After the roe deer of August, during the first nights of autumn they heard the terrifying cries of stags crashing into each other, as they fought to the death. Every night fear weighed a bit more heavily on the world, like a glass cloche, a great dome which covered everything. Inside this, everything reverberated in the dark, even the horrible squeaks of bats, and the chirping of birds, keeping the village from sleep. People got up several times a night to take a look outside; more than once they thought they saw someone in the distance. In the dense shadow of the wood, they thought they could make out the pilgrim from the night before war broke out, the monk with his mule who had come from Santiago and was turning back, the bearer of ill-luck from the first night, the pilgrim who had set everything in motion.

August 2017

August 2017

For lunch, Franck prepared the kind of salad they liked in summer. Tomatoes, basil, rocket, mozzarella and finely sliced courgettes with lots of olive oil. Meanwhile Lise took a long shower. He heard her singing in the little bathroom downstairs, a room so basic it echoed. The pipes and hot water tank made a terrible noise, though he didn’t actually know if Lise was using hot water – cold water should be enough in this heat. The dog was outside, standing guard a good two metres away from the house. The door was wide open, and it could easily have come in out of the sun, but it didn’t. Franck could feel its eyes on him. It was watching his every move from afar, as if trying to work out what he was doing and what he was making. As a meat-eater, it would not be impressed with the salad. Just for fun, Franck showed the dog the bowl of salad, and it sniffed the air and wagged its tail but stayed where it was.