A Fifty-Year Silence by Miranda Richmond Mouillot

Author:Miranda Richmond Mouillot [Mouillot, Miranda Richmond]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780804140652
Publisher: Crown Publishing Group
Published: 2015-01-20T08:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWELVE

MY EXALTATION LASTED UNTIL THE SUN BEGAN to dip behind the hamlet. Gradually, the shadows edged the light and warmth off the terrace, and I put on my sweater again. Except for the wind, La Roche was utterly silent. If I shouted, no one would hear me. I thought of the broken windows, the rotting terrace door, and the leaking roof; I thought of the fact that the house wasn’t mine and might never be; I thought of the fact that, even if it were, and I did manage to fix any of those things, the place still wouldn’t be comfortable, or even really habitable. The electricity was faulty; there was no hot water in the bathroom; and the inside of the house was a warren of unfinished, dingy, impractical rooms. My happiness deserted me just as abruptly as it had come, and I felt daunted, even frustrated, by the idea that I had actually followed through on this strange desire. What had I been pursuing? What exactly was I expecting to find?

I stood up and hurried out of the house, up the hill to the village, as if I could elude these questions by moving quickly. At a loss for anything else to do, I bought myself a newspaper and walked down to Le Camping.

The terrace was crowded, and Yohann was busy with customers. I ordered a coffee at the bar and took it to an empty table, where I could see the trees, the river, and the castle beyond. I was still alone but surrounded, at least, by the hum of people. I was perusing my paper, feeling nostalgic for afternoons with friends and family, when I heard a chair scrape across from me and looked up. It was Julien, whom I had met on one of the Saturday evenings Grant, his friends, and I had spent at the campground. From that first encounter, I had learned that Julien was a stonemason, had lived in America for a year, attended architectural school and quit, and worked with his father restoring old houses. He made puns that worked only if you were bilingual, and he espoused ferocious political, literary, and architectural opinions. He was tall, wore small wire-framed glasses, and had thick sandy-blond hair and blue-gray eyes. From afar he looked a bit fierce, even warriorlike, but up close, he had a deep, infectious laugh and a smile like a delighted little boy. He reminded me of a Greek statue or an archangel missing his wings.

Now he was standing beside my table with his hand on the back of a chair. “Do you mind if I join you?”

“Not at all.”

Julien sat down, took off his glasses, and rubbed the bridge of his nose, which was speckled with white flecks of lime plaster. “What a day.” He picked up my newspaper and glanced at it. “Am I bothering you? Maybe you wanted to read.”

“No, no, I haven’t really talked to anyone all day. Nice to have some company.” I

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