitiffs here have violated the laws of the Empire,’ the Procurator thunders. ‘They ought to be punished with the utmost severity. But they are just men and the Empire is merciful - one of them shall live.’
The crowd rumbles with excitement. The Procurator points at the man on the right: he is scrawny, with long, narrow arms and broken teeth, his left eye turgid with blood and pus. ‘This man is a thief,’ the Procurator says. ‘He has robbed men of their sustenance. He has sneaked up on them at night. He has stolen their meager property. Fathers have become destitute, mothers have wept, because of this scoundrel.’
The thief looks at the crowd with as much innocence in his right eye as he can muster. The crowd knows his ilk,
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