Free Prehistoric Times by Eric Chevillard, Alyson Waters Page A

purple is the dominant hue), both signed Angèle, who had sunny weather in the Landes, and, the following summer, sunny weather in Brittany too; who swam every day in the Landes and, the following summer, every day in Brittany too; apparently Angèle knew how to preserve her mystery better than Madame de Sévigné and, for lack of additional information, I must sadly leave her – and for once I had a fine specimen of a female character. Additionally: a tiny promotional writing pad (“At home or abroad, always carry your flagon of Lemonbalm Water by Carmes Boyer: Three Centuries of Renown”), a sample-size flask of Lilas perfume (70°), a worm-eaten hazelnut, a few candies in their stained-glass wrappers (the Eucharist as told to children), three spears of chewed fibers that were once either pencils or asparaguses, a red plastic billfold containing an embossed aluminum Saint Christopher crossing a river carrying the Baby Jesus in swaddling clothes at an age whenone doesn’t yet know how to walk on water, and precise instructions in case of a serious accident (“I am a Catholic: please get me a priest if I am dying”), a small box of Solingen razor blades (0.08mm), the missing eye of the frog (I call it a winkle), a Sanex toothpick in its sheath, another hazelnut eaten by a worm (the same worm?), a mouthful of meat that was spit out (the remains of a delicious pink rubber pig given to Boborikine by a gas station attendant), a two-centime coin (once upon a time you could fill your pockets in a candy store in exchange for this peanut sum), a watch that had stopped at 3:31 (and not a single second has since penetrated its impermeable watchcase; not a thing happened after that), and finally a tube of glue, but flat and dry like they all are, you swiftly squander your saliva when you try to find adhesion, cohesion, I know something about all that, I too shall have my place among all these outdated, broken-down objects – in the wastebasket. The archaeologist’s work must always be done again. He dies amid the ruins he has exhumed. All the dust that flew out of the drawer settles on my shoulders: an as-yet-thin layer of sediment, which will grow thicker, under which I shall disappear.
    Something sticks in the second drawer, the wood must have warped or else a squirrel hid a walnut between the plywood slats; I keep trying, bracing myself, hands on the handles of the highgirl who wants to be coaxed for form’s sake and is dragging her feet as if I were pulling her against her will out on the dance floor, that’s all she was waiting for, we waltz around clumsily for a moment, and then, with scant ceremony, I waltz her back to where she was and thrust my lumbering dance partner against the wall, she’ll budge no more, I’ve wasted my time with her, my hand gropes around in the drawer that at last has partially opened: empty. Let’s catch our breath a moment.
    After a lifetime of experience and daily practice, we instinctively expend the precise amount of energy we need to open a drawer, but the difficulties I just experienced have completely distorted this sense of moderation acquired over the years, assimilated by nerves and muscles, so that the third drawer yanked too brutally goes off the rails and falls on my feet. It’s painful, but I’ve read Epictetus’s Art of Living .
    So now we enter the third drawer where other old junk is piled pell-mell: a skein of tangled green wool from an unfinished piece of knitting, abandoned after only four rows, or else mischievously undone and begun anew, then undone again and taken up again (this was no doubt the lifetime bond between Boborikine’s mother and her cat), a holy picture from a first communion illustrating the Annunciation (this episode would be turned into a play. I never saw it, but everyone knows the theater’s old ploys. It’s easy to imagine Joseph coming home unannounced, with a panicked Mary having just enough time to shove Gabriel into a closet), with