The Season of Migration by Nellie Hermann Page B

face was a taunt. You were always better than I was, always. I reached for the fish and yanked it off of the spear and threw it; it cleared the canal and landed on the other side, where it flopped helplessly. You watched it in horror, and looked at me with confusion. “Why did you do that?” you wailed, your voice quickly turning to tears. The fish flopped and jumped. You got up and ran along the canal, trying to find a way across to help it. “Why did you do that, Vincent?” I could hear you crying, your voice high-pitched and desperate as you ran. I sat on the bank and watched the fish slowly suffocate.
    October 28
    Petit Wasmes, the Borinage
    Dear Theo,
    A month into my stay in the Borinage, in mid-January, a letter arrived at the Denis house; the committee had granted me a temporary salary and a six-month appointment, to begin on February first. If, after six months’ time, they were happy with my work, they would make the appointment permanent.
    When I told Madame Denis, who watched me with a grin of anticipation while I read the letter, she cooed and sat me at the table to eat a piece of bread spread with homemade apple jam. I forced myself to eat it, not wanting to disappoint her, but the happiness about being able to finally support myself, after three years of relying on Father for everything, and the eagerness to get to work made the food dry up in my mouth.
    Soon after the letter came, I set out with enthusiasm to start a school for the children of Petit Wasmes. I had learned from Alard that for the children of the town there was little schooling save what their parents might teach them, and that only in rare exceptions did this mean learning to read. I decided I wanted to give the children a sense of school, maybe a better sense than I had ever had.
    Paul told me he thought he might know just the place to hold the school; we walked together through winding paths past the main part of the village to the outskirts of where the houses began. Nestled in a thicket of pine trees there was a large wooden building, overrun on all sides by thorny bushes and dried-up ferns. Strange to think of this now! I am writing to you now from inside this same building, which has grown to be a home of sorts to me. “It used to be a dance hall,” said Paul as we approached that day. “Many years back, there was a group of miners who loved to play music, and all the people from the village came on Friday nights for dancing.” He stopped on the path to the front door and gazed at the building. “They called it the Salon de Bébé. There was a lot of carousing and carrying on,” he said, “a few fistfights and someone’s broken arm before the management shut the place down.” He smiled vaguely and then shook his head. “Things did get out of hand, but generally the village was a happier place back then. I heard that a few of those musicians sold their instruments during a strike a few years ago.”
    We went in. The door swung open easily, sweeping over a mat of pine needles and revealing a cavernous empty room. A couple of mice scampered out of sight with a panicked squeak and then it was quiet. Our footsteps echoed over the floorboards. The room was designed as a simple barn, with thick rafters overhead but no loft. Two windows along each wall let in the winter sun, but the windows were dirty and the light in the room was muted and dim. There was a low wooden bench and a stove on the far end, a number of chairs lined up along the sides, and a general musty smell. On the floor in one corner were a few discarded bottles. “I’m sure the young people come here to be alone,” Paul said.
    I moved slowly into the room, my footsteps echoing. “It’s like the whale,” I said out loud as I stared with awe up at the rafters. Paul looked at me with a puzzled expression. “The whale,” I repeated. “The whale that swallows Jonah. It’s like