Narrow Dog to Carcassonne by Terry Darlington

Narrow Dog to Carcassonne by Terry Darlington

Author:Terry Darlington
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9780440337560
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2008-03-25T10:00:00+00:00


MONICA TURNED HARD LEFT, SWINGING THE tiller. Her jaw was set, her gaze ahead. The windmill generator fizzed and the Phyllis May swung from the hip and smashed into a wave, breaking it in two. That’s the left turn across the shipping lanes, I said to the gentleman at the counter. That was the turning towards France, after the Goodwin Sands. That was the point where we were committed. Your colleague made a lovely job of this—look at the colours—I can feel the spray. It was me, monsieur, said the gentleman, I made this print. The sky was not straight, so I straightened the sky.

Outside in the square five brown lads surrounded Monica. Look at the dog—oh my God his muscles. I bet he’s fast—how much did he cost madame, how much does he eat?

I bought a paper at the kiosk in the square. This was the third English paper I had bought in Meaux and the lady in the kiosk and I were getting close. I apologized for leaving the next day. The French say Bonjour and Bon voyage without thinking, and Bonne journée when they mean it. The lady in the kiosk struggled, the occasion deserving something further. Bonne navigation, she said at last, and we both smiled with relief.

I tied Jim outside the fruit shop. Ah monsieur, you are the big Englishman from the thin boat with the narrow dog and the little wife. I have seen you when I walked with Crusoe. Where is your narrow dog, monsieur? Why have you tied him up outside? You should bring him in so he can say hello to Crusoe. Crusoe stretched his polar body across the aisle, so no one could leave until he said so.

In the fish shop the lady weighed her two crabs, one in each hand, and frowned. One moment, she said, and went inside, and returned with both crabs cut in half. That one, monsieur, that one is the best.

Meaux has not decided which side of the river it is on. This is because it lies in the crook of the Marne, asleep in its turquoise embrace. The town was a mess, spread about, dug up, the cathedral wrapped in brown paper, but there was plenty of space in Meaux and plenty of time. Under the bridges chub rolled in the misty river. Teenage girls dawdled in pairs and threes, and now and then a man in a business shirt passed, walking almost quickly. Mooring and electricity and water were free in Meaux and each morning a roach came to manicure the boat.

On the banks among the flowers a madman chatted to himself all day—When I say something, then that’s it, it’s finished, decision time; when I say something then that’s it, it’s finished, decision time. Fish shot around in shoals, and when they paused they changed colour and disappeared. If they stopped somewhere patched, then they went patched as well. Rivers are paved with invisible fish, looking at you.

The heat had returned, and I sat on the pontoon, and tiddlers tapped on my toes.



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