The Long Summer of Monsieur Loiseau

They stayed in Paris all summer.The florist across the street closed its doors, posting a note saying "on vacation, return in August".The streets were quiet, and other shops closed one by one. The train station was like a giant sponge, sucking in the fleeing Parisians and pumping out batch after batch of tourists.Harry had to detour ten minutes longer than usual to find the deli which was still open.The bookstore was also closed, and the old man took his half silver chain to Le Mans, where a relative was said to be alive.

Harry still kept the little room tucked away behind the puppet theater on Gran Via, but now his typewriter, a third of his books and most of his clothes were in his St. Bedroom wardrobe, the rest folded up in a suitcase in the living room.They don't sleep together, after all, Harry nominally "just came to help for a while, and will leave soon".

This "right now" stretches from June to July and, of course, into August.During the hottest part of the summer Harry had exactly two weeks off, which he spent tinkering with and moving furniture.The two bought a [-]% new sofa in the flea market, and finally had a place to rest their feet in the living room, and Harry's makeshift bed was moved from the carpet to the sofa.For the convenience of reading, I also bought a small coffee table and put the new desk lamp on it.Harry had added a lot to the kitchen, a new cast-iron saucepan, a set of flatware with beautiful gold geometric patterns on the handles, coffee and tea, and a pot of thriving sage.Canned soup was replaced by roast seasoning, rye flour, mayonnaise, soda, yeast and cocoa powder, and the long-abandoned oven finally came into play.Harry copied a chocolate cake recipe from Miss Minie and tried to bake one himself.The recipe stated that the preparation time was three hours, but after five full hours, the two stood in the messy kitchen with flour on their arms, faces and hair, staring at the limp brown-black paste on the plate. object, declared a failure.

"Please don't touch my oven again," Alex said.

Harry wiped the syrup on the back of his hand on his pants: "I swear never again."

Most afternoons they would be reading on the sofa, more precisely Alex on Harry's stomach, flipping through English translations of Arabic poems, Harry symbolically holding a never-ending book Novel, dozing off non-stop, and being woken up by Alex non-stop, listening to him read a passage from a collection of poems.The windows were open, but there was no wind, and although the neighbors across the street were away on vacation, the sheer curtains were still drawn for safety reasons, hanging motionless to the floor.A bee sneaked in through a gap in the gauze curtain, buzzed lowly, flew straight to the rose in the glass vase, and burrowed contentedly into the stamen.

"George read this passage to me before, when he was in his second year at Harrow, and it was his literature assignment. Everyone else took French, and he was the only one who had to challenge Arabic and failed. The next term he I chose French instead."

It was the first time he had mentioned George, without warning.Harry closed the book and put it aside, lightly resting his palm on the back of Alex's hand, without speaking.The bee climbed out of the stamen, lost its way, circled dizzily around the room, hit the glass, backed up, rushed to the ceiling, found no way to go, settled on the curtains, climbed up the folds.Both stared at the tiny insect until it miraculously found the gap in the veil and flew back into the sunlight.

"I've often imagined what a private hell George had in his head that he'd think a bullet was relief." Alex closed the book and held on like it was a shipwrecked plank, "Dad Think he's weak, but I think the opposite is true. Nobody knows how long George's been in his own hell, and none of us can help him."

"George was the bravest man I ever knew."

"I miss him."

"I know." Harry thought for a moment, "I wish I had made it back then."

Alex smiled and raised his hand to stroke Harry's cheek, and Harry leaned over to kiss his wrist and asked him what those scars were.

"I had a dream." Alex looked away. "In winter evening, I came home from the garden, but it was dark and empty inside. I searched room by room, half of which I saw. half eaten dinner, tea was still steaming, but no one was there. I ran up to the second floor, pushed open the door of the study, and there stood a bird-headed monster that looked like a crow with a voice Also like, paws with soot. When he grabbed me, the ashes smeared on my hands. He said he could tell me where the others were, but he wanted my blood, and I said yes. Daddy's There was a letter opener on the desk with a thin edge and it was sharpened, and I picked it up and gave it blood. The blood dripped on the feather and there was a puff of smoke, like water on a red-hot coal But the bird-headed monster didn't think it was enough, it pecked out my eyes, and I swear I could feel the beak digging into my head."

Alex shrugged, as if this was a story that had nothing to do with him.

"Then I woke up and it wasn't quite a dream, the blood was all over the book and the carpet, and I tried to make up as many reasons as I could to convince Martha, but she called the doctor anyway. Apparently, I also broke a Glass, cut my finger, you see, the broken glass wasn't exactly a lie. I may have had a little too much wine that night, shh, Harry, shut up, don't preach, it's nothing serious, I later I've never had a dream like this again."

Harry didn't speak, Alex got up from the sofa, threw the poetry book aside, claimed that he wanted to eat the leftover cold ham from breakfast, and walked into the kitchen.

-

The weather became unpleasant from mid-September, cold and rainy. The "Underline" bookstore reopened last week, but Alex didn't go to the Thursday party again, saying that he was not interested anymore and would rather stay at home.Harry found time to retrieve the repaired typewriter for him, and Alex moved it into the bedroom. Harry guessed that he was writing something, but couldn't be sure, and Alex didn't tell him anything.

"I saw Barry today," Alex said suddenly on another rainy Tuesday evening, leaning against the cupboard as Harry cut up the potatoes and poured them into the saucepan.

"What's the matter with him?" Harry plucked the sage leaves, tore them up, and threw them into the pot as well.

“He had a goatee and a Panama hat, like a caricature character. He said he was here for a meeting — he’s working for the Foreign Office now, you know — and would be in Paris for a week anyway, invited Let's go to dinner, I said yes."

"Wait, 'us'?"

"Unless you're not available at noon on Saturday."

"I have, but how are you going to explain it." Harry couldn't find the right words for a while, and pointed vaguely at the living room, as well as the blankets and manuscripts piled up on the sofa, "These?"

"No explanation. We don't live together, remember? Barry won't be here either."

The gravy in the saucepan was bubbling, and Harry opened the drawer, took out a wooden spoon, and started stirring to avoid burning: "I remember."

"there's one more thing."

Harry answered absently, dipped a spoon in some of the gravy, and tasted it.

"You should sleep in your bedroom tonight, it's too cold."

Harry smiled at the saucepan, without turning his back so that he wouldn't notice. "Thanks. Can you pass me the salt?"

As usual, they didn't discuss it too much.

The Saturday lunch invitation was theoretically set at twelve o'clock, but due to a kind of French etiquette, no one showed up on time.Barry is a little earlier, at a table by the window at 12:30.Alex came in five minutes later, and Harry didn't come until 5:45, claiming that the newspaper office couldn't leave, but in fact he wanted to avoid arriving at the same time as Alex.They shook hands and each recited some social phrases.The waiter put down the drink list and served their drinks before bringing the menu.

The name of the restaurant is "White Pigeon", and it is near the Pier d'Orsay, because the hotel where Barry is temporarily staying is not far away.Harry remembered Barry as a student, the freckled history student.Barry looked 15 years older than he was at the moment, exuding that petty bureaucratic, self-serious radiance.They chat for a while about America and East Germany, and then Barry and Alex start talking about a fellow Harrow schoolmate they both knew.Unable to interrupt, Harry pored over the buttered scallops on his dinner plate.

Barry lit a cigarette when dessert was served, and turned his attention to Harry, casually asking him what the reporters had been paying attention to lately, and whether he was hanging out with the embassy secretaries.Harry answered casually without paying much attention.When the wall clock struck two, Barry put out his cigarette, put his straw hat on his head, said that the bill would be paid by Whitehall, don't worry, it was good to see old friends, and so on, and left the restaurant.

The lunch itself was nothing to remember, and Harry forgot about it the next day.However, Barry happened to show up on Boulevard Haussmann on Wednesday afternoon, just in time for Harry to leave work, and grabbed Harry's elbow in a friendly way on the stairs of Richelieu-Duro station.

"I thought you didn't need the subway to get home," Barry said, and Harry could barely hear him as the train rumbled into the station.

"How do you know where I live?"

"Let's say I have lots of eyes, and ears," Barry replied, still smiling gently, as if discussing dinner, "I want you to do me a favor, Harry."

"Do not."

"Very easy, just send a letter to the American embassy."

"You should find a mailbox."

"No, it's not that kind of letter." Barry patted Harry on the shoulder, "I can't go there in person, because I've never been there before, and it would arouse suspicion. But a wild bee like you that often comes in and out there, No one will take a second look at you."

Harry pushed back his hand, "What letter?"

"No comment, just do MI[-] a favor, serve England or something, you know the clichés."

"I reject."

Another train rattled into the station, and a beggar was squatting by the wall, playing a harmonica, with three or four coins dropped in his limp hat at his feet.Barry sighed and frowned, as if he was really worried about Harry. He took out two photos from his inner pocket, both of which were not very clear, but the first one was of him and Alex side by side Walking by the river, the second picture shows them kissing.

"I don't want to go this far, dear Harry." Barry's voice came, and he took the photo out of Harry's hand and put it back in his pocket. "This is a copy. Of course, the negatives are in our Here when I say 'we' I mean MI[-]. We've been watching you for a while, seriously Harry, come to think of it, all we need is an envelope from you at the appointed time You have nothing to lose and nothing to risk by specifying the location. If you still don't like it, I'll just have to give these photos to editor Schmidt. I'm curious what he thinks of you in the future. So I ask again, Would you like to do me this favor?"

tbc.