Mais il est bien court, le temps des cerises . . .

La Grande Sauterelle didn’t remember all the words, and now and then she filled in with “la-la-la.” She had forgotten most of the last verse, and the only words she still remembered were the following:

C’est de ce temps-là que je garde au coeur
Une plaie ouverte
Et dame fortune . . . ne pourra jamais
Fermer ma douleur.

XXVIII. An Expedition for Someone to Talk To

XXVIII

An Expedition for
Someone to Talk To

“We’re going to stop at a ranch,” said the girl.

They had crossed a desert region; for two days they had seen nothing but gloomy, grey expanses that made them think of lunar landscapes.

And they hadn’t talked to anyone except campground and service-station attendants. “How are you today?” and “Have a nice day!”: those were the only words they had exchanged with the local population during those long days.

That was why, as soon as there was greenery to be seen again, they decided to “go looking for someone to talk to.” It was La Grande Sauterelle’s idea. More precisely, she wanted to make an expedition to a ranch.

“All right,” said Jack, who was driving. “It may be our last chance before California. I’ve never been on a ranch.”

“Me neither,” she said. “Maybe they’ll invite us to have something to eat and then we’ll go for a horseback ride!”

“Apparently Westerners are very hospitable. I read that in the literature on Nevada.”

“So did I.”

They had also read something about the large ranches found in the northern part of the state. It even said there were Basque shepherds and flocks of sheep. They looked over the fields all around them, but they saw nothing. No cows or horses or sheep.

“There aren’t even any houses by the roadside,” said Jack. “It’s as if we’re still in the desert.”

“Maybe the houses are set back, far from the road,” said the girl. “Know what I think?”

“What?”

“I think we should turn onto the first private road we see. I’m sure that any private road will take us straight to a rancher’s house.”

“We can try,” said the man, his voice betraying a certain apprehension.

They drove another twenty kilometres before they spotted a dirt road that started at the Interstate and disappeared far away toward the north. There was a fence, but it was open and there was also a sign that read:

NO TRESPASSING

“It sounds like a bad translation of trépasser,” said Jack. “Forbidden to depart this life,” he snickered, steering the old Volks onto the private road. “We’ll tell them we’re looking for a shortcut to Carson City. That’s Kit Carson’s town.”

“They’re bound to believe us,” said the girl. “Especially because the road goes north and Carson City’s to the south . . .”

“Sorry.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she laughed. “We’ll think of something.”

“Sure.”