4. Pyrenean Journal, someplace, February 14th.

Emile's wife Marie sits opposite me, drinking dense, black coffee from the tiniest of cups. Her eyes are misty and pink, but this is normal. She's not upset or ill, just rheumy and reminiscing. "I remember my mother in law telling me that two of my husband's brothers were shot, shot right by that Lavoir, there, in the square." She says this with no precursor, no entree atall. "And it all started in this house." In this house? My eyes widen but I`m afraid to prompt; the moment feels too precious and I'm afraid she might lose the thread..No one has told me any histories, any stories of the village, as if they were theirs to keep close. Or maybe they just didn't talk about their wartime past. Or perhaps it's me, the foreigner, who stops up their voices. One thing is for certain; though they appear not to gossip, they know everything going on around them. They have long ears, perhaps even peep holes through the walls, and a village telegraph for sure. Every so often, in conversation, one may nod sagely and tap the side the side of her or his nose. To hear of something as dramatic as a shooting, and connected to my house, now that is worth waiting for. Marie bends her neck and points with her head in an indeterminate direction. " Yes, well, they wouldn't have been caught but for someone betraying them". She pauses, I wait, I say nothing, and she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and says that another time will do for the rest of that story. The coffee was good, though, and the log fire has warmed her up, but she must go and check out the cows.
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