Lhomme qui plantait des arbres (Version pour enfants) (French Edition)
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Then it was Sunday again. It was so banal to hate Sundays. But so what? She had no other passions or hatreds in her life that were any more original than this disgust with Sundays. No matter how far back she followed the trail of her memories, she remembered always having hated them, except perhaps their first half.
Up until noon, Sundays were still possible. She would laze about for a bit, linger in the steam of milky coffee and the scent of newspaper ink, cook. She even remembered Sunday mornings full of joy, reverberant with the chiming of church bells, or sometimes a brass band during the parish festival and, most of all, her white dress at fifteen: so broad, so ample, so light that, among its flounces, she felt like the stem of a flower.
But after lunch, the excitement and delight of the morning fell away.
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The afternoon resembled a gaping hole of blue and gold, or rainy grey, a five- or six-hour-long void into which she tumbled with nothing to cling to. Parents dozed as they slowly digested.
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Boys ganged up and headed off to poach trout from the millpond or pillage the defenseless orchards. Friends left to pay visits. Stretched out facing the sky, she let herself dissolve into their slow glissades and the swaying of the hay stalks that seemed to dig their sharp spears into the azure.
It was always painfully difficult to get back up. It felt like the very height of happiness. But not all Sundays were sunny, or warm, or green, or gold, and most of them had nothing to offer but a feeling of immense emptiness. For a long time she thought living with Paul would be one endless celebration. So she was too busy to notice that Paul was becoming a more languid celebration with each passing day; the children lit so many fireworks in her life that they soon came to embody a different kind of celebration—wilder, more primitive, more tender than that of a couple.
Could she shower him with all the joy left unspent in her arms now that her offspring had left her? They tried hard to believe it for a time. But the shared pendulum of habit swung to and fro unperturbed in their relationship. The days resembled one another more and more with the passing weeks, punctuated by that one day that resembled nothing, which only served to reveal a denser loneliness in that free and empty time. Nothing much: a card game, a little reading, a long nap. Whatever he did, and whatever she did, they could do it together while still feeling apart.
Yes, them too.
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Say hi to Dad from me. See you soon. The other two, a boy and a girl, had ended up too far away to come back very often. She put part of the meat back in the freezer. Should she make fries all the same? And beans, grilled tomatoes? But Paul grumbled all the same over his heaping plate. Sunlight flashed on the tiles. The window frames seemed barely able to contain all the blue of the springtime sky. The curtains swelled with the warm breeze that was pressing on the fragile necks of the first tulips. Birdsong poured forth from the front garden, hesitated a moment on the porch railing, then leapt into the kitchen—one would have thought the room brimming with sparrows.
But first, the newspaper had to be folded up, the half-smoked cigar ground out, and where they would go acrimoniously debated. Then he had to shave, fuss a little over whether to wear grey trousers or brown, find the car keys, forget a handkerchief, go back into the kitchen because she might have forgotten to turn off the stove. Too bad if the bread went hard and the water grew warm in the carafe. Anyone would have said it was nice in the woods.
All right, but what did that really mean? The dappled sunlight cast the tree bark in gold, a breath of wind bathed the leaves in every possible shade of green, the lake glimmered through the branches way over there, under mauve mountains. There was no one in the shade of the branches, no one but Elise and Paul. Their crunching footsteps scattered the silence. As soon as she was under the cover of the trees, she expanded.
Every part of her opened up to the sharp scents and myriad palpitations of that great cathedral. Paul walked; she floated. He breathed; she sipped at the sylvan air like a fine wine. He made his way through the thicket, stomping on the carpet of dry needles with an irrefutable stride; she slipped between the tree trunks, regaining the gait of a lithe animal.
Once again, the distance between them—no more than a few paces—was becoming insurmountable.