tip, which earns me a `Have a nice day', uttered somewhat grudgingly it seems to me. He probably thinks I'm going fishing for crabs, something of the sort.
For a while I actually do stroll along the beach. The sea is grey, rather choppy. I don't feel anything much. I walk for a good while.
Around eleven people begin arriving with their kids and dogs. I turn in the opposite direction.
At the end of the beach at Les Sables-d'Olonne, in the prolongation of the jetty that seals off the port, there are a few old houses and a Romanesque church. Nothing overly spectacular: these are edifices of robust coarse stone built to withstand the storms, and which have withstood the storms for hundreds of years. You can readily imagine the ancient way of life of the Sables fishermen, with Sunday mass in the little church, communion for the faithful, while the wind howls outside and the ocean pounds against the rocky coast. It was a life without distraction and without incident, dominated by a tough and dangerous job of work. A simple and rustic life, full of nobility. An extremely stupid way of life, too.
Not far from these houses are some modern white residences meant for holidaymakers. There's a whole bunch of these apartment blocks, of a height varying between ten and twenty floors. The blocks are laid out on a multi-level promenade, the lower level being arranged as a parking lot. I walked for a long time from one block to the other, which permits me to affirm that the bulk of the apartments must, by virtue of various architectural ploys, have a view of the sea. At this time of year everything was deserted, and the whistling of the wind swirling between the concrete structures had something truly sinister about it.
I then made for a more recent and luxurious residence, this time situated just a few metres from the sea. It bore the name `Buccaneer Cottages'. The ground floor was made up of a supermarket, a pizzeria and a discothèque; all three of them shut. A placard extended an invitation to visit the show flat.
This time an unpleasant sensation began taking hold of me. To imagine a family of holidaymakers returning to their Buccaneer Cottage before going to scoff their escalope of veal in pirate sauce, and that their youngest daughter might go and get laid in a `Ye Olde Cape-Horner'-style nightspot, was all becoming a bit too much; but there was nothing I could do about it.
By now I was hungry. I hooked up with a dentist at a waffle-seller's stand. In fact
`hooked up' is stretching it a bit; let's just say we exchanged a few words while waiting for the vendor to come back. I don't know why he thought it necessary to inform me that he was a dentist. In general I hate dentists; I take them to be exceedingly venal creatures whose only goal in life is to wrench out the most teeth possible and buy themselves a Mercedes with a sun-roof. And this one didn't have the air of being any exception to the rule.
Somewhat absurdly I thought it necessary to justify my presence one more time and spun him a whole line about how I had the intention of buying an apartment in Buccaneer Cottages. His interest was awakened right away, and with waffle in hand he weighed up the pros and cons for a while before finally concluding that the investment `seemed wise to him'. I ought to have guessed.
10
The Port of Call
Ah yes, to have values! . . .
When I got back to La Roche-sur-Yon I bought a steak knife in the Unico; I was beginning to perceive the rudiments of a plan.
Sunday was non-existent; Monday particularly dreary. I sensed, without needing to ask him, that Tisserand had had a lousy weekend; this didn't surprise me in the least. It was already 22 December. The following evening we went to eat in a pizzeria. The waiter had the air of actually being Italian; one imagined him to be both hairy and charming; he deeply disgusted me. On top of that he hurriedly set down our respective spaghettis without due care. Ah, if we'd been wearing
For a while I actually do stroll along the beach. The sea is grey, rather choppy. I don't feel anything much. I walk for a good while.
Around eleven people begin arriving with their kids and dogs. I turn in the opposite direction.
At the end of the beach at Les Sables-d'Olonne, in the prolongation of the jetty that seals off the port, there are a few old houses and a Romanesque church. Nothing overly spectacular: these are edifices of robust coarse stone built to withstand the storms, and which have withstood the storms for hundreds of years. You can readily imagine the ancient way of life of the Sables fishermen, with Sunday mass in the little church, communion for the faithful, while the wind howls outside and the ocean pounds against the rocky coast. It was a life without distraction and without incident, dominated by a tough and dangerous job of work. A simple and rustic life, full of nobility. An extremely stupid way of life, too.
Not far from these houses are some modern white residences meant for holidaymakers. There's a whole bunch of these apartment blocks, of a height varying between ten and twenty floors. The blocks are laid out on a multi-level promenade, the lower level being arranged as a parking lot. I walked for a long time from one block to the other, which permits me to affirm that the bulk of the apartments must, by virtue of various architectural ploys, have a view of the sea. At this time of year everything was deserted, and the whistling of the wind swirling between the concrete structures had something truly sinister about it.
I then made for a more recent and luxurious residence, this time situated just a few metres from the sea. It bore the name `Buccaneer Cottages'. The ground floor was made up of a supermarket, a pizzeria and a discothèque; all three of them shut. A placard extended an invitation to visit the show flat.
This time an unpleasant sensation began taking hold of me. To imagine a family of holidaymakers returning to their Buccaneer Cottage before going to scoff their escalope of veal in pirate sauce, and that their youngest daughter might go and get laid in a `Ye Olde Cape-Horner'-style nightspot, was all becoming a bit too much; but there was nothing I could do about it.
By now I was hungry. I hooked up with a dentist at a waffle-seller's stand. In fact
`hooked up' is stretching it a bit; let's just say we exchanged a few words while waiting for the vendor to come back. I don't know why he thought it necessary to inform me that he was a dentist. In general I hate dentists; I take them to be exceedingly venal creatures whose only goal in life is to wrench out the most teeth possible and buy themselves a Mercedes with a sun-roof. And this one didn't have the air of being any exception to the rule.
Somewhat absurdly I thought it necessary to justify my presence one more time and spun him a whole line about how I had the intention of buying an apartment in Buccaneer Cottages. His interest was awakened right away, and with waffle in hand he weighed up the pros and cons for a while before finally concluding that the investment `seemed wise to him'. I ought to have guessed.
10
The Port of Call
Ah yes, to have values! . . .
When I got back to La Roche-sur-Yon I bought a steak knife in the Unico; I was beginning to perceive the rudiments of a plan.
Sunday was non-existent; Monday particularly dreary. I sensed, without needing to ask him, that Tisserand had had a lousy weekend; this didn't surprise me in the least. It was already 22 December. The following evening we went to eat in a pizzeria. The waiter had the air of actually being Italian; one imagined him to be both hairy and charming; he deeply disgusted me. On top of that he hurriedly set down our respective spaghettis without due care. Ah, if we'd been wearing
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