Free The Islands of Dr. Thomas by Francoise Enguehard Page A

the lack of landmarks in the picture. It did not really show anything else except an expanse of snow-covered barrens and glacial rocks that had come to rest at the edge of the leaden ocean, motionless and colourless. It was as if nature had been frozen in time, the Earth had stopped turning, and the Moon had fled, taking the tides with her. Émilie shuddered, although she could not help but appreciate the indescribable beauty of the sunset, which at this very moment, to her left, beyond the West dune, had set the isthmus ablaze like a toro de fuego on Bastille Day.
    This Miquelon was foreign to her. Since she only came to Langlade in the summer, she had no idea what her paradise was like in its winter garb. She did not know where the snow likes to hide, where the snowdrifts pile up like sand dunes, where the wind stings the most sharply, or where the blustery wind erases the roads, hides the paths, and blinds the most hardy of men. Was it possible that the panorama that caressed her this very moment, with all its soft curves and copper-coloured highlights, could turn into this disembodied spectre later in the season? How could nature be both so warm and so glacial?
    And why had the doctor climbed the hills that day, in such uninviting weather? What had he seen in this grey and black panorama? She thought the photo was superb in its stark beauty and tried to imagine the photo- grapher’s state of mind when he stood behind his camera. What distress had led him there, to be captivated by this cruel and sublime beauty? What spirit moved him to transform such a bare landscape into such poignant beauty?

Three
    By the time she returned from Langlade in September, Émilie had chosen the prints she considered the most representative of Doctor Thomas’ body of photographic work in Saint-Pierre et Miquelon.
    â€œLook,” she told Jacques. “I’ve put together pictures of Saint-Pierre, the work on the beach, the mariners’ celebration, the ice-cutting on Frecker pond—I didn’t even know they used to do that! There are also photos of the ocean, of the cod being weighed onboard a banker, of French schooners on the Grand Banks, and of course lots of landscapes. And the photo of the doctor on the ice floe by the island: It was the first photo you showed us last winter, remember? Then some of horseback riding in the Goulet, of shipwrecks on the West dune, fields on the Larranagas’ farm...And just to please François, I decided to add one taken after a trip to hunt the Canada goose and one hunting seabirds from a dory in Miquelon.”
    Jacques nodded his head in approval, impressed by the impact the photos had when they were all put together. Set apart from the collection he had processed, they revealed the soul of their creator. He found it very powerful.
    â€œAnd to finish it off, I put in these two,” she continued, “one of Cap Blanc in the winter and one of the doctor sitting on a capstan, holding a seal in his arms.”
    â€œThey stand out from the rest of the collection, don’t they?” Jacques asked.
    â€œYes, but it seems to me that the starkness of nature in the photo of Cap Blanc is something like the attitude of the doctor himself, sitting there in his oilskins on the capstan, expressionless and holding a seal. I think he looks troubled. Anyone else would be smiling, holding such a cute and harmless little animal. But not the doctor.”
    She suddenly remembered the piercing cries that young seals made in the summer on the sandbanks of the Goulet—shrieks that sounded like the cries of infants in distress—and wondered if the doctor had been troubled by this sound.
    â€œEverything is here!” Jacques declared, proudly.
    â€œWhy do you say that?” she asked, curious to hear his professional opinion.
    â€œWe can feel the complexity of a man torn between his daily work and his ideals. Despite his reputation as a doctor and the respect with