Tomorrow They Won't Dare to Murder Us by Joseph Andras

Author:Joseph Andras
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Verso Books

His grandfather probably thought they were a couple: just the one bed, no mattress on the floor. Hélène and Fernand make no mention of it but the thought is on their minds. She undoes her hair while he unlaces his shoes. If you want, he says, I can sleep on the floor: it’s not that uncomfortable and I’ve got a good back. I don’t know, do as you like, but I’d feel guilty if you were to have a bad night … No, don’t worry about me, really, I’ve been through worse. Hélène responds with a smile. She dares not admit that she would prefer to have him by her side, under this coarse blanket—maybe he’d take it amiss? Maybe she’s jumping the gun, since he still won’t address her informally, with the familiar tu? Fernand keeps his sweater on, afraid of seeming too forward. He does however claim one of the bed’s two pillows, and then a quilt from the wardrobe. He lies down in it after cushioning the floor with one half. Hélène goes past him, through to the hallway to brush her teeth. The light in the room is turned off. She comes back, slips inside the bed. Good night, Hélène, sleep well. You too.

A broken sun, shining in shards.

Burning the capital with fresh cuts.

They walk along the Canal Saint-Martin, on Quai de Valmy. He has just received his test results from the hospital: aerobic bacilli present in the organism—tuberculosis, in other words. His doctor seemed confident, however, reassuring him that his condition was not serious (cough, very slight loss of weight, but no blood-filled expectorations) and that the treatment should deal with it fairly easily, if followed to term. How long will you stay in France? she asks. I don’t know yet, maybe a few months, it’ll depend on the disease. Do you miss Algeria? Not always, sometimes, he answers. Never when you’re here, in any case. She lights the cigarette she had been fiddling with. Fernand’s eyes are locked on her wrists. Her long fingers, thin and graceful. Flesh supple and white. A paper cylinder at her lips. The smoke meanders, almost vertically, then spreads out in blue knots. Her tongue remains unseen. Her teeth are bright. She breathes out her second puff through her nose, which is slightly arched in the middle, yes, as he had already noted privately. Her silence embarrasses him. You know, he says as she brings her cigarette to her mouth for the third time, I just thought of something while looking at the birds out there, on that tree. We played this game when I was a kid, a strange game, come to think of it: we’d try to catch sparrows with these sticks, coating them in glue and then chasing the birds or, sometimes, spying on them. We’d wait, gently, slowly, for the right time to bring our sticks close and catch them. Hélène makes a disgusted face. Yes, alright, it wasn’t very clever of us. Kids, you know, snot-nosed rascals.

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