The Poisoning Angel by Jean Teulé Page A

in any number of places. The tall one-eyed man, who would have torn his hair out, had he had any left, grabbed tufts of the hair escaping through the holes pierced by the celestial machine gun. He could have cried. ‘Our goods are going to be ruined.’
    Everything was losing its shape and being spoilt. And what a racket the storm of ice marbles made! When one of the men shouted, ‘Lie on top of the bales, that’ll protect them,’ the other replied, ‘I can’t hear you.’ They laughed so much they fell over again.
    For the cook who was leaving, the hail was like an onslaught of pins and needles thrown from a catapult, in order to drive her from the town. She felt herself the target of the succeeding gusts, but did not care a fig. Alone amid the shameful wreckage of her private catastrophe, Thunderflower walked on, arms outstretched before her. Her palms, turned upwards to the sky, and soon filled with pools of light, occasionally took flight like white birds, while behind her the wigmakers, submerged in an enormous nightmare, were struggling like swimmers, yelling, ‘What foul weather! You’d think we were fish, there’s so much water around us. We’ll be growing scales at this rate. Why did we ever come to this shit-hole of a Brittany?’

Hennebont
    In a dim bedroom, which was also a study, the curtains were still closed and an old man so decrepit he was deformed was taking his time over getting up. To make the journey from his marquetry box-bed to an ancient armchair with carvings of people on it, fashioned in Solomon’s time no doubt, he first clutched on to a Cornish clock, then puffed his way along the stone mantel of the fireplace where a dying fire still glimmered. Standing in the doorway of his kitchen, Thunderflower – radiantly beautiful – was teasing him.
    ‘Monsieur Kerallic, if you go at that speed, you’ll be old by the time you reach your chair!’
    ‘But I am old, Hélène. I’m weary, no longer of an age for hiking. Like a chess piece, I move rarely.’
    Wearing an ultramarine-blue dressing gown, he made his way past the stuffed animals, and insects preserved in spirits of wine, saying sadly, ‘The years have left snow on my temples but, when all’s said and done, having lived without much joy I shall die without great regret. How is it that you came to me at dawn, shaking me by the shoulder as I lay in bed and whispering in my ear, “The time has come, you stubborn old man. We’ll have to get going. My name is Hélène”? Had I left the door unlocked as if I were hoping you’d come?’
    ‘I was on my way to Lorient when, as I walked up one of the steep streets of Hennebont, a voice told me what to do: “Pay a visit to Kerallic, the old schoolteacher, first. He’s tired of living and will have a job for you.” So I said to myself, “Right, I’ll just look in and make his early morning coffee because I’ll have to prepare the midday meal somewhere else.”’
    ‘Will you be leaving again so soon?’
    ‘I’ve a lot of people to visit, Monsieur Kerallic. If I tarry with all of them I’ll never get through my quota.’
    ‘What are you talking about?’
    ‘I’ll go and see to the coffee,’ answered the servant girl, turning back towards the kitchen.
    The elderly man flopped into his chair between a volume of Celtic tales on one arm and a Hebrew grammar on the other, beside his table cluttered with papers, books and newspapers. His smoky lamp, lit by the visitor, cast a feeble light on him as he went on talking about how tired and weary he was: ‘It seems that what is wrong with me is a sort of fog in my head, which makesit hard for me to distinguish between dreams and reality.’
    Hélène’s voice sounded from the kitchen: ‘I’ve got that too, Monsieur Kerallic.’
    ‘Really, Hélène – at your age?’
    ‘Sometimes I don’t know any more …’
    Coming back into the room with a wooden box-like object in her hand, she asked, ‘Is this for grinding