The Long Summer of Monsieur Loiseau

The reporter had to replace the batteries in the recorder again, and Prudence waited, eyes half-closed, as if lost in meditation.The teapot wrapped in a wool warmer was empty, but the nurse did not come again, and it is not known whether he will come again.Outside the window, the winter sun had already begun to tilt early, deep in the blood-red clouds, slowly sliding towards the sea.After the indicator light of the recording pen came back on and the reporter turned over a new page of the notebook, Prudence continued without opening his eyes, as if he was recounting a long-ago dream.

"Alex and alcohol have always had trouble with alcohol, I know that very well. He has been like this at Oxford. Come to my room in the middle of the night and drag me away from what I am doing. Drinking The more times he would fall asleep quickly, and if the alcohol wasn't enough to put him down, he'd be more hyper than usual, grabbing me and talking non-stop, and wouldn't let me go, even to get a glass of water. You see Ever had one of those little animals just born that desperately grabs anything warm with all its paws, Mr. Rivers? Alex is like that."

"I couldn't find anything useful from the nurses, so I called the bookstore on the pay phone at the hospital. No one answered the first time, and there was a baby crying in the corridor, which was too annoying, so I went downstairs. Another phone was changed, and this time the bookstore owner picked up the receiver."

"He found Alex when he went to open the shop in the morning and called an ambulance because he couldn't wake him up. No one knows how long he was lying there, probably all night, from two in the morning to It's past seven in the morning, and two o'clock is the closing time of the nearby bar. I asked the bookstore owner if this had happened before, and he replied no, but he was not surprised at all. Alex was like living on alcohol Like. I thank you, hang up. Put in coins again, call Viewpoint, and sure enough, Schmidt is still in the office. I tell him the column is finished and it will be given to him tomorrow, and I make up a story about my father being sick. Lie, asked for a few days off, and went back to the ward upstairs."

While Alex was still fast asleep, Harry closed the door softly and sat down in the chair by the hospital bed, watching his friend.Alex's face was an under-inked engraving, pale and fragile in outline and line, not like himself, but more like a diluted projection, which, if the artist had been more daring, might have been rendered translucent Yes, I could see through him the blue and white striped pillowcase underneath.Alex's right hand, which was bruised in the fall, was also bandaged.Harry carefully turned his wrist over, examining the long, thin scars, intertwined and varying in shades, running from palm to elbow in the way a broken glass would not have done.

There were footsteps slowly approaching outside the ward, and Harry had a fleeting illusion that it was the porter in the middle of the night with a flashlight, nervously patrolling the corridor, and at which party did Alex get drunk? Occupying his single bed until the rattling of cart wheels shattered the illusion.The ward was filled with the smell of disinfectant and cotton cloths, Alex seemed to be dreaming, frowning, making inarticulate, small voices.Harry bent down to kiss his forehead, and took his unbandaged hand lightly in his.

When it was getting dark, Harry himself fell asleep lying on the bed, only to be awakened by the movement of Alex, who stared at Harry for a long time, frowning, as if he didn't recognize who he was.Harry shook his hand firmly and asked how he was feeling.

"Cold," Alex replied, turning to look at the indigo sky outside the window. "It's dawn."

"It's getting dark." Harry corrected, reaching out to smooth his messy hair. "It's 05:30, you've slept all day."

Alex pulled his hand away from Harry's, without answering.Harry poured a glass of water and handed it to Alex, who shook his head but didn't take it.

"I spoke to the doctor." Harry put the glass back on the bedside table. "They said you almost drowned yourself in whiskey and you won't be leaving until tomorrow at the earliest. No more booze, not even sleeping pills. If you have It would also be helpful to live in the suburbs for a while, if possible.”

"They shouldn't have called you."

"I'm so glad they brought me in, the doctor said you need care."

"No, I don't need to."

"Alex, let me take care of you for a while."

"How long is 'a period of time'?"

"I don't know, two or three months?"

"Then?"

"I don't know, or us, just for a while, I mean." Harry finally realized he was incoherent, closed his mouth, and reconsidered his words, "We'll talk about this later. Do you need anything now? I should get you a clean suit, but I don't know where you live, so I can get you mine if you don't mind."

Alex shook his head, rolled over, and curled up under the whitewashed blanket.

"I'll pick you up tomorrow," Harry suggested.

no answer.Alex appeared to be asleep, breathing evenly.Harry turned off the light, got up and left the ward, and waited at the door for a while, hoping Alex would say something to tell him to stay, but nothing came of it but silence.

