observing their Sabbath rest.
Not only did they spend the afternoon in the courtyard but they lunched there as well, under the lime-tree branch which stretched over the Chaignes' garden wall and gave them some shade.
The whole length of the wall was covered by a vine, old and twisted, its leaves marked with rust, but it none the less produced each year a few bunches of acid grapes.
They had tried keeping a cat. They had had several. All of them, for some reason or other, had gone to seek a home elsewhere.
Gina didn't like dogs. Actually she didn't like any animals, and when they went for a walk in the country, she would eye the cows uneasily from a safe distance.
She didn't like the country either, nor taking walks. She had never wanted to learn to swim. She was only in her element when her extremely high heels came in contact with the hard smooth surface of a pavement, and she had in addition a horror of quiet streets like the one in which Clémence lived; she needed animation, noise, the many- coloured display of shop windows.
When they went to have a drink, she did not choose the spacious cafes of the Place de l'Hôtel de Ville, or the Place du Theatre, but the bars with juke boxes.
He had bought her a wireless set and on Sundays she would take it out into the yard, using an extension to plug it into the kitchen.
She hardly ever sewed, was content to keep her clothes and linen more or less in disrepair, and her blouses were often missing a button, while a good half of her petticoats had holes in them.
She used to read, listening to the music and smoking cigarettes, and sometimes in the middle of the afternoon she would go up to her bed- room, remove her dress and stretch out on top of the cover.
He read on this Sunday, too, in one of the two iron chairs which he had bought second-hand for use in the yard. He went back into the shop twice to change his book and in the end became interested in a work on the life of spiders. There was one in the corner, which he had known for a long time, and now and then he raised his eyes to observe it with renewed interest, like a man who has just made a discovery.
The post had brought him no news of Gina the day before or on Friday. He had been hoping, without believing it, that she would perhaps send him a word, and now he was beginning to realize that the idea was ridiculous.
From time to time, without interrupting his reading, his thoughts superimposed themselves on the printed text, without his losing the place. True they were not clear cut, consecutive thoughts. Various images came to his mind, such as that of Angèle, then, straightaway afterwards, for no reason, he pictured Gina lying naked on an iron bed, in a hotel bedroom.
Why an iron bed? And why, all round her, white-washed walls, like those in the country?
It was unlikely that she had taken refuge in the country, which she detested. She was certainly not alone. Since Wednesday evening when she had left she must have bought herself some underclothes, unless she had been content to wash her petticoat and brassiere at night and put them on again in the morning unironed.
Clémence, her husband and Poupou must have been with the Ancels, where the whole family used to gather and the youngest of the daughters, Martine, played the piano. They had a very large yard with, at the back, the shed Gina had talked about. She had not told him whether she had allowed the butcher to have her. Probably she had, but it was also probable that Ancel had not dared to go the whole way.
Twice during the afternoon he thought he heard the piano, the sound of which reached his backyard when the wind was in the right direction.
The Chaigne family had a car and were not at home on Sundays. Angèle used to sleep the entire afternoon while Louis, dressed in a navy blue suit, went to play skittles and did not return until he had made a tour of the town's cafes.
How did a young man like Frédo spend his time? Jonas had no idea. He was the
Not only did they spend the afternoon in the courtyard but they lunched there as well, under the lime-tree branch which stretched over the Chaignes' garden wall and gave them some shade.
The whole length of the wall was covered by a vine, old and twisted, its leaves marked with rust, but it none the less produced each year a few bunches of acid grapes.
They had tried keeping a cat. They had had several. All of them, for some reason or other, had gone to seek a home elsewhere.
Gina didn't like dogs. Actually she didn't like any animals, and when they went for a walk in the country, she would eye the cows uneasily from a safe distance.
She didn't like the country either, nor taking walks. She had never wanted to learn to swim. She was only in her element when her extremely high heels came in contact with the hard smooth surface of a pavement, and she had in addition a horror of quiet streets like the one in which Clémence lived; she needed animation, noise, the many- coloured display of shop windows.
When they went to have a drink, she did not choose the spacious cafes of the Place de l'Hôtel de Ville, or the Place du Theatre, but the bars with juke boxes.
He had bought her a wireless set and on Sundays she would take it out into the yard, using an extension to plug it into the kitchen.
She hardly ever sewed, was content to keep her clothes and linen more or less in disrepair, and her blouses were often missing a button, while a good half of her petticoats had holes in them.
She used to read, listening to the music and smoking cigarettes, and sometimes in the middle of the afternoon she would go up to her bed- room, remove her dress and stretch out on top of the cover.
He read on this Sunday, too, in one of the two iron chairs which he had bought second-hand for use in the yard. He went back into the shop twice to change his book and in the end became interested in a work on the life of spiders. There was one in the corner, which he had known for a long time, and now and then he raised his eyes to observe it with renewed interest, like a man who has just made a discovery.
The post had brought him no news of Gina the day before or on Friday. He had been hoping, without believing it, that she would perhaps send him a word, and now he was beginning to realize that the idea was ridiculous.
From time to time, without interrupting his reading, his thoughts superimposed themselves on the printed text, without his losing the place. True they were not clear cut, consecutive thoughts. Various images came to his mind, such as that of Angèle, then, straightaway afterwards, for no reason, he pictured Gina lying naked on an iron bed, in a hotel bedroom.
Why an iron bed? And why, all round her, white-washed walls, like those in the country?
It was unlikely that she had taken refuge in the country, which she detested. She was certainly not alone. Since Wednesday evening when she had left she must have bought herself some underclothes, unless she had been content to wash her petticoat and brassiere at night and put them on again in the morning unironed.
Clémence, her husband and Poupou must have been with the Ancels, where the whole family used to gather and the youngest of the daughters, Martine, played the piano. They had a very large yard with, at the back, the shed Gina had talked about. She had not told him whether she had allowed the butcher to have her. Probably she had, but it was also probable that Ancel had not dared to go the whole way.
Twice during the afternoon he thought he heard the piano, the sound of which reached his backyard when the wind was in the right direction.
The Chaigne family had a car and were not at home on Sundays. Angèle used to sleep the entire afternoon while Louis, dressed in a navy blue suit, went to play skittles and did not return until he had made a tour of the town's cafes.
How did a young man like Frédo spend his time? Jonas had no idea. He was the
Similar Books
