French Leave by Anna Gavalda Read Free Book Online

then—yes, look . . . There she was . . . All the way at the end of the platform. She was in the last carriage, she must have boarded the train at the last minute, but there she was, walking toward us, waving her arms.
    True to form and just the way I’d hoped to find her. A smile on her face, swinging her hips, wearing ballet flats, a white shirt, and a pair of old jeans.
    Â 
    Â 
    And an amazing hat. With a huge brim and a wide black grosgrain ribbon.
    She hugged me. “You look lovely,” she said, “did you cut your hair?” She hugged Simon and stroked his back then she took off her hat so she wouldn’t muss Carine’s curls.
    She’d had to travel in the bicycle carriage because she couldn’t find a place to put her sombrero and now she asked us if we could make a detour by the station buffet so she could buy a sandwich. Carine looked at her watch and I took the time to grab a trash celeb magazine.
    The gutter press. All that pretentious posturing . . .
    Â 
    We climbed back into the car, and Lola asked her sister-in-law if she would be willing to hold her hat on her lap. Oh, no problem, said she, with a somewhat forced smile. No problem.
    My sister raised her chin as if to ask, What’s going on? And I rolled my eyes skyward to reply, same old.
    She smiled and asked Simon to put on some music.
    Carine replied that she had a headache.
    I smiled, too.
    Â 
    Then Lola asked whether someone had some nail polish for her toes. She asked again: no answer. Finally our favorite pharmacist handed her a little red bottle: “Mind the seat, okay?”
    Then we swapped sister stories. I’ll skip that scene. We have too many codes, shortcuts and grunts. Besides, without the soundtrack, it’s meaningless.
    All you sisters out there will know what I mean.
    Â 
    We were out in the boonies, Carine was reading the map and Simon was being raked over the coals. At some point he said, “Give that fucking map to Garance, she’s the only one who has any sense of direction in this damned family!”
    In the back, we looked at each other and frowned. Two swear words in the same sentence, with an exclamation mark to close . . . Things weren’t going too well.
    Â 

    Shortly before we arrived at Aunt Paule’s castle, Simon came upon a little lane with blackberry bushes on either side. It reminded us of the arbors in Villiers; we rushed over to the bushes and our voices were trembling. Carine didn’t shift her butt from the car and called out to remind us that foxes piss on blackberry bushes.
    We didn’t take any notice.
    Our mistake . . .
    â€œNaturally. You’ve never heard of echinococcosis. The larvae of parasites are transmitted by urine, and—”
    Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa, I lost it there for a minute: “That’s all bullshit, big time! Foxes can piss wherever they like, they have the entire great outdoors! Every path and hedge and tree, wherever you look, why in hell would they come and piss right here ? Right on our blackberries? What the hell are you saying? It drives me crazy, in the end . . . That’s what makes me sick, people like you who always have to go spoiling everything . . . ”
    Â 
    Sorry. Mea culpa. My fault. My very great fault. And I had promised myself I would behave. I had promised myself I’d stay calm and infinitely zen. This very morning, when I was looking at myself in the mirror, I wagged my finger at my reflection: Garance, don’t go getting pissed off with Carine, okay? No drama-queen routine for once. But there, I blew it. I’m sorry. My humble apologies, etc. She spoiled our blackberries and the little bit of childhood that remained along with it. She presses all my buttons, I cannot stand her. One more remark and I’d make her eat Lola’s sombrero.
    Â 
    She must have felt the back draft from the cannonball because she closed the car door and switched on the ignition. For the