Free The Orange Grove by Larry Tremblay

hold of the entire class when the enemy soldier approached the child after killing his parents. One had to be blind not to see that this emotion came from Aziz, and not from Sony.
    â€œAziz, what’s wrong?”
    â€œNothing, sir.”
    â€œI’m not so sure.”
    â€œI can’t play this role.”
    â€œWhy?”
    Without another word, Aziz left the class.
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    The next day, Aziz did not show up to class. Mikaël was very upset. Two days later, he called Aziz to propose that they meet at a café near the school. Mikaël got there early and waited impatiently for his student to arrive. On the phone, Aziz had seemed uncertain. Clearly, something was troubling him. He was already half an hour late when Mikaël caught sight of the young man’s silhouette through the café’s wide window. His face partly hidden by a large red scarf and a hat that was too big for him, Aziz was pacing back and forth in front of the café. Mikaël went out and gestured to him.
    â€œWhy don’t you come in?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œShall we walk a little?”
    â€œOK.”
    They walked together in silence for some time. Mikaël was not at ease, Aziz even less so. It was snowing lightly, one of the first snowfalls of winter. Mikaël watched the weightless flakes spinning around him. The Latin Quarter was fairly quiet, with most people hard at work in offices, boutiques, and restaurants. Mikaël loved these vacant moments when the city caught its breath before being overrun by hordes of people hurrying home.
    â€œWhy does the child have to die?”
    Mikaël was so surprised by Aziz’s question that for a few seconds he didn’t understand its meaning.
    â€œThe child?”
    â€œYes. The child in your play.”
    â€œBecause . . . because it’s war, Aziz.”
    â€œYou want to show the cruelty of war?”
    â€œYes, I think that’s part of the purpose of my play.”
    â€œI don’t want to be impolite, but I don’t agree.”
    â€œAgree with what?”
    â€œIt’s not enough.”
    â€œWhat, Aziz? Tell me.”
    â€œTo show that, all those cruel things.”
    â€œYou don’t want the child in my play to die, is that it? But what could he do, faced with this mercenary?”
    â€œIt’s not fair.”
    â€œI know. But that’s what war is.”
    â€œYou don’t know what you’re talking about!”
    Aziz’s cutting tone, from someone usually so reserved, left them in silence once more. The student began to walk more quickly, and Mikaël could barely keep pace. They stopped at a street corner to wait for the light to turn green. Mikaël caught his breath and despite the snow suggested they go and sit in a little park on the other side of the street. Aziz said nothing, but followed Mikaël. He cleaned the newly fallen snow off a bench, and the two sat side by side, their arms crossed over their laps. Their breath transformed itself into little clouds of white vapor that quickly dispersed in the air.
    Mikaël dared not resume the discussion. He felt attacked. Why should he not have the right, as an artist, to talk about war?
    Turning to ask if Aziz was cold, Mikaëlsaw a tear roll slowly down Aziz’s cheek, then come to a halt, frozen.
    â€œGive my role to someone else.”
    â€œBut why, Aziz? Tell me why.”
    â€œIt’s not fair, I already told you.”
    â€œOf course it’s not fair. The audience will feel that just like you do, and that’s what I’m aiming for. I can see that you’re upset. Tell me, Aziz, what happened at the last rehearsal?”
    â€œMy name is not really Aziz.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œAmed. That’s what I was called before.”
    â€œBefore what?”
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    The daylight dimmed, and a few neon signs lit up tentatively. Since they’d left the little park, Aziz had told Mikaël the