Hunting and Gathering by Anna Gavalda Read Free Book Online Page B

her father died. Camille stopped speaking altogether. Even during her drawing lessons with Mr. Doughton (she pronounced it Doggton), whom she liked so much, even with him she would not speak.
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The old Englishman didn’t take offense, and he continued to come up with ways to teach her technique, even in silence. He would give her an example and she would copy it, merely moving her head to say yes or no. Between the two of them, and only there, in that place, things were fine. Her mute silence even seemed to suit them. He didn’t have to struggle for the words in French, and she concentrated more readily than her fellow pupils.
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But one day, when all the other pupils had left, he broke their tacit agreement and spoke to her while she was amusing herself with the pastels:
    â€œYou know, Camille, who you make me think of?”
    She shook her head.
    â€œA Chinese painter called Zhu Da. Do you want me to tell you his story?”
    Camille nodded but he had turned around to switch off his kettle.
    â€œI can’t hear you, Camille. Don’t you want me to tell you the story?”
    Now he was staring at her.
    â€œAnswer me, young lady.”
    She gave him a black look.
    â€œI beg your pardon?”
    â€œYes,” she said finally.
    He closed his eyes contentedly, poured a cup and came to sit next to her.
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“When he was a child, Zhu Da was very happy . . .”
    He took a swallow of tea.
    â€œHe was a prince of the Ming dynasty. His family was very rich and very powerful. His father and grandfather were painters and famous calligraphers, and little Zhu Da had inherited their gift. So just imagine, one day, when he wasn’t even eight years old yet, he drew a flower, a simple lotus flower floating on a pond. His drawing was beautiful, so beautiful that his mother decided to hang it in their salon. She claimed that thanks to the drawing you could feel a fresh little breeze in the huge room and you could even smell the flower’s perfume when you walked by the drawing. Can you imagine? Even the perfume! And his mother was surely not an easy person to please . . . With both a husband and a father who were artists, she must have seen a few things by then ...”
    He took another sip from his cup.
    â€œSo, Zhu Da grew up in this carefree world full of pleasure, and he was sure that he too would be a great artist one day. Alas, when he turned eighteen, the Manchus seized power from the Mings. The Manchus were a cruel and brutal people who did not care for painters or writers. They forbade them to work, which was the worst thing anyone could do to them, as you can well imagine. Zhu Da’s family knew no peace after that, and his father died of despair. From one day to the next the son, a mischievous kid who had loved to laugh, sing, say silly things and recite long poems, did the most incredible thing . . . Oh! Now who’s this, then?” asked Mr. Doughton, turning to his cat, which had just settled on the windowsill. He then deliberately started a lengthy conversation in baby talk with the cat.
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“What did he do?” Camille murmured, finally.
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Mr. Doughton hid his smile in his whiskers and went on as if nothing had happened:
    â€œHe did the most incredible thing. Something you’d never imagine. He decided to stop speaking forever. Forever, do you hear? Not a single word would leave his lips! He was disgusted by the attitude of the people around him, those who denied their traditions and their beliefs just so they would be viewed favorably by the Manchus; he didn’t want to speak to any of them ever again. Devil take them all! Every last one! Slaves! Cowards! So he wrote the word Mute on the door of his house, and if there were people who tried to talk to him all the same, he would unfold a fan in front of his face, on which he had also written Mute , and he’d wave it every which way to make them go away.”
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Little Camille was