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Authors: Scott Dominic Carpenter
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funeral sculpture shows him lying on the ground, equipped with, shall we say, a special bulge in a particular area. Legend has that if women touch it with their lips, they’ll be pregnant within the year.”
“I have a hard time imagining women kissing a sculpture in the cemetery.”
Hervé gave a sly smile. “Who said anything about kissing?”
On he went with facts and figures about infertility. Did Philip know that forty-seven percent of cases concerned the man? That it could be tied to stress and insomnia? In France the birth rate had been dropping—though not as much as in Italy, where in a hundred years all you’d find were cats!
“And yet,” Philip said, “you and Yvonne only have one child, isn’t that true?”
“I see what you’re driving at. The cobbler should start by fixing his own shoes, is that it? But you see, Philip, reproduction is also a matter of choice . . .” On he went.
Philip’s attention drifted back at the mention of Yvonne. “At first she wanted to live in Yvetot,” Hervé was saying. “But, as you might imagine, it’s rather hard to move here once you’ve lived in Rouen.”
“Why is that?”
Hervé gave a condescending look. Only small children or Americans could not know the answer to such a question. “Let’s just say that Yvetot only exists thanks to its location between more important places.”
“Is that so?”
“Of course. The town was drying up after the textile industry collapsed . . .” He prattled on about the steady deterioration through the decades. Yvetot no longer produced anything of value, and now, like so many other small towns, focused on tourism. “So,” he concluded with brio, “like certain mature mollusks that cease eating and survive only by digesting their own bodies, Yvetot has undertaken the moribund process of devouring its past.” His polished delivery of this line suggested how often he had used it.
Philip had a pretty good idea now of the kind of man he was dealing with. Hervé was a know-it-all. He’d be able to crank out answers about any topic handed to him, whether it be pork-belly futures in Chicago or the history of Belgian missionaries in the Congo.
“You should meet Margaux,” Hervé was saying. He craned about at the clusters of people. “She’s around here somewhere. Delightful girl. Terribly good at school. Took first this year in science, you know.”
No, Philip hadn’t known.
“Of course girls are better at science than boys. The boys don’t concentrate enough at that age. But they catch up later. You see, what happens is . . .” Hervé revved up another lengthy explanation.
“You know,” Philip interrupted, “I’m fully aware of how awkward this situation is.”
Hervé stopped and coughed. “I’m not quite sure what you mean.”
“You don’t need to pretend. You’ve been perfectly decent about it, Hair-vay ,” Philip continued. “But don’t worry. You don’t need to entertain me. You don’t have to distract me or keep me from Yvonne. In fact, you don’t need to worry about me at all. I’ll be gone tomorrow, and that will be good for everyone.”
Hervé suppressed a scowl and adjusted his sport coat. “I see.”
“I just thought it would be best for us to be direct.”
“Certainly. I appreciate your frankness. Well, I hope your visit has been worthwhile, Philip. Perhaps it will have helped you to turn the page.”
The expression galled him. “Perhaps.”
Hervé stuck out his hand. “I suppose we may never see each other again.” He didn’t seem distressed at the prospect.
“No. Probably not.”
As Hervé moved on, Philip plunged himself into a club chair placed between two rooms, deep in the shadows. On one side the old-timers had sunk into overstuffed furniture. On the other, children were building a fortress out of sofa cushions. Philip eavesdropped on the various threads of conversation, but his language skills slipped as fatigue and jet lag overtook him. He felt like a phantom, barely
“I have a hard time imagining women kissing a sculpture in the cemetery.”
Hervé gave a sly smile. “Who said anything about kissing?”
On he went with facts and figures about infertility. Did Philip know that forty-seven percent of cases concerned the man? That it could be tied to stress and insomnia? In France the birth rate had been dropping—though not as much as in Italy, where in a hundred years all you’d find were cats!
“And yet,” Philip said, “you and Yvonne only have one child, isn’t that true?”
“I see what you’re driving at. The cobbler should start by fixing his own shoes, is that it? But you see, Philip, reproduction is also a matter of choice . . .” On he went.
Philip’s attention drifted back at the mention of Yvonne. “At first she wanted to live in Yvetot,” Hervé was saying. “But, as you might imagine, it’s rather hard to move here once you’ve lived in Rouen.”
“Why is that?”
Hervé gave a condescending look. Only small children or Americans could not know the answer to such a question. “Let’s just say that Yvetot only exists thanks to its location between more important places.”
“Is that so?”
“Of course. The town was drying up after the textile industry collapsed . . .” He prattled on about the steady deterioration through the decades. Yvetot no longer produced anything of value, and now, like so many other small towns, focused on tourism. “So,” he concluded with brio, “like certain mature mollusks that cease eating and survive only by digesting their own bodies, Yvetot has undertaken the moribund process of devouring its past.” His polished delivery of this line suggested how often he had used it.
Philip had a pretty good idea now of the kind of man he was dealing with. Hervé was a know-it-all. He’d be able to crank out answers about any topic handed to him, whether it be pork-belly futures in Chicago or the history of Belgian missionaries in the Congo.
“You should meet Margaux,” Hervé was saying. He craned about at the clusters of people. “She’s around here somewhere. Delightful girl. Terribly good at school. Took first this year in science, you know.”
No, Philip hadn’t known.
“Of course girls are better at science than boys. The boys don’t concentrate enough at that age. But they catch up later. You see, what happens is . . .” Hervé revved up another lengthy explanation.
“You know,” Philip interrupted, “I’m fully aware of how awkward this situation is.”
Hervé stopped and coughed. “I’m not quite sure what you mean.”
“You don’t need to pretend. You’ve been perfectly decent about it, Hair-vay ,” Philip continued. “But don’t worry. You don’t need to entertain me. You don’t have to distract me or keep me from Yvonne. In fact, you don’t need to worry about me at all. I’ll be gone tomorrow, and that will be good for everyone.”
Hervé suppressed a scowl and adjusted his sport coat. “I see.”
“I just thought it would be best for us to be direct.”
“Certainly. I appreciate your frankness. Well, I hope your visit has been worthwhile, Philip. Perhaps it will have helped you to turn the page.”
The expression galled him. “Perhaps.”
Hervé stuck out his hand. “I suppose we may never see each other again.” He didn’t seem distressed at the prospect.
“No. Probably not.”
As Hervé moved on, Philip plunged himself into a club chair placed between two rooms, deep in the shadows. On one side the old-timers had sunk into overstuffed furniture. On the other, children were building a fortress out of sofa cushions. Philip eavesdropped on the various threads of conversation, but his language skills slipped as fatigue and jet lag overtook him. He felt like a phantom, barely
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