Harry went to the newspaper early the next morning, told the interns to pass the manuscript on to editor Schmidt, and hurried to the hospital with a bag stuffed with the shirt and trousers he thought would suit Alex.The trousers were a good size, the shirt was a bit too big, and Alex turned up his sleeves and sat on the edge of the bed, watching as Harry helped him pack the personal belongings that the nurse had returned an hour earlier, the wallet and keys, and Dirty clothes stained with blood, Harry rolled up the laundry and put it in the bag.There were three or four crumpled theater tickets among the pile of coins, and Harry smoothed them out and put them away with the same care.

Alex gave him the address, in the 7th arrondissement, at the west end of St. Dominique Street, opposite a small flower shop.The apartment is on the second floor, very spacious, even deserted because of the lack of furniture.There were no chairs in the pine-floored living room, but a huge carpet, stained the color of burnt bread, like a harvested wheat field, with four or five Turkish-style throw pillows on it.There was a heavy wooden desk against the wall, and the typewriter was buried under dusty blank manuscript paper and books.A lonely wall clock was forgotten in the corner, and the pointer no longer moved.Harry put down his bag and drew back the heavy curtains covering the floor-to-ceiling windows. The pouring sunlight illuminated the avalanche of dust. Harry sneezed and pushed the window open to let in the fresh, plant-scented mid-April air. Come.

The kitchen was also empty, as if no one had lived in it for a long time, and the frying pan hung on brass hooks, unused.There were tins of mushroom soup in the cupboard, and spirits among other things, and Harry made up his mind to get rid of these dangerous goods within the day.He found the sugar and wanted to ask where the tea was kept, but Alex was in the bathroom and didn't hear.Harry opened all the drawers - most of which were empty - and found the tin tea tin in the cutlery compartment.

The tea was finally wasted, and Alex came out of the bathroom, wrapped in a soft blue dressing gown, and went straight into the bedroom, leaving a trail of wet footprints on the floor.Harry sighed and followed him in: "You know there's nothing in your kitchen?"

"I know, this is my home."

"You have to eat."

"Harry, I'm not a child."

"You act a lot like that."

"I didn't invite you to discipline me."

"I'm helping you."

Alex buried himself in blankets and pillows and stopped talking.The bedroom was dark, and Harry could barely make out the outlines of the bed and wardrobe.He called Alex's name, but he ignored him.Harry stood there for a moment, feeling a little stupid.

"I'll be back tomorrow," he said, about to close the bedroom door.

"Harry."

He stopped and waited with bated breath.

"Can you stay here a little longer? Five minutes?"

Harry went back to the bed, and Alex moved out of his way to let him lie down.Harry hugged him together with the blanket, put his palms on the nape of his neck, and stroked his fresh blond hair just as they had done when they were living at 55 Juniper Street.Alex smelled like rain-soaked pine, and Harry listened to his breathing until he, too, slid slowly into the soft darkness.

-

Alex's apartment is a little far from the newspaper office, and unless he works overtime until midnight, Harry will come after work, with food, a bouquet of lily of the valley wrapped in a newspaper, magazines and a newly bought poetry collection, for Cooking was easy, and plates, milk jugs, and teacups were brought in shortly afterwards.Alex acquiesced to all this and never invited Harry to stay, but he didn't mean to send him away either, so Harry brought pillows and quilts and slept on the thick wheatfield-like rug in the living room .

As the weather turned warmer, the wind, soaked in the smell of lime blossoms, ignited all the street trees overnight, sending them into blazing green flames.The day never ended, and they sometimes wandered aimlessly by the river, pausing to watch the mime performers knock on non-existent glass and make the children laugh.Alex always put a few francs in the busker's tattered piano case before moving on, and Harry played the role he always played, a faithful shadow, not far or near. later.

There was a torrential rain on the last day of May. Alex was in the Underline bookstore. Harry had to wait for two hours under the dripping eaves. Alex gave him the spare key that night. , neither of them said much.

Little by little, Harry tidied up the large oak desk, picked up the scattered papers, and stacked the books against the wall.Alex's typewriter was not working, not knowing which component was the problem, and Harry sent the machine in for repairs, and brought in the spare Remington portable typewriter.Alex claimed it was unnecessary and he had long since stopped writing anything.Harry replied that it would be convenient for him to catch a draft someday, but in fact this never happened.Not long afterward on a Saturday evening, when Harry came back with a paper bag of bread, Alex was typing on the keyboard. Startled by the door opening, he tore the paper off the hinges, claiming that he was just testing the typewriter.Harry smiled, didn't say anything, went straight into the kitchen, put the bread paper bag on the cooking table, and started making dinner.A few minutes later, the clicking of the typewriter was heard in the living room.

They ate dinner in front of the open French windows, with plates and teapots placed directly on the rug, and the gentle warm air giving the illusion of a picnic.The canopy of trees shredded the setting sun and sprinkled blood-red spots on the narrow terrace.Alex stared intently at the rosy sky until Harry leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek, then on the lips.The wind lifted the gauze, wrapping them in translucent shadow.

tbc.