Free A Fine Passage by France Daigle Page A

expensive.”
    Carmen points to one of the items.
    â€œLook. That one’s like a delta. Wouldn’t that make a fine souvenir?”
    Terry joins Carmen in admiring the quasi-triangular brooch with its five small, brilliant stones. Arriving on the scene, the man who’d shown no sign of reading also looks at the modest yet surprising display.
    â€œThese jewels are original, aren’t they?”
    Terry asks the bearded man how much he wants for the brooch Carmen likes and calculates the price in dollars.
    â€œTwo hundred and fifty. That’s a bit steep.”
    â€œSteep is right!”
    The man who’d shown no sign of reading intervenes.
    â€œIf you’ll allow me, I’d like to buy it for you. As a kind of general gift, for the trip, for the baby . . .”
    Carmen looks at Terry. Terry looks at the man.
    â€œYou’ve really no cause to be giving us a gift. You’re paying for plenty of things as it is.”
    â€œBut it would be my pleasure.”
    The bearded man undoes the pin from the cloth of the display and shows how pretty it looks on Carmen’s coat.
    â€œIt suits you beautifully. Come on, I insist!”
    The man who’d shown no sign of reading takes out his wallet to pay the peddler. He selects an additional pin, this one set with only one stone but skilfully displayed.
    â€œAnd this one as well.”
    â€œThat one’s two thousand francs.”
    The man who’d shown no sign of reading makes a rapid calculation and looks squarely at the peddler, who appears to find the situation very amusing.
    â€œFor the young lady, one thousand. For you, two thousand. . . . But they’re worth far more.”
    Again, the man who’d shown no sign of reading looks the bearded man in the eye, to see if he’s telling the truth. He has the feeling that he is.
    A young man joins Claudia in the café.
    â€œI thought I’d find you here.”
    He takes his coat off and sits down.
    â€œYou bought a record, I see.”
    Claudia passes him the small bag. The young man opens it, looks at the contents.
    â€œYou know it?”
    â€œNo. It looked good.”
    Claudia shrugs, adds in a cheerful voice: “I felt like trying.”
    SUNDAY Rest
    THE WOMAN WHO smokes only in public slowly paces the length of the airport arrivals lounge. She got here very early, having no desire to do anything else. She thinks again about the phone call that came a few days ago.
    â€œGorky? Oh . . .”
    A brief silence followed, then:
    â€œBut tell me, do people really want to read Gorky again?”
    In this almost ordinary question she had recognized the candour and tender astonishment that this man experienced daily as he went about the activity — strange activity for him — of living, an occupation that he nonetheless assumed with a degree of constancy.
    â€œWhere are you?”
    â€œIn France. A little south of Lyons.”
    The woman sensed he was telling the truth, though she had not expected such a frank reply.
    For a moment, neither one could think what to say.
    â€œGorky. Well, well . . .”
    Then she guessed.
    â€œYou’re coming home?”
    â€œYes. I’m coming home.”
    It’s been days since I thought of you, my son, my wife — why do I persist in calling you that? — days since I thought of all of you on earth. I’m constantly drifting farther away, changing. Since I passed beyond the stage of light, I have felt myself dilating more and more, spreading more and more into the empty, moving heart of matter.
    At times, though these sightings are increasingly rare, bits and pieces of your existence briefly reflect on my clouded consciousness. But I find it more and more difficult to answer you. I seem to have lost that ability somehow. I no longer have any position whatsoever. I am the inner lining of old thoughts. I can’t any more. I simply can’t. I just am.
    â€œI can’t believe