Shutterspeed by Erwin Mortier Read Free Book Online Page B

described the irritability of muscles and the action of nerve tissue. On the heights of Parnassus, the pioneers of Medicine, Herophilus and Erasistratos, drank a toast of Ambrosia in celebration of the transcendence of the flesh by means of the Electricity of Animation. A great stride forward in the domain of nervous activity!
    ‘He’s such a good reader,’ said Aunt. ‘It’s all Greek to me, but he speaks so nice and proper, just like they do on the radio. Go on, Joris, read us something.’
    ‘You won’t like it,’ I replied, glad of an excuse. ‘There, have a look.’
    I turned the book around so that everyone in the shopcould see the picture of the atlas vertebra captioned
An appropriate name for the Heroic Bone that supports the Skull
.
    ‘Very complicated, I’m sure,’ muttered one of the customers, a farmer’s wife who twitched her shoulders and pressed her shopping bag to her stomach every time she opened her mouth.
    ‘Oh, that’s what he likes best,’ said Aunt. Despite her queasiness she sounded proud. ‘But put away that book now, dear, and get me a tin of apricots from up there.’
    ‘Don’t want the young folk to get too full of themselves, do we?’ she smiled, winking at her clientele.
    When I was halfway up the ladder, reaching for the tinned fruit, my attention was caught by two figures on the pavement shielding their eyes against the glare as they peered through the plate glass: a woman who struck me as a bit older than Aunt Laura, and beside her a girl with jet black hair. They both wore wide-brimmed straw hats, and made to step into the shop. I had never seen them before.
    The shop bell tinkled. The last customers to have come in twisted round to look, and appeared to recognise the woman. There was a ripple of curiosity and surprise, but the newcomer put her gloved, right-hand forefinger to her lips to silence them. Taking the girl by the hand, and unnoticed by Aunt at the counter, she squeezed past the customers at the back to examine the merchandise in the windows. She ran the tip of her forefinger over the fly swatters, which Uncle had tied in bunches on either side of the displays because there was so much demand forthem at this time of year, especially among farmers’ wives. The woman apparently found them dusty, for she rubbed her forefinger over her thumb several times.
    The girl gave a little neigh of laughter, at which her companion murmured ‘Shush’.
    They emanated the sort of elegance I had only seen before in photos of my mother’s childhood, and in the old fashion magazines on the bottom shelf of the landing cupboard, where Aunt kept a variety of lumber. It was as if there had been a tornado in the night that had scooped up the pair of them, blown them halfway across the country and dropped them in the field just outside the village once the storm subsided.
    The woman’s gaze wandered over the shelves and the rack of apothecary jars – empty but kept by Uncle for appearance’s sake – and stopped at my knees. I was halfway up the ladder holding a tin of apricots.
    Then the woman’s eyes met mine. Hers were bright blue.
    ‘Monsieur,’ she said, inclining her head graciously.
    ‘Monsieur,’ echoed the girl, who was standing beside her.
    The shop was almost empty when Aunt looked up from her work at last and noticed the newcomers.
    ‘Well I never …’ she said, coming out from behind the counter to greet them.
    ‘Laure,’ said the woman.
    ‘Hélène,’ stammered Aunt, untying her apron. ‘Quelle surprise!’
    She put her apron on the counter and shook hands with the woman, after which they touched their cheeks to each other while pursing their lips.
    ‘Nous sommes arrivées hier soir, pendant l’orage,’ said the woman. ‘Nous venons de Bruxelles. This young lady has expressed the desire to pay her uncle a visit. Her parents are away in France for a week or two, aren’t they, Isabella? Come now, say bonjour to Madame Laure.’
    The girl shook hands