A Very Long Engagement Page #3

And underwear.

Here you go, Miss.

ln here

are the prisoners' belongings

I was to return to their families.

My health's prevented it.

That's the letter

the Dordogne farmer, Notre Dame,

wrote to his wife.

l sent the original

just after Bingo.

You're here

because of the mustard gas?

Not even. Damned Spanish flu!

Death moves in mysterious ways.

If you can't cry, try talking.

lf you can't talk, say nothing.

But sometimes,

talking can bring on the tears.

Tears say what you can't say,

if you get my drift?

Otherwise,

you can just keep that sour-face!

Little Louis,

tell Vro l'm thinking of her.

Shame she won't talk to me.

Saw Biscuit, we patched things up.

Adieu, my friend. Bastoche.

"Benot Notre Dame, number 1 81 8.

l won't be writing for a long time."

Tell old Bernay

l want to settle up by March.

His manure's too costly,

watch out for him.

Tell my Baptistin that l so love

that he'll be fine

if he listens to his dear mother.

She's the kindest person l know.

Love you. Benot.

"For Tina Lombardi,

from Angel Bassignano."

lf Chickpea comes in before

dinner's called, Manech is alive.

l'm not hungry.

Dinner's ready.

Mathilde, dinner!

Coming!

Mathilde was born

the 1st of January, 1900.

lt's easy for calculating her age.

ln 1903, her parents died

in the n 44 bus accident.

Since then,

Mathilde often says to herself,

"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust!

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust..."

Her uncle and aunt,

Sylvain and Bndicte,

have raised her,

with her parents' life insurance

invested by Pierre-Marie Rouvire.

When she was five,

Mathilde came down with polio.

She was bedridden for months,

despite mustard compresses...

pendulums

and four-leaf clover infusions.

Today, Mathilde is twenty.

She plays the tuba.

lt is the only instrument capable

of imitating a distress call.

Chickpea, the dog,

farts in his sleep.

When she hears it,

Bndicte never fails to say,

Doggie fart, gladdens my heart.

Mathilde needs daily treatment.

Since the Armistice, Georges Cornu,

a swimming champion,

massages her.

She used to get embarrassed,

but she got over it.

Mathilde sometimes imagines

that Georges admires her,

tormented with desire.

What's more, he once said,

You do have a fine figure, Miss.

And I've kneaded quite a few.

After that,

how should she call him?

Dear Georges...

My dear Georges...

Jojo...

Sometimes,

before falling asleep,

she imagines herself

in arousing situations.

Mathilde doesn't need

to fantasize for very long

before reaching fulfilment.

Since his disappearance,

she can't bear to think about her

fianc as she satisfies herself.

That's the way it is...

If I were you, Mathilde,

l'd forget him.

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