The Stone Boy by Sophie Loubière Page A
Authors: Sophie Loubière
Tags: Suspense, Mystery, Fiction / Thrillers / Suspense, Fiction / Literary, Fiction / Psychological
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this apparent mess. There is even a diet named after him, you know: “the Sarkozy diet, the only crumb-free diet!” Don’t you think that we are in the presence of an absolute master in the art of spreading rumors? Imagine the sympathy he can get from followers of this miraculous regime! (I do mean a nutritional regime, you understand.)
Looking forward to hearing from you.
Respectfully yours,
Elsa Préau
31
Since Saturday, hundreds of exhibitors had filled the pathways of Courbet Park to sell and offer tastings of wines, local produce, and crafts. The Harvest Festival lasted two days. It had started yesterday at around three o’clock with a parade through the streets of the town. A country wagon pulled by two oxen, a wine tanker decorated with barrels and drawn by four more beasts, barrel rollers, a cart pulled by a horse, a herd of goats and goatdogs, line dancers, and gastronomic and oenocultural societies from across France had left the East Stadium and continued along Rue Jean Bouin to reach the park. There an idle crowd waited for the float bearing the Harvest Queen and her Crown Princess. All of the great and the good from the town were there, and perhaps even the County Council.
The Desmoulins family went on Saturday in their Sunday best. Madame Préau had seen them leaving the house in good spirits, the two youngest kids running up Rue des Lilas. Laurie and Kévin had probably gone to the old-fashioned grape-pressing demonstrations, ate sausages and chips from the concession stands, enjoyed the amusements, and asked for a pony ride. Maybe they had crossed paths with Bastien and his parents at the societies stand?
Madame Préau would not get to taste the 2008 vintage from the municipal vineyard at the Clos Hills Brotherhood stand. She had headaches and a natural distrust for such popular events and anything that involved petticoats. The stone boy must be unaware of such festivities; maybe he’d never been on a carousel. He would be entitled to his Sunday outing in the garden, no more, no less, and his little legs would take him no farther than the weeping birch.
That is where Madame Préau found him, as she had in previous weeks, a dark miracle that upset her. His head had been shaved, and carelessly. Odd, whitish patches of skin appeared where angles of his skull showed through. His sunken eyes ringed with mauve stared at the cedar leaves. Curled into himself, the boy stood motionless, his head tilted to one side, neglecting to play with his dirt and twigs.
A hoarse cough shook his slender body.
The stone boy was sick and seemed shriveled like dried fruit.
With a heavy heart, Madame Préau set down her binoculars; to stop looking at him was to deny him her support, to abandon him to his fate. He didn’t look up at her house once. It was a bad sign. She had to act fast: she had to make contact with him. The old lady went downstairs to the living room, opened the windows, and got settled at the piano, her shawl over the shoulders. Prelude, interlude, and the finale of
Jack in the Box
.
She felt no satisfaction in playing, even though she was giving it the attention and energy that the interpretation required. How could Erik Satie’s Fantasies comfort a child in such distress? When she let the fingers of her left hand find the first, comforting chords of “Gnossienne,” someone rang the doorbell. Madame Préau waited for the bell to ring a second time before getting up and walking, stiff-backed, to the front door. When she appeared on the porch, she looked like a child about to be scolded for making too much noise playing her drum set.
32
“Hello! Sorry to bother you…”
The man who stood at the gate added, “I’m your neighbor,” but it wasn’t necessary. Madame Préau recognized Mr. Desmoulins’s balding brush of blond hair. Adjusting her shawl, she went down the few steps to meet him. The man smiled, friendly looking behind the grille.
“I interrupted your concert!” he
Looking forward to hearing from you.
Respectfully yours,
Elsa Préau
31
Since Saturday, hundreds of exhibitors had filled the pathways of Courbet Park to sell and offer tastings of wines, local produce, and crafts. The Harvest Festival lasted two days. It had started yesterday at around three o’clock with a parade through the streets of the town. A country wagon pulled by two oxen, a wine tanker decorated with barrels and drawn by four more beasts, barrel rollers, a cart pulled by a horse, a herd of goats and goatdogs, line dancers, and gastronomic and oenocultural societies from across France had left the East Stadium and continued along Rue Jean Bouin to reach the park. There an idle crowd waited for the float bearing the Harvest Queen and her Crown Princess. All of the great and the good from the town were there, and perhaps even the County Council.
The Desmoulins family went on Saturday in their Sunday best. Madame Préau had seen them leaving the house in good spirits, the two youngest kids running up Rue des Lilas. Laurie and Kévin had probably gone to the old-fashioned grape-pressing demonstrations, ate sausages and chips from the concession stands, enjoyed the amusements, and asked for a pony ride. Maybe they had crossed paths with Bastien and his parents at the societies stand?
Madame Préau would not get to taste the 2008 vintage from the municipal vineyard at the Clos Hills Brotherhood stand. She had headaches and a natural distrust for such popular events and anything that involved petticoats. The stone boy must be unaware of such festivities; maybe he’d never been on a carousel. He would be entitled to his Sunday outing in the garden, no more, no less, and his little legs would take him no farther than the weeping birch.
That is where Madame Préau found him, as she had in previous weeks, a dark miracle that upset her. His head had been shaved, and carelessly. Odd, whitish patches of skin appeared where angles of his skull showed through. His sunken eyes ringed with mauve stared at the cedar leaves. Curled into himself, the boy stood motionless, his head tilted to one side, neglecting to play with his dirt and twigs.
A hoarse cough shook his slender body.
The stone boy was sick and seemed shriveled like dried fruit.
With a heavy heart, Madame Préau set down her binoculars; to stop looking at him was to deny him her support, to abandon him to his fate. He didn’t look up at her house once. It was a bad sign. She had to act fast: she had to make contact with him. The old lady went downstairs to the living room, opened the windows, and got settled at the piano, her shawl over the shoulders. Prelude, interlude, and the finale of
Jack in the Box
.
She felt no satisfaction in playing, even though she was giving it the attention and energy that the interpretation required. How could Erik Satie’s Fantasies comfort a child in such distress? When she let the fingers of her left hand find the first, comforting chords of “Gnossienne,” someone rang the doorbell. Madame Préau waited for the bell to ring a second time before getting up and walking, stiff-backed, to the front door. When she appeared on the porch, she looked like a child about to be scolded for making too much noise playing her drum set.
32
“Hello! Sorry to bother you…”
The man who stood at the gate added, “I’m your neighbor,” but it wasn’t necessary. Madame Préau recognized Mr. Desmoulins’s balding brush of blond hair. Adjusting her shawl, she went down the few steps to meet him. The man smiled, friendly looking behind the grille.
“I interrupted your concert!” he
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