A Fine Passage by France Daigle Read Free Book Online Page A

shown no sign of reading spent several days in Denmark, tuning in to conversations of which he understood at once everything and nothing, before travelling to Paris.
    Sitting in a café, he thought he recognized the young man he’d met by the door to the washroom on the plane that brought him recently from Boston to London. The young woman seated beside him might very well be in the early stages of pregnancy, although it barely shows. The two young people are talking together, but they also look a little bored. The man cocks an ear.
    â€œAnd tell me again, why was it we had to go through London instead of coming straight here?”
    â€œIt was cheaper for the open tickets, wasn’t it?”
    â€œRight. Aren’t you the clever one to have unscrambled all that and got us all the way here.”
    The man who’d shown no sign of reading is no linguist, but he guesses the young people are speaking some sort of Caribbean dialect.
    â€œAnd when are we off to Arles, then?”
    â€œI’m not done working that out. Might be we’ll start at Lyons. And what’s your great hurry? I like it fine right here.”
    The man is no longer sure what dialect it is.
    â€œMight be we shouldn’t hold off too long. Anyway, we can come back here anytime, can’t we? After the delta, I mean.”
    The two young people are silent for a bit.
    Then: “A cigarette’d be nice right about now, wouldn’t you say?”
    â€œOh, Lord, yes.”
    As was his habit after a session, Hans took his time walking home. He stopped to eat, allowed himself to be distracted here and there, did a bit of window shopping. Back in his room, he lay down on the bed to take a nap, legs crossed, hands behind his head. When he awoke, he lay a long time examining his room, the white walls, the transparent curtains on the windows, the majestic honey-coloured beams supporting the ceiling.
    Still lying on his bed, he counts the small diamonds he’s removed from the canvas pouch he carries around his neck. He has six left.
    That evening, the woman who smokes only in public glances through the pages of Gorky to see what’s in store for her there. She falls asleep rather quickly but wakes with a start. Without checking the time, she picks up the telephone.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?”
    â€œI don’t know. I feel terrified suddenly .”
    â€œWhere are you? At home?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œI’m coming. Don’t move.”
    A few minutes later, there’s a knock on the door. The dark street is empty. The friend enjoys this sort of crisis.
    â€œI brought my things. I’ll sleep here.”
    They set up camp in the living room, sipping her-bal tea.
    â€œNow you see this can’t go on! Do you enjoy suffering or what?”
    The other woman says nothing.
    â€œI mean, love is all right. But this guy is being
and
nothingness.”
    The other woman continues to say nothing.
    â€œYou ought to take a holiday, take a trip, see people.”
    The other woman shrugs as though none of that applies to her.
    â€œI’m only saying it for your own good. You don’t see yourself. You look like you’re dying.”
    The other woman sighs, not entirely disagreeing.
    â€œI don’t know what you see in him. Okay, he’s likeable. Charming, even. But he’s a dreamer. You need someone less . . . more grounded.”
    The woman who smokes only in public still says nothing. Finally, she can think of only one thing.
    â€œI know it’s hard to understand, but I love him.”
    In a show of despair, the friend sinks into the sofa, although, in truth, she enjoys this sort of drama.
    WEDNESDAY Negotiation
    THE DIAMOND MERCHANT silently examines one of the small stones, then another and another. Eventually, he examines all six. Hans, seated opposite, on the other side of a piece of furniture that is not quite a desk, watches him work.
    The man consults a reference book with