The Long Summer of Monsieur Loiseau

The reporter from Le Soir arrived in the morning, presumably on the westbound train from Gare Montparnasse at 5:20.It was still dark when we arrived, and judging by the piled-up rain clouds, it seemed like it would never be.Drizzle mingled with sticky fog hung like a dusty veil between the iron-gray sea and the low sky, in which jagged shadows were cut by jagged rock walls.There was a dim light in the depths of the rain curtain. The reporter took off his windbreaker, wrapped his bulging bag, lowered his head, and trudged towards the light.

He rang the doorbell twice and took a step back to see the number, but the private nursing home had no number. A wooden sign nailed to the sandstone wall read "Private Property, No Trespassing."The reporter pressed his ear to the door, but there was no sound inside, and even if there was, the sound of rain swallowed it up.The reporter wiped the water off his face and began to pound on the door vigorously.

There is a short click when the lock opens, more than one lock.The nurse looked the reporter up and down through the crack of the door, and asked him the purpose of his visit in soft French with a Lower Breton accent.The reporter showed his ID and appointment letter, and the nurse read the letter carefully, as if it was an encrypted telegram that was a matter of life and death. Then he turned sideways, let the reporter go in, and took away the dripping windbreaker from his hand.

The reporter was brought into a small, warm living room, where pine logs were crackling and burning in the fireplace, piled up in a neat tower shape.The reporter stood by the fire for a while, waiting for the flames to drive away the clammy chill.Two single sofas are placed in front of the fireplace, with a small round table in between.The reporter unzipped the bag, because it was wrapped in a windbreaker all the way just now, and the contents inside were not wet at all.He took out a small iron box and put it on the coffee table, followed by a recording pen, a pair of cloth gloves, a coiled book with a curled cover, and three blue ballpoint pens.

The windows are facing the sea and the deserted pebble beach, clearly reflecting the fire from the fireplace.The reporter watched the waves crashing soundlessly against the rocks, waited, and absently wiped his glasses on the hem of his shirt.

"Good morning."

The reporter turned around sharply and almost tripped over the sofa.He put his glasses back on the bridge of his nose and held out his hand. "Thank you very much for your time, Mr. Prudence. My name is Rivers, Daniel Rivers, the literary reporter for the Evening Post, and earlier on the phone—"

"You are the one who wrote the review for "Eternal Summer." Prudence shook his hand, and sat down in the rocking chair covered with blankets, like a stiff mechanical bird, every joint was rusted, early He couldn't sing, and even struggled to fold his wings.The fireplace was burning brightly, but the old man wore an argyle sweater over his shirt, and his hands, thin and blotchy, lay on the rocking chair.Reporters had seen pictures of him as a young man and tried to mentally juxtapose the two Prudences.Harry Prudence's dark brown hair had turned to thin cotton wool, and the wrinkles on his forehead and around his eyes were like plowed sand.Only the blue eyes remained unchanged, with a cautious, searching look reminiscent of wary birds.

"Mr. Loiseau was the most outstanding writer in the 50s. It was the fault of his contemporaries that he did not get the appreciation he deserved while he was alive." As if suddenly realizing what he had said, the reporter immediately added, "It was not intentional. To offend you, sir."

Prudence frowned, as if for a moment he could not remember who Loiseau was.His eyes flicked briefly to the iron box on the coffee table—it was no bigger than a first aid kit, and there was not much paint left on the surface—and turned to the small gray Atlantic Ocean outside the window.The nurse brought tea and some kind of snacks covered with shredded coconut and powdered sugar. The reporter did not see where this person appeared from, nor where he disappeared.

"Reporter." Prudence tapped the arm of the rocking chair lightly with his index finger, "I also swam across this pond. "Viewpoint", have you heard of it? It went bankrupt more than ten years ago. Little lifeboats rampaging between them."

"A lifeboat full of Pulitzer Prizes."

"It finally sank."

"As a result of the circumstances, the circulation of the Evening Post has shrunk to one-third of what it was ten years ago. Obviously, people no longer accept that they can't finish reading in one minute."

"Like serious literature, editorials, and book reviews?"

"Serious literature, editorials, book reviews, features longer than a page, drug inserts and furniture assembly manuals."

Prudence smiled at the shadow on the glass, "What do you want to interview, Mr. Rivers?".

The reporter leaned forward, straightened the iron box on the coffee table, put on gloves, and lifted the lid, as if it contained a nest of newborn birds or a canister of nerve gas.Inside the box were yellowed letters that showed signs of binding, but the string had been mothed long ago, leaving a black residue that crumbled when touched.All addressed to Harry Prudence, sent to various addresses, Oxford, London, Caen, Paris, Munich, Belgrade, some with a harsh return stamp, some without, and a few here and there With obvious burnt marks.The sender was Alex Loiseau, in elongated handwriting like a specimen of climbing plant tendrils fixed to paper.

"The foundation started work on the renovation of Loiseau's house in October, and two masons found this box behind the mantelpiece - a few bricks were loose in there. The lawyer should have discussed it with you on the phone, and the letters certainly It all belongs to you, and there is another," the reporter carefully removed the letter and took out a thick stack of rolled paper, "a manuscript, we believe this is the last work completed by Loiseau during his lifetime, and the title page declares to "Dear Harry, my summer and winter'."

The reporter finished speaking in one breath, and looked at Prudence, wondering what the splash of the stone just thrown was.Prudence watched the desolate shore intently, and the fog outside seemed to melt into those blue eyes, and instead of dissipating with the rising sun, it swelled and engulfed the horizon.

"Thank you for bringing the letter." Prudence picked up the cup and took a sip of the cold tea, perhaps to keep his voice from trembling. "I've told the foundation that they can publish the book and put the manuscript on public display, I'm not going to keep it myself."

"I'm neither from a foundation nor from a publishing house, and I want to know your stories."

"Alex has written 'The Story', which is available in major bookstores for £29.99. He's the one with the talent, I'm not."

"You must have your version, sir, of the war, the hot and the cold one; and yourselves, Loiseau and Prudence, as two ordinary men."

"Why, Mr. Rivers?"

"To give you a chance."

Prudence seemed amused, and looked up at the reporter, the lines around his lips and eyes deepened, "Give me a chance?"

"Let people hear a story they once refused to accept."

The old man's eyes fell on those old letters, as if he had just realized their existence at this moment.He picked up the top one, running his sticky fingers along the neat slit the letter opener had made in the side.The reporter didn't make a sound. A good reporter should know when to pursue and when to lie in the grass and wait with bated breath.Somewhere in the house the telephone rang suddenly, and the reporter flinched, then annoyed that nothing had the right to break the undisturbed silence.Fortunately, the bell only rang twice before it stopped abruptly.

"War, I don't remember much. I was seven when it started, and it's not meant to be a story about war."

"Then what's the story?"

"The oldest kind, and the newest kind." Harry Prudence stroked the envelope. "A love story, Mr. Rivers. If I were to tell it from the beginning, it would begin on a gravel road." .”

-

The gravel road seemed endless, and for Harry Prudence, it was also the beginning of his life, and everything before that was blurred, blocked by an unbreakable frosted glass.What he remembered vividly was the brown fields of the Cornish countryside, with sandstone mansions looming in the freezing fog of late spring.The gravel road was lined with unblooming rose bushes, and there was the sound of running water from somewhere unseen, perhaps a fountain.The maid in a black dress held Harry's hand tightly, as if she was afraid that he would run away, and the stones creaked under her feet.The maid pushed the boy into the shadowy front hall, told him to wait where he was and not to run around, and then disappeared through one of the countless doors.

he waits.The portraits hanging on the wall seemed to be looking down at him, and Harry quietly retreated to the corner to avoid those gloomy gazes.His mother's handkerchief was still tucked in his pocket, crumpled, as Harry cried on the platform, clutching her skirt, unwilling to board the crowded train alone, and mother wiped his cheek and nose with the handkerchief, Say come on, Harry, it's only a few days, a few weeks at the most, and Aunt Connie will take care of you.Then he said, This is war, my dear.Tears rolled down her cheeks, and she wiped them away with the back of her hand.

The whistle blew, and a conductor with thick arms picked Harry up by the waist and pushed him to an empty seat.The carriages were full of fleeing children with red eyes, filled with a contagious fear.The train shuddered and pulled away from the platform, as if realizing that the curtain had fallen, and the children stopped crying and stared vacantly at the toes of their shoes.

The train spits out these bewildered London toddlers at a nameless little station with only one platform, each exhausted, dragging or holding his own little bit of luggage.A fat country policeman was in charge of the registration, his wet palms leaving a large sweat stain on the paper.The children were taken away one by one, and two hours later, only Harry and the fat policeman were left in the station hall.The latter walked up to the boy, bent down to check the note on his backpack, which had the name and address of Aunt Connie written on it, the policeman frowned, licked his index finger and thumb, and looked through the records in his hand.

"Sorry, dear, there's no Connie Parker in the village, the only Parker in fact moved out five years ago."

Harry didn't speak.

"Do you know anyone else? Or is there a phone I can call?"

Harry shook his head.

The policeman wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers, "Wait here."

He walked away to the station office to make a phone call.Harry stared blankly at a moth that had landed on the door and flew away when it reopened. "Come with me, little one." The fat policeman patted him on the back and urged him to go out the door, "You're in luck."

The clanging police car put him on the gravel, handed him over to the maid, and drove away, belching black smoke.

A door slams open, sending echoes through the hall.A middle-aged woman in an apron beckoned to him, and Harry hesitated before walking towards her.The other party had a pale face like a governess, and she called herself Martha, and asked his name, Harry showed her the note on the backpack, and Martha folded the note and put it in the wide pocket of the apron, " follow me."

He did, because there was no other choice, and since he boarded that train, an invisible rope had been around his neck, dragging him around.Behind the door was a staircase leading down to a kitchen that smelled of baked bread and ham grease, and a transom window was open near the ceiling, casting a pale light on the floating motes.The fire crackled and burned, and the heat rushed in like a wave. "Sit here." Martha pointed to the wooden chair next to the long table, on which there was a radio, and next to it was a rattan basket of potatoes, "The Baron Loiseau agreed to let you stay here for a while, I guess It's because George's gone to war, not that he's such a good playmate. The Baron and Alex are in Brighton now, and maybe won't be back in a few days. The Baron's a good man, you gotta be right He's polite and grateful, understand?"

Harry didn't quite understand what she was saying, but nodded.

"how old are you?"

"Nine years old."

Martha took the note out of her pocket and read it carefully by the firelight. "Who is Connie?"

"My dad's sister, she lives here."

"It's a small place, dear, and I only knew one Connie, and that was my grandmother, who died thirty years ago. Would you like something to eat, Harry?"

Martha cut him a small piece of bread and two slices of ham, watched him finish with a slightly worried look, as people do when they are not sure whether a retrieved puppy will live, and took Harry Go to a small room on the second floor of the west wing. "That's right." She said to herself, tearing off the white cloth covering the bed, "This room is yours now."

She went out with the white cloth in her arms.Harry put his knapsack on the rug, climbed into the armchair by the window, and pushed open the window.There was a chestnut tree outside, and all he had to do was reach out and touch the branches.The fog had lifted and the rolling fields were a warm golden brown in the afternoon sun.The boy was lying on the window sill, watching the flock of sheep foraging in the distance.

When Martha came back the boy had fallen asleep curled up in the armchair, the shadow of the chestnut tree draped over him like a blanket.

tbc.