Read Online Nagasaki by Emily Boyce Éric Faye - Free Book Online Page A

the paper at an angle like a fallen tree trunk blocking her train of thought. What could have felled it? A storm raging inside her skull? The woman hovered over the page, hoping to pick up where she had left off (just as staying inthe same position in bed can apparently help you go back to a dream begun earlier in the night). She wanted to seal the envelope by the end of the day and pass it on to the estate agent (having added the words ‘FAO Mr Shimura Kobo, the homeowner’). It would be a relief. Having waited so long for this moment, she would at last be able to explain herself. She would be able to tell herself she had recovered from her earlier shock at the ‘For Sale’ sign. The pad of writing paper bought before sitting down at this table struck her as dauntingly blank. How many pages must she fill? She wished there was a short cut so she could transmit her thoughts directly from her mind to his. In truth she wasn’t terribly fond of writing and had hardly ever done it. And yet she must.
    Restraint, or moderation if you’d rather. Either way, it meant a great deal to me, both during the trial and afterwards, when I found myself alone with my thoughts.
    Please understand, this letter asks nothing of you. You have well and truly seen the back of me; I unintentionally hurt you and will not do so again. Only, when
I saw the ‘For Sale’ sign at your door, my elation at having regained my freedom turned to sadness, and I selfishly said to myself: we’re on the same footing now, he and I, both banished from the same kingdom. Please forgive me for having had such a shameful thought, which I quickly dismissed but wanted to share with you all the same. I would also like to ask your forgiveness for all the trouble I’ve caused you; what you said at the trial has stuck in my mind: I can’t live there any more.
    No doubt you will be wondering why I am poking my nose in, having been the cause of all this, and how exactly I can claim to have an attachment to something that was not mine but belonged to you. This will surprise you, but the truth is that, despite appearances, my attachment to that house was actually deeper than yours, and the reason I am writing is to explain how my moving into your house had nothing to do with chance, contrary to the impression given by the investigation.
    As you heard during the trial, I found myself out of work two years ago. At my age, I had no prospect of finding another
job. Retirement was still a long way off, but I no longer had a place in the world of work. I was condemned to be neither one thing nor the other. Cursed are the single and childless! Once I was no longer entitled to unemployment benefit, I had to give up my lease. The first stirrings of shame drove me out of my neighbourhood.
    After selling the handful of electronic devices and decorative trinkets that I had about me, I realised that everything that mattered to me could easily fit inside a small rucksack and a shopping trolley. I found myself on the streets in high summer, last year. The rainy season had come to an end a good week earlier. It was the ideal time to learn to sleep outdoors, and learn I did. At night, I settled down a few metres beyond the last houses on the hill, which often lay empty and were insalubrious – but I imagine you know the top part of town as well as I do – surrounded by cemeteries and temples harking back to bygone days, and I was not to be pitied. At that time of year, everything still seems easy. But I won’t go into the whole story of those strange few weeks which count, if not among the
happiest, then at least among the freest of my life. I went out walking in the cooler hours in search of food; when it was too humid, I simply floated above the city in the perfect shade of the bamboos.
    What did I have left? At night, lying down, the same thought kept coming back to me: this whole thing is a prank. One big joke. Sooner or later, I’ll get an explanation. I’ll be offered excuses