The Long Summer of Monsieur Loiseau

Prudence glanced at his watch.

"I'm afraid this is the end of me too. I didn't attend the funeral, not because I didn't want to, but because I couldn't. The Baronesses didn't allow me to set foot in the cemetery. The publishing house was unanimously rejected by the English-speaking world. Finally, I handed "Summer" to Mr. Maner, and the French version was published in 1966. Mr. Maner slightly modified the title and added an adjective for summer, éternel. And London I waited a full 12 years before reaching out to me. The title of the first English edition in 1978 followed Mr. Manor's idea: "Eternal Summer."

The reporter took off his glasses, looked at the window covered with rain, and did not speak for a long time.

"Thank you," Prudence said.

"why?"

"Give me a chance, as you said, to tell a story that people didn't want to accept."

The reporter looked away and put on his glasses again.He picked up the manuscript and asked Prudence if he had read it.

"No, I won't watch it either. I'm too old, forgive me for not being able to bear more memories."

Prudence started to pack the letters on the table, and the reporter leaned over to help him put the fragile paper products back into the small iron box one by one.The old man thanked him, shook hands with him, wished him good night, and left the reception room with the suitcase.The door clicked shut, and Prudence's footsteps were so soft that the reporter did not hear him ascend the stairs.

-

The reporter of "Evening Post" left early in the morning, because he missed the last train last night, so he had to sleep all night wrapped in a coat on the sofa in the reception room.The train shuddered through the wet fields of Brittany, the blustery wind cleared the clouds, the sea shone brightly ahead on the left, and after a turn it was out of sight.

He unzipped the bag, took out the manuscript, turned a few pages, put it down, and took out the coil book and ballpoint pen.He first wrote "This is not a story about war", crossed it out, weighed it for a while, and when he wrote again, he had already made up his mind without any hesitation.

"Harry Prudence's life began on a gravel road that seemed to have no end."

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