Week 3: Correction Moira, Franz Bartelt

Greetings again this week. I don't have much to add this week except that I am pleased with how the classes are going. You are participating well and your suggestions and questions are pertinent. Thank you. Keep up the good work.

***BRING YOUR PHOTOS for the Trombinoscope!!! ***

Correction: Moira

They stood there for a moment without moving[1], a few steps[2] from each other, and Mrs Dare pretended to be reading the letter that he had just given her, though she had already understood its contents several seconds ago and was now, from the corner of her eye, observing the newcomer. Without knowing quite why, she felt somewhat embarrassed looking at him. “At any rate,” she said to reassure herself, “he certainly looks respectable.”

She saw him from the side, his face struck by the rays of the sun which poured[3] into the room between the leaves of the trees, and despite herself, she found him quite handsome, even if he were red-headed[4]. That’s what troubled her[5], this flaming head of hair, the milky whiteness of his skin. She had to gain control over herself so that he wouldn’t see the slight repulsion that she felt for him[6]. She didn’t notice right away[7] that he had dark eyes. Tall and a bit slender in his dark clothes that didn’t seem to suit him[8], he had his arms crossed[9] over his chest and was looking at the street defiantly. At his feet, a yellow bag, its leather cracked open in spots, was stuffed to the point of being a sphere. After an instant, he changed his demeanour and reached his big hand towards the opening of the bag which he silently opened up a few centimetres. Then, standing upright, he stuffed[10] his fingers into the pockets of his vest, his eyes on the horizon[11].

Maybe he knew he was being watched. He let a minute or two go by, then, risked a quick, sideways glace towards Mrs. Dare who was still reading. Finally, as if authorized by this long wait, he looked more intensely around himself.

The room had a low ceiling and the walls were covered with a faded, yellowing paint. Near the window, there were two rocking chairs facing each other, separated by a small braided rug with fading blue and purple wool. A round painted wood table held a large plant with vigorous and shiny leaves which was the central decorative piece in the little study[12]. There was an upright piano in the corner and on its music stand rested a songbook of popular music whose bold printed titles rang out like a vulgar laugh. The young man turned his head. “It’s the university,” he thought. “At the university, things are like that.” But at his home, in his parents’ home, the piano was only ever used on Sundays, when church songs were sung. The rest of the week it was covered with a long olive covered sheet that protected the keys.

Ever more time passed, but nothing led him believe that Mrs. Dare had finished reading because, immobile, she still held the paper in her thin fingers and didn’t move. “I can’t send him away just because he is red headed,” she said to herself. She looked at his dusty shoes and supposed that he must have come on foot from the station, out of frugality. Again she asked herself, “I wonder if he smells. Red heads sometimes smell strong[13]. I couldn’t bear that. I have to admit, though, that from here I don’t smell anything.”

Suddenly, she folded the letter and put it back in its envelope.

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[1] For a moment, they were still, standing…

[2] paces

[3] Slid, seeped, (light can often use the same verbs as a liquid).

[4] even if he had ginger hair

[5] It was that which troubled her

[6] that he provoked in her.

[7] immediately / right off

[8] Didn’t seem to be his…

[9] folded his arms over his chest

[10] jammed

[11] looking into the distance

[12] parlour

[13] Have a strong smell (odor).

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Text for next week:

Franz Bartelt, Le grand bercail (2002) (202 mots) This was a former exam...

« Cher collègue, vous arrivez dans notre belle ville juste au moment où commencent les fêtes médiévales. Vous ne pouviez pas mieux tomber. Tous les habitants participent à la fête. Nos malades aussi, évidemment. Vous verrez. »

Tout en parlant, Baptiste Rouque-Jaune, un coude sur la table, une main sur le ventre, lisse sa cravate. C’est un tic, habituellement le signe qu’il a trop bu et qu’il se sent content de lui. Frédéric Soumagne est nouveau venu au Grand Bercail. Il remplace Emile Borsat, tué deux mois plus tôt dans un tremblement de terre, au Japon.

« Il avait envie de connaître le Japon depuis trente ans. A la fin, c’était devenu une obsession. D’après ce qu’on sait, il est mort une heure après avoir posé le pied en terre nippone. Il n’était pas encore sorti de l’aéroport. Il attendait ses bagages.

-- Pas de chance, commente sobrement Frédéric Soumagne, en jetant un coup d’œil par-dessus ses lunettes à double foyer.

-- Le plus extraordinaire dans cette histoire, c’est que ce tremblement de terre n’a fait qu’une seule victime : Emile Borsat, mon éminent confrère. Qu’est-ce que vous en dites, hein ?

-- Vraiment pas de chance, croit juste de confirmer Soumagne